THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  Inste­ad, he strug­gled to his kne­es and cra­ned down to pe­er un­der the wreck. ‘Can you re­ach the keys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, switch off the en­gi­ne.’

  ‘It hap­pens auto­ma­ti­cal­ly when the air­bags inf­la­te. But I’ve tur­ned the thing off any­way to ma­ke su­re.’

  ‘Go­od lad. Can you re­ach yo­ur cel­lpho­ne?’

  ‘No. My left hand is ca­ught bet­we­en the se­at and the do­or. And the air­bag is bet­we­en my right hand and my poc­ket.’

  Cal­que sig­hed. ‘All right. I’m stan­ding up now. I’ll get to you in a mo­ment.’ Cal­que roc­ked on his fe­et. All the blo­od mo­ved to his body’s pe­rip­hery and for a mo­ment he tho­ught he wo­uld fall down in a de­ad fa­int.

  ‘Are you all right, Sir?’

  ‘My no­se is bro­ken. I’m fe­eling a bit we­ak. I’m co­ming now.’ Cal­que sat down in the ro­ad. Very slowly he lay back down and clo­sed his eyes. From so­mew­he­re be­hind him the­re ca­me the sud­den, dis­tant scre­am of over-he­ated bra­kes.

  7

  ‘How did he get the sub-mac­hi­ne gun?’

  ‘From the Spa­nish pa­ra­mi­li­tary, of co­ur­se. Vil­la­da ne­ver got aro­und to tel­ling me that bit.’

  Cal­que was sit­ting be­si­de Mac­ron in the Ac­ci­dent and Emer­gency de­part­ment of Ro­dez Hos­pi­tal. Both of them we­re ban­da­ged and ta­ped. Cal­que had one arm in a sling. His no­se had be­en re­set and he co­uld fe­el the re­si­du­al ef­fects of the lo­cal ana­est­he­tic nig­gling away at his front te­eth.

  ‘I can still dri­ve, Sir. If you can get us a fresh car, I’d li­ke to ta­ke anot­her shot at the eye-man.’

  ‘Did you say anot­her shot? I can’t re­mem­ber the first one.’

  ‘It was only a man­ner of spe­aking.’

  ‘Well it was a stu­pid man­ner of spe­aking.’ Cal­que la­id his he­ad back on to the se­at cus­hi­on. ‘The ro­adb­lock boys don’t even be­li­eve the eye-man was the­re be­ca­use the­re are no bul­let ho­les anyw­he­re in the car. I’ve told them the bas­tard ob­vi­o­usly cle­aned up af­ter him­self, but still they amu­se them­sel­ves thin­king that we smas­hed up the car by mis­ta­ke and are trying to co­ver our tracks.’

  ‘You me­an he did it on pur­po­se? He’s trying to ma­ke us in­to a la­ug­hing stock?’

  ‘He’s la­ug­hing at us. Yes.’ Cal­que ran a ci­ga­ret­te be­ne­ath his no­se and pre­pa­red to light it. A nur­se sho­ok her he­ad and mo­ti­oned him out­si­de with her fin­ger. Cal­que sig­hed. ‘They want to ta­ke the ca­se away from me. Gi­ve it to the DCSP.’

  ‘But they can’t do that.’

  ‘They can. And they will. Un­less I gi­ve them a con­vin­cing re­ason ot­her­wi­se.’

  ‘Yo­ur se­ni­ority, Sir.’

  ‘Yes. That’s con­vin­cing. I can fe­el every day of it in my back, in my arms, in my up­per thighs and in my fe­et. I think the­re’s a pla­ce half­way up my right calf which still fe­els yo­ung and vi­go­ro­us tho­ugh. May­be I sho­uld show them that?’

  ‘But we’ve se­en him. We’ve se­en his fa­ce.’

  ‘At eighty met­res. From a mo­ving car. Be­hind a sub-mac­hi­ne gun.’

  ‘But they don’t know that.’

  Cal­que sat for­ward. ‘Are you sug­ges­ting I lie to them, Mac­ron? Exag­ge­ra­te the ex­tent of my know­led­ge? Me­rely in or­der to ke­ep a ca­se that has thre­ate­ned, on a num­ber of oc­ca­si­ons now, to fi­nish us off?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Bunc­hing his fin­gers li­ke a cra­ne clamp, Cal­que gently pal­pa­ted his newly stra­igh­te­ned no­se. ‘You may ha­ve a po­int, my boy. You may ha­ve a po­int.’

  8

  ‘I ne­ed ac­cess to the in­ter­net.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘To a com­pu­ter. I ne­ed an in­ter­net café.’

  ‘Are you mad, Da­mo? The po­li­ce are still lo­oking for you. So­me­one will pro­bably re­ad the news on the com­pu­ter next to you, see yo­ur pho­to, call in yo­ur de­ta­ils and watch hap­pily as they co­me to pick you up. Then, if they film the who­le sce­ne of yo­ur cap­tu­re on the­ir web­cams, they can post it stra­ight away and ma­ke the­ir na­mes. They will be ins­tant mil­li­ona­ires. Bet­ter than the lot­tery.’

  ‘I tho­ught you co­uldn’t re­ad, Ale­xi? How co­me you know so much abo­ut com­pu­ters?’

  ‘He plays ga­mes.’

  Sa­bir tur­ned ro­und and sta­red at Yo­la. ‘I’m sorry?’

  She yaw­ned. ‘He go­es to in­ter­net cafés and he plays ga­mes.’

  ‘But he’s a grown-up.’

  ‘Still.’

  Ale­xi co­uldn’t see Yo­la’s fa­ce as he was dri­ving but he ma­na­ged to dart a few con­cer­ned glan­ces in­to the re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror. ‘What’s wrong with pla­ying ga­mes?’

  ‘Not­hing. If you’re fif­te­en.’

  Yo­la and Sa­bir we­re trying to hi­de the­ir enj­oy­ment be­hind fa­ked stra­ight fa­ces. Ale­xi was the per­fect su­bj­ect for te­asing be­ca­use he to­ok everyt­hing which re­fer­red to him­self at ab­so­lu­te fa­ce va­lue, whe­re­as, when it re­fer­red to ot­her pe­op­le, he was con­si­de­rably mo­re se­lec­ti­ve.

  Ale­xi had ob­vi­o­usly suc­ce­eded in re­ading the­ir minds for on­ce, for he im­me­di­ately chan­ged tack to a mo­re se­ri­o­us su­bj­ect. ‘Tell me why you ne­ed the in­ter­net, Da­mo?’

  ‘To find a new Black Vir­gin. We ne­ed to pin­po­int a pla­ce, well away from the Ca­mar­gu­es, to which we can lu­re the eye-man. And which he will be­li­eve in. For this we ne­ed a Black Vir­gin.’

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. ‘I don’t think you sho­uld do this.’

  ‘But you we­re all for it. Back at Sa­mo­is. And when we went to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur.’

  ‘I ha­ve a sen­se abo­ut this man. You sho­uld le­ave him to the po­li­ce. As you ag­re­ed with the Cap­ta­in. I ha­ve a very bad fe­eling.’

  ‘Le­ave him to the po­li­ce? Tho­se fo­ols?’ Ale­xi roc­ked him­self back and for­wards aga­inst the ste­ering whe­el. ‘And then you both la­ugh at me for pla­ying ga­mes? It is you who are the ga­mes pla­yers, not me.’ Ale­xi pa­used dra­ma­ti­cal­ly, wa­iting for a res­pon­se. When it didn’t co­me, he for­ged ahe­ad, un­da­un­ted. ‘I say let Da­mo go and find his Black Vir­gin. Then we le­ad the eye-man the­re. This ti­me we ma­ke a plan that is fo­olp­ro­of. We will be wa­iting for him. He co­mes in - we sho­ot him. Then Da­mo be­ats him to a pulp with his stick. We bury him so­mew­he­re. The po­li­ce can lo­ok for him for the next ten ye­ars - that will ke­ep a few of them out of our ha­ir, won’t it?’

  Yo­la threw up her arms. ‘Ale­xi, when O Del ga­ve out bra­ins, He only had a cer­ta­in amo­unt to go aro­und. He tri­ed to be fa­ir, of co­ur­se, but it was dif­fi­cult for Him, be­ca­use yo­ur mot­her nag­ged Him so much that He for­got what He was do­ing and to­ok away what lit­tle bra­ins you had by mis­ta­ke. And now lo­ok.’

  ‘Who did He gi­ve them to? My bra­ins I me­an? Da­mo, I sup­po­se? Or Gav­ril? Is that what you are sa­ying?’

  ‘No. I think He ma­de a re­al­ly big mis­ta­ke. I think He ga­ve them to the eye-man.’

  9

  ‘I’ve got it.’ Sa­bir slid in­to the pas­sen­ger se­at of the Audi, clutc­hing a pi­ece of pa­per. ‘Espa­li­on. It’s only fifty ki­lo­met­res from he­re as the crow fl ies. And it’s per­fectly re­aso­nab­le that we sho­uld cho­ose a ro­un­da­bo­ut ro­ute to get the­re - the po­li­ce are still af­ter us, as well as the eye-man.’ He al­lo­wed his ga­ze to tra­vel over the­ir two fa­ces. ‘I don’t see why he sho­uldn’t swal­low it, do you?’ ‘Why Es­pa­li­on?’

  ‘Be­ca­use it’s got what we ne­ed. Its in the op­po­si­te di­rec�
�ti­on to Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es, for a start. And its got it’s very own Black Vir­gin, cal­led La Négret­te. Okay, she’s mis­sing a child - but you can’t ha­ve everyt­hing. She’s si­tu­ated in a small cha­pel along­si­de a hos­pi­tal, which me­ans that the cha­pel will al­most cer­ta­inly ha­ve no watch­man - un­li­ke Ro­ca­ma­do­ur - as pa­ti­ents and the­ir re­la­ti­ves will re­qu­ire ac­cess at all ti­mes of the day and night. It’s got mi­rac­les, too - La Négret­te is pro­ne to fits of we­eping, ap­pa­rently and whe­ne­ver she is pa­in­ted she al­ways re­turns to her ori­gi­nal co­lo­ur. She was fo­und du­ring the Cru­sa­des and bro­ught back to the Cha­te­au de Cal­mont d’Olt by the Si­e­ur de Cal­mont. It says he­re that La Négret­te was thre­ate­ned du­ring the Re­vo­lu­ti­on, when the cast­le was sac­ked, but so­me go­od so­ul sa­ved her. So it’s comp­le­tely be­li­evab­le that she was aro­und in Nost­ra­da­mus’s ti­me. The Pont-Vi­e­ux at Es­pa­li­on is even a World He­ri­ta­ge Si­te. On the pilg­rim ro­ute to San­ti­ago de Com­pos­te­la, just li­ke Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. It’s per­fect.’

  ‘So how do we trap the eye-man?’

  ‘The mi­nu­te we stop at Es­pa­li­on, my bet is that he’ll sus­pect what we’re af­ter. And he’ll al­most cer­ta­inly try to get the­re ahe­ad of us. He’s ne­ver mo­re than abo­ut a ki­lo­met­re be­hind us any­way, ac­cor­ding to Cal­que, so we’ve got may­be two or three mi­nu­tes to set-up a trap. That’s not eno­ugh, ob­vi­o­usly. So Yo­la and I ne­ed to find a ta­xi now. Pron­to. I’ve hatc­hed a lit­tle plan.’

  10

  Sa­bir and Yo­la got out of the ta­xi. They had twenty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re Ale­xi was due to ar­ri­ve in the Audi, with the eye-man clo­se be­hind. Twenty mi­nu­tes to find a fa­il-sa­fe spot from which to trig­ger an am­bush.

  Yo­la wo­uld wa­it ne­ar a te­lep­ho­ne bo­oth in the town cent­re. If she didn’t he­ar from them wit­hin half an ho­ur, she was to call Cal­que and tell him what was go­ing down. It wasn’t an ele­gant plan, but with three aga­inst one, Sa­bir felt that it af­for­ded them the in­fi­ni­te­si­mal ed­ge they ne­eded in or­der to turn the tab­les.

  But it all ca­me down to him. He had the Re­ming­ton. He was a fa­ir shot. But he knew that he wo­uldn’t sur­vi­ve a stra­ight fa­ce-off with the eye-man. It wasn’t a mat­ter of skill - he knew that much - but of will. He wasn’t a kil­ler. The eye-man was. It was as simp­le as that. So he had to crip­ple the eye-man - put him out of bu­si­ness - be­fo­re he was ab­le to res­pond.

  Sa­bir’s ga­ze tra­vel­led over the hos­pi­tal gro­unds. Wo­uld the eye-man co­me stra­ight in by car? Or wo­uld he le­ave the car and co­me in on fo­ot, as he’d do­ne at Mont­ser­rat? Sa­bir co­uld fe­el the swe­at bre­aking out all over his fa­ce.

  No. He wo­uld ha­ve to go in­to the cha­pel. Wa­it for the eye-man the­re.

  He sud­denly had an in­ten­se fe­eling of cla­ust­rop­ho­bia. What was he do­ing? How had he got him­self in­to this ab­surd po­si­ti­on? He must be crazy.

  He ran in­to the cha­pel, ne­arly over­tur­ning an el­derly lady and her son who had just be­en in to pray.

  The­re was a ser­vi­ce go­ing on. The pri­est was pre­pa­ring for Mass. Christ Jesus.

  Sa­bir bac­ked out, lo­oking wildly be­hind him at the car park. Twel­ve mi­nu­tes. Sa­bir be­gan jog­ging down the ro­ad in the di­rec­ti­on of town. It was im­pos­sib­le. They co­uldn’t start a sho­ot-out in a cha­pel chock-full with ce­leb­rants and par­ta­kers of the Host.

  Per­haps Ale­xi wo­uld be early? Sa­bir slo­wed down to an amb­le. Fat chan­ce. And a fat suc­cess of an am­bush he’d ma­na­ged. When O Del ga­ve out bra­ins, it wasn’t only Ale­xi who had fo­und him­self short-chan­ged.

  Sa­bir sat down on a bol­lard at the si­de of the ro­ad. At le­ast Ale­xi had eno­ugh ro­om to turn ro­und he­re. At le­ast he’d tho­ught of that.

  He to­ok out the Re­ming­ton and pla­ced it on his lap.

  Then he wa­ited.

  11

  ‘They’re con­duc­ting Mass. The pla­ce is pac­ked. It’d be a blo­od­bath.’

  ‘So it’s off? We don’t do it?’

  ‘We’ve got three mi­nu­tes to turn ro­und and pick Yo­la up. Then I sug­gest we get the Hell out of he­re. On­ce out­si­de town we dump the fuc­king trac­ker and he­ad for Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es. And to Hell with Cal­que and the eye-man.’

  Ale­xi sle­wed the Audi ro­und and he­aded back to­wards town. ‘Whe­re did you le­ave Yo­la?’

  ‘She’s sit­ting in the Café Cent­ra­le. Next do­or to a pho­ne bo­oth. I to­ok the num­ber. I was go­ing to pho­ne her if everyt­hing went well.’

  Ale­xi glan­ced at Sa­bir and then qu­ickly for­ward. ‘What if we me­et the eye-man co­ming in? He knows our car.’

  ‘We’ll ha­ve to chan­ce it. We can’t le­ave Yo­la sta­ked out in the cent­re of town li­ke mo­use ba­it.’

  ‘What if he se­es her, then?’

  Sa­bir felt him­self go cold. ‘Stop by that pho­ne-box over the­re. I’m go­ing to call her. Now.’

  ***

  Achor Ba­le threw the list on to the pas­sen­ger se­at. Es­pa­li­on. A Black Vir­gin cal­led La Négret­te. Ne­ar the hos­pi­tal. This was it, then.

  He’d re­ce­ived the list of all the Black Vir­gin si­tes so­uth of the Lyon/Mas­sif Cent­ra­le me­ri­di­an only two days ago, via his cel­lpho­ne. Co­ur­tesy of Ma­da­me, his mot­her’s, pri­va­te sec­re­tary. She had ma­de up the list for him just in ca­se, using re­se­arch ma­te­ri­al from Mon­si­e­ur, his fat­her’s, lib­rary. At the ti­me he’d tho­ught she was be­ing over-ca­uti­o­us - in­ter­fe­ring, even. Now he knew she’d do­ne the right thing.

  He squ­e­ezed down on the ac­ce­le­ra­tor. It wo­uld be go­od to get this thing over and do­ne with. It had all ta­ken too long. Left him too much in the fra­me. The lon­ger you re­ma­ined out in the fi­eld, the mo­re li­kely you we­re to ma­ke a mis­ta­ke. The Le­gi­on had ta­ught him that. Lo­ok what hap­pe­ned at Di­en Bi­en Phu aga­inst the Vi­et­minh.

  Ba­le hit the pe­rip­hery of Es­pa­li­on at se­venty mi­les an ho­ur, his eyes se­arc­hing to right and to left, lo­oking for red ‘H’ signs.

  He slo­wed down to­wards the cent­re of town. Po­int­less dra­wing at­ten­ti­on to him­self. He’d ha­ve ti­me. The three sto­oges didn’t even re­ali­se he was still fol­lo­wing them.

  He pul­led up ne­ar the Café Cent­ral to ask for di­rec­ti­ons.

  The girl. She was sit­ting the­re.

  So they’d left her. Go­ne to do the dirty work them­sel­ves. Co­me back la­ter. Pick her up when it was sa­fe. Gent­le­men.

  Ba­le clim­bed out of the car. As he did so, the pho­ne rang in the ne­arby bo­oth.

  The girl glan­ced ac­ross him at the bo­oth. Then back to­wards him. The­ir eyes met. Ba­le’s fa­ce bro­ke in­to a wel­co­ming smi­le, as if he had just en­co­un­te­red a long-lost fri­end.

  Yo­la sto­od up, knoc­king back her cha­ir. A wa­iter star­ted ins­tinc­ti­vely to­wards her.

  Ba­le tur­ned ca­su­al­ly aro­und and ma­de his way back to his car.

  When he tur­ned to lo­ok, the girl was al­re­ady run­ning for her li­fe.

  12

  Ba­le pul­led gently away from the kerb, as if he had chan­ged his mind abo­ut ha­ving a cup of cof­fee, or had left his wal­let at ho­me. He didn’t want an­yo­ne re­mem­be­ring him. He glan­ced back to his left. The girl was sprin­ting down the ro­ad, with the wa­iter in hot pur­su­it. Silly bitch. She hadn’t pa­id her bill.

  He drew up be­si­de the wa­iter and gently tap­ped his horn. ‘Sorry. My fa­ult. We’re in a hurry.’ He wa­ved a twenty-euro no­te out of the win­dow. ‘Ho­pe this co­vers the tip.’

  The wa­iter lo­oked at
him in as­to­nish­ment. Ba­le smi­led. His clot­ted eyes al­ways af­fec­ted pe­op­le that way. Mes­me­ri­sed them, even.

  As a child, his con­di­ti­on had fas­ci­na­ted a wi­de va­ri­ety of doc­tors - pa­pers had even be­en writ­ten abo­ut him. One doc­tor had told him that be­fo­re his ca­se was bro­ught to the­ir at­ten­ti­on, eyes wit­ho­ut whi­tes (‘no-whi­tes’, the doc­tor had cal­led them, in which only the pro­xi­mal in­te­rom­ma­ti­di­al cells we­re pig­men­ted) had only ever be­en no­ted in Gam­ma­rus chev­re­uxi Sex­ton - a sand shrimp. He was an en­ti­rely new ge­ne­tic type, the­re­fo­re. A true Men­de­li­an re­ces­si­ve. If he ever had child­ren, he co­uld fo­und a dynasty.

  Ba­le put on his sung­las­ses, amu­sed at the wa­iter’s dis­com­fi­tu­re. ‘Drugs, don’t you know. The yo­ung the­se days. Not fit to be let off the le­ash. If she owes mo­re, tell me.’

  ‘No. That’s all right. That’s fi­ne.’

  Ba­le shrug­ged. ‘The truth is that she ne­eds to go back to the cli­nic. Ha­tes the tho­ught of it. Al­ways do­es this to me.’ He wa­ved at the wa­iter as he ac­ce­le­ra­ted away. The last thing Ba­le wan­ted was a new po­li­ce pre­sen­ce dog­ging his every fo­ots­tep. It had al­re­ady cost him far too much ef­fort get­ting rid of the last bunch. This way, the wa­iter wo­uld exp­la­in what had hap­pe­ned to his cus­to­mers and ever­yo­ne wo­uld be sa­tis­fi ed. By the ti­me they ma­de it ho­me, the story wo­uld ha­ve grown wings and a do­zen dif­fe­rent en­dings.