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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 26

by Mario Reading


  The watch­man lo­oked aro­und. The crypt was de­ser­ted. Pe­op­le’s at­ten­ti­on was still ob­vi­o­usly fo­cu­sed on what was hap­pe­ning up in the squ­are. ‘Okay. But ma­ke it qu­ick.’

  35

  Ba­le had mo­ved in on Ale­xi al­most im­me­di­ately the gypsy had left the church. But the gypsy was hyper-alert. Li­ke a grey­ho­und af­ter a ra­ce. Wha­te­ver he’d be­en do­ing in the­re had psyched him up and his ad­re­na­lin was pum­ping.

  Ba­le had half ex­pec­ted the gypsy to turn im­me­di­ately back in­to the squ­are, to check out what was hap­pe­ning and to find Sa­bir. But the gypsy had hur­ri­ed down thro­ugh the Pla­ce La­mar­ti­ne to­wards the sea ins­te­ad. Why? Had he fo­und so­met­hing in the­re?

  Ba­le de­ci­ded to sha­dow Ale­xi out of town. It was al­ways a go­od idea to get well cle­ar of the most po­pu­la­ted are­as. The lo­ca­ti­on of the kil­ling wo­uld mat­ter as lit­tle as the end re­sult, as far as the po­li­ce we­re con­cer­ned. It wo­uld still be me­rely anot­her gypsy kni­fing. But this way he wo­uld ha­ve amp­le ti­me to rif­le thro­ugh Ale­xi’s poc­kets and find wha­te­ver it was he’d filc­hed or co­pi­ed down from in­si­de the crypt. He qu­ic­ke­ned his pa­ce, the­re­fo­re and sac­ri­fi­ced in­vi­si­bi­lity, co­un­ting on the crowd to pro­tect him.

  It was then that Ale­xi saw him. Ba­le knew he’d be­en se­en be­ca­use the gypsy mis­sed his fo­oting in shock and fell bri­efly down on to one knee. Ale­xi was no John­ny-He­ad-in-the-Air, li­ke Gav­ril.

  Ba­le star­ted run­ning. It was now or ne­ver. He co­uldn’t let the man get away. The gypsy was clutc­hing so­met­hing tightly to his chest - the loss of the use of one of his arms was ac­ti­vely ham­pe­ring his spe­ed. So wha­te­ver it was, was im­por­tant to him. The­re­fo­re it was im­por­tant to Ba­le.

  Now he was he­ading for the Are­na. Go­od. On­ce he was out on the Esp­la­na­de it wo­uld be far easi­er to see him. Far easi­er to mark him out from the crowd.

  Pe­op­le tur­ned to sta­re as the two men po­un­ded past them.

  Ba­le was fit. He had to be. Ever sin­ce the Le­gi­on he’d re­ali­sed that fit­ness equ­ated with he­alth. Yo­ur body lis­te­ned to you. Fit­ness fre­ed it from the op­pres­si­on of gra­vity. Find the right ba­lan­ce and you co­uld very ne­arly fl y.

  Ale­xi was light on his fe­et but no­body co­uld call him fit. In fact he had ne­ver cons­ci­o­usly exer­ci­sed in his li­fe. He me­rely li­ved an un­cons­ci­o­usly he­althy li­fe, in na­tu­ral har­mony with his ins­tincts, which dro­ve him mo­re to­wards fe­eling he­althy than to fe­eling un­well. Gypsy men tra­di­ti­onal­ly di­ed yo­ung, usu­al­ly as a re­sult of smo­king, ge­nes and al­co­hol. In Ale­xi’s ca­se he had ne­ver ta­ken to smo­king. His ge­nes he co­uld do not­hing abo­ut. But al­co­hol had al­ways be­en a we­ak­ness and he was still fe­eling the af­ter-effects of both the wed­ding blow-out and be­ing fal­len upon from a con­si­de­rab­le he­ight by a man in a cha­ir. The sa­me man who was now fol­lo­wing him.

  He co­uld sen­se him­self star­ting to flag. Fi­ve hund­red met­res to go un­til he re­ac­hed the hor­ses. Ple­ase God they had left the sad­dles on. If he knew Bo­ubo­ul’s fa­mily, no one wo­uld ha­ve even bot­he­red to to­uch the hor­ses af­ter he, Yo­la and Sa­bir had ar­ri­ved in town from the Ma­set de la Ma­ra­is, two ho­urs be­fo­re and left them in Bo­ubo­ul’s ca­re. The hor­ses of­fe­red him his only chan­ce of es­ca­pe. He had had the op­por­tu­nity to check out all three and he knew that the ma­re with the fo­ur black socks was by far the best. If the eye-man didn’t catch him be­fo­re he re­ac­hed Bo­ubo­ul’s, he wo­uld still be in with a chan­ce. He co­uld even ri­de ba­re­back if the worst ca­me to the worst.

  One thing Ale­xi was sup­re­mely go­od at was co­ping hor­ses. He had do­ne it ever sin­ce he was a child.

  Now all he had to do was to re­ach the be­ach and pray.

  ***

  Gav­ril co­uld fe­el the an­ger of out­ra­ge bu­il­ding up in him as he fol­lo­wed Ba­le and Ale­xi. It was the­ir fa­ult that this suc­ces­si­on of tra­ge­di­es had hap­pe­ned to him. Wit­ho­ut fal­ling fo­ul of Ale­xi he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve met the ga­dje. And wit­ho­ut the ga­dje spe­aring him in the leg with his kni­fe he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve had the run-in with the po­li­ce. And, in con­se­qu­en­ce, he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve he­ard of the re­ward. Or had it be­en the ot­her way aro­und? So­me­ti­mes Gav­ril’s mind ran away with him and he lost track of things.

  Eit­her way, he wo­uld still ha­ve co­me to Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es, it is true, but he wo­uld ha­ve be­en in cont­rol of events and not ha­ve al­lo­wed events to cont­rol him. He co­uld ha­ve conf­ron­ted Ale­xi at his le­isu­re, when the fo­ol was go­od and drunk. Gav­ril was a Mas­ter of low shots - of pla­ying to the gal­lery. What he didn’t li­ke we­re sud­den chan­ges to es­tab­lis­hed pat­terns.

  Per­haps he co­uld still pull the pig from the fi­re? If he al­lo­wed the ga­dje to de­al with Ale­xi, the man wo­uld lo­se con­cent­ra­ti­on. It wo­uld ca­use him to be vul­ne­rab­le. With both of them in hand, Gav­ril wo­uld re­al­ly ha­ve so­met­hing to sell to the po­li­ce­men. A simp­le pho­ne-call wo­uld do it. Then, af­ter they pa­id him the re­ward, he co­uld ne­go­ti­ate with the po­li­ce­men so that Ba­du and Ste­fan wo­uld be war­ned off mes­sing with him. All gypsi­es we­re sca­red wit­less of pri­son. It wo­uld be the one thing ca­pab­le of cont­rol­ling them.

  May­be he co­uld still marry Yo­la? Yes. This way his plans ne­edn’t be chan­ged af­ter all. All co­uld be well aga­in.

  Hur­rying af­ter the two men, he idly he won­de­red how much mo­ney Ba­ze­na had be­en ab­le to in­ve­ig­le from the to­urists be­fo­re her in­ter­fe­ring fat­her had ma­na­ged to put a stop to it.

  36

  Sa­bir lo­oked va­inly aro­und for Ale­xi. What had the idi­ot do­ne? Last se­en, he had be­en he­ading off to­wards the church. But Sa­bir had chec­ked out the crypt and fo­und him now­he­re. And this crypt wasn’t li­ke the one at Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. He­re, the­re was now­he­re to hi­de - un­less he’d so­me­how ma­na­ged to sec­re­te him­self be­ne­ath Sa­in­te Sa­ra’s mul­ti-la­ye­red skirts.

  He re­tur­ned to the town hall as ar­ran­ged. ‘Ha­ve you fo­und him?’

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad.

  ‘Well what do we do then?’

  ‘May­be he’s go­ne back to the Ma­set? May­be he fo­und so­met­hing? Did you see him ac­tu­al­ly en­ter the church?’

  ‘You co­uldn’t see anyt­hing in that bed­lam.’

  Instinc­ti­vely, wit­ho­ut sa­ying a word to each ot­her, they tur­ned down the Ave­nue Léon Gam­bet­ta to­wards the Pla­ge des Amp­ho­res and the hor­ses.

  Sa­bir glan­ced ac­ross at Yo­la. ‘You did bril­li­antly by the way. I just wan­ted to tell you that. You’re a born agent pro­vo­ca­te­ur.’

  ‘Agent pro­vo­cat­ri­ce. Who ta­ught you yo­ur French?’

  Sa­bir la­ug­hed. ‘My mot­her. But her he­art wasn’t in it. She wan­ted me to be an All-Ame­ri­can, li­ke my fat­her. But I let her down. I tur­ned in­to an All-or-Not­hing ins­te­ad.’

  ‘I don’t un­ders­tand.’

  ‘Ne­it­her do I.’

  They’d re­ac­hed Bo­ubo­ul’s ca­ra­van. The pic­ket whe­re the three hor­ses sho­uld ha­ve be­en tet­he­red was cons­pi­cu­o­usly empty.

  ‘Gre­at. So­me­one’s ma­de off with the blo­ody lot. Or may­be Bo­ubo­ul’s sold them for dog me­at? Do you know what shanks’s pony is, Yo­la?’

  ‘Wa­it. The­re’s Bo­ubo­ul. I’ll ask him what hap­pe­ned to them.’

  Yo­la hur­ri­ed ac­ross the ro­ad. Watc­hing her, Sa­bir re­ali­sed that he was mis­sing so­met­hing - so­me clue th
at she had al­re­ady pic­ked up. He cros­sed the ro­ad be­hind her.

  Bo­ubo­ul threw his hands up in the air. He was tal­king in Sin­ti. Sa­bir tri­ed to fol­low but was unab­le to do mo­re than un­ders­tand that so­met­hing unex­pec­ted had hap­pe­ned and that Bo­ubo­ul was lo­udly disc­la­iming any res­pon­si­bi­lity for it.

  Fi­nal­ly, ti­ring of Bo­ubo­ul’s ha­ran­gue, Sa­bir drew Yo­la to one si­de. ‘Trans­la­te, ple­ase. I can’t ma­ke out a word of what this guy is sa­ying.’

  ‘It is bad, Da­mo. As bad as it co­uld be.’

  ‘Whe­re ha­ve the hor­ses go­ne?’

  ‘Ale­xi to­ok one. Twenty mi­nu­tes ago. He was ex­ha­us­ted. He had be­en run­ning. Ac­cor­ding to Bo­ubo­ul he was so worn out he co­uld hardly mo­unt the hor­se. Thirty se­conds la­ter anot­her man ca­me run­ning up. This man was not ti­red at all. He had stran­ge eyes, ac­cor­ding to Bo­ubo­ul. He didn’t lo­ok at any­body. Talk to any­body. He simply to­ok the se­cond hor­se and ro­de off af­ter Ale­xi.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. That’s all we ne­eded. Did Bo­ubo­ul try and tang­le with him?’

  ‘Do­es he lo­ok li­ke a fo­ol? They we­re not Bo­ubo­ul’s hor­ses. They we­ren’t even ours. Why sho­uld he risk him­self for so­me­one el­se’s pro­perty?’

  ‘Why in­de­ed?’ Sa­bir was still trying to fi­gu­re out what might ha­ve trig­ge­red the cha­se. ‘Whe­re is the third hor­se? And was Ale­xi car­rying anyt­hing? Ask him.’

  Yo­la tur­ned to Bo­ubo­ul. They exc­han­ged a few bri­ef sen­ten­ces in Sin­ti. ‘It’s wor­se than I tho­ught.’

  ‘Wor­se? How can it be wor­se? You al­re­ady sa­id it was as bad as it co­uld be.’

  ‘Ale­xi was car­rying so­met­hing. You we­re right. A bam­boo tu­be.’

  ‘A bam­boo tu­be?’

  ‘Yes. He had it clutc­hed to his chest li­ke a baby.’

  Sa­bir grab­bed Yo­la’s arm. ‘Don’t you see what that me­ans? He fo­und he prop­he­ci­es. Ale­xi fo­und them.’

  ‘But that is not all.’

  Sa­bir clo­sed his eyes. ‘You don’t ne­ed to tell me. I pic­ked up the na­me whi­le you we­re tal­king. Gav­ril.’

  ‘Yes, Gav­ril. He was fol­lo­wing both of them. He ar­ri­ved abo­ut a mi­nu­te af­ter the eye-man. It was he who to­ok the third hor­se.’

  37

  Gav­ril was twenty mi­nu­tes out of Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es when he re­mem­be­red that he didn’t ha­ve a we­apon. He had thrown it at Ste­fan in the scuf­fle.

  The tho­ught struck him with such an im­pact that he ac­tu­al­ly stop­ped his hor­se, mid-can­ter and spent a full half mi­nu­te de­ba­ting with him­self whet­her to turn back.

  But the tho­ught of Ba­du and Ste­fan per­su­aded him to con­ti­nue. The pa­ir of them wo­uld be ba­ying for his blo­od. They wo­uld be out sco­uring the stre­ets of Les Sa­in­te-Ma­ri­es for him at this very mo­ment - or el­se ha­ving the­ir kni­ves shar­pe­ned at Nan Ma­xi­moff’s pe­dal-sto­ne. At le­ast, on hor­se­back, in the mid­dle of the Ma­ra­is, no one wo­uld ha­ve a ho­pe in Hell of catc­hing him.

  The two men in front of him had no idea that he was fol­lo­wing them. In fact, now that they’d fi­nal­ly left the ro­ad­way, he didn’t ne­ed to get wit­hin fi­ve hund­red met­res of them, such was the im­pact of the tra­il they we­re le­aving be­hind them thro­ugh the brush. Two gal­lo­ping hor­ses chur­ned up the gro­und in a very sa­tis­fac­tory man­ner and Gav­ril co­uld easily tell new hor­se tracks from old ones.

  He wo­uld simply fol­low Ale­xi and the ga­dje’s tra­il and see what oc­cur­red. If the worst ca­me to the worst and he lost them, he co­uld al­ways ri­de on thro­ugh to the outs­kirts of Ar­les and hop on a bus. Ma­ke him­self scar­ce for a whi­le.

  After all, what did he ha­ve to lo­se?

  38

  Ale­xi was ma­king up so­me gro­und ahe­ad of the eye-man - but not qu­ite as fast as he had ho­ped. The ma­re had had amp­le ti­me to re­cu­pe­ra­te from that mor­ning’s ten-ki­lo­met­re ri­de, but Ale­xi sus­pec­ted that Bo­ubo­ul had ne­it­her fed nor wa­te­red her, for her ton­gue was al­re­ady han­ging lo­ose at the si­de of her mo­uth. She was cle­arly on her last legs.

  His only com­fort lay in the know­led­ge that the gel­ding the eye-man was ri­ding wo­uld be in a si­mi­lar con­di­ti­on. The tho­ught of be­ing for­ced back on fo­ot, ho­we­ver, in such an iso­la­ted en­vi­ron­ment and pur­su­ed thro­ugh the mars­hes by a mad­man with a pis­tol, didn’t be­ar con­temp­la­ti­on.

  So far he had stuck to the exact re­ver­se of the path that they had fol­lo­wed that mor­ning, on the­ir way from the ho­use. But Ale­xi knew that he wo­uld so­on ha­ve to ve­er off and stri­ke out in­to the unk­nown. He co­uldn’t risk le­ading the eye-man back to the­ir ba­se - for when Sa­bir and Yo­la dis­co­ve­red the two hor­ses go­ne, they wo­uld ha­ve no op­ti­on but to re­turn to the one pla­ce they knew he might co­me back.

  His only ho­pe lay in elu­ding the eye-man comp­le­tely. To ha­ve any chan­ce at all of do­ing this, Ale­xi knew that he ne­eded to gat­her his wits abo­ut him. To cont­rol his ri­sing sen­se of pa­nic. To think cle­arly and const­ruc­ti­vely and at full gal­lop.

  On his left, be­yond the Etang des La­unes, was the Le Pe­tit Rhône. Ale­xi knew it well, ha­ving fis­hed the­re with a suc­ces­si­on of ma­le re­la­ti­ves on and off sin­ce child­ho­od. To his know­led­ge, the­re was only one fer­ry-cros­sing ne­arby - at the Bac du Sa­uva­ge. Sa­ving that, you we­re for­ced to cross the long way ro­und, by ro­ad, may­be ten ki­lo­met­res furt­her up­ri­ver, at the Pont du Sylvéréal. The­re was, qu­ite li­te­ral­ly, no ot­her way in­to the Pe­ti­te Ca­mar­gue - un­less you flew, of co­ur­se.

  If he co­uld ti­me the ferry exactly right, he might stand an out­si­de chan­ce. But what we­re the odds? The ferry ma­de the trip every half-ho­ur, on the half-ho­ur. It might al­re­ady be po­si­ti­oned on the far si­de of the ri­ver, ge­aring up for the re­turn jo­ur­ney - in which ca­se he was trap­ped. The ri­ver, as he re­mem­be­red it, was abo­ut two hund­red met­res wi­de at that po­int and flo­wed far too strongly for an ex­ha­us­ted hor­se to ma­na­ge. And he didn’t ha­ve a watch. Sho­uld he throw all his eggs in­to one bas­ket and try for the ferry? Or was he mad?

  The ma­re stumb­led and then ca­ught her­self. Ale­xi knew that if he car­ri­ed on in this way she wo­uld simply burst her he­art - he had he­ard of hor­ses do­ing this. She wo­uld drop li­ke a sto­ne and he wo­uld bre­ak his neck in a flat-out fall over her sho­ul­ders. At le­ast that way the eye-man wo­uld be sa­ved the tro­ub­le of ha­ving to tor­tu­re him, as he’d ob­vi­o­usly do­ne with Ba­bel.

  Ale­xi was two mi­nu­tes ri­de from the fer­ry-cros­sing. He simply had to chan­ce it. He cast one fi­nal, des­pa­iring glan­ce over his sho­ul­der. The eye-man was fifty met­res be­hind him and ga­ining. Per­haps the gel­ding had snatc­hed a drink of wa­ter at Bo­ubo­ul’s? Per­haps that was why he wasn’t ti­ring as fast as the ma­re?

  The bar­ri­ers we­re down at the fer­ry-cros­sing and the ferry was just put­ting off from the sho­re. The­re we­re fo­ur cars and a small van on bo­ard. The cros­sing was so short that no one had bot­he­red to climb out of the­ir cars. Only the tic­ket col­lec­tor saw Ale­xi co­ming.

  The man ra­ised a war­ning hand and sho­uted, ‘Non! Non!’

  Ale­xi la­unc­hed the ma­re at the sing­le-bar­red bar­ri­er. The­re was a ste­ep slo­pe le­ading down to it. Per­haps she wo­uld be ab­le to get a firm eno­ugh grip on the asp­halt and la­unch her­self over? Eit­her way, he co­uldn’t af­ford to let up his pa­ce.

  At the last pos­sib­le mo­ment the ma­re lost her ner­ve and jin­ked to the left. Her back legs slid out from un­der her and her hi
p drop­ped, exag­ge­ra­ted by the down­ward slo­pe of the slip­way. She slid un­der­ne­ath the bar­ri­er, all fo­ur legs thrown up in­to the air, shri­eking. Ale­xi hit it back on. He tri­ed to curl him­self in­to a ball, but fa­iled. He smas­hed thro­ugh the bar­ri­er, which par­ti­al­ly bro­ke his fall. Then he struck the asp­halt with his right sho­ul­der and si­de. Wit­ho­ut al­lo­wing him­self to think or to co­unt the cost in pa­in, Ale­xi la­unc­hed him­self af­ter the ferry. If he mis­sed the me­tal lan­ding plank, he knew that he wo­uld drown. Not only had he da­ma­ged him­self, so­mew­he­re, so­me­how - but he co­uldn’t swim.

  The tic­ket col­lec­tor had se­en many crazy things in his li­fe - what fer­ryman hadn’t? - but this to­ok the bis­cu­it. A man on a hor­se trying to le­ap the bar­ri­er and get on bo­ard? He trans­por­ted hor­ses all the ti­me. The ferry com­pany had even set-up a se­mi-per­ma­nent tet­her for the sum­mer months - til­ted away from the cars so that the hor­ses wo­uldn’t da­ma­ge an­yo­ne’s pa­int­work if they kic­ked out back­wards. Per­haps this man was a hor­se thi­ef? Eit­her way, he’d lost his pri­ze. The hor­se had shat­te­red her leg in the fall, if he wasn’t mis­ta­ken. The man, too, was pro­bably inj­ured.

  The tic­ket col­lec­tor re­ac­hed down and un­ho­oked the li­fe ring. ‘It’s ti­ed to the ferry! Grab it and hang on!’

  He knew, now the ferry was un­der way, that it was all but im­pos­sib­le to stop the traw­ling mec­ha­nism. The pull of the ri­ver was so strong that the ferry had to be anc­ho­red to a gu­iding cha­in, which pre­ven­ted it spin­ning out of cont­rol and down to­wards the Grau d’Orgon. On­ce the mec­ha­nism was trig­ge­red, it be­ca­me risky to stop it, the­reby lo­ading the long lo­op of the cha­in with the de­ad we­ight of the ferry, bac­ked up by the full dri­ving for­ce of the ri­ver. In con­di­ti­ons of he­avy ra­in, the ferry co­uld even burst its stanc­hi­ons and drift to­wards the open sea.

 

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