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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 27

by Mario Reading


  Ale­xi grab­bed for the ring and slid it over his he­ad.

  ‘Turn aro­und! Turn aro­und in the wa­ter and let it drag you!’

  Ale­xi tur­ned aro­und and let the ferry drag him along be­hind it. He was sca­red of swal­lo­wing wa­ter and may­be drow­ning li­ke that. So he cur­ved his neck for­wards, un­til his chin lay fl at on his chest and al­lo­wed the wa­ter to wash over his sho­ul­ders li­ke a bow-wa­ke. As he did so, it be­la­tedly oc­cur­red to him to fe­el aro­und in his shirt for the bam­boo tu­be. It was go­ne.

  He glan­ced back at the slip­way. Had he lost it the­re, whi­le fal­ling? Or in the wa­ter? Wo­uld the eye-man see it and re­ali­se what it was?

  The eye-man sat ast­ri­de his hor­se at the bar­ri­er. As Ale­xi watc­hed, the eye-man to­ok out his pis­tol and shot the ma­re. Then he tur­ned back to­wards the Pont de Gau and the Ma­ra­is and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the un­derb­rush.

  39

  Per­haps it was a mis­ta­ke to ins­til so much fe­ar in yo­ur ene­mi­es that they had not­hing left to lo­se? What ot­her mo­ti­ve co­uld pos­sibly ha­ve promp­ted the gypsy in­to ta­king such a ri­di­cu­lo­us risk as le­aping ac­ross a sing­le-po­le bar­ri­er on an ex­ha­us­ted hor­se? Every­body knew that hor­ses ha­ted se­e­ing day­light bet­we­en wha­te­ver they we­re jum­ping over and the gro­und. And the hor­se had known it was he­aded for de­ep wa­ter. You had to tra­in hor­ses spe­ci­al­ly for that sort of thing. It was mad­ness. She­er mad­ness.

  Still. Ba­le had to ad­mi­re the man for at­temp­ting it. The gypsy had known, af­ter all, just what awa­ited him at Ba­le’s hands. Sha­me abo­ut the hor­se, tho­ugh. But it had shat­te­red its leg in the fall and Ba­le ha­ted to see an ani­mal suf­fer.

  Ba­le ga­ve the worn-out gel­ding its he­ad. Ins­tinc­ti­vely, the gel­ding star­ted back along the tra­il by which they had co­me. First stop on the re­turn trip wo­uld be the gypsy who had be­en lo­oking af­ter the hor­ses. Get so­me in­for­ma­ti­on the­re. Then a cast aro­und town for the blond Vi­king. Fa­iling that, his girlf­ri­end.

  Eit­her way, Ba­le wo­uld pick up Sa­bir’s tra­il so­mew­he­re - so­me­how. He knew it. He al­ways did.

  40

  Gav­ril slo­wed his hor­se to a walk. The ani­mal was on its last legs. He didn’t want to risk kil­ling it and then find him­self stuck, ki­lo­met­res from now­he­re, in the mid­dle of the Ma­ra­is.

  Unli­ke Ale­xi, Gav­ril wasn’t re­al­ly a co­untry boy. He was hap­pi­est lur­king on the outs­kirts of town, whe­re the ac­ti­on was. Un­til now, Gav­ril’s idea of a go­od ti­me had in­vol­ved the ac­ti­ve tra­ding of sto­len cel­lpho­nes. Gav­ril didn’t ste­al them him­self, of co­ur­se - his fa­ce and ha­ir we­re far too me­mo­rab­le for that. He simply ac­ted as the mid­dle­man, mo­ving from café to café and from bar to bar, sel­ling them on for a few euros pro­fit per pop. It kept him in be­er and clot­hes and the­re was the ad­ded at­trac­ti­on of knoc­king off the oc­ca­si­onal pa­yo girl, when he struck lucky. His ha­ir al­ways pro­vi­ded the gu­aran­te­ed first to­pic of con­ver­sa­ti­on. How can you be a gypsy with ha­ir that co­lo­ur? So his blond­ness wasn’t all bad.

  Almost wit­ho­ut re­ali­sing it, Gav­ril drif­ted to a halt. Did he re­al­ly want to cha­se af­ter Ale­xi and the ga­dje? And what wo­uld he do when he ca­me up with them? Frigh­ten them in­to sub­mis­si­on? Per­haps he sho­ul simply vi­ew the ste­aling of the hor­se as a cle­ver way out of an im­pos­sib­le si­tu­ati­on. It had at le­ast gu­aran­te­ed that Ba­du and Ste­fan co­uldn’t pur­sue him and wre­ak wha­te­ver ven­ge­an­ce the­ir per­ver­ted minds co­uld co­nj­ure up. He wo­uld be happy ne­ver to see them or Ba­ze­na aga­in in his li­fe.

  And what of Yo­la? Did he re­al­ly want her that much? The­re we­re ot­her fish in the sea. It might be best to le­ave the who­le thing alo­ne. Ma­ke him­self scar­ce for a whi­le. He co­uld rest the hor­se and then ma­ke his way slowly north. Aban­don it so­mew­he­re ne­ar a tra­in de­pot. Hitch a ri­de on a fre­ight car to To­ulo­use. He had fa­mily the­re. They wo­uld put him up.

  Se­cu­re in his new plan, Gav­ril tur­ned away from the ri­ver and to­wards the Pan­per­du.

  41

  Ba­le cho­se to wa­it for Gav­ril be­hind an aban­do­ned gar­di­en’s ca­ba­ne. He and the gel­ding blen­ded in per­fectly be­si­de the de­ep-shel­ved thatc­hing of the ro­of, which was cap­ped in whi­te, li­ke the ke­el of an up­tur­ned ro­wing bo­at.

  Ba­le had be­en stan­ding in the lee of the ca­ba­ne for the past ten mi­nu­tes, watc­hing Gav­ril ap­pro­ach. On­ce or twi­ce he had even sha­ken his he­ad, be­mu­sed by the man’s per­sis­tent blind­ness to wha­te­ver was go­ing on aro­und him. Had the gypsy fal­len as­le­ep? Was that why he had so ar­bit­ra­rily de­ci­ded to aban­don a tra­il which had be­en cle­arly bla­zed thro­ugh the marsg­rass for ever­yo­ne to see? It had be­en ab­surd go­od luck that Ba­le had ca­ught sight of Gav­ril me­re mo­ments be­fo­re the lat­ter had had ti­me to di­sap­pe­ar for ever be­yond the tre­eli­ne.

  At the last pos­sib­le mo­ment Ba­le step­ped out from be­hind the ca­ba­ne, le­ading his hor­se. He un­ti­ed the hand­kerc­hi­ef from aro­und the hor­se’s mo­uth and rep­la­ced it in his poc­ket - it was a trick he’d le­ar­ned with Ber­ber pack ca­mels in the Le­gi­on. He hadn’t wan­ted the hor­se to whinny when it he­ard its com­pa­ni­on ap­pro­ac­hing and gi­ve away the ga­me.

  ‘Get down.’ Ba­le wa­ved his pis­tol en­co­ura­gingly.

  Gav­ril glan­ced over Ba­le’s he­ad to­wards the ed­ge of the ne­arby wo­od­land.

  ‘Don’t even think abo­ut it. I’ve just shot one hor­se. Anot­her will ma­ke no dif­fe­ren­ce to me. But I’ve got not­hing aga­inst the ani­mal. Sho­oting it un­ne­ces­sa­rily wo­uld be gu­aran­te­ed to ma­ke me very angry in­de­ed.’

  Gav­ril coc­ked his leg over the sad­dle and slid down the hor­se’s flank. He auto­ma­ti­cal­ly sto­od with the re­ins held in his hands, as if he had me­rely co­me to pay Ba­le a co­ur­tesy call, rat­her than to find him­self the vic­tim of an am­bush. He lo­oked be­wil­de­red - as if he we­re se­ven ye­ars old aga­in - and his fat­her had just lan­ded him a clo­ut for so­met­hing he hadn’t do­ne. ‘Did you sho­ot Ale­xi?’

  ‘Why wo­uld I do that?’

  Ba­le ap­pro­ac­hed Gav­ril and to­ok the hor­se from him. He tet­he­red it at the hitc­hing post out­si­de the ca­ba­ne. Then he unk­not­ted the la­ri­at from aro­und the pom­mel of the sad­dle. ‘Lie down.’

  ‘What do you want? What are you go­ing to do?’

  ‘I’m go­ing to tie you up. Lie down.’

  Gav­ril lay on his back, lo­oking up at the sky.

  ‘No. Turn over.’

  ‘You’re not go­ing to kni­fe me aga­in?’

  ‘No. Not that.’ Ba­le stretc­hed both of Gav­ril’s arms out be­yond his he­ad and gu­ided them thro­ugh the lo­op of the la­ri­at. Then he fas­te­ned the ot­her end in a tem­po­rary slip knot to the hitc­hing post. He wal­ked ac­ross to the gel­ding and unk­not­ted the la­ri­at from aro­und the gel­ding’s pom­mel. Then he wal­ked back and knot­ted Gav­ril’s fe­et to­get­her, le­aving the tra­iling ro­pe-end on the gro­und. ‘We’re alo­ne he­re. You’ve pro­bably re­ali­sed that by now. Not­hing but hor­ses, bulls and blo­ody pink fla­min­gos in any di­rec­ti­on.’

  ‘I’m no thre­at to you. I just now de­ci­ded to he­ad north. To ste­er cle­ar of you and Sa­bir and Yo­la for go­od.’

  ‘Ah. She’s cal­led Yo­la, is she? I did won­der. What’s the ot­her gypsy cal­led? The one who­se hor­se I shot?’

  ‘Ale­xi. Ale­xi Du­fon­ta­ine.’

  ‘And yo­ur na­me?’

  ‘Gav­ril. La Ro­upie
.’ Gav­ril cle­ared his thro­at. He was ha­ving dif­fi­culty in con­cent­ra­ting. His mind kept mo­ving on to ir­re­le­vant de­ta­ils. Li­ke the ti­me of day. Or the con­sis­tency of the scrubg­rass a few inc­hes in front of his eyes. ‘What did you do to him? To Ale­xi?’

  Ba­le was wal­king the gel­ding aro­und to whe­re Gav­ril was lying. ‘Do to him? I didn’t do anyt­hing to him. He fell off his hor­se. Ma­na­ged to scramb­le in­to the ri­ver and hitch a lift on a ferry. It’s a mis­for­tu­ne for you that he got away.’

  Gav­ril star­ted to we­ep. He hadn’t cons­ci­o­usly wept sin­ce child­ho­od and now it was as if all the mi­sery and hurt that he had sto­red up in him­self sin­ce that ti­me had fi­nal­ly overf­lo­wed its bor­ders. ‘Ple­ase let me go. Ple­ase.’

  Ba­le hitc­hed the gel­ding to the ro­pe-end ti­ed aro­und Gav­ril’s fe­et. ‘I can’t do that. You’ve se­en me. You’ve had a chan­ce to mark me down. And you’ve got a grud­ge. I ne­ver let men go who hold grud­ges aga­inst me.’

  ‘But I don’t ha­ve any grud­ge.’

  ‘Yo­ur leg. I go­uged yo­ur leg with my kni­fe. Back in Go­ur­don.’

  ‘I’ve al­re­ady for­got­ten that.’

  ‘So you for­gi­ve me? That’s kind. Why did you co­me af­ter me then?’ Ba­le had un­ti­ed Gav­ril’s hor­se from the hitc­hing post and was le­ading it aro­und in front of him. Now he un­hitc­hed the lo­se ro­pe-end at­tac­hing Gav­ril’s hands and knot­ted it to the pom­mel of Gav­ril’s sad­dle.

  ‘What are you do­ing?’

  Ba­le tes­ted both knots. Gav­ril was arc­hing his neck back­wards to see what was hap­pe­ning be­hind him. Ba­le wal­ked to the ed­ge of the ne­arby marsh and cut him­self a hand­ful of dri­ed re­eds, abo­ut three fe­et in length. He cut anot­her, sing­le re­ed and lo­oped it in­to a no­ose. Then he knot­ted the ends of the re­eds to­get­her, un­til they to­ok on the sha­pe of a be­som he­ad. One of the hor­ses be­gan to snort.

  ‘Did you say so­met­hing just then?’

  ‘I as­ked what you are do­ing?’ The words ca­me out as a sob.

  ‘I’m ma­king myself a whip. Out of the­se re­eds. Do-it-yo­ur­self.’

  ‘My God. Are you go­ing to whip me?’

  ‘Whip you? No. I’m go­ing to whip the hor­ses.’

  Gav­ril star­ted to howl. It was not a no­ise he had ever ma­de be­fo­re in his li­fe. But it was a no­ise Ba­le was fa­mi­li­ar with. He had he­ard it ti­me and aga­in when pe­op­le felt them­sel­ves to be in ex­t­re­mis. It was as if they we­re trying to block off re­ality with so­und.

  ‘An an­ces­tor of mi­ne was hung, drawn and qu­ar­te­red on­ce. Way back in me­di­eval ti­mes. Do you know what that in­vol­ves, Gav­ril?’

  Gav­ril was shri­eking now.

  ‘It in­vol­ves be­ing put on a gib­bet and ha­ving a no­ose pla­ced aro­und yo­ur neck. Then you are pul­led up, so­me­ti­mes as high as fifty fe­et and disp­la­yed to the crowd. Surp­ri­singly, this ra­rely kills you.’

  Gav­ril was ham­me­ring his he­ad aga­inst the earth. The hor­ses we­re be­co­ming rest­less with the unex­pec­ted no­ise and one of them even wal­ked a few pa­ces, tigh­te­ning the ten­si­on on Gav­ril’s ro­pe.

  ‘Then you are let down and the no­ose is lo­ose­ned. You are re­vi­ved. The exe­cu­ti­oner now ta­kes a ho­oked imp­le­ment - a lit­tle li­ke a corksc­rew - and ma­kes an in­ci­si­on in yo­ur sto­mach. He­re.’ He bent down, tur­ned Gav­ril par­ti­al­ly over and prod­ded him just abo­ve the ap­pen­dix. ‘By this ti­me you are half strang­led, but still ab­le to ap­pre­ci­ate what is hap­pe­ning. The ho­oked imp­le­ment is then in­ser­ted in yo­ur sto­mach sack and yo­ur in­tes­ti­nes are pul­led out li­ke a ste­aming string of sa­usa­ges. The crowd is che­ering by this ti­me, gra­te­ful, no do­ubt, that it is not all hap­pe­ning to them.’

  Gav­ril had fal­len si­lent. His bre­ath was co­ming in tu­ber­cu­lar gulps, as if he had the who­oping co­ugh.

  ‘Then, just be­fo­re you are de­ad, they at­tach you to fo­ur hor­ses, pla­ced in each qu­ar­ter of the squ­are li­ke com­pass po­ints. North, so­uth, east and west. This is a symbo­li­cal pu­nish­ment, as I’m su­re you’ll un­ders­tand.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Gav­ril’s vo­ice ca­me out unex­pec­tedly cle­arly, as if he had co­me to a for­mal de­ci­si­on and in­ten­ded to ful­fil its cont­rac­tu­al re­qu­ire­ments in as se­ri­o­us a man­ner as pos­sib­le.

  ‘Excel­lent. I knew you’d see re­ason. I’ll tell you what. I won’t hang you. And I won’t draw out yo­ur in­tes­ti­nes. I’ve got not­hing aga­inst you per­so­nal­ly. You’ve do­ubt­less led a hard li­fe. A bit of a strug­gle. I don’t want to ma­ke yo­ur de­ath an un­ne­ces­sa­rily pa­in­ful or a lin­ge­ring one. And I won’t qu­ar­ter you. I’m two hor­ses short for that sort of flo­urish.’ Ba­le pat­ted Gav­ril on the he­ad. ‘So I shall hal­ve you ins­te­ad. Un­less you talk, of co­ur­se. I sho­uld tell you that the­se hor­ses are ti­red. The hal­ving may pro­ve a bit of a stra­in for them. But it’s ext­ra­or­di­nary what a lit­tle whip­ping can do to gal­va­ni­se a we­ary ani­mal.’

  ‘What is it? What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I want to know whe­re Sa­bir and… Yo­la was it? Was that the na­me you sa­id? I want to know whe­re they are hi­ding.’

  ‘But I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes you do. They’ll be in a pla­ce Yo­la knows. A pla­ce she and her fa­mily may ha­ve used be­fo­re, whi­le they we­re vi­si­ting he­re. A pla­ce known to you gypsi­es but which no one el­se will think of. To en­co­ura­ge yo­ur cre­ati­ve ju­ices, I am go­ing to stir the­se hor­ses up a lit­tle. Gi­ve them a tas­te of the lash.’

  ‘No. No. I do know of such a pla­ce.’

  ‘Re­al­ly? That was qu­ick.’

  ‘Yes. Yes it was. Yo­la’s fat­her won it in a card ga­me. They al­ways used to stay the­re. But I for­got abo­ut it. I didn’t ne­ed to think abo­ut it.’

  ‘Whe­re is this pla­ce?’

  ‘Will you let me go if I tell you?’

  Ba­le ga­ve the gel­ding a tas­te of the switch. The gel­ding jer­ked for­ward, tigh­te­ning the ro­pe. The se­cond hor­se was temp­ted to fol­low in the sa­me di­rec­ti­on but Ba­le shus­hed it away.

  ‘Ai­ee. Stop it! Stop it!’

  ‘Whe­re is this pla­ce?

  ‘It’s cal­led the Ma­set de la Ma­ra­is.’

  ‘What Ma­ra­is?’

  ‘The Ma­ra­is de la Si­go­ulet­te.’

  ‘Whe­re’s that?’

  ‘Ple­ase. Ma­ke them stop.’

  Ba­le gent­led the hor­ses. ‘You we­re sa­ying?’

  ‘Just off the D85. The one that runs be­si­de the De­part­men­tal Park. I can’t re­mem­ber what it’s cal­led. It’s the small park, tho­ugh. Be­fo­re you get to the salt wor­kings.’

  ‘Can you re­ad a map?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Then po­int it out for me.’ Ba­le cro­uc­hed down be­si­de Gav­ril. He ope­ned a lo­cal map. ‘The sca­le on this is one cen­ti­met­re for every 500 met­res. That me­ans that the ho­use sho­uld be mar­ked on it. It bet­ter be, for yo­ur sa­ke.’

  ‘Can you un­tie me?’

  ‘No.’

  Gav­ril star­ted sob­bing aga­in.

  ‘Just a mo­ment. I’ll fi­re up the hor­ses.’

  ‘No. Ple­ase. I can see it. It’s mar­ked. The­re.’ He in­di­ca­ted with his el­bow.

  ‘Any ot­her ho­uses ne­arby?’

  ‘I’ve ne­ver be­en the­re. I only he­ard abo­ut it. Every­body he­ard abo­ut it. They say Yo­la’s fat­her must ha­ve che­ated to ha­ve won the right to use it off Da­dul Gav­ri­loff.’

  Ba­le sto­od up. ‘I’m not in­te­res­ted in folk ta­
les. Ha­ve you anyt­hing el­se to tell me?’

  Gav­ril tur­ned his he­ad back to­wards the gro­und.

  Ba­le strol­led a few yards un­til he fo­und a twenty-po­und rock. He hef­ted it un­der his arm and re­tur­ned to Gav­ril’s si­de. ‘This is how you di­ed. You fell off yo­ur hor­se, with yo­ur fo­ot twis­ted in­si­de yo­ur stir­rup and you smas­hed yo­ur fa­ce aga­inst this rock.’

  Gav­ril half tur­ned his he­ad to see what Ba­le was do­ing.

  Ba­le bro­ught the rock down on Gav­ril’s fa­ce. He he­si­ta­ted, won­de­ring whet­her to do it a se­cond ti­me, but the ce­reb­ros­pi­nal flu­id was al­re­ady le­aking out thro­ugh Gav­ril’s no­se - if he wasn’t de­ad, he was cer­ta­inly dying.

  Po­int­less spo­iling the set-up. He pla­ced the rock ca­re­ful­ly at the si­de of the track.

  He un­lo­oped the la­ri­at and drag­ged Gav­ril by one fo­ot to­wards his hor­se. Ta­king Gav­ril’s left fo­ot in his hand, he twis­ted it aro­und in the stir­rup, un­til the fo­ot was inext­ri­cably ca­ught, le­aving Gav­ril half tra­iling along the gro­und. Then he re­ti­ed the la­ri­at to the pom­mel.

  The hor­se had be­gun gra­zing aga­in by this ti­me, cal­med by the met­ho­di­cal pa­ce with which Ba­le had con­duc­ted his cho­res. Ba­le rub­bed its ears.

  Then he mo­un­ted his own hor­se and ro­de away.

  42

  Cal­que lo­oked aro­und the Pla­ce de l’Egli­se. He chec­ked out the cafés and the shopf­ronts and the scat­te­red benc­hes. ‘So this is whe­re it hap­pe­ned?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ The auxi­li­ary mo­torcyc­le gen­dar­me had just be­en ma­de awa­re that he was be­ing as­ked the­se qu­es­ti­ons as part of an on­go­ing mur­der in­qu­iry. His fa­ce had ins­tantly ta­ken on a mo­re se­ri­o­us cast, as tho­ugh he we­re be­ing qu­iz­zed abo­ut the li­kely short­co­mings of his fa­mily’s he­alth in­su­ran­ce co­ver.

 

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