THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  65

  Ba­le eased him­self back thro­ugh the re­ar win­dow of the Ma­set a ma­xi­mum of three mi­nu­tes af­ter the so­und of his fi­nal shot. So far so go­od. The­re wo­uld be no new blo­od tra­ils to gi­ve his po­si­ti­on away. He had me­rely be­en go­ing over old gro­und.

  But from he­re on in he must be mo­re ca­re­ful. Any mi­nu­te now the 7th Ca­valry wo­uld be ar­ri­ving and the pla­ce wo­uld re­vert to bed­lam. Be­fo­re that hap­pe­ned, he ne­eded to find so­mew­he­re sa­fe to lie up and nur­se his sho­ul­der. If he was ca­ught out in the open, co­me first light, he might as well cash in his cards and cry cap­ri­vi.

  Clutc­hing his left arm to his si­de, Ba­le mo­ved in­to one of the downs­ta­irs bed­ro­oms. He was just abo­ut to snatch the co­ver­let off the bed in an ef­fort to con­ta­in his ble­eding when he ca­ught the so­und of fo­ot­fal­ls ap­pro­ac­hing along the cor­ri­dor.

  Ba­le lo­oked wildly aro­und him. His eye­sight had ac­cus­to­med it­self to the dark­ness by now and he was ab­le to ma­ke out the sil­ho­u­et­tes of all the ma­j­or pi­eces of fur­ni­tu­re. Not for a se­cond was he temp­ted to hi­j­ack who­ever was ap­pro­ac­hing. His ma­in job now was to avo­id the at­ten­ti­ons of the po­li­ce. The rest wo­uld co­me la­ter.

  He duc­ked in be­hind the bed­ro­om do­or and pul­led it tightly aga­inst his body. A man en­te­red the bed­ro­om im­me­di­ately be­hind him. It was Sa­bir. Ba­le’s sen­ses we­re so hyper-alert that he co­uld al­most smell him, even in the dark.

  He pic­ked up the so­und of rum­ma­ging. Was Sa­bir ta­king the blan­kets off the bed? Yes. To co­ver the girl of co­ur­se.

  Now he was using a cel­lpho­ne. Ba­le re­cog­ni­sed the par­ti­cu­lar timb­re of Sa­bir’s vo­ice. The ca­su­al­ly inf­lec­ted, just so slightly mid-Atlan­tic, French. Sa­bir was spe­aking to a po­li­ce of­fi­cer. Exp­la­ining what he tho­ught had hap­pe­ned. Tel­ling him abo­ut the de­ath.

  So­me­one cal­led the ‘eye-man’ was on the run, ap­pa­rently. The ‘eye-man’? Ba­le grin­ned. Well, it ma­de sen­se, in an off-be­am sort of a way. At le­ast it con­fir­med that the po­li­ce didn’t yet know his na­me. Which al­so me­ant that Ma­da­me, his mot­her’s, ho­use might still be a sa­fe pla­ce to ret­re­at to. The only prob­lem wo­uld lie in get­ting the­re.

  Sa­bir wal­ked back to­wards the do­or be­hind which Ba­le was hi­ding. For a split se­cond Ba­le was temp­ted to smash the do­or in­to his fa­ce. Even with one arm, he was mo­re than a match for a man li­ke Sa­bir.

  But the loss of blo­od from his neck had we­ake­ned him. And the ot­her gypsy was still out the­re - the one who had sprin­ted in­to the ho­use just a few se­conds af­ter Ba­le had set the girl on the dang­le. That had ta­ken balls. If the pla­in-clot­hes po­li­ce­man hadn’t neck-shot him, Ba­le wo­uld ha­ve pic­ked off the gypsy a go­od twenty met­res be­fo­re he re­ac­hed his tar­get. The man must ha­ve a gu­ar­di­an fuc­king an­gel.

  Ba­le wa­ited for Sa­bir’s fo­ot­fal­ls to di­mi­nish down the cor­ri­dor - yes, the­re was the ex­pec­ted he­si­ta­ti­on ne­ar the po­li­ce­man’s body. Then the ma­no­e­uv­ring aro­und the fur­ni­tu­re. Sa­bir wo­uld want to avo­id step­ping in the man’s blo­od - he was a grin­go, af­ter all. Far too squ­e­amish.

  Hardly bre­at­hing, Ba­le eased him­self out in­to the cor­ri­dor.

  In the sa­lon the­re was a red glow as the fi­re in the gra­te gra­du­al­ly to­ok hold. Now Sa­bir was ligh­ting mo­re cand­les. Go­od. No one wo­uld be ab­le to ma­ke Ba­le out be­yond the im­me­di­ate axis of the light.

  Ke­eping his back tight aga­inst the wall, Ba­le si­des­tep­ped to­wards the re­ar sta­irs. He re­ac­hed down. Go­od. They we­re sto­ne, not wo­od. No cre­aking.

  A drop of blo­od plop­ped on to the step be­si­de him. He felt aro­und and scrub­bed it off with his sle­eve. He’d best ma­ke it fast. Be­fo­re he left a blo­od tra­il any idi­ot co­uld fol­low - let alo­ne a po­li­ce­man.

  At the top of the sta­irs Ba­le de­ci­ded that it was sa­fe eno­ugh to risk his poc­ket torch. Sha­ding the be­am with his fin­gers, he pla­yed the torch down the di­su­sed cor­ri­dor and then up along the ce­iling. He was lo­oking for an at­tic or a loft spa­ce.

  Not­hing. He mo­ved in­to the first bed­ro­om. Junk everyw­he­re. When had this ho­use last be­en li­ved in? Any­body’s gu­ess.

  He tri­ed the ce­iling aga­in. Not­hing.

  Two bed­ro­oms furt­her down the cor­ri­dor he fo­und it. A loft hatch, con­sis­ting of a ho­le with a bo­ard la­id ac­ross it. But no lad­der.

  Ba­le sho­ne the torch aro­und the ro­om. The­re was a cha­ir. A chest. A tab­le. A bed with a dist­res­sed, mot­he­aten co­ver­let. That wo­uld do.

  Ba­le set the cha­ir un­der­ne­ath the loft spa­ce. He knot­ted the co­ver­let aro­und the spi­ne of the cha­ir and then ti­ed the ot­her end of the co­ver­let thro­ugh his belt.

  He tes­ted the cha­ir for we­ight. It held.

  Ba­le eased him­self up on to the cha­ir and re­ac­hed up with his one go­od arm for the loft co­ver. The swe­at be­gan pop­ping out on his fo­re­he­ad. For a se­cond he felt fa­int and as tho­ugh abo­ut to fall, but he re­fu­sed to co­un­te­nan­ce such a pos­si­bi­lity. He let his arm drop and to­ok a few de­ep bre­aths, un­til his con­di­ti­on re­tur­ned to nor­mal.

  Ba­le re­ali­sed that he wo­uld ha­ve to con­duct the thing in one exp­lo­si­ve mo­ve­ment, or el­se his strength wo­uld le­ave him and he wo­uld be unab­le to ac­hi­eve his end.

  He clo­sed his eyes and be­gan, qu­ite cons­ci­o­usly, to re­gu­la­te his bre­at­hing on­ce mo­re. He star­ted by tel­ling his body that it was okay. That any tra­uma that had oc­cur­red to it was tri­vi­al. Not worth com­pen­sa­ting for in terms of we­ak­ness.

  When he felt his he­art ra­te re­turn to ne­ar nor­mal, he re­ac­hed up, slid the loft co­ver to the left and ho­oked his go­od arm up over the lip. Using the cha­ir as a fulc­rum, he swung him­self up and out, ta­king the full we­ight of his body on to his go­od arm. He wo­uld ha­ve one only chan­ce at this. He had bet­ter ma­ke it go­od.

  Upen­ding him­self, he swung first one leg, then the ot­her, over the lip of the loft spa­ce. For a mo­ment he hung the­re, his bad arm fl ailing down, his legs and half his up­per body eaten by the spa­ce. Kic­king for­wards, he ma­na­ged to get the back of his right up­per thigh ac­ross the hatch.

  Now he was han­ging with the co­ver­let tra­iling from his belt and still at­tac­hed to the cha­ir. He scis­so­red his way furt­her in­to the loft spa­ce, trans­fer­ring the en­ti­re we­ight of his body on to his thighs.

  With one fi­nal twist he la­unc­hed him­self over the ed­ge of the loft hatch and lay the­re, cur­sing si­lently thro­ugh clenc­hed te­eth.

  When he had suf­fi­ci­ent cont­rol of him­self aga­in, he un­ti­ed the co­ver­let from aro­und his wa­ist and pul­led the cha­ir up be­hind him.

  For one dre­ad­ful mo­ment he tho­ught that he had mi­sj­ud­ged the si­ze of the hatch co­ver and that the cha­ir was not go­ing to pass thro­ugh. But then he had it. Out of sight, out of mind.

  He sho­ne his torch down on to the flo­or to check for blo­od loss. No. All the blo­od had lan­ded on the cha­ir. By mor­ning, any ot­her spots wo­uld ha­ve dri­ed any­way and be vir­tu­al­ly in­dis­tin­gu­is­hab­le from the filth al­re­ady co­ve­ring the oak bo­ards.

  Ba­le hef­ted the plank back ac­ross the loft hatch, un­ti­ed the co­ver­let from the cha­ir and col­lap­sed.

  66

  He awo­ke to a fe­ar­ful, nag­ging pa­in in his left sho­ul­der. Day­light had fo­und its way thro­ugh a tho­usand inad­ver­tent chinks in the ro­of and one chink had be­en shi­ning fully on to
his fa­ce.

  He co­uld he­ar vo­ices out­si­de the ho­use - sho­uts, or­ders, the hef­ting of lar­ge obj­ects and the fi­ring-up of en­gi­nes.

  Ba­le craw­led out of the light, drag­ging the co­ver­let be­hind him. He wo­uld ha­ve to do so­met­hing abo­ut his sho­ul­der. The pa­in of his shat­te­red col­lar­bo­ne was clo­se to un­be­arab­le and he didn’t wish to pass out, with the risk that he might call out in his de­li­ri­um and alert the po­li­ce be­low.

  He fo­und him­self an iso­la­ted cor­ner, well out of the way of any bo­xes and bric-a-brac that might be sus­cep­tib­le to a kick or to top­pling over. Any no­ise at all - any unex­pec­ted cras­hes - and the enemy wo­uld find him.

  He const­ruc­ted a pad for him­self with the co­ver­let, for­cing it un­der his arm­pit and then tying it back aro­und his sho­ul­der bla­des. Then he lay fl at on the plan­king, with his legs stretc­hed out and his arms down by his si­des.

  Slowly, inc­re­men­tal­ly, he be­gan in­ha­ling in a se­ri­es of de­ep bre­aths and as he to­ok each bre­ath he al­lo­wed the words ‘sle­ep, de­ep sle­ep’ to ec­ho thro­ugh the in­si­de of his he­ad. On­ce he’d got a sa­tis­fac­tory rhythm go­ing, Ba­le ope­ned his eyes as wi­de as he co­uld ma­na­ge and ro­ta­ted them back­wards, un­til he was sta­ring at a po­int on the ce­iling way be­yond his fo­re­he­ad. With his eyes fi­xed in that po­si­ti­on, he de­epe­ned his bre­at­hing, all the whi­le ma­in­ta­ining the rhythms of his in­ter­nal chant.

  When he co­uld fe­el him­self drif­ting in­to a pre-hypno­tic sta­te, he be­gan to sug­gest cer­ta­in things to him­self. Things li­ke ‘in thirty bre­aths you will fall as­le­ep’, fol­lo­wed by ‘in thirty bre­aths you will do exactly as I tell you’ - and then, la­ter, ‘in thirty bre­aths you will no lon­ger fe­el any pa­in’ - cul­mi­na­ting with ‘in thirty bre­aths yo­ur col­lar­bo­ne will be­gin to he­al it­self and yo­ur strength will re­turn to you’.

  Ba­le un­ders­to­od only too well the po­ten­ti­al short­co­mings of self-hypno­sis. But he al­so knew that it was the only pos­sib­le way that he co­uld do­mi­na­te his body and re­turn it to a sta­te bor­de­ring on the func­ti­onal.

  If he was to last out in this loft spa­ce - with no fo­od and with no me­di­cal at­ten­ti­on - for the day or two that it wo­uld ta­ke the po­li­ce to comp­le­te the­ir en­qu­iri­es, he knew that he must fo­cus all his re­so­ur­ces on the con­ser­va­ti­on and cul­ti­va­ti­on of his es­sen­ti­al ener­gi­es.

  All he had was what he ca­me in with. And tho­se as­sets wo­uld di­mi­nish with each pas­sing ho­ur, un­til eit­her an in­fec­ti­on, an un­for­ced er­ror, or an unin­ten­ded no­ise co­uld bring him low.

  67

  Gav­ril’s body lay exactly whe­re Ale­xi had sa­id it wo­uld be. Sa­bir glan­ced idly to­wards the wo­od­land - yes, the­re was the so­li­tary cypress tree, just as Ale­xi had desc­ri­bed it. But it might as well ha­ve be­en on Mars for all the go­od it wo­uld do him at this mo­ment.

  Cal­que se­emed to be de­ri­ving ke­en ple­asu­re from rub­bing salt in­to Sa­bir’s wo­unds. ‘Is this how you re­mem­be­red it from yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on?’

  Sa­bir won­de­red if he might get away with as­king to ta­ke a le­ak? But a fifty-met­re walk to­wards the wo­ods might se­em just a lit­tle sus­pi­ci­o­us in the cir­cums­tan­ces.

  When it be­ca­me ob­vi­o­us that Sa­bir had no in­ten­ti­on of res­pon­ding to his digs, Cal­que tri­ed a dif­fe­rent tack. ‘Tell me aga­in how Du­fon­ta­ine lost the prop­he­ci­es?’

  ‘Esca­ping from the eye-man. On the Bac. He lost them in the wa­ter. You can con­firm his story with the pi­lot and the tic­ket col­lec­tor.’

  ‘Oh, be­li­eve me, Mis­ter Sa­bir, I will.’ Cal­que misp­ro­no­un­ced the Mis­ter as Miss-te­ar.

  Sa­bir de­ci­ded that Cal­que was misp­ro­no­un­cing Miss-te­ar on pur­po­se, simply in or­der to ne­ed­le him. The man was ob­vi­o­usly so­re abo­ut Sa­bir’s bre­aking the­ir pre­vi­o­us ag­re­ement over the trac­king de­vi­ce. That and the mi­nor mat­ter of the de­ath of his as­sis­tant.

  ‘You don’t se­em at all di­sap­po­in­ted abo­ut the loss of the prop­he­ci­es. If I we­re a wri­ter, I wo­uld be very angry in­de­ed at my fri­end ha­ving mis­la­id such a po­ten­ti­al gold mi­ne as that.’

  Sa­bir cont­ri­ved a shrug. It was me­ant to con­vey that lo­sing a co­up­le of a mil­li­on bucks was an every­day oc­cur­ren­ce with him. ‘If it’s all right with you, Cap­ta­in, I’d li­ke to go back to Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es and check up on my fri­ends. I co­uld al­so do with a lit­tle sle­ep.’

  Cal­que ma­de a big show of we­ig­hing up Sa­bir’s re­qu­est. In re­ality, he had de­ci­ded on his plan of ac­ti­on so­me ti­me be­fo­re. ‘I shall send Ser­ge­ant Spo­la back with you. Both you and Du­fon­ta­ine will re­ma­in wit­hin his sight at all ti­mes. I am not fi­nis­hed with you both yet.’

  ‘And Ma­de­mo­isel­le Sa­ma­na?’

  Cal­que ma­de a fa­ce. ‘She is free to go abo­ut her bu­si­ness. Frankly, I wo­uld li­ke to hold her too. But I ha­ve no gro­unds. So­met­hing, tho­ugh, may oc­cur to me, sho­uld you and Du­fon­ta­ine gi­ve my su­bor­di­na­te any dif­fi­cul­ti­es what­so­ever. But she is to con­fi­ne her­self wit­hin the pre­cincts of the town. Do I ma­ke myself cle­ar?’

  ‘Qu­ite cle­ar.’

  ‘We are in ag­re­ement, the­re­fo­re?’

  ‘Per­fectly.’

  Cal­que flas­hed Sa­bir an old-fas­hi­oned lo­ok. He bec­ko­ned to Ser­ge­ant Spo­la. ‘Dri­ve Mis­ter Sa­bir back in­to town. Then find Du­fon­ta­ine. Stay with them both. You are not to let eit­her one of them out of yo­ur sight for even an ins­tant. If one man wants to go to the wash­ro­om, they both go - with you sta­ti­oned out­si­de hol­ding the­ir free hands. Do you un­ders­tand me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Cal­que glan­ced at Sa­bir, frow­ning. The­re was so­met­hing still nig­gling him abo­ut Sa­bir’s part in the pro­ce­edings - but he co­uldn’t put his fin­ger on it. With the eye-man still on the lo­ose, ho­we­ver, any mis­gi­vings abo­ut Sa­bir co­uld wa­it. The eye-man’s hor­se had tur­ned up unex­pec­tedly, in a lat­her, twenty mi­nu­tes ago, a lit­tle less than fi­ve ki­lo­met­res down the ro­ad to Port St-Lo­u­is. Co­uld the eye-man re­al­ly ha­ve es­ca­ped that easily? And with Mac­ron’s bul­let still in­si­de him?

  Cal­que sig­nal­led to one of his as­sis­tants for a cel­lpho­ne. As he di­al­led, he glan­ced ac­ross at Sa­bir’s ret­re­ating back. The man was still hol­ding out - that much was ob­vi­o­us. But why? For what? No one was ac­cu­sing him of anyt­hing. And he didn’t lo­ok the sort of a man to be con­su­med by tho­ughts of re­ven­ge.

  ‘Who fo­und the hor­se?’ Cal­que ang­led his he­ad to­wards the gro­und, as if he felt that such a mo­ve­ment wo­uld in so­me way imp­ro­ve re­cep­ti­on - trans­form the cel­lpho­ne back in­to its mo­re ef­fi­ci­ent co­usin, the land­li­ne. ‘Well put him on.’ He wa­ited, his eyes drin­king in the dawn-lit lands­ca­pe. ‘Offi­cer Mic­he­lot? Is that you? I want you to desc­ri­be the con­di­ti­on of the hor­se to me.

  Exactly as it was.’ Cal­que lis­te­ned in­tently. ‘Was the­re blo­od on the hor­se’s flanks? Or on the sad­dle?’ Cal­que suc­ked a lit­tle air thro­ugh his te­eth. ‘Anything el­se you no­ti­ced? Anyt­hing at all? The re­ins, for ins­tan­ce? They we­re bro­ken, you say? Co­uld they ha­ve be­en bro­ken by the hor­se tre­ading on them af­ter it had be­en aban­do­ned?’ He pa­used. ‘What do you me­an, how can you tell? It’s simp­le. If the re­ins are bro­ken at the­ir furt­hest ex­tent, then it sug­gests that the hor­se trod on them. If they are bro­ken fart­her up - at a we­ak po­int, say, or ne­ar th
e bit - then it me­ans that the hor­se pro­bably bro­ke away from the eye-man and we still ha­ve the bas­tard in­si­de our net. Did you check this out? No? Well go and check them this ins­tant.’

  68

  Ser­ge­ant Spo­la had ne­ver be­en in­si­de a gypsy ca­ra­van be­fo­re. Even tho­ugh this one was of the mec­ha­ni­sed va­ri­ety, he lo­oked ca­uti­o­usly aro­und him­self, as if he had unex­pec­tedly blun­de­red his way on to an ali­en spa­ces­hip, roc­ke­ting to­wards a pla­net whe­re in­ti­ma­te ex­pe­ri­ments we­re abo­ut to be con­duc­ted on his per­son.

  Ale­xi was lying on the mas­ter bed, with his shirt off. The cu­ran­de­ro was stan­ding abo­ve him, a bunch of ligh­ted twigs in one hand, chan­ting. The ro­om was suf­fu­sed with the scent of bur­ning sa­ge and ro­se­mary.

  Spo­la scre­wed up his eyes aga­inst the ac­rid smo­ke.

  ‘What’s he do­ing?’

  Yo­la, who was sit­ting on a cha­ir ne­ar the bed, put a fin­ger to her lips.

  Spo­la had the go­od gra­ce to hitch his sho­ul­ders apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly and ret­re­at out­si­de.

  Sa­bir hunc­hed down be­si­de Yo­la. He lo­oked qu­iz­zi­cal­ly at her, but her con­cent­ra­ti­on was all on Ale­xi. Wit­ho­ut lo­oking at him, she po­in­ted bri­efly to her he­ad and then to that of the cu­ran­de­ro, ma­king a cir­cu­lar mo­ve­ment with her hands to en­com­pass both as one en­tity; to Sa­bir, she se­emed to be impl­ying that she was hel­ping the cu­ran­de­ro in so­me way, pos­sibly along te­le­pat­hic li­nes.

  Sa­bir de­ci­ded to let her get on with it. Ale­xi didn’t lo­ok go­od and Sa­bir ma­de up his mind that on­ce all the mum­bo-jum­bo was over, he wo­uld exert as much pres­su­re as he re­aso­nably co­uld to per­su­ade Yo­la to al­low Ale­xi to be tre­ated in a hos­pi­tal.