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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 37

by Mario Reading


  Mac­ron’s fa­mily we­re wa­iting for him at the fa­mily ba­kery. A fe­ma­le po­li­ce of­fi­cer had gat­he­red them all to­get­her, wit­ho­ut be­ing al­lo­wed to tell them the exact re­ason for the­ir con­vo­ca­ti­on. This was es­tab­lis­hed prac­ti­ce. Dre­ad, in con­se­qu­en­ce, la­ced the at­mosp­he­re li­ke et­her.

  Cal­que was vi­sibly surp­ri­sed to find that not only we­re Mac­ron’s fat­her, mot­her and sis­ter pre­sent, but al­so a bevy of aunts, unc­les, co­usins and even, or so it ap­pe­ared, three out of fo­ur of his grand­pa­rents. It oc­cur­red to Cal­que that the smell of freshly ba­king bre­ad wo­uld be fo­re­ver lin­ked in his mind with ima­ges of Mac­ron’s de­ath.

  ‘I am gra­te­ful that you are all he­re to­get­her. It will ma­ke what I ha­ve to tell you easi­er to be­ar.’

  ‘Our son. He is de­ad.’ It was Mac­ron’s fat­her. He was still we­aring his ba­kery whi­tes and a ha­ir­net. As he spo­ke he to­ok off the ha­ir­net, as tho­ugh it we­re in so­me way dis­res­pect­ful.

  ‘Yes. He was kil­led la­te last night.’ Cal­que pa­used. He ne­eded a ci­ga­ret­te badly. He wan­ted to be ab­le to le­an over and light it and to use the mo­ve­ment as a con­ve­ni­ent me­ans of mas­king the vast sea of fa­ces that we­re now fo­cu­sing on him with the gre­edi­ness of an­ti­ci­pa­ted gri­ef. “He was kil­led by a mur­de­rer who was hol­ding a wo­man hos­ta­ge. Pa­ul ar­ri­ved a lit­tle be­fo­re the ma­in body of the for­ce. The wo­man was in im­mi­nent dan­ger. She had a ro­pe aro­und her neck and her kid­nap­per was thre­ate­ning to hang her. Pa­ul knew that the man had kil­led be­fo­re. A se­cu­rity gu­ard, up in Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. And anot­her man. In Pa­ris. He the­re­fo­re de­ci­ded to in­ter­ve­ne.” ’

  ‘What hap­pe­ned to Pa­ul’s kil­ler? Do you ha­ve him?’ This, from one of the co­usins.

  Cal­que re­ali­sed that he had be­en cas­ting his se­ed on stony gro­und. Mac­ron’s fa­mily must ine­vi­tably ha­ve he­ard abo­ut the pos­sib­le de­ath of a po­li­ce of­fi­cer on the ra­dio or TV and ha­ve co­me to the­ir own conc­lu­si­ons when the Po­li­ce Na­ti­ona­le had con­vo­ked them. They hadn’t ne­eded his rub­ber-stam­ping. All he co­uld re­aso­nably do, in the cir­cums­tan­ces, was to pro­vi­de them with any in­for­ma­ti­on they ne­eded and then aban­don them to the gri­eving pro­cess. He cer­ta­inly co­uldn’t use them to rin­se out his cons­ci­en­ce. ‘No. We don’t ha­ve him yet. But we so­on will. Be­fo­re he di­ed, Pa­ul was ab­le to get off two shots. It is not pub­lic know­led­ge yet - and we wo­uld pre­fer that you ke­ep the in­for­ma­ti­on to yo­ur­sel­ves - but the kil­ler was badly inj­ured by one of Pa­ul’s bul­lets. He is on the run so­mew­he­re in­si­de the Parc Na­tu­rel. The who­le pla­ce is se­aled off. Mo­re than a hund­red po­li­ce­men are out the­re se­arc­hing for him as we spe­ak.’ Cal­que was des­pe­ra­tely trying to lo­ok away from the sce­nes in front of him - to con­cent­ra­te on the qu­es­ti­ons that the pe­rip­he­ral fa­mily we­re fi­ring off at him. But he was unab­le to ta­ke his eyes off Mac­ron’s mot­her.

  She re­semb­led her son in an un­can­ny way. Upon he­aring the con­fir­ma­ti­on of her boy’s de­ath, she had ins­tantly tur­ned for com­fort to her hus­band and now she clung to his wa­ist, crying si­lently, the ba­king dust from his ap­ron co­ating her fa­ce li­ke whi­te­wash.

  When Cal­que was fi­nal­ly ab­le to withd­raw, one of Mac­ron’s ma­le re­la­ti­ves fol­lo­wed him out in­to the stre­et. Cal­que tur­ned to fa­ce him, half pre­pa­red for a physi­cal as­sa­ult. The man lo­oked hard and fit. He had a ra­zor-strop ha­ir­cut. In­de­ter­mi­na­te tat­too-ends burst from his sle­eves to scat­ter out ac­ross the backs of his hands li­ke va­ri­co­se ve­ins.

  Cal­que reg­ret­ted that the po­li­ce­wo­man had re­ma­ined in­si­de with the rest of the fa­mily - the pre­sen­ce of a uni­form might ha­ve ac­ted as so­met­hing of a curb.

  But the man did not ap­pro­ach Cal­que in an ag­gres­si­ve man­ner. In fact he scre­wed his fa­ce up qu­es­ti­oningly and Cal­que so­on re­ali­sed that so­met­hing ot­her than Mac­ron’s de­ath was fo­re­most on his mind.

  ‘Pa­ul te­lep­ho­ned me yes­ter­day. Did you know that? But I wasn’t the­re. My mot­her to­ok the mes­sa­ge. I’m a jo­iner, the­se days. I ha­ve a lot of work on.’

  ‘Yes? You are a jo­iner the­se days? An ex­cel­lent pro­fes­si­on.’ Cal­que had not in­ten­ded to so­und ab­rupt, but the words ca­me out de­fen­si­vely, des­pi­te his best in­ten­ti­ons.

  The man nar­ro­wed his eyes. ‘He sa­id you we­re lo­oking for a man who was in the Le­gi­on. A kil­ler. That you tho­ught the Le­gi­on wo­uld hold back the in­for­ma­ti­on that you ne­eded. That they wo­uld for­ce you to go thro­ugh the usu­al fuc­king bu­re­a­uc­ra­tic ho­ops they al­ways use to pro­tect the­ir pe­op­le with. That was what he sa­id.’

  Cal­que nod­ded in sud­den un­ders­tan­ding. ‘Pa­ul told me abo­ut you. You are the co­usin who was in the Le­gi­on. I sho­uld ha­ve re­ali­sed.’ He was on the ver­ge of sa­ying ‘be­ca­use you pe­op­le get a par­ti­cu­lar lo­ok - li­ke a wal­king slab of tes­tos­te­ro­ne - and be­ca­use you use “fuc­king” every ot­her word’, but he so­me­how ma­na­ged to cont­rol him­self. ‘You we­re al­so in pri­son, we­re you not?’

  The man lo­oked away up the stre­et. So­met­hing se­emed to be ir­ri­ta­ting him. Af­ter a mo­ment he tur­ned back to Cal­que. He for­ced his hands in­si­de his poc­kets, as if he felt that the ma­te­ri­al it­self might pre­vent them from ri­oting - but still the hands thrust them­sel­ves to­wards Cal­que as if they wis­hed to bre­ak thro­ugh the cloth and throt­tle him. ‘I’m go­ing to for­get you sa­id that. And that you’re a fuc­king po­li­ce­man. I don’t li­ke fuc­king po­li­ce­men. For the most part they’re no fuc­king bet­ter than the cunts they bang up.’ He clam­ped his mo­uth tightly shut. Then he snor­ted long-suf­fe­ringly and glan­ced back down the stre­et. ‘Pa­ul was my co­usin, even tho­ugh he was a fuc­king bédi. This shit-he­ap kil­led him, you say? I was in the Le­gi­on for twenty fuc­king ye­ars. I en­ded up a fuc­king qu­ar­ter­mas­ter. Do you want to ask me anyt­hing? Or do you want to scut­tle back to fuc­king He­ad­qu­ar­ters and check out my cri­mi­nal fuc­king re­cord first?’

  Cal­que’s de­ci­si­on was ins­tan­ta­ne­o­us. ‘I want, to ask you so­met­hing.’

  The man’s fa­ce chan­ged - be­co­ming ligh­ter, less enc­lo­sed. ‘Fi­re away then.’

  ‘Do you re­mem­ber a man with stran­ge eyes? Eyes with no whi­tes to them?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This man may be French. But he might al­so ha­ve be­en pre­ten­ding to be a fo­re­ig­ner to get in­to the ranks of the Le­gi­on as a sol­di­er and not an of­fi­cer.’

  ‘Gi­ve me mo­re.’

  Cal­que shrug­ged. ‘I know pe­op­le chan­ge the­ir na­mes when they en­ter the Le­gi­on. But this man was a Co­unt. Bro­ught up as an aris­toc­rat. In a fa­mily with ser­vants and mo­ney. His ori­gi­nal na­me may ha­ve be­en de Ba­le. Roc­ha de Ba­le. He wo­uld not ha­ve fit­ted easily in­to the ro­le of a com­mon sol­di­er. He wo­uld ha­ve stuck out. Not only be­ca­use of his eyes, but al­so on ac­co­unt of his at­ti­tu­de. He wo­uld ha­ve be­en used to le­ading, not be­ing led. To gi­ving or­ders, not ta­king them.’ Cal­que’s he­ad snap­ped back li­ke a turt­le’s. ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  The man nod­ded. ‘For­get Roc­ha de Ba­le. And for­get le­ading. This cunt cal­led him­self Ac­hor Ba­le. And he was a lo­ner. He pro­no­un­ced his na­me li­ke an Eng­lish­man wo­uld. We ne­ver knew whe­re he ca­me from. He was crazy. You didn’t want to get on the wrong si­de of him. We’re to­ugh in the Le­gi­on. That’s nor­mal. But he was to­ug
­her. I ne­ver tho­ught I’d ever ha­ve to think abo­ut the cock­suc­ker aga­in.’

  ‘What do you me­an?’

  ‘In Chad. Du­ring the 1980s. The fuc­ker star­ted a ri­ot. On pur­po­se, I wo­uld say. But the aut­ho­ri­ti­es exo­ne­ra­ted him be­ca­use no one da­red to tes­tify aga­inst him. A fri­end of mi­ne was kil­led du­ring that ac­ti­on. I wo­uld ha­ve tes­ti­fi­ed. But I wasn’t the­re. I was at the ba­isod­ro­me, was­ting my pay on por­king blo­od sa­usa­ge. You know what I me­an? So I knew not­hing abo­ut it. The cunts wo­uldn’t lis­ten to me. But I knew. He was an evil fuc­king bas­tard. Not qu­ite right in the he­ad. Too much in­te­res­ted in guns and kil­ling. Even for a fuc­king sol­di­er.’

  Cal­que put away his no­te­bo­ok. ‘And the eyes? That’s true? That he has no whi­tes to his eyes?’

  Mac­ron’s co­usin tur­ned on his he­el and wal­ked back in­si­de the ba­kery.

  71

  Ba­le awo­ke shi­ve­ring. He had be­en dre­aming and in his dre­am, Ma­da­me, his mot­her, was be­ating him abo­ut the sho­ul­ders with a co­at han­ger for so­me ima­gi­ned slight. He kept on crying out - ‘No, Ma­da­me, no!’ - but still she con­ti­nu­ed hit­ting him.

  It was dark. The­re we­re no ot­her so­unds from in­si­de the ho­use.

  Ba­le shun­ted him­self back­wards, un­til he was ab­le to prop him­self aga­inst a be­am. His fist was so­re, whe­re he had las­hed out to de­fend him­self du­ring the dre­amed at­tack and his neck and his sho­ul­der felt raw - as if they had be­en scal­ded with bo­iling wa­ter and then scrub­bed with an emery bo­ard.

  He crac­ked on his torch and chec­ked out the loft. Per­haps he co­uld kill a rat or a squ­ir­rel and eat it? But no. He wo­uldn’t be qu­ick eno­ugh any­mo­re.

  He knew that he didn’t da­re ven­tu­re downs­ta­irs yet to check out whet­her any fo­od had be­en left be­hind in the kitc­hen, or to draw so­me wa­ter. The flics might ha­ve left a watch­man be­hind to pro­tect the­ir cri­me sce­ne from gho­uls and cu­ri­osity se­ekers - it was com­for­ting to think that such pe­op­le still exis­ted and that not everyt­hing in this li­fe had be­en re­le­ga­ted to nor­ma­li­sa­ti­on and me­di­oc­rity.

  But wa­ter he did ne­ed. And ur­gently. He had drunk his own uri­ne on three oc­ca­si­ons now and had used the re­si­due to di­sin­fect his wo­unds, but he knew, from lec­tu­res with the Le­gi­on, that the­re was no earthly sen­se in do­ing that aga­in. He wo­uld be cont­ri­bu­ting to his own cer­ta­in de­ath.

  How many ho­urs had he be­en up he­re? How many days? Ba­le had no idea of ti­me any mo­re.

  Why was he he­re? Ah yes. The prop­he­ci­es. He ne­eded to find the prop­he­ci­es.

  He al­lo­wed his he­ad to drop back on to his chest. By now the blan­ket he had be­en using as a pres­su­re pad had con­ge­aled to his wo­und - he didn’t da­re se­pa­ra­te the two for fe­ar of star­ting the blo­od flow up aga­in.

  For the first ti­me in many ye­ars he wan­ted to go ho­me. He wan­ted the com­fort of his own bed­ro­om and not the anony­mo­us ho­tels that he had be­en for­ced to li­ve in for so long. He wan­ted the res­pect and the sup­port of the brot­hers and sis­ters that he had grown up with. And he wan­ted Ma­da­me, his mot­her, to pub­licly ack­now­led­ge his ac­hi­eve­ments for the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus and to gi­ve him his due.

  Ba­le was ti­red. He ne­eded rest. And tre­at­ment for his wo­und. He was fed up with be­ing hard and li­ving li­ke a wolf. Fed up with be­ing hun­ted by pe­op­le who we­re not worthy to tie his bo­ot­la­ces.

  He lay on his belly and drag­ged him­self to­wards the hatch co­ver. If he didn’t mo­ve now, he wo­uld die. It was as simp­le as that.

  For he had sud­denly un­ders­to­od that he was hal­lu­ci­na­ting. That this tem­po­rary help­les­sness of his was just anot­her stra­tegy of the De­vil’s to un­man him - to ma­ke him we­ak.

  Ba­le re­ac­hed the hatch co­ver and drag­ged it to one si­de. He sta­red down in­to the empty bed­ro­om.

  It was dark. The win­dows we­re open and it was night. The­re we­re no lights anyw­he­re. The po­li­ce had left. Su­rely they had left.

  He lis­te­ned, thro­ugh the rus­hing of blo­od in his he­ad, for any inexp­li­cab­le so­unds.

  The­re we­re no­ne.

  He eased his legs thro­ugh the hatch co­ver. For a long ti­me he sat on the lip of the hatch sta­ring down at the flo­or. Fi­nal­ly he crac­ked his torch and tri­ed to es­ti­ma­te the to­tal drop.

  Ten fe­et. Eno­ugh to bre­ak a leg or spra­in an ank­le.

  But he didn’t ha­ve the strength left to let down the cha­ir. Didn’t ha­ve the agi­lity to hang from the hatch and fe­el for it with his legs.

  He switc­hed off his torch and slid it back in­si­de his shirt.

  Then he twis­ted on his go­od arm and drop­ped in­to the vo­id.

  72

  Yo­la watc­hed the two po­li­ce­men from her hi­ding pla­ce at the ed­ge of the wo­od. They we­re hud­dled in the shel­ter of the gar­di­en’s ca­ba­ne, smo­king and tal­king. So this is what the flics call a se­arch, she tho­ught to her­self. No won­der the eye-man hasn’t be­en fo­und. Sa­tis­fi­ed that the two men co­uld not pos­sibly see her, she set­tled down to wa­it for the furt­her twenty mi­nu­tes or so un­til full dusk.

  Bo­ubo­ul had drop­ped Yo­la at the Bac, thirty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re and had then dri­ven on to Ar­les, with his son-in-law, Rez­so, to ret­ri­eve Sa­bir’s Audi. La­ter, Rez­so wo­uld co­me back with the Audi to pick her up.

  At first Sa­bir had re­fu­sed to al­low her to go and col­lect the prop­he­ci­es. It was too dan­ge­ro­us. The job sho­uld be his. He was he­ad of the fa­mily now. His word sho­uld co­unt for so­met­hing. But Ser­ge­ant Spo­la’s sto­lid and ever-watch­ful pre­sen­ce had even­tu­al­ly de­ci­ded the mat­ter - the­re was no way Sa­bir co­uld go anyw­he­re any mo­re wit­ho­ut his say-so.

  Night-ti­me wo­uld be dif­fe­rent, tho­ugh. The man had to sle­ep. If Sa­bir co­uld ma­na­ge to gi­ve Spo­la the slip, Bo­ubo­ul had ag­re­ed to dri­ve him back to the Ma­set, whe­re Yo­la and Res­zo wo­uld ar­ran­ge to me­et him with the prop­he­ci­es. Sa­bir wo­uld then ha­ve both the ti­me and the pri­vacy ne­ces­sary to trans­la­te them.

  Be­fo­re dawn, Res­zo wo­uld co­me back with the car and col­lect Sa­bir and de­li­ver him back to the ca­ra­van, just in ti­me to me­et an awa­king Ser­ge­ant Spo­la. This was the plan, any­way. It had the vir­tue of simp­li­city, it pro­tec­ted the prop­he­ci­es and it wo­uld ser­ve to ke­ep the po­li­ce ni­cely out of the fra­me.

  Yo­la had al­re­ady es­tab­lis­hed that the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on had mo­ved on and that the Ma­set wo­uld be empty. Ser­ge­ant Spo­la was a man who res­pec­ted his sto­mach. Yo­la had of­fe­red him wild bo­ar stew with dump­lings for his lunch, ins­te­ad of his cus­to­mary chic­ken sand­wich. Spo­la had pro­ved par­ti­cu­larly ame­nab­le af­ter that - es­pe­ci­al­ly as the wild bo­ar was twin­ned with abo­ut a lit­re and a half of Cos­ti­ères de Nî­mes and a fol­low-up cog­nac. He had con­fi rmed to her that by now, a day and a half af­ter the at­tack, the Ma­set wo­uld be bol­ted and se­aled with po­li­ce ta­pe and to all in­tents and pur­po­ses aban­do­ned un­til next ne­eded. All ava­ilab­le man­po­wer wo­uld ne­ed to be se­con­ded in the se­arch for the eye-man. What did she think? That the po­li­ce left pe­op­le dot­ted aro­und the co­untry­si­de gu­ar­ding old cri­me sce­nes?

  The two flics at the ca­ba­ne got up and stretc­hed them­sel­ves. One of them wal­ked a few yards, un­zip­ped his fly and to­ok a le­ak. The ot­her flas­hed his torch aro­und the cle­aring, lin­ge­ring on the se­cu­rity ta­pe mar­king the spot whe­re Gav­ril had be­en fo­und.

  ‘Do you
think mur­de­rers re­al­ly co­me back to the spot they’ve of­fed so­me­one?’

  ‘Shit, no. And par­ti­cu­larly not when they’ve got a bul­let in them, they’re hungry and they’ve got snif­fer dogs che­wing up the­ir ar­ses. The bas­tard’s pro­bably lying de­ad be­hind a bush. Or el­se he fell off his hor­se in­to a bog and drow­ned. That’s why we can’t find him. The wild pigs pro­bably got him. They can eat a man, te­eth and all, in un­der an ho­ur. Did you know that? All the mur­de­rer has to do is to get rid of the sple­en. They don’t li­ke that for so­me re­ason.’

  ‘Bul­lshit.’

  ‘Yes. I tho­ught so too.’

  Yo­la had wal­ked in to the wo­od by the path, just as Ale­xi had desc­ri­bed it to her, le­aving strips of whi­te pa­per at fi­ve-met­re in­ter­vals to gu­ide her­self back to the ro­ad when it was dark. In her he­ad she had mar­ked the po­si­ti­on of the so­li­tary cypress tree be­ne­ath which the prop­he­ci­es lay bu­ri­ed. If the po­li­ce sta­yed whe­re they we­re, ho­we­ver, she wo­uld ha­ve no pos­si­bi­lity - even if she used the wo­od­land as co­ver - of re­ac­hing the prop­he­ci­es un­se­en. The cypress tree was far too ex­po­sed.

  ‘Shall we ta­ke a turn abo­ut the fo­rest?’

  ‘Fuck that. Let’s go back to the ca­ba­ne. Light a fi­re. I for­got my glo­ves and it’s get­ting cold.’

  Yo­la co­uld see the­ir sil­ho­u­et­tes ap­pro­ac­hing her. What we­re they af­ter? Wo­od? How co­uld she exp­la­in away her pre­sen­ce if they stumb­led on her? They’d be so ke­en to get gold stars from Cal­que that they’d pro­bably bund­le her back with them in the­ir po­ul­la­il­ler am­bu­lant - the­ir tra­vel­ling hen­ho­use. Wasn’t that what Ale­xi cal­led Black Ma­ri­as? And Cal­que was cer­ta­inly no fo­ol. He wo­uld smell a rat stra­ight away. It wo­uldn’t ta­ke him long to fi­gu­re out that she was af­ter the prop­he­ci­es and that they we­ren’t lost at all.

 

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