THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  81

  As he ap­pro­ac­hed the fi­nal step in the se­emingly end­less li­ne of sto­ne steps le­ading to the gro­und flo­or, Ba­le slip­ped. He fell he­avily aga­inst the wall - so he­avily that he grun­ted in surp­ri­se when his shat­te­red sho­ul­der was ca­ught a glan­cing blow by the ba­lust­ra­de.

  Sa­bir sat up stra­igh­ter in his cha­ir. The po­li­ce. They must ha­ve left so­me­one he­re af­ter all. Per­haps the man had simply crept ups­ta­irs to ta­ke a nap? It had be­en inc­re­dibly stu­pid of him not to ha­ve chec­ked the ho­use out be­fo­re he set­tled down to start work.

  Sa­bir gat­he­red his pa­pers to­get­her and went to stand with his back to the fi­re. The­re wasn’t ti­me to ma­ke for the do­or. Best to bluff it out. He co­uld al­ways cla­im that he had ne­eded to co­me back for so­me of his be­lon­gings. The dic­ti­onary and the wad of pa­pers wo­uld be­ar him out.

  Ba­le emer­ged aro­und the cor­ner of the li­ving-ro­om do­or li­ke an ap­pa­ri­ti­on fresh from the gra­ve. His fa­ce was de­athly pa­le and his clot­ted eyes, in the light cast by the cand­les, re­semb­led tho­se of a de­mon. The­re was blo­od splat­te­red down his front and mo­re blo­od sme­ared li­ke an oil slick ac­ross his neck and sho­ul­der. He held a pis­tol in his left hand and as Sa­bir watc­hed, hor­ror-struck, Ba­le ra­ised the pis­tol and bro­ught it to be­ar on him.

  For pro­bably the first and only ti­me in his li­fe, Sa­bir ac­ted en­ti­rely on im­pul­se. He threw the dic­ti­onary at Ba­le and in the exact sa­me mo­ve­ment he twis­ted in pla­ce un­til he was on his kne­es, fa­cing the fi­re. A split se­cond be­fo­re the so­und of the shot, Sa­bir thrust the ori­gi­nal parch­ment and his pa­per copy de­ep in­to the fla­mes.

  82

  Sa­bir awo­ke with no idea of whe­re he was. He tri­ed to mo­ve but co­uld not. A fe­ar­ful, no­xi­o­us odo­ur as­sa­iled his nost­rils. He at­temp­ted to free his arms but they we­re im­mer­sed in a kind of mud. The mud re­ac­hed to just abo­ve his col­lar­bo­ne, le­aving his he­ad free. Sa­bir fran­ti­cal­ly tri­ed to le­ver him­self out, but he only slip­ped de­eper in­to the mo­rass.

  ‘I wo­uldn’t do that if I we­re you.’

  Sa­bir lo­oked up.

  Ba­le was squ­at­ting abo­ve him. Six inc­hes abo­ve Sa­bir’s he­ad was a small ho­le, lit­tle mo­re than the width of man.

  Ba­le was ba­lan­cing the trap­do­or that nor­mal­ly se­aled the ho­le aga­inst his si­de. He sho­ne his torch di­rectly down on Sa­bir’s fa­ce. ‘You’re in a ces­spit. An old one. This ho­use has ob­vi­o­usly ne­ver be­en on ma­ins se­we­ra­ge. It to­ok me a whi­le to find it. But you’ll ha­ve to ad­mit that it’s per­fect of its kind. The­re’s ten inc­hes bet­we­en the le­vel of the shit and the ro­of of the pit. That’s just abo­ut the si­ze of yo­ur he­ad, Sa­bir, with a co­up­le of inc­hes left over for was­ta­ge. When I clo­se and se­al this trap you’ll ha­ve eno­ugh air for, oh, half an ho­ur? That’s if the car­bon mo­no­xi­de from the de­com­po­si­ti­on of the fo­od su­gars do­esn’t kill you first.’

  Sa­bir be­ca­me awa­re of a pa­in in his right temp­le. He wan­ted to put up his hand to fe­el for da­ma­ge, but co­uld not. ‘What ha­ve you do­ne to me?’

  ‘I ha­ven’t do­ne anyt­hing to you. Yet. The da­ma­ge to yo­ur fa­ce was from a ri­coc­het. My bul­let struck the fi­rep­la­ce just as you we­re tur­ning to dest­roy the prop­he­ci­es. The de­for­med slug sprang back and to­ok part of yo­ur ear off. It al­so knoc­ked you cold. Sorry for that.’

  Sa­bir co­uld fe­el the cla­ust­rop­ho­bia be­gin to ta­ke hold of him. He tri­ed to bre­at­he nor­mal­ly but fo­und him­self en­ti­rely in­ca­pab­le of that me­asu­re of cont­rol. He be­gan to who­op, li­ke the vic­tim of an asth­ma at­tack.

  Ba­le tap­ped Sa­bir lightly ac­ross the brid­ge of the no­se with the bar­rel of his pis­tol. ‘Don’t go hyste­ri­cal on me. I want you to lis­ten. To lis­ten ca­re­ful­ly. You’re al­re­ady a de­ad man. Wha­te­ver hap­pens, I will kill you. You will die in this pla­ce. No one will ever find you in he­re.’

  Sa­bir’s no­se had be­gun to ble­ed. He tri­ed to turn his he­ad away from Ba­le’s pis­tol, fe­aring a se­cond blow, but the sud­den ad­mix­tu­re of blo­od and exc­re­ment trig­ge­red his gag ref­lex. It to­ok him so­me mi­nu­tes to re­ga­in cont­rol of him­self and stop retc­hing. Even­tu­al­ly, when the fit was over, he ra­ised his he­ad as far as he co­uld and drag­ged in so­me mar­gi­nal­ly fresh air from abo­ve. ‘Why are you still spe­aking to me? Why don’t you just get on with wha­te­ver you are in­ten­ding to do?’

  Ba­le win­ced. ‘Pa­ti­en­ce, Sa­bir. Pa­ti­en­ce. I am still spe­aking to you be­ca­use you ha­ve a we­ak­ness. A fa­tal we­ak­ness that I in­tend to use aga­inst you. I was the­re when they put you in the wo­od-box back at Sa­mo­is. And I saw yo­ur con­di­ti­on when they bro­ught you out. Cla­ust­rop­ho­bia is what you fe­ar most in this world. So I of­fer it to you. In exactly sixty se­conds’ ti­me I shall lock and se­al this pla­ce and le­ave you he­re to rot. But you ha­ve one chan­ce to buy back the girl’s li­fe. The girl’s - not yo­ur own. You can dic­ta­te to me all that you know of the prop­he­ci­es. No. Don’t pre­tend you don’t know what I’m tal­king abo­ut. You had mo­re than eno­ugh ti­me to copy down the ver­ses and trans­la­te them. I fo­und the dic­ti­onary you threw at me. I he­ard yo­ur car ar­ri­ve. I ha­ve es­ti­ma­ted how long you we­re down in the sit­ting ro­om and it runs in­to ho­urs. Dic­ta­te what you know to me and I will sho­ot you thro­ugh the he­ad. That way you won’t die of suf­fo­ca­ti­on. And I will pro­mi­se to spa­re the girl.’

  ‘I didn’t…’ Sa­bir had tro­ub­le get­ting the words out. ‘I didn’t…’

  ‘Yes you did. I ha­ve the pad you we­re pres­sing on. You wro­te many li­nes. You trans­la­ted many li­nes. La­ter, I will ha­ve the pad analy­sed. But first you will gi­ve me what I want. If you fa­il to do this, I will find the girl and I will do to her exactly what was do­ne to the preg­nant wo­man by the Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker. Right down to the very last lash - the very last scal­ding - the very last screw of the rack. She told you abo­ut that, didn’t she, yo­ur lit­tle Yo­la? The bed­ti­me story that I re­ad to her whi­le she was wa­iting to die? I can see by yo­ur fa­ce that she did. Ha­un­ting, wasn’t it? You can sa­ve her from that, Sa­bir. You can die a he­ro.’ Ba­le le­ve­red him­self up on to his fe­et. ‘Think abo­ut it.’

  The trap­do­or slam­med shut, re­tur­ning the ces­spit to a con­di­ti­on of to­tal dark­ness.

  83

  Sa­bir star­ted to scre­am. It wasn’t a ra­ti­onal so­und, ba­sed on a de­si­re to get out. It was an ani­mal so­und, drag­ged from so­me do­omed pla­ce de­ep in­si­de him - a pla­ce in which ho­pe no lon­ger had a fo­ot­hold.

  The­re was a no­ise abo­ve him of so­met­hing he­avy be­ing drag­ged ac­ross the trap­do­or. Sa­bir fell si­lent, li­ke a wild ani­mal sen­sing the ap­pro­ac­hing li­ne of be­aters. The dark­ness in which he fo­und him­self was ab­so­lu­te - so dark, in fact, that the black­ness se­emed al­most purp­le to his wildly sta­ring eyes.

  The gag ref­lex be­gan aga­in and he co­uld fe­el his he­art clenc­hing in his chest with each exp­lo­si­ve ex­pec­to­ra­ti­on. He tri­ed to fo­cus his mind on the out­si­de world. To ta­ke him­self be­yond the ces­spit and this hi­de­o­us dark­ness which thre­ate­ned to en­gulf him and dri­ve him mad. But the dark­ness was so comp­le­te and his fe­ar so acu­te, that he co­uld no lon­ger do­mi­na­te his own tho­ughts.

  He tri­ed to drag his arms up from be­ne­ath him. We­re they ti­ed? Had Ba­le do­ne even that to him?

  With each mo­ve­ment he sank de­eper in­to the sump.

  Now it was
up to his chin and thre­ate­ning to in­va­de his mo­uth. He be­gan to wa­il, his arms flap­ping li­ke chic­ken wings in the vis­co­us li­qu­id be­low him.

  Ba­le wo­uld co­me back. He had sa­id he wo­uld co­me back. He wo­uld co­me back to ask Sa­bir abo­ut the prop­he­ci­es. That wo­uld af­ford Sa­bir the cru­ci­al le­ve­ra­ge he ne­eded. He wo­uld get Ba­le to pull him out of the ces­spit so that he co­uld wri­te down all that he knew. Then he wo­uld over­po­wer him. No po­wer on earth wo­uld ever get Sa­bir back in­si­de he­re on­ce he was out. He wo­uld die if ne­ces­sary. Kill him­self.

  It was then that Sa­bir re­mem­be­red Ba­le’s use­less left arm. It wo­uld be physi­cal­ly im­pos­sib­le for Ba­le ever to pull him out. Drag him to the ces­spit he co­uld. Cont­rol an un­cons­ci­o­us man’s sli­de in­to the sump he co­uld - that wo­uld simply ha­ve be­en a mat­ter of le­ve­ra­ge and of snag­ging his inert body by the col­lar and al­lo­wing gra­vity to do the rest. But the­re was no way on God’s earth that Ba­le co­uld ever get him back out aga­in.

  Slowly, inc­re­men­tal­ly, the ga­ses in the ces­spit we­re ha­ving the­ir ef­fect. Sa­bir felt him­self drawn up­wards as if by an out­si­de for­ce. At first his en­ti­re body se­emed for­ced aga­inst the se­aled co­ver of the ces­spit li­ke a man suc­ked aga­inst the port­ho­le of a dep­res­su­ri­sed pla­ne. Then he burst thro­ugh and up in­to the air, his body bent in­to the sha­pe of a U by the cent­ri­fu­gal throw-out. He threw his arms as wi­de as he was ab­le and his body-sha­pe re­ver­sed it­self, un­til he was roc­ke­ting up­wards in the sha­pe of a C - in the sha­pe of a skydi­ver - but with the for­ce and spe­ed of his as­cen­si­on ha­ving no dis­cer­nib­le ef­fect.

  He lo­oked down at the earth be­low him with a sub­li­me de­tach­ment, as if this ex­pul­si­ve exo­dus was in no way part of his own ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  Then, de­ep in­si­de his hal­lu­ci­na­ti­on, his body be­gan a gra­du­al pro­cess of dis­com­bo­bu­la­ti­on. First his arms we­re torn off - he saw them swir­ling away from him on a cur­rent of air. Then his legs.

  Sa­bir be­gan to mo­an.

  With a fright­ful wrench, his lo­wer tor­so, from his wa­ist down to his up­per thighs, rip­ped apart from his body, drag­ging in­tes­ti­nes, lights, bo­wel and blad­der in its wa­ke. His chest burst apart and his he­art, lungs and ribs shred­ded from his body. He tri­ed to snatch at them, but he had no arms. He was po­wer­less to cont­rol his body’s li­qu­efac­ti­on and so­on all that was left of him was his he­ad, just as it had be­en in his sha­ma­nic dre­am - his he­ad ap­pro­ac­hing him, fa­ce on, its eyes de­ad.

  As the he­ad ca­me clo­ser its mo­uth ope­ned and from in­si­de a sna­ke be­gan to is­sue - a thick, un­co­iling python of a sna­ke, with sca­les li­ke tho­se of a fish and sta­ring eyes and a mo­uth that se­emed to un­hin­ge it­self, be­co­ming ever lar­ger. The python tur­ned and swal­lo­wed Sa­bir’s he­ad - Sa­bir co­uld see the sha­pe of his he­ad mo­ving down the python’s body, dri­ven by its myo­sin-fu­el­led musc­les.

  Then the python tur­ned and its fa­ce was his fa­ce, even down to his newly da­ma­ged ear. The fa­ce tri­ed to talk to him but Sa­bir co­uld no lon­ger ma­ke out the so­und of his own vo­ice. It was as if he was both in­si­de and out­si­de the sna­ke’s body at one and the sa­me ti­me. So­me­how, tho­ugh, Sa­bir sen­sed that his in­ca­pa­city to he­ar ca­me from the in­ter­nal he­ad, which was be­ing drawn li­ke for­ce­me­at thro­ugh the lo­zen­ge of the sna­ke’s body.

  It’s li­ke a birth, Sa­bir de­ci­ded. It’s li­ke co­ming down thro­ugh the birth ca­nal. That’s why I’m cla­ust­rop­ho­bic. It’s my birth. So­met­hing to do with my birth.

  Now Sa­bir co­uld see thro­ugh the sna­ke’s eyes, fe­el thro­ugh the sna­ke’s skin. He was the sna­ke and it was him.

  His hand burst out of the sump ne­ar to his fa­ce. He felt the hand re­ach for his neck, as tho­ugh it we­re still not part of him.

  He was still the sna­ke. He had no hands.

  The hand re­ac­hed for the neck­let the sha­man had gi­ven him.

  Sna­ke. The­re was sna­ke in the neck­let.

  Po­ison. The­re was po­ison in the neck­let.

  He must ta­ke it. Kill him­self. Su­rely that was what the dre­am had be­en tel­ling him?

  Sud­denly he was back in the re­ality of the ces­spit. The­re was a scra­ping so­und abo­ve him. In a mo­ment Ba­le wo­uld be ope­ning the hatch.

  With his free hand Sa­bir to­re a wad of fab­ric off the front of his shirt and ram­med it in­to his mo­uth. He thrust it down his thro­at, bloc­king off all ac­cess to his wind­pi­pe.

  He felt the gag ref­lex trig­ger, but ig­no­red it.

  Ba­le was sli­ding the hatch open.

  Sa­bir bro­ke the vi­al of po­ison in­to his mo­uth. He was bre­at­hing only thro­ugh his no­se now. He co­uld fe­el the po­ison lying on his ton­gue. Dis­per­sing aga­inst the ro­of of his mo­uth. Fil­te­ring up his na­sal pas­sa­ges and thro­ugh his si­nu­ses.

  When the hatch slid back, Sa­bir pla­yed de­ad. In the split se­cond be­fo­re the light struck him, he al­lo­wed his he­ad to drop for­ward and rest on the sur­fa­ce of the scum, so that Ba­le wo­uld ima­gi­ne he had drow­ned him­self.

  Ba­le grun­ted in ir­ri­ta­ti­on. He re­ac­hed down to ra­ise Sa­bir’s he­ad.

  Sa­bir grab­bed the col­lar of Ba­le’s shirt with his free hand. Tem­po­ra­rily un­ba­lan­ced, Ba­le star­ted to top­ple.

  Using the im­pe­tus of the down­ward mo­ve­ment, Sa­bir ste­ered Ba­le’s he­ad thro­ugh the hatch. His eyes fi­xed them­sel­ves on the open wo­und on Ba­le’s neck.

  As Ba­le’s he­ad ca­me bri­efly pa­ral­lel with his own, Sa­bir sank his te­eth in­to the wo­und, for­cing his ton­gue in­si­de the bul­let ho­le, dis­per­sing the po­ison de­ep in­to Ba­le’s ve­ins.

  Then he spat what re­ma­ined of the po­ison in­to the ces­spo­ol sur­ro­un­ding him and pre­pa­red to die.

  84

  Joris Cal­que’s in­ter­vi­ew with the Co­un­tess had pro­ved to be the equ­iva­lent of a co­itus re­ser­va­tus - in ot­her words, he had de­la­yed comp­le­ti­on for so long that the fi­nal ef­fect had be­en lit­tle mo­re sa­tisf­ying than a wet dre­am.

  He had con­vin­ced him­self be­fo­re the in­ter­vi­ew that it was he who held the up­per hand. The Co­un­tess, su­rely, must be on the de­fen­si­ve? She was an old wo­man - why didn’t she simply open up and ha­ve do­ne with it? The­re was no ca­pi­tal pu­nish­ment in Fran­ce any mo­re. In fact the Co­unt wo­uld most pro­bably be car­ted off to an asy­lum, whe­re he co­uld play dynas­tic ga­mes to his he­art’s con­tent in the su­re and cer­ta­in know­led­ge that af­ter fif­te­en or twenty ye­ars he wo­uld be ej­ec­ted back in­to the system with a ‘harm­less’ la­bel tag­ged aro­und his neck.

  Inste­ad, Cal­que had fo­und him­self fa­cing the hu­man equ­iva­lent of a brick wall. Ra­rely in his ca­re­er had he en­co­un­te­red a per­son so su­re of the mo­ral jus­ti­fi ca­ti­ons of the­ir ac­ti­ons. Cal­que knew that the Co­un­tess was the dri­ving for­ce be­hind her son’s be­ha­vi­o­ur - he simply knew it. But he co­uldn’t re­mo­tely pro­ve it.

  ***

  ‘Is that you, Spo­la?’ Cal­que held the cel­lpho­ne six inc­hes in front of his mo­uth, as one wo­uld hold a mic­rop­ho­ne. ‘Whe­re are Sa­bir and Du­fon­ta­ine now?’

  ‘Sle­eping, Sir. It is two o’clock in the mor­ning.’

  ‘Ha­ve you chec­ked on them re­cently? Wit­hin the last ho­ur, say?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Well, do so now.’

  ‘Shall I call you back?’

  ‘No. Ta­ke the te­lep­ho­ne with you. That’s what the­se things are for, isn�
�t it?’

  Ser­ge­ant Spo­la eased him­self up from the back se­at of his po­li­ce me­at-wa­gon. He had ma­de him­self a com­for­tab­le nest out of a few bor­ro­wed blan­kets and a cha­ir cus­hi­on which Yo­la had pur­lo­ined for him. What was Cal­que thin­king of? This was the mid­dle of the night. Why wo­uld Sa­bir or the gypsy want to go anyw­he­re? They we­ren’t be­ing ac­cu­sed of anyt­hing. If Cal­que as­ked his opi­ni­on, he wo­uld tell him that the­re was no sen­se at all in was­ting po­li­ce man­po­wer tra­iling non-sus­pects aro­und in the enj­oy­ment of the­ir law­ful rights. Spo­la had a lo­vely warm wi­fe wa­iting for him at ho­me. And a lo­vely warm bed. Tho­se cons­ti­tu­ted his law­ful rights. And, typi­cal­ly, they we­re in the pro­cess of be­ing vi­ola­ted.

  ‘I’m lo­oking at the gypsy now. He’s fast as­le­ep.’

  ‘Check on Sa­bir.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Spo­la eased the in­ter­nal do­or of the ca­ra­van open. Such blo­ody non­sen­se. ‘He’s lying in his bed. He’s…’ Spo­la stop­ped. He to­ok a furt­her step in­si­de the ro­om and switc­hed on the light. ‘He’s go­ne, Sir. They pac­ked his bed full of cus­hi­ons to ma­ke it lo­ok as if he was as­le­ep. I’m sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Whe­re’s the girl?’

  ‘Sle­eping with the wo­men, Sir. Ac­ross the way.’

  ‘Get her.’

  ‘But I can’t, Sir. You know what the­se gypsy wo­men are li­ke. If I go blun­de­ring in the­re…’

  ‘Get her. Then put her on the pho­ne.’

  85

  Spo­la squ­in­ted thro­ugh the windsc­re­en at the pas­sing tre­es. It had star­ted to ra­in and the po­li­ce car’s he­ad­lights we­re ref­lec­ting back off the ro­ad, ma­king it dif­fi­cult to jud­ge dis­tan­ces.