by John Gubert
With the gloves still on, I released the hand brake and put the car into neutral. I pushed. It slowly moved. The muddy ground made it difficult. I could hardly see for the rain. It thundered again. Somewhere in the distance I was conscious of another flash of lightning. I took a deep breath and saw that Jacqui was driving to the road. She did not want to get stuck in the mud. By me it was looking like a quagmire. I put my back to the car again. I pushed and felt it give as it inched to the edge of the cliff. I felt a jerk and then it came to a halt. I slid down the back of the car and fell over into the mud. My knees sank into it. I steadied myself with my hands. I tried to get up but slipped again, falling heavily on my shoulder.
By now I was covered in mud, soaked and exhausted. And I was scared by the raging storm. I knew it was dangerous. I hurried round to the car and saw the front wheels were over the edge. The underside of the car was jammed, stopping it moving forward. I pushed again. No movement. I pushed harder. It edged slightly. It either shifted sideways or just a bit forward. I could not tell. I cried out in frustration and ducked as a bolt of lightning seared across the angry sky. Its forked tongue coming straight at me. It pushed the rain in front of it, soaking me again. The mud ran from my hair into my eyes. I tried to wipe my face but only made it worse. I blinked to clear my eyes but that hardly helped. I did not know where the lightning had struck. I knew it had missed me, that was all.
I turned to the car in fury now and heaved at it once again. I felt it give and yelled, “Move, fuck you, move.” It did and I could feel it tipping forward and I pulled back. I went onto my knees and watched it, as it disappeared over the cliff in slow motion. It bounced once half way down and seemed to shoot out to sea. It sank below the rough sea, throwing up a high spray and then disappearing into the angry depths.
I turned round to the sound of yet more thunder. But now I was past caring. I stumbled round the fallen tree and blinked, seeing only out of one eye. The other seemed to be full of mud and rain. The car was there. Jacqui had moved over to the passenger seat. She was crying to herself. Her blouse was torn. It was soaked through. Her bra was visible beneath the now transparent material. Her skirt was riding high. Her tights were torn. Her shoes were caked in mud. She drew my coat around her shivering body.
I knew that I was little better. I was muddy, wet, cold, despairing, frightened, exhausted and I just wanted to be warm, dry, comfortable and comforted. I knew, however, that that was not possible at the moment.
“Darling, we must change. We can’t clean up. I’ll find us things to wear. We will have to say that we got caught out on the way. That we got lost. Got a puncture. We’ll get a hotel. The best is to find one well away from this coast. I think it best we head for Frejus and look for one there. I prefer it to Grimaud. That’s too close to St Tropez.”
I looked in her case and found some trousers and a black T-shirt. Also some fresh tights.
“Change in the car,” I said, smearing some mud on the new clothes. We needed them dirty but also dry. With my wet coat over them they would serve our story when we got to a hotel. I looked in my case and found some jeans and a blue polo shirt. I did the same with them, and rubbed the jeans into the mud by the verge so that they were splashed to the knees. I got into the car and changed. It was hardly comfortable. Cars are not great places to dress. I had realised that once some years ago but at least that was in the summer when one could complete the process outside the car.
I wiped my face and hands as best I could with my shirt. Jacqui passed me her blouse and said, “It’s less muddy than your shirt. Try it”. Even wet I could smell her scent on it. It was comforting and somehow made me feel better. I told her that, and she giggled a bit. “Come on. I’m not taking these clothes off again now,” she said.
We switched on the engine and the heating and headed back towards Remantuelle. It was tempting to go to the first hotel but I decided against it.
I remarked to Jacqui, “Keep a close eye on the other cars when we get to the roundabout. They could be keeping a watch for us.”
“I don’t think so,” she responded. “They were worried by your threats. They will wait for us to call. As I was there they will believe we were telling the truth. Anyway, they don’t know you are going to stick with me yet.”
I hoped she was right. We were exhausted and had pretty well taken all we could. Over the last twenty-four hours Jacqui had seen her Aunt killed. We had found each other again. She had come into our lives and we into hers. We had had the car chase. We had the shoot out. We had the scene with her uncle. And now had dumped the car in the storm.
The storm was still hanging over the peninsula as we moved towards Port Grimaud. It looked as if it were heading away from us towards Hyeres and Marseilles. I was relieved as I drove to the motorway. It is a quick drive out of season.
Soon we were on the motorway and I turned to Jacqui. “I know a hotel in Juan Les Pins. I have never stayed there. Just used their car park. It’s modern and a four or five star. I suggest we head there. We should make it about ten fifteen or so and I can’t think of one in Frejus. Out of season, the one in Juan will be open and have space. There is a conference centre there but I can’t believe the conferences fill it to capacity, and there may be none on now.”
I gave Jacqui the name and she took out my mobile. Having called the operator and got the number, she dialled it. She booked the room, apologising for the fact that we would be wet and muddy as we had got caught in a storm in the mountains and had to change a wheel. They were understanding and sympathetic on the phone. Jacqui insisted that we needed nothing other than a warm room and a hot bath. I agreed. I was maybe hungry, but I needed to warm up and sleep for tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
THE ROAD TO MONTE CARLO
We got to the hotel at Juan at around 10.30. A bit later than I thought but the weather was still bad. The storm seemed to have swung round and moved our way again. We were both exhausted as I parked in the hotel car park and grabbed our luggage.
There were some astonished looks as we walked in through the swing doors. At reception, I quickly explained who we were and a Mr and Mrs De Roche were signed in at top speed. We were whisked up to a room on the seventh floor and soon had thankfully locked and bolted the door to the whole world. And I had carefully placed the “do not disturb sign” on the door.
Jacqui just sat on the bed, her head in her hands. I quickly went to the bathroom and turned on the bath water. I checked that it was hot and added some of the bath foam they provided. I then went back into the bedroom and picked up Jacqui. She did not protest. She was just too exhausted, both mentally and physically.
I sat her down in the bathroom and slowly undressed her. Her T-shirt, her bra came off first. Then I gently eased down her trousers, then her tights and panties. I looked at her body. Her skin was smooth and a light olive in colour. Her hair dark, but wet and straggly from the rain. It fell down on her shoulders. There were streaks of mud on her forehead, her eye make up was smudged, her lipstick non-existent. Somehow though, she smiled at me weakly, the steam from the bath revitalising her a bit. I switched off the taps for the bath was now almost full. I picked her up and gently placed her in the warm water and soft suds.
She lay there for a while. Her hands idled over her body. The water lapped up and down over her as she moved and relaxed. The suds parted giving a tantalising snapshot of one bit of her or another. Then she stood up. She took the bar of soap and gently rubbed it all over her body.
I watched as the soap moved round her neck, between her breasts, over her arms and down to her waist. She glided the soap slowly over herself as if in a daze. At times her hand stopped. At others it retraced its moves. Gradually the foam enveloped her before it slipped down her body in one long continuous slow and lethargic flow. It found new routes. It retraced old ones.
Having soaped half her body, she lent forward and tackled the rest of herself. She brushed the soap over her stomach, between her legs and over her thighs. Occasiona
lly she sighed. At times she blinked. Always she seemed to relish in the quiet peace and the soothing touch of the soft, smooth, gliding substance that she controlled.
I moved forward and took the soap, tackling lastly her calves and her feet. Without being asked she lifted one foot after the other to the edge of the bath. She continued to look at me dreamily. She moved, as I needed without me asking. We did not say a thing as I drew in her scent, felt her body and feasted on every part of her.
She was enveloped in the soft foam and sat back down in the water with a sigh of contentment.
The soap washed away in the warm water. It caused the final suds to disperse. Gradually the water became clearer and the outline of her body appeared. The slim waist. The rounded breasts. The long legs. The dark thatch of hair. The water moved gently backwards and forwards with her breathing. It sought out each part to fondle. It slipped over the softness of her skin. She shut her eyes dreamily and smiled secretly to herself. Her hands ran from her thighs up her body and then she placed them behind her neck. She yawned silently.
I picked up the shower and tested the temperature of the water. I ran it over her head and then took the shampoo, carefully caressing it into her hair and feeling its texture slowly change. As the water washed away the shampoo, her hair regained its softness and lost the bedraggled look.
Last of all she rinsed her face, picking up the shower to cleanse it all over. Then she stood up and showered the last of the soap and foam from her body before stepping out of the bath into the large white towel that I held. I dried her gently, slowly patting her all over and feeling her relax into my arms.
She picked up the towel and wrapped it around her. “You get washed darling, while I dry my hair.”
I emptied her bath and stripped naked. I am tall, over six foot. I weigh around eighty-five kilos. I guess I am well built. I have blue eyes and fair hair with a trace of red. My hair was slightly long, over my shoulders and half way down my ears. I had grown a moustache for this job, but hated it and planned to shave it off as soon as possible. In fact I had grown it when I left England, and Jacqui had commented on it at the time. She did not think it suited me. I was quite hairy, a blonde wiry down covering my chest and sending shoots down my stomach and beyond.
Some of our ancestors came from the Nordic countries and I appear to be a throwback to those times. I did not look much like my father or mother, except that my father is of similar build although a few kilos heavier. I would change my hairstyle. If I cut it short it went naturally darker.
I stepped into the tub, put on the shower and stood under the stream of hot water. I picked up the bar of soap, the very one that she had been using, and stroked it over myself. Like her, I started at my neck and worked down. I closed my eyes and remembered the way she had looked and the way I had felt.
I then washed my hair and happily stood under the steaming shower. I felt the weight of the last few hours fall away from me. I returned to my normal self. I was no longer a gunman; a maniac in a car; a madman disposing of the evidence; a conspirator taking on the Mafia. I felt myself returning to my real self. And I realised that I only had been that once since the plan was launched and that had been last night with Jacqui. I hoped that I would not have to revert to those types again, but in my heart I knew that I would do many things that I would regret before this game was played out.
I got out of the shower and dried myself thoroughly. I then walked into the bedroom. Jacqui was already in bed. Her eyes closed, her hair falling luxuriously over the snow-white pillowcase in the King sized bed. She breathed gently, fast asleep. I switched off the lights and quietly slipped next to her. She was naked and I could feel the warmth of her seeping through to me. I lay down beside her and, in her sleep, she curled up into my arms. Her breasts lay on my chest. Her head lay on my shoulder. Our feet, thighs and stomachs touched. I felt myself reacting to her body, and, then like her, I dropped into that deep sleep that only comes from exhaustion.
The sun was shining in through the gaps in the curtain when I woke. I started and saw it was already eight o’ clock. I woke Jacqui. “We must leave. We have to get to Monte Carlo and then on to Geneva” I said. “Let me wash first. I have to make a couple of calls. Then we can have a quick breakfast and we must be off by nine.”
“I wanted to make love to you. What on earth happened?”
“We did the next best thing,” I said, “We were asleep in each others’ arms and tonight we can carry on.”
After washing, I put on fresh clothes. This time I put on a light pair of trousers, an open necked shirt and a blazer. I needed to look businesslike if I was to go to the banks. I thought of dumping my dirty clothes but stuffed them in a laundry bag instead, did the same with Jacqui’s and shut them in the case.
I waited for Jacqui to come from the bathroom and get dressed. She was wearing a short red dress. It was plain and full necked. She added a colourful Gucci scarf to it. Once again she looked her usual self. Her face had its natural lively colour, a mixture of olive and health. Her trim figure was accentuated by the simplicity of her dress. It hid no secrets. It told no lies. She was beautiful.
I picked up the cases and left them with the concierge. I told him not to put them in the car. I wanted to make sure that he did not see the clothes we had thrown in the boot. Mine were stained with blood as well as mud. I knew concierges have a habit of looking for anything of interest. I felt we were remarkable enough in the chaos of our arrival and the contrast of our departure. I did not want to be any more of a mystery.
I went to the public phone. It was in a cabin and I could talk in private. I called Madrid. There was an immediate response. “Hi, this is Charles,” I said. “I have thought about our discussion yesterday. I think you should dispose of your car. It will only cause you trouble.”
“I agree,” said my father. “How are you and how’s Jacqui?”
“We’re fine,” I said. “Had a bad night last night but we sorted everything out. There was bad accident near Tropez. Four men in a sedan crashed while chasing a black Mercedes. We had a couple of visitors at the house but they did not stay long. We then met an uncle of J’s and got him to sort everything out about the video. We’ll be fine. I’ll call you again.”
“Good-bye,” he said. “Take care.” He knew that we had had trouble but had managed to survive. I could hear he was worried. He understood I was afraid the call could be traced. I did not know if the lines would be tapped. It was better to speak briefly. The full story could come out later.
Still he knew better than to do anything. We had to go through with what we started.
One of my oldest friends was a girl. She and I had grown up together. We had confided a lot in each other. Her name was Carrie. I called her. “This is a game Carrie. My name is Charles.”
“Oh hi Charles, how are your parents? Are they well? I gather they have gone away.”
“They are fine Carrie. Do me a favour though. My bank, you do not need to know where, could call you one day. If they do, go to the police and mention my father’s name. Then take them to the bank and do as they say. I hope you never have to do this. Don’t tell anyone. I love you.”
“I love you too. Take care.”
Carrie would not do anything to harm me. Carrie was always getting into trouble and I had always protected her. We were the same age. If she was bullied as a child, I would fight for her. If she was in love as a girl, she told me all about it and I comforted her. When she got pregnant at university, I was the one who organised her abortion. And when she got hooked on drugs, I took her away and weaned her off them. We were not lovers. We were the best of friends. I had never asked for anything, but knew she would not let me down. She needed me less these days for she had got married and she had a baby. A nice boy called Charles. Her husband ran a gallery and specialised in modern art. The Damien Hirst stuffed sheep variety rather than designer chic. Not my taste, but he was a great guy. And I hoped we would one day get together again.
&nbs
p; The calls completed, I joined Jacqui for breakfast. She was on her second coffee. I asked for croissants and a fruit juice to accompany my much needed morning caffeine injection.
“Who did you call?” asked Jacqui. “My parents and told them they should get rid of their car. I then called a friend I can trust and have set them up to call in our insurance if ever we need it.”
“I know you won’t want to tell me who your friend is, but are you sure of them?”
“Yes. But I have worked on a need to know basis. All they know is that one-day an unnamed bank may give them a call and give them some instructions. I have told them they are to follow them, but to ensure that the police accompany them. The police will listen to my friend. For a very good reason.”
“What reason?” said Jacqui.
I did not want to reveal that Carrie’s father was a senior MI5 officer and that she had had police protection for many years when he was engaged in undercover work in Northern Ireland. As such Carrie would always have a hot line to the police. “Good reasons. Don’t worry. My friend will be OK. In addition they do not know enough to trace us or the tape.”
“What will we do with the tape?”
“I will put it into the safe at United Bank in Monte Carlo. As I told you before, it is high security. We already have a safe and some papers in it that are part of my father’s plan. We need those for they incriminate a lot of people in high places. I’ll tell you about them later. Another copy is in Fucquet in Geneva. I will put the second tape there. I will allow you access to both safes. The only other people with full access are my father, mother and myself.
“I will tell the banks that, in the event that none of the account holders, including you, phone over a one year and one day period, then they must call my friend and give access to the safes. So anyone who does anything to all of us is sitting on a one-year time bomb. And I know these banks. They guard the safes with their lives. One false move and their reputation is in tatters and their business goes down the pan.”