Barbusse spat again. One of the men beside him giggled. ‘Cross it? I wouldn’t even stay on it, if I were you,’ he said. ‘It could be very dangerous.’
‘If you so much as dare to manhandle an official of your government, you will be arrested for assault, convicted and thrown for a very long time into Clermont-Ferrand jail,’ said Dupont Goetz, bravely.
Barbusse rested his shotgun against a boulder and turned to the group of men beside him. ‘Okay, let’s have it,’ he told one of them. The man handed over a small box. Barbusse turned back to Dupont Goetz. This, sir, is an electrical device produced in large quantities for demolition purposes. It is a Mark Seven detonator. You will notice that there are two wires connected to the box.’ Dupont Goetz’s gaze followed the run of the cable, which disappeared over the side of the bridge. ‘The other ends of the wires are connected to nine pounds of gelignite, purchased quite legally for the purpose of blasting tree roots out of the ground. In precisely five seconds I will turn the detonator handle. The bridge on which you and your car are standing will be destroyed. This will result in one of three things happening. Either you will go up, with the explosion, or down with the car, or you will simply disappear altogether.’
‘How dare . . .’ began Dupont Goetz. Behind him he heard the sudden slam of the car door and the engine being started. There was a skidding sound as the wheels spun on the wooden surface. ‘I ... You will hear more of this . . .’He turned as Barbusse said ‘One’.
He hurried away. He had covered twenty yards by the time the voice said ‘Two’ and another twenty as it reached ‘Three’. At ‘Four’ he threw himself behind a large boulder at the roadside. His hands pressed over his ears prevented him from hearing the ‘Five’, but the explosion that immediately followed it blew his briefcase down into the valley, fluttering like a wounded crow. The ground supporting the boulder heaved. The rock teetered and rolled away from him. Pebbles and dust scattered through the air. His ears rang. Eventually he opened his eyes.
The road ended a few yards away. Slates and pieces of stone were still slipping downwards. He heard them rattling down the rocks to the waters far below. The road and bridge were gone. On the far side of the gulf, the road began again but ended after only a few feet in a barricade of oak beneath the fortified entrance to the old village. The people of St Pierre-des-Monts had destroyed their causeway, and shut their fortress doors.
‘Unbelievable,’ said the Minister. ‘Totally unbelievable. An uprising? ‘
‘Yes, undoubtedly Communist inspired. After they blew up the bridge, they leant over the battlements and threw things at me,’ reported Dupont Goetz. He remembered the sight of a plastic chamberpot, half caught in the wind and drifting towards him, shedding its contents as it arrived.
‘But, explosives . . . This must surely constitute an act of extreme civil disobedience. But for what purpose? This is the Admiral’s own village. Unquestioningly loyal in the past. Right wing voters, every one of them. And the village priest’s related to the President ... A nephew, I think. Do they have some grudge? Is there something they’ve been pressing for that has been denied them? Could this be some form of protest?’
‘I hardly ...’ began Dupont Goetz. ‘Well, perhaps. Of course ... the road. Perhaps they’ve been wanting a road.’
‘A road?’
‘They’ve got one, but it’s just a cart track. Maybe they want a better one. One with a tarmac surface.’
‘Tell Clermont-Ferrand to send an emissary,’ said the Minister. ‘Tell them to say that the Ministry has decided to build them a new road as soon as the villagers start behaving like sensible human beings again. And hurry up and settle this. It’s top priority. So far, the President hasn’t heard a word. Neither has the Press. We want it over and done with before anything gets out. Understand? ‘
One hour, seven minutes later, Dupont Goetz was back in the Minister’s office. It was a cool evening, but Dupont Goetz felt hot and sweaty.
‘Clermont sent an emissary as you suggested,’ he said. ‘He has just telephoned. It’s not the road.’
‘No? What then?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dupont Goetz tiredly. ‘They just said rude things to him. Very rude and unpleasant things. Then they said that they just didn’t want us any more.’
‘Didn’t want us? ‘
‘None of us,’ said Dupont Goetz, firmly. ‘Not my representative. Nor me. Nor the Clermont Mayor. Not even you, sir, and your department. They said they were finished with all of us. Even France.’
‘Nonsense ...’
‘They said they’d allow only one man to enter the village.’
‘Who?’
‘Monsieur le President. . . Grand Admiral Dordogne,’ said Dupont Goetz.
‘I wish to speak to Constable Chaminade,’ said the deep voice on the other end of Barbusse’s telephone.
‘You’re not the Lord our God, by any chance are you?’ asked Barbusse, standing to attention by the instrument. After all, he thought, this was only the second telephone call the village had had in a long time, and it paid to be cautious.
‘No, I am not,’ said the voice. ‘But Constable Chaminade may care to behave as though I am.’
‘I’ll get him.’ Barbusse put down the receiver and looked out of the bar door into the square, where Constable Chaminade was admonishing two village children. Barbusse called him. Constable Chaminade muttered his way across.
‘In there,’ said Barbusse. ‘The telephone. You put the flat end in your ear and the other end to your mouth.’
‘Very amusing,’ grunted Chaminade. He stamped in and picked up the receiver. ‘Oui . . . Constable Chaminade speaking.’
‘This is the Chief Constable, speaking,’ said the deep voice.
‘Oh, Mon Dieu,’ replied Constable Chaminade.
‘Exactly,’ growled the deep voice. ‘Chief Constable Rend Bouvier - your God, Constable Chaminade. What the hell has been going on? Why haven’t you been doing your duty, constable? ‘
Chaminade groaned. ‘Duty ... of course ... I have done everything. There is no crime ... I see that all is well ...’
‘Now pay attention, Chaminade, I’m not prepared to tolerate any further flouting of the law at your village. I’ve got a lot to say to you, and I’m saving it up for the personal interview we are going to have together, shortly. In the meantime, I want the ringleaders of the village troublemakers arrested, and the gate open for my men when they arrive in the morning. Get that, Constable Chaminade?’
‘Er, yes, sir,’ replied Chaminade.
‘Then jump to it,’ ordered the Chief Constable. He slammed down the receiver.
Constable Chaminade put down his end of the telephone and walked through into the bar. ‘I would like a glass of brandy,’ he told Barbusse. ‘Afterwards, I’m afraid, I’ll have to arrest you.’ ‘Then pay me first,’ said Barbusse, pouring the drink. He looked up from the brimming glass. ‘What are you arresting me for, this time? ‘
‘I’m not sure,’ said Constable Chaminade, trying to pick up the glass without spilling the brandy. ‘Orders. The Chief Constable says arrest the ringleaders. That means all the council. And he said that the police are coming up in force this morning.’ ‘He said that?’ Barbusse smiled and rubbed his hands. ‘Then we will have a good welcome for him.’
Constable Chaminade looked relieved. ‘Oh, thank you, Barbusse. For a minute I thought you’d be angry. What do you suggest for a welcome? A tray of ham rolls and a bottle of good wine might be sensible.’
‘I was thinking of hot oil,’ grinned Barbusse. ‘Perhaps a shower of molten lead from the battlements. Excuse me, I’m going to warn my guard.’ He pushed his way through the swing door set into the side of the bar, and took off the apron he was wearing over his parachute smock.
‘You’re under arrest,’ declared Constable Chaminade. ‘You and all the others of the council. I’m going to have to lock you all up.’
Barbusse answered him over his shoulder. ‘We are locked up
, Chaminade. You have all of us locked up in the town. The gate is barred.’
Barbusse unhooked the bandolier of cartridges from the hat rack and slung it over his shoulders, then he set the beret on his head.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Constable Chaminade, eyeing Barbusse. Arrest meant detention and detention was restriction of passage to and from, and Barbusse was certainly a prisoner in the village. Besides which, he was at least eight stone heavier than Constable Chaminade. No matter which way one looked at it, thought Constable Chaminade, Barbusse was already under arrest. All that was needed was a note of confirmation in his notebook. He followed Barbusse into the square, scribbling as he went, an official notification of the detention of all the council members.
Barbusse stood on the bar terrace in the sunlight. He looked like an ogre who had just stepped from his castle. As a matter of principle which he believed conducive to better guerrilla warfare, he had neither washed nor shaved for the past week. Nor had he eaten a meal from either a plate or a table. Instead, he now carried cloves of garlic, hard sausage and stale bread in the pockets of his parachuting smock, and gnawed at these whenever he felt hungry.
He stuck his arm through the bandolier of shotgun cartridges and rested his wrist in it as though it were a sling. It was one of a number of personal characteristics he had been practising as a guerrilla leader - such as baring his teeth at the end of every sentence. Ah ...’ he shouted, striking a bombastic pose. ‘Mon Colonel! We are shortly about to be attacked. Constable Chaminade received a telephone message from his chief.’
‘You may stop shouting,’ said Colonel Lorraine from the small table only two metres away. ‘As I am within range of your garlic, rest assured I can also hear you.’
‘And I, too,’ said Father Benoir, from his seat beside the Colonel.
‘What did you say, Barbusse?’ shouted Yves d’Arle from the far end of the square.
Father Benoir sighed. Such were his children.
‘I gather that the police are to visit us shortly,’ said Colonel Lorraine, looking closely at Barbusse.
‘I will massacre them, mon Colonel.’ Barbusse rolled his eyes and bared his teeth. ‘Just give me the word.’
‘Barbusse,’ said Colonel Lorraine, coldly, ‘the mere sight of you makes the thought of war distasteful. It is a pity you cannot be seen by all the people of the world.’
Father Benoir laughed. Barbusse grinned, sheepishly.
‘No massacre,’ smiled Colonel Lorraine, relaxing a little as the breeze in the square changed and carried Barbusse’s strong halo of garlic away from him. ‘Just get your men up on the walls. Give a show of force. Just think of something to scare the police away . . . breathe on them, perhaps.’ Father Benoir chuckled, again. Colonel Lorraine continued. ‘They won’t use force either. This will be a probing, reconnaissance force, just to test our defences. No bloodshed, do you hear, Barbusse? ‘
‘Not even a few small bricks, mon Colonel? ‘
‘Only such action as is necessary to defeat the forces of the Devil,’ said Father Benoir.
Barbusse’s grin spread. He took off his beret and waved it in the air. ‘Yiaeeee . . .’ he yelled. ‘Ah, mon Colonel, you have a good army. We will fight the forces of evil, just as we fought the British at Agincourt.’
Colonel Lorraine looked at him, icily. ‘But more successfully, I hope,’ he said.
On the back of the large calendar on the wall of Claire Laplace’s bedroom was a secret photograph. It was of Father Benoir. It had been taken at a village celebration the year before and consisted of a large group of villagers, sitting in rows, several deep, on either side of the young priest. Now, all the villagers had been scribbled out of existence, leaving only the boyish priest, looking rather embarrassed and lonely, against a black background.
Claire looked fondly at the photograph, and sighed. Gently, she stroked Father Benoir’s face with her finger, then she kissed him. She stood the photograph carefully on the mantelpiece so that the priest would have a good view of her. Then, slowly, she began to undress. When she had unfastened the zip on the back of her blouse, she pushed it down over her shoulders which she caressed with knowing hands.
‘Dear, dear, darling Jules,’ she whispered. ‘For what you are about to receive may the Lord make you truly thankful … ‘
The prayer department stretched from a balcony just outside God’s suite, halfway to eternity, which was five blocks down the main drag. Saint Peter stood next to God and looked along the length of the great hall with its half-a-million sorting desks. He never failed to be amazed by the amount of work handled by this department. Requests, requests, requests, and not a few complaints.
‘What’s new? ‘ asked God.
Saint Peter shrugged. He raised a finger. Immediately, a harassed clerk spread his wings and dived urgently to their side.
The clerk twittered a greeting.
‘Just looking around,’ said God. ‘Curious. Any good prayers today?’
‘It’s Easter, sir. We’re inundated again. Always are. Terribly understaffed. Must have a recruiting programme. Need twice the number of sorters. Prayers? Yes, of course. Good ones? Mecca? Lourdes? Jerusalem? Canterbury? The Vatican?’
‘No, no, no . . .’ interrupted God. ‘Prayers from those places are little better than circulars.’
‘There’s one from a place in New Guinea . . . from a man called Okurokuro . . . he’s asking for a new head . . . one with long blond hair on it. He says it’s not necessary to prepare it for him, as he’s very experienced. He’ll pull out the teeth and sew up the lips himself.’
‘Humans are disgusting,’ said Saint Peter.
‘I’ve made all kinds,’ grunted God. ‘Ignore it,’ he told the clerk. ‘And for the time being, ignore all the others. In fact, after July the fourteenth, you will be able to close all the files and send them down to the other place for burning. We’ll only be interested in the prayers from the villagers of St Pierre-des-Monts after that.’
‘St Pierre-des? Ah . . said the clerk, ‘now that strikes a chord. Saint Pierre ... yes, this morning ... I distinctly remember ... most unusual, a rare one from a young girl ... a maiden.’
‘They were rare enough in my time,’ said Saint Peter. God silenced him with a glare.
The clerk twittered again. ‘Processed it myself. Seemed odd. Filed it. Under Pending.’
‘What did it say? ‘ asked God in a voice that contained more than a hint of impatience.
‘I’ve forgotten ... no, I tell a lie, I remember it well. It said ... our Father which art in heaven...’
‘Get to the point,’ said God. ‘I know quite well where I am. Well?’
‘In a word, then,’ chirped the clerk. ‘At least, in five. She wants her priest unfrocked.’
‘The priest unfrocked? ‘ echoed Saint Peter, raising his hands in horror. ‘But ... doesn’t she know we’re not empowered to do anything like that? We make only the man, not the priest.’ ‘Tush, tush,’ said God. ‘Even I cannot understand women. Peter, do you remember all the trouble we had with Salome? Why do you think this woman wants the young priest defrocked?’
The clerk was nervous. ‘I, er, I think it’s something to do with priestly regulations. I think she wants to marry him.’
‘Let her wait until after the flood,’ ordered God. ‘From what I know about women, a little waiting is good for them. Unfrocked, indeed!’ He turned and strode back into his suite.
Saint Peter winked at the clerk.
Eight
Barbusse swung his binoculars towards the crest of Right Tit. The peaks, silhouetted against the ochred sky, were like pointed teeth edged with blood. The band of colour grew as the sun flashed over the skyline. Barbusse dropped his glasses and rubbed his eyes, blinded by the sudden glare through the lenses.
‘Smoked glass,’ nodded Father Benoir, wisely. ‘If you want to watch the sun, then smoke the lenses first.’
‘Thank you,’ said Barbusse. ‘I wasn’t really watching
the sun, just the mountains.’
‘I watch the sun,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Almost every morning when the weather is good, I climb the church tower. It is something that I thank God for every day. Such wonderful surroundings. Such beauty, watching the sun make its daily climb into the valley. Seeing the world awaken. Dawn makes poets of men.’
‘I prefer to spend dawn in bed,’ grinned Barbusse. ‘And bed makes even better poets of men. Besides, some of us seldom get to bed before two or three in the morning. One day you should try running a bar, Father. Guarding spirits is harder than guarding souls.’
‘And you should trying being a priest,’ suggested Father Benoir. ‘I dare say we would both learn a lot.’
Barbusse wished that Father Benoir were elsewhere. From the corner of his eye he had noticed a movement in Josephine’s room. He wondered what he would see if he were to use the binoculars in that direction. Whoever it was not only got up with the dawn, but with Josephine as well.
‘There’s something down there,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Dust. Little red clouds in the sunlight.’
Barbusse put the glasses to his eyes and focused on the road in the distance. ‘Lorries. Two of them. Hey . . . Laplace. Where’s Henri? ‘
‘He went down to his bakery,’ said Father Benoir. ‘He said he had to get his bread out of the ovens.’
‘He’s supposed to be sounding the alarm,’ groaned Barbusse. ‘What an army!’ He looked along the walls. In front of each of the castellations over the gateway huddled a figure. Some were in sleeping bags, others were wrapped like Arabs, in blankets. Barbusse walked to the nearest one and stirred him with his foot. The figure grunted, groaned, then yawned and shuddered. ‘Wake up,’ said Barbusse. ‘Looks like battle’s just about to begin.’
‘Holy Mother, I’m stiff,’ muttered the figure. It stretched and its eyes.
‘Hurry up,’ ordered Barbusse. ‘Wake the others.’ Alphonse Joliot struggled to his feet, stretched again, shook the man at the next arrow slit, then unzipped his trousers and began urinating over the top of the battlement.
Beyond The Rainbow Page 9