Blowback

by Peter May

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Right up until I was eighteen.”

  “And he never got involved with anyone else?”

  “Not during my school years, no.” Enzo was silent for some moments, still choking on the memory. “I stayed on for a sixth year at secondary school and got a place at Glasgow University. My folks said I could have a party at the flat, to celebrate. And I asked a whole bunch of my school friends. Including the girl I’d met at the fifth year dance the year before. Fiona. We’d been going steady for the whole of sixth year, and I was head over heels for her, Sophie. Completely besotted. She was tall and willowy and dark and sultry, and had me totally wrapped around her little finger.”

  “Uh-oh.” Sophie had already seen it coming. “And Jack came to the party, too?”

  “He was in the house, so it was hard for him not to be a part of it. And I suppose he cut a kind of glamorous figure for all my friends. The older man. Experienced, but still young. And good-looking, too. Jack had always been a good-looking boy.”

  Enzo sighed and sipped contemplatively on his whisky.

  “It was another six months before I discovered that Jack and Fiona were having a relationship behind my back.”

  “After meeting at the party?”

  “Yes.” He broke off to collect himself, wondering how it could possibly still hurt after all these years. “It was a double betrayal, Sophie. My girlfriend and my brother.”

  “Your half-brother,” Sophie corrected him, and he flicked her a glance. “So what happened?”

  “I had a furious row with Jack. It felt like he’d been fucking me up all my life. And this was the final straw. Stealing the first and only girl I’d ever been in love with.”

  “You can’t steal people, papa, you know that. My mother didn’t steal you, did she?”

  Enzo turned on her angrily. “That was different!”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, it was. It wasn’t what Jack and Fiona felt for one another that hurt. People can’t help their feelings, I do know that. It was the betrayal. They lied to me, Sophie. And connived, and hid their relationship from me. Fiona could just have ended it with me. It would have broken my heart. But it would have been clean, and honest. Instead, she continued with the charade for a whole six months. They both did. I wasn’t just hurt, I was humiliated.”

  “So you never forgave them? Either of them?”

  He sighed in exasperation, partly from his recollection of events, and partly with himself. “You get locked into these things, Sophie. I was young, I was angry, I was humiliated. Jack and I had the most awful falling out. I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as him. Couldn’t get out of the family home fast enough. I was starting university in the fall, and got involved in a flat-sharing arrangement with some friends, including the girl that would become Kirsty’s mum. That’s how I met her, really, although I’d been vaguely aware of her for a couple of years. We kind of fell into a relationship, me on the rebound. It was all far too fast, of course. We were married before I had time to realize what a mistake it would be.”

  “What happened to Jack and Fiona?”

  Enzo drew a long, slow breath, wondering why it should still hurt after all these years. “They got married, had kids, and as far as I know went on to live happily ever after. The last time I saw or heard anything of Jack was at dad’s funeral. And that was thirty years ago.”

  ***

  Enzo woke up, startled, in the dark. For a long, disorientating moment he had no idea where he was, before remembering Marc Fraysse and the unsolved murder at the tumbledown buron. In the dim light of the digital bedside clock, his bedroom slowly took shadowed shape around him. He glanced at the time. It was three o’clock. Sophie had left not long after midnight, and he had spent some time on his own sitting in the dark, drinking more whisky than was good for him, going over again and again in his mind memories that he had purposely put aside for most of his adult life.

  He could only have been asleep for an hour or two, and already his head was starting to hurt from too much whisky. Something had wakened him. Some bleak, disturbing nightmare that had vanished with his sleep, like smoke in the wind.

  He found himself thinking again about Jack, trying to put features to the memory of him. In his mind, he remembered him clearly, but his mind’s eye could no longer furnish him with the physical details. And from nowhere, he suddenly recalled an incident that he had not thought about for close on forty-five years. A moment overlooked, buried under an avalanche of other memories.

  He had been nine years old, still in his first year at Hutchie, while Jack was in his last. The threats over keeping his mouth shut and the incident at the pond were things that had long retreated into the dark lockers of unwanted memory. In truth, beyond that first day, he’d had little or no contact with Jack or any of his friends.

  There was a group of boys in fourth year at secondary, who had been going around terrorising the younger kids. Just bullies, forcing boys much younger than themselves to hand over food from the tuck shop, or toys, or cigarettes, or anything that took their fancy.

  It was a day toward the end of the summer term when Enzo fell foul of them for the first time. It was just after his birthday, and he’d been given money by an aunt. He’d decided to spend it in the tuck shop, buying packs of chips and bubble gum and candy bars, and sharing them among his friends. Which was making him very popular.

  It also attracted the bully boys like flies to the dung. They pushed their way through Enzo’s circle of admirers to demand that he hand over the goodies. It was Enzo’s first lesson in the meaning of fair weather friends. Within a matter of seconds, they had all melted away, leaving him to confront the big boys on his own.

  He hadn’t yet acquired the silver stripe that streaked his dark hair, but he had a stubborn streak that ran through him, a character flaw rather than a physical one. He refused to hand over his stuff, and the older boys quickly lost patience. One of them, the ringleader, a boy called Andy, grabbed Enzo by his collar and slammed him up against the school wall. His goodies from the tuck shop spilled all over the playground. And a single, sharp voice cut through the mêlée. “Leave him alone!”

  Andy and his mob turned around to see who’d had the temerity to interfere in what was clearly none of his business. And as the boys parted, Enzo saw Jack standing there. “What’s it to you?” Andy demanded.

  Jack hesitated a long time. “He’s my wee brother. So just take your hands off him, okay?”

  Enzo could hardly believe his ears. Andy looked at him in disbelief, then laughed. “What? The wop’s your brother?”

  Enzo saw Jack flinch, and his voice carried an edge of anger almost too fierce in its denial. “He’s not a wop! And I’ll kick your fucking head in if you say it again.”

  Andy’s face contorted into an ugly sneer. “You and who’s fucking army?”

  Although a year younger than Jack, they were big boys all the same. From the fourth year first-fifteen scrum. And Jack was on his own. But he didn’t flinch. He said to Enzo, “Get your stuff and go.”

  Enzo had hesitated, then, but Jack was insistent.

  “Go! GO!”

  And Enzo stooped to quickly gather his spilled comestibles, and scurry off toward the far classrooms without looking back. No one made a move to stop him. All the focus had turned toward Jack.

  It was with a sharp sense of guilt and regret, that Enzo remembered now how Jack had returned home that night, bruised and bloodied. He’d gone straight to his room, retiring like a wounded animal, and told their parents that he’d been hurt playing rugby.

  That he had taken a beating for Enzo was without question. But neither had spoken of it, and it had never been referred to again.

  And for some unaccountable reason, lying there in his bed in the dark, with whisky on his breath, and a head full of memories, Enzo felt tears fill his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Madame Fraysse seemed a little shadowed around
the eyes this morning, as if perhaps she had not slept. But in response to Enzo’s enquiry, she professed to have slept the sleep of the dead. She took her seat opposite him at the breakfast table and her smile seemed very slightly forced.

  She had her back to the view, as if all these years of exposure had made her immune to it. But Enzo could hardly take his eyes off it. The weather had changed again. The wind was coming straight down from the north, and it had blown away all those leaden rainclouds that swept into western Europe across three thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean. The cloud cover was high, and broken, allowing sunlight to flit across the plateau in ever shifting patterns of gold and green and brown. It was the constantly changing and unpredictable nature of it that was so compelling, perhaps like Madame Fraysse herself, although it was her Delphic quality that intrigued Enzo most.

  He watched her pour her infusion of tisane into an elegant china cup, and sip gingerly on it through pale lips. Steam rose in wreaths around her mouth. He said, “You told me the day I arrived that Marc would make frequent trips up to Paris to record radio or television interviews.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And he drove all the way back down in time for lunch?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “That’s quite a drive, Madame Fraysse. About four hours, according to Google maps.”

  “I suppose that would be right. Although Marc liked fast cars, and pushed them to their limits, Monsieur Macleod. I’m sure he probably cut thirty to forty minutes off that.”

  “Even, so… a round trip of seven hours or so before lunch… When would he find time to record the interviews?”

  She cast him a curious look, as if she thought he might doubt her. “He sometimes went up the night before. He would see service underway then head off. He was a regular on the Télé Matin morning show on France 2. And that goes out live. They would slot him in anywhere between seven and eight. And then he would be on the road home. Very occasionally he would leave for Paris late afternoon, for an appearance on one of the late night round tables. And as for recording… well, he was a big enough name that the broadcasters would accommodate him. I’ve seen him set the alarm for two, to get up to Paris for six, and then be back by midi.”

  “Why did he feel compelled to do these broadcasts?”

  “If you are wondering if it was ego, then I would have to say yes. To an extent it was. But there was also a very practical purpose in them, monsieur. Marc understood that if you were going to draw customers to a restaurant tucked away in a remote corner of the Massif Central, then you would have to keep it in constant view. If you own a restaurant in Paris, it is not hard to fill it, especially if you have three stars. But out here…” She glanced out at the view. “If you are stuck away out here, then you have to persuade the mountain to come to you.”

  Enzo nodded and refilled his coffee cup, before reaching for another croissant. “What else did Marc do in Paris, Madame Fraysse?”

  She pushed up her eyebrows, but he could see in her eyes that her surprise was not genuine. “What do you mean?”

  “I understand that Marc was fond of putting money on horses. In fact, more than fond of it. It was a daily ritual.”

  Whatever warmth the chef’s widow might have shown Enzo when he first arrived vanished now, along with the sun as it slipped behind a passing cloud. Her tone was frosty. “I’m not sure that I understand the point you are trying to make.”

  “I was just wondering if he ever went racing when he was up in Paris.”

  “I have no idea where you heard that. But it is absolutely untrue.”

  “I didn’t hear anything, Madame Fraysse. I’m just asking.”

  Her face had become quite flushed, and she was containing her anger with some difficulty. Whether it was real or feigned, Enzo couldn’t tell. But he noticed that the dark smudges below her eyes had grown penumbrous. “Yes, he enjoyed the odd flutter.” Her voice was brittle but controlled. “Everyone knew that. But there was no question of his having a problem. None at all.” She pushed her cup away and rose stiffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very busy morning ahead of me.”

  Enzo watched her stride away across the dining room, then turned back, compelled by the view to gaze out over the kaleidoscope of color that characterised the plateau. And he wondered about her use of the word “problem”. The thought may have been in his head, but while he had not actually given voice to it, she had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Enzo found Guy in the cave. At the north-west corner of the cellar he had a small office, and Enzo saw the light burning in it, reflecting on the rows of precious bottles that lined the floor-to-ceiling racks. His footsteps echoed back from bedrock as he made his way to the far side of the cave, a sense of culture and wealth and history pressing all around him, dark liquid gold in darker, dusty bottles.

  Guy looked up from his computer as Enzo’s bulk filled the open doorway. His face lit up in a smile. “Good morning, Enzo. Slept well, I hope.”

  Enzo put a rueful hand to his forehead and pulled a face. “Too much whisky.”

  “Damnit, man! Solitary drinking’s not good for you. You should have given me a shout. I’d have helped you with the bottle.” He grinned and waved a hand at his computer. “Updating my inventory. Had a delivery this morning of some rather excellent 2005 Bordeaux. I’m very tempted to open a bottle to let you try it. Very frustrating, but the inventory comes first, I’m afraid.” He looked out over his unique collection of wines. “Wine, wine everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”

  Enzo tipped his head in smiling acknowledgement. “You know your English poets, then.”

  Guy raised his jaw theatrically and quoted from memory.

  “And every tongue, through utter drought,

  Was withered at the root:

  We could not speak, no more than if

  We had been choked with soot.”

  Enzo grinned. “The Ancient Mariner.”

  “Imagine, Enzo, you’re dying of thirst, and surrounded by water you cannot drink. I just thank the Lord I’m not an alcoholic.” He chuckled. “I’d hate to be the owner of such a cave and unable to drink any of it.”

  Enzo shook his head. “Well, as it is, Guy, even if you lived to be a hundred you could only drink a fraction of it.”

  “Ah, but I can choose any fraction of it that I want. There’s the rub. And that’s the pleasure in it.” He swivelled round in his chair. “Listen, how would you like to come to market with me one day? Marc used to go to the markets in Clermont Ferrand three days a week. And I still do it. I may not be a three-star chef, but I know about quality in the produce, and I don’t want to leave that to anyone else.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Day after tomorrow, then.” Guy paused and gave Enzo a quizzical look. “Did you want me for something special?”

  Enzo leaned against the architrave of the door. “I wanted to ask you about Jean-Pierre Graulet.”

  “The food critic?”

  “Elisabeth told me there was a history of enmity between Marc and Graulet. Just wondered if you could tell me why.”

  Guy roared with laughter and slapped his thighs. “Oh, Enzo, I can. I certainly can. It’s one of my favourite Marc stories.” He looked at his watch. “Goddamn, I don’t care if it’s early. This is a story that merits cracking open a bottle. Grab a seat.”

  And he vanished off into the gloom of the cave as Enzo eased himself into a hard chair and groaned inwardly. His head was still delicate from last night’s whisky. Guy returned with a bottle of 2005 Château Margaux. As he went through the ritual of uncorking it, he said, “Only eight percent Merlot in this, and eight-five percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Merlot was harvested at more than fourteen percent alcohol. Too rich for the Margaux. So most of it went into the château’s second wine, the Pavillon Rouge.” He poured them each a small glass.

  “Oh, well, I suppose a hair of the dog will either kill me or cure me.”

  Guy frow
ned. “A hair of the dog?”

  Enzo laughed. “Celts have built a whole culture around the need to find a cure for hangovers. In the case of having a hair of the dog that bit you, the cure is more of the same.”

  “Ah. Worth a try, then.” Guy breathed in the wine, swirled it, breathed again and then took a small mouthful to wash around his gums. “Oh,” he said, a look of ecstasy washing over his face. “Try it, tell me what you think.”

  Enzo sucked oxygen into his mouth along with the wine. He felt the flavours fill his head. “Sensational,” he said. “Wonderful harmony.”

  “Yes, first reports suggested it might be overly tannic, but it’s ageing nicely. I’ll not tell you what it cost.” Guy filled both their glasses and sipped pensively at his own. “Yes… Graulet.” And he laughed again. “A pompous ass of a man. Freelance critic. Writes for several of the Paris papers, and has a couple of online blogs of his own. Self-appointed judge of good cuisine on behalf of us poor, ignorant plebs. He sneaks around the top restaurants in various disguises, taking clandestine photographs, and sometimes video, for his blog. He believes that Michelin stands for everything that is dull and old-fashioned in French cuisine and just loves to target their three-star darlings with his most virulent criticism.”

  “I thought he was renowned for ‘discovering’ his own restaurants of distinction.”

  “Oh he is. He adores finding the undiscovered genius working in the kitchen of some obscure bistro tucked away in a hidden corner of Paris and revealing him to the world.” Guy chortled. “I’ve tried a few of them myself, and can’t say I have ever been particularly impressed.”

  “So how did he and Marc come to cross swords?” Enzo let more wine slip back over his tongue, and felt the soothing warmth of the alcohol ease the ache in his head.

  Guy perched himself on the edge of his desk. “Not long after Marc got his third star, Graulet came to sample the style Fraysse for himself. Made no secret of his presence, and despite everyone bending over backwards to please him, he was really quite objectionable. Marc had never been a target of his criticism before, and so was quite prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until, that is, his column appeared the following week, panning Marc for his over-priced, over-rated, under-cooked, unimaginative cuisine.”