by Jon Steele
‘I know this music, Papa liked it. He knew all the words and he’d run around his house and put on funny hats and act out the story. It’s about a silly butler who makes a bed and works for a mean king. That’s why the woman is sad, because she’s married to the mean king and he doesn’t love her any more. And there’s a girl who pretends to be a man and a woman who pretends to be another woman and … I can’t remember the rest. But everyone sings together at the end, and they’re all happy.’
Monsieur Booty twitched his ears and purred.
‘Nice to know you like the music too.’
The music did end with everyone singing together and sounding happy. There was lots of applause and Rochat joined in. Then he turned off the radio, jumped from the bed and began to tidy up the loge.
‘Yes, Rochat, it’s been a very busy night and your legs are sore, but you must complete your duties.’
He swept the floor, arranged his sketchbooks on the shelf, checked his candle supply. Then he sat on the bed to rest just as Marie shook the loge with three powerful gongs.
‘Oh of course, madame. Why should I need to sit for a moment, madame. Yes, yes, at your service, madame.’
Rochat put on his overcoat and hat and lit the lantern. He headed out of the door, turning to Monsieur Booty on his way: ‘And when I come back, you miserable beast, I expect to see the rest of the pommes frites on the plate and not in your fat stomach. And scoot over to your side of the bed, if you please. I’ll be finished with my duties after I call three o’clock and I’m very tired.’
He shuffled around the tower, calling the hour to the east and north, then to the west and south. He looked over Lausanne for the final watch of the night. The icy rain fell more heavily, dripping from streetlamps and making thumping sounds on the snowy rooftops of the old city. The snow-cleared streets glistened with slippery ice.
‘All is well, and cold, Rochat. And you’ve performed your duties for another night. Time to say goodnight.’
He blew out the lantern.
Tyres screeched from beyond Pont Bessières.
A shaft of fast-moving light cut through the rain.
A speeding taxi turned at Langallerie, stopped at the corner of Rue Caroline. The rear door flew open, a woman with blond hair and a furry coat jumped from the car and ran into the building in her bare feet.
The taxi drove away.
‘It looked like the angel was coming home, Rochat. But it looked like something was wrong with her. Or maybe you only imagined it because you’re very tired.’
He dashed into the loge and dropped the lantern on the table. He opened the closet and grabbed the binoculars. Monsieur Booty sat up with alarm, watched Rochat stumble over a stool on his way out of the door.
‘Mrewwww.’
‘Never mind, you stay here!’
He hurried to the upper balconies and crawled into the carpentry above Madame La Lombarde. He put the lenses to his eyes, turned the focus ring till he saw her through the windows, walking in circles and waving her arms in the air. Then pulling at her hair and throwing her bag on a chair and picking up something from a table and throwing it at the wall. It shattered to bits. She tore off her furry coat, dropped it on the floor. Her hair was messy and she was … she was naked.
‘Fucking goddamn bastards.’
Katherine ran into the bedroom and into the bath. She tore her robe from the back of the door, stumbled back to the sitting room and sank to the sofa, tears burning her eyes. She reached for her bag. Cellphone, where’s the fucking cellphone? She dumped her bag on the coffee table. The phone tumbling out with her wallet, cigarette case, taser gun and a packet of unopened condoms.
‘Jesus, I didn’t use protection.’
She dialled Geneva. Two rings, three rings.
‘C’mon, answer the goddamn phone.’
‘You have reached Madame Simone. If you are being referred by the Two Hundred Club …’
The message stopped and a woman’s voice answered. ‘Oui?’
‘Simone, thank God, Simone. He’s a freak! He’s a goddamn freak!’
‘Katherine, where are you?’
‘In my flat. I got away from that fucking freak and his fucking freak friends!’
‘Calm down, dear. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you back in one minute.’
‘Simone, wait! Simone!’
She dropped her phone on the table, grabbed her cigarette case, fumbled at the lock, got it open. Her hands shook as she put a cigarette to her lips. She found her lighter, clicked it … three tries, four tries.
‘God damn it to hell.’
Her cellphone rang, she grabbed it.
‘Simone, Jesus, what took you so long?’
‘Katherine, it’s only been two minutes, now what’s this about?’
‘I’ve been drugged, I’ve been raped. Fucking bastards.’
‘Calm down. Who raped you, Monsieur Komarovsky?’
Katherine tried to think.
Bodies. Beautiful bodies.
Floating on a cloud of silver mist.
‘I’m … I’m not sure. But I know I was gangbanged and I know Komarovsky was there with his freaks.’
‘Where did this happen?’
The room, the stinking cesspit of a room.
‘I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.’
‘Dear, you’re not making sense. You must calm down.’
‘Jesus, I’m crashing from the drugs … What time is it?’
‘It’s gone past three.’
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday morning, dear.’
‘Jesus, they had me out for two fucking days.’
‘Darling girl, you’re overwrought.’
‘They had a fucking drug lab in the bathroom, Simone. And there were cameras. They put me on the fucking internet!’
‘I’m sure it was nothing of the sort. And what drugs did you see? Cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin?’
‘Powders, herbs, some kind of oil on my skin.’
‘You’re a big girl, Katherine, you know how the wealthy can be somewhat eccentric in their tastes. You remember the Japanese gentleman who paid a small fortune to write calligraphy over your body?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Simone, I was drugged and gangbanged for two fucking days, the bastards could’ve infected me with AIDS—’
‘Katherine, listen to me.’
‘—I don’t care how fucking rich they are, I’m calling the police.’
‘Stop right there, dear. Pardon my French, but you’re a whore. Now, I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Too much wine, too much fun, things get out of hand. We all have a bad trick now and then, but going to the police would only raise embarrassing questions for you. Don’t forget that prostitution, international money laundering and tax evasion are serious crimes that could have serious repercussions on your lifestyle. And in Switzerland, making unfounded accusations of rape against the wealthy is even worse.’
‘I’m not making this up.’
‘Calm down and be still, everything will be fine.’
Katherine drew on the smoke.
Whore, a bad trick, everybody has one.
‘I want you to send that bastard’s money back to him. I want nothing to do with him, ever.’
Simone was quiet.
‘Simone?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, dear.’
‘What?’
‘Katherine, you need to face the facts of the situation.’
‘What … what are you talking about?’
‘Do you truly believe the last six and a half months were without purpose? Did you not carefully read the agreement you signed with me?’
‘Simone, I don’t understand …’
‘Then I’ll help you. You were spotted in America, you were tested by members of the Two Hundred Club and found to be most talented, and I took you on. But you can’t think it was for your own enjoyment and welfare.’
‘What?’
‘Darling gir
l, you were brought to me for grooming.’
‘Grooming … why?’
‘Why, to be sold to the highest bidder, of course.’
Katherine felt a cold chill run through her skin.
‘You can’t fucking sell me.’
‘Darling girl, grooming and selling sweet little things like you is what I do. Now, luckily for you, Monsieur Komarovsky seems to hold fine affection for you. And frankly, you’re not getting any younger. In no way do gentlemen prefer sagging breasts and cellulite-riddled bottoms, not when they’re paying top money for it.’
‘I’m getting the fuck out of this country.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’
‘Fuck you, Simone. I’ve got plenty of cash in the bank, I’ll do what I fucking want.’
‘Your personal accounts are well hidden, withdrawals over twenty-five thousand francs must be co-signed by me. You really should’ve read the fine print, dear.’
‘You can’t do this.’
Bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz.
‘Jesus, someone’s at the door.’
‘I really must run, dear.’
‘Simone, wait.’
‘Katherine, the deal’s been signed and sealed. And now it’s time for you to be delivered. By the way, if you cause me a breath of trouble, I’ll have the Swiss police and IRS after you with a basket full of arrest warrants before you can say fellatio. Goodbye, dear.’
Bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz.
‘Simone, please—’
‘Look out, behind you …’
As if hearing his voice, the angel jumped from the sofa and turned to see shadows moving along the walls.
‘It’s the bad shadows, Rochat. They’re coming for the angel.’
He watched two men emerge from the shadows. A skinny tall one and a small one with whiskers on his chin. They walked slowly into the sitting room. The angel ran for the terrace doors. They flew across the room, grabbed her hair and pulled her back. The small one took her cellphone, slipped it in his coat. He pointed his finger at her, telling her to do something, but the angel shook her head. The small one slapped her hard across the face.
Rochat turned to La Lombarde. ‘Did you see, madame? Those men from the bad shadows hit the angel. She’s in trouble. I’m very sure she’s in trouble.’
He looked through the binoculars again.
The small one was holding the angel as she struggled to break free. The tall one pulled a curved knife from his coat and touched the blade to the angel’s cheek, then he sliced down. The angel screamed and fell to the floor. The small one picked her up, threw her to the sofa and stood in front of her.
‘They’re hurting her … why are they hurting her? You have to see, Rochat, you have to see.’
Rochat slid down the timbers, ran to the northeast turret, he balanced the binoculars on the iron railings and focused.
The tall one took a step to his left and Rochat could see the angel’s face. She was crying, her right hand over her cheek, blood running down her face. He let the binoculars slip from his hands, ducked behind the pillars.
‘They’re hurting the angel … you have to help her.’
He rushed down the turret to the east balcony, jumping in the timbers and banging Marie-Madeleine with his fist.
‘Marie, wake up, the angel’s in trouble! The bad shadows are here and they look like men and they’re killing her! We have to help her!’
He saw movement in the windows. He jumped from the timbers on to the south balcony and looked through the binoculars. The small one, pulling the angel to her feet, leading her from the sofa. She screamed, pulled away. She opened her bathrobe to the men. Rochat quickly spun around with the binoculars still stuck to his eyes.
‘Marie, she’s showing them she’s naked. Why is the angel showing them she’s naked?’
He spun back to the windows. The small one stepping close to her, closing her robe, touching her hair. The tall one walked away, another light switched on. Rochat panned the binoculars and saw the tall one in the room where the angel had her dressing table. He was opening a closet, picking through clothes, pulling this dress and that, tossing them to the floor. Rochat whipped the binoculars back to the sitting room. The small one, reaching in his pocket, removing a silver tube …
‘The small one’s doing something, Marie!’
… opening the tube and pouring a clear liquid into one hand, rubbing his hands together, not seeing the angel move behind him, picking up something from the coffee table. Something in her hands. Black, metal.
‘A gun! Marie, the angel’s got a gun!’
She rushed from the sofa, stuck the gun in the small one’s back. He jolted and fell to the ground. The angel turned and ran down the hall.
‘She killed him!’
He panned back to the other room. The tall one hearing something, dropping the dress in his hands, running out of the room.
‘The angel killed him and ran away, Marie! And the tall one heard the shot!’
Rochat jumped to his feet and hurried back to the railings, focused down on the wet street, nothing. Up to the windows, the tall one lifting the small one from the floor, slapping his face.
‘Non, he’s not dead, Marie. The angel didn’t kill him.’
Down in the street, she was coming out of the building and into the rain, running over patches of snow and ice in her bare feet. She ran over Pont Bessières; he could see her screaming. She rounded the corner at Café de l’Évêché, fell again, pounded her fists on the ice, on the darkened windows. Rochat jumped to the carpentry and banged Marie’s bronze skirt.
‘Marie, it’s my duty to help her, but I don’t know what to do.’
He looked through the binoculars again, back to Rue Caroline. The two men were in the dark street, looking both ways, looking like bad shadows again.
‘You have to help her, Rochat, you have to help the angel.’
He panned down to the café windows.
The angel was gone.
‘Help! Someone, help me!’
Staggering up the hill, her feet sliding over ice.
‘Help! Someone!’
Falling, getting up, running along a fence.
‘Somebody! Help me!’
Hearing a door scrape open, seeing a spark of light in the corner of her eye, then a shadow rushing fast towards her, growing larger, lunging for her.
‘Oh, God, no!’
Grabbing her arm, dragging her over the cobblestones.
‘No! Let go of me!’
Throwing her through a doorway and pressing her against a stone wall.
A heavy door slamming shut.
Darkness.
Terror clawed at Katherine’s throat.
‘Let go of me! Fucking let go!’
Her screams like a thousand mad shrieks in a deep cave.
She looked for a face, only seeing black.
‘No!’
She pulled free, pounded down with her fists.
‘You piece of shit! You fucking piece of shit!’
Kicking, clawing, pounding harder. Her screams feeding her blows.
‘I’ll fucking kill you! You touch me again and I’ll fucking kill you!’
‘Non, c’est—’
‘Shut up, you piece of shit! I’ll fucking kill you!’
‘—le guet, c’est le guet!’
She held her fists. Her eyes still blind with terror, seeing only a dark silhouette gathered around a spark of fire, hearing a voice, almost whispering: ‘C’est le guet, c’est le guet.’ The voice rising and echoing and floating away with the sound of her screams. She looked up, saw warm light moving over four close-in walls of stone, the high ceiling disappearing into shadows.
‘Where am I?’
… where am i, am i, am i …
‘In the cathedral.’
… in the cathedral, the cathedral, the cathedral …
She looked down, saw someone in a long black overcoat and a black floppy hat, his body hovering over a burning lantern a
s if protecting it.
‘The cathedral … How did I … Who are you?’
He turned slowly. She saw his face and the lanternlight reflecting in his eyes.
‘Je m’appelle Marc Rochat. Je suis le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne.’
twenty
‘You? You’re the guy in the bell tower, with the lantern? I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it.’
Rochat watched her sink to the cold floor. Her eyes going somewhere else, not even noticing the blood on her hands, on her face. Her hands uncurling from fists, her tears turning to laughter, but Rochat knew it was sad laughter. He listened to her voice echo through the stone chamber.
… don’t believe it, don’t believe it, don’t believe it …
He pulled a handkerchief from his overcoat, leaned towards her. Katherine shrieked, punching him back to the wall.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me!’
‘Shhh, they’ll hear you.’
… they’ll hear you, hear you, hear you …
She held her breath.
Rochat whispered in his quietest voice:
‘I saw them. The men who came from the bad shadows.’
‘The what?’
‘I saw them from the tower. A tall one and a small one. I saw them.’
… i saw them, i saw them, i saw them …
‘The men, you saw them?’
‘Shhhh, whisper. If they hear you, they’ll know you’re hiding in the cathedral.’
She quieted.
Bitter cold pierced the quiet. She shivered.
‘Jesus, I’m freezing.’
… i’m freezing, i’m freezing, i’m freezing …
She jumped hearing the echo of her own voice.
‘Who’s here? Is somebody else here?’
Rochat thought about it. Maybe it would scare her and make her run away to tell her about all the teasing shadows and Otto the Brave Knight and the skeletons under the floor of the nave.
‘Just my cat.’
‘Your cat?’
‘My cat.’
… my cat, my cat, my cat …
‘Jesus …’
Katherine pulled her knees under her chin and buried her face in her hands, then her hands curled into fists again as she chewed at her bloodstained knuckles. She cried quietly to herself, Rochat didn’t move. He watched blood ooze from the cut on her face, it didn’t look deep but it was still oozing. He listened for footsteps beyond the door.