by Jon Steele
He heard rain dripping from the high-above turrets.
He heard wind blow away the rain.
‘They didn’t come to the cathedral.’
‘Who?’
‘Those men.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can hear footsteps from faraway and Maman told me about bad shadows, how they look like men. They didn’t come to the cathedral, I can tell.’
Katherine leaned her head back to the wall, looking at the shadows in the high corners of the stone chamber. ‘I must be losing my mind.’
… my mind, my mind, my mind …
Rochat watched her.
The blond hair, the face.
It was her, but she didn’t look the same. She looked raggedy and scared, her legs and bare feet covered with icy slush. She shivered with cold.
‘What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?’
‘I have a telephone. You can call a policeman, if you want.’
‘No! Not the police! Please, no police!’
Rochat held up his hand to quiet her. ‘D’accord.’
She dropped her head in her arms.
‘Jesus, I want to go home, I just want to go home.’
… want to go home, to go home, go home …
Rochat heard something in her voice, something very sad, like the bad shadows had crushed her wings. So if the bad shadows came to the cathedral nave to find her, she wouldn’t be able to fly away.
‘I know a place you can hide. It’s warm and there’s a bed. You can hide till you’re better and then you can go home.’
‘What?’
‘No one will know you’re there, because you won’t be hiding in the cathedral, you’ll be hiding in the belfry.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The belfry’s profane, it’s not consecrated like the rest of the cathedral. So if they come to find you in the cathedral, you won’t be there. Do you want to see?’
Rochat pulled himself to his feet, he tugged at an iron latch and opened the door to the tower. She saw his boots, the twisted right foot, his small crooked frame draped in a long black overcoat. She panicked as he turned to leave.
‘Wait, where are you going?’
‘To the belfry. There’re lots of steps up the tower and they go around and around and it’s dark. But I brought my lantern so you can find your way.’
The piano man played a slow blues riff. The chanteuse picked up the microphone and crooned along, glass of champers in her hand. Gone way past three, mesdames et messieurs, drink up and get the hell out. Nice accompaniment to stuffing Yuriev’s photos back into the manila envelope. Was proving difficult. Envelope somewhat smaller than before. Harper held the last photo of Yuriev’s haggard face looking dead into the camera. As if he knew it was over and there was nowhere to run.
‘Getting to know the feeling, mate.’
‘Pardon, Monsieur Harper.’
He looked up, Mutt and Jeff standing over him.
‘Hello, lads, time to die?’
‘We believe it’s time to escort you to the hotel.’
‘Hotel, right. Hang on a tick, what happened to my flat?’
‘Inspector Gobet has arranged for you to stay at the Hôtel de la Paix for the time being.’
‘For your protection, you understand.’
‘We have a car waiting.’
They reached under his arms. Harper pulled away.
‘Oh no, you don’t. I’ll get up on my own and I’ll walk on my own, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Are you sure you won’t fall?’
‘We wouldn’t wish you to hurt yourself.’
‘Of course fucking not. You boyos have to keep me alive for the fucking psychokillers, don’t you?’ Harper pushed against the table and slowly rose to his feet. He wobbled but didn’t fall. ‘God save the bloody Queen.’
Mutt had Harper’s mackintosh at the ready, Jeff settled the bill with a quiet word with the bartender. The bartender bowed to Harper.
‘I hope you enjoyed your evening, Monsieur Harper.’
‘Cheers. Hang on. You’re that polite bartender from the other night. What’s your name?’
‘Stephan, monsieur.’
‘Stephan, that’s right. You’re a friend of hers aren’t you?’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Miss Taylor. You’re her friend.’
‘Mademoiselle Taylor is an acquaintance of my girlfriend, monsieur. And I have the pleasure of serving her when she visits the Palace.’
‘Then you tell her, Miss Taylor I’m talking about, you tell her I was here till the bitter end. For our date, tonight. No, wait, last night, we had a date.’
‘Of course, monsieur.’
‘No, no. Not that kind of date. A few drinks and stroll around the cathedral date, that’s all.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, monsieur.’
‘I’m glad you’re glad.’
‘I will give Mademoiselle Taylor the message. Bonne nuit.’
‘Bonne nuit … Wait, what’s your name?’
‘Stephan.’
‘Stephan, right.’
A taxi waited on the street. White Merc glowing red from the Christmas lights dangling and bouncing off the hotel façade above the bar. Harper waved his arms in indignation.
‘Hey, those Christmas lights are still broken. What happened to the construction brigade? What’s wrong with this country anyway? Falling apart at the steams, seams.’
‘You needn’t concern yourself with the Christmas decorations, Monsieur Harper. The workers will have it put to rights by the time you wake up.’
Mutt and Jeff dumped Harper into the back seat.
‘Not coming for the ride, lads? I’m in the gravest danger, remember?’
‘Undercover operatives are posted at the hotel, Mr Harper.’
‘Your driver is one of them.’
Harper caught the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
‘Let me guess, another ex-Swiss Guard sniper. Hey, good enough for the Pope, good enough for me. Forward, he cried from the rear.’
The taxi pulled away from the kerb.
Harper stared out of the window.
Wet asphalt, clumps of white snow on the pavements, streets devoid of life.
Toothbrush. Need a toothbrush.
‘Sorry, mate, could we swing by my flat? I need my toothbrush. And toothpaste, I need toothpaste.’
‘I’ve already been to your flat and prepared a valise. It’s in the boot.’
‘You went in my flat without my permission?’
‘I went in your flat under orders from Inspector Gobet.’
‘Ah, Inspector Gobet of the iron fist strikes again. That’s what I like about the coppers in this place, always looking out for you.’
The driver crossed to Avenue Benjamin-Constant and up the hill towards the old city. Downtown Lausanne gave way to a wide view of the lake. The taxi slowed to cross the road to the Hôtel de la Paix. Harper leaned over the front seat for a better look, looked swell. Seven floors, all the rooms with balconies overlooking the lake, all the balconies with yellow awnings. The taxi slammed to a stop, Harper’s face went into the back of the front seat – ‘Shite!’ – a black Ferrari, speeding round a corner, missing them by inches. Harper looked back, watched the car roar through Place Saint-François and up Rue du Grand-Chêne.
‘After him, officer. Looked like the bad guys to me.’
The driver eased across the road, pulling into the hotel entrance.
‘Surveillance cameras have already recorded the licence plate. The car is being traced and profiled as we speak.’
‘And let ’em get away? I’m telling you there’s ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy psychokillers on the loose in this town. Like to nail night clerks to walls. Seen it with my own eyes. Must have words with the Inspector, get you lads straight. And let me tell you, I saw a fucking newspaper for the first time in … ever such a lot and, oh boy, no more nicely-nicely in this place. It’s kil
l now and ask bloody questions later. You Swiss coppers need to get with the times.’
The driver switched off the engine, turned to the back seat.
‘Do you wish me to call the porter to help with your valise, Monsieur Harper? Or will you and your smart arse manage by yourselves?’
She was sleeping as soundly as Monsieur Booty, who was sleeping next to her on the bed.
Just before, she laid her head on the pillow and Monsieur Booty jumped down from his hiding place behind the radio and introduced himself by sticking his cold nose in her face. Rochat told her the cat’s name was Monsieur Booty.
‘Hello, Monsieur Booty,’ she said and she closed her eyes.
The beast quickly took advantage of the situation and made himself comfortable in the curves of her duvet-covered body. Rochat sat on a stool and watched her. On her stomach, with one leg curled and her hands tucked under her chin. He could smell her skin in the circulating warmth of the loge, she smelled like Marseilles soap.
He took off his hat and laid it on the table.
He sat on a stool, scratched his head.
He stared at the lantern flame and thought about beforetimes.
When she first came into the loge, she stood in the middle of the room and didn’t speak. She held her arms tight across her body, still shivering with cold. Rochat stood with his back to the door, afraid to move, afraid he might scare her away. Slowly, as the warmth of the loge seeped into her bones, she became conscious of her surroundings. The odd shape of the room, the wood walls set between criss-cross timbers, the cock-eyed ceiling high above her head. Then the little bed fitted sideways between the timbers at the end of the room, and the many candles that filled the room with comforting light. Rochat waited for her to say something, but she only stood still for the longest time until:
‘What a very strange place this is.’
Rochat waited for her to say something else but she didn’t. He set his lantern on the table, the flame still burning.
‘They built the loge between the timbers. That’s why it looks funny.’
She rubbed her arms.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘I’ll turn up the heater, and I have a sleeping bag under the bed. It’s better than my wool blankets and you can open it like a duvet. Do you want to see?’
‘Yeah.’
‘D’accord.’
It was only six steps to the bed but after two steps, with the small table protruding from the wall, she was standing in the way. He nodded to the bed.
‘I have to go that way.’
She pressed herself against the table, Rochat squeezed by without touching her. He opened the cabinet under the bed, found the sleeping bag. He undid the zip that made it a duvet. He laid it on the bed, squeezed by her again, retaking his position at the door.
She stepped slowly up to the bed. She opened her soaking bathrobe, let it fall to the floor. Rochat spun quickly around, his nose touching the door of the loge. He waited till it was quiet. He peeked over his shoulder, she was sitting on the bed, her naked body wrapped in the duvet.
‘You’re bleeding a little.’
‘What?’
Rochat pointed to her right cheek. It took her a moment, seeing the blood on her hands, looking at the bloody robe on the floor, touching her cheek and seeing the damp red on her fingers.
‘They cut my face?’
‘On your cheek.’
Rochat took a small mirror from the shelf near the door, he shuffled to the bed, handed her the mirror. She held it like something fearful.
‘I’m afraid to look.’
‘You rubbed it and made it messy but I don’t think it’s deep.’
She looked into the mirror.
‘My face, Jesus, my face.’
‘I’ll boil some water so you can wash. I have Marseilles soap.’
She didn’t answer. She kept staring in the mirror, touching the bloody spot as if trying to make it go away. Rochat shuffled towards her, she stiffened.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I need to get things from underneath the bed. And I’ll close the air vent, so it stays warmer in the loge.’
‘OK.’
She lifted her legs. Rochat dug through the cabinet, closed the small vent at the back of the closet, pulled out the plastic tub of washing things. He took a water jug from behind the door, filled the kettle and set it to boil. She watched his every move. The timbers creaked and groaned.
‘Cover your ears.’
‘What?’
GONG! GONG!
Her hands shot to the walls, holding on to the timbers as the loge shook in the deafening sound.
GONG! GONG!
‘What the hell was that?’
‘Marie. Shes lives in the carpentry next door. When you hear the timbers, it means she’s going to ring the hour. She said it’s four o’clock.’
‘Marie?’
‘That’s her name, Marie-Madeleine, she’s a bell. Do you want to see?’
He watched her eyes, slipping away and returning to now.
‘That’s the French name for Mary Magdalene, isn’t it?’
‘Oui.’
The kettle clicked off. Rochat poured hot water in the plastic tub. He added cool water, mixed it around. He set a stool by the bed and rested the plastic tub on top.
‘I can make it hotter or colder.’
She reached into the water with her bloodstained fingers. She raised them slowly, watching pink drops fall from her fingertips.
‘No, it’s just right.’
He gave her the soap, a washcloth and towel.
‘The towel’s clean. I brought it from home.’
She stared at the things in her hands.
‘My name’s … Katherine. Do you have any bells named Katherine?’
‘Non.’
She looked up. Rochat saw a tear run down her bloodied face.
‘But Katherine would be a pretty name for a bell too.’
‘You think?’
‘Oui.’
‘Your name, it’s Marc?’
‘Oui, Marc Rochat.’
‘And you’re the guy in the bell tower, with the lantern.’
He nodded.
She leaned over the tub.
Steam rose from the water and enveloped her face.
She soaked the washcloth, touched it to the cut and cleaned away the blood. She cupped water in her hands and poured it through her hair again and again. Then she unwrapped her arms from the duvet to wash her arms and neck. The duvet slipped, Rochat saw her breasts. There were red marks and scratches all over her skin. He quickly turned around, putting his nose to the door again, listening to the water run through her fingers. He didn’t move till long after the water sounds stopped and he heard her voice call to him.
‘You can turn around now, Marc.’
She was pulling the duvet over her shoulders, tight around her neck. The towel was wrapped around her hair. Her face was clean, the skin around the slice on her cheek looking purple and swollen. Rochat stepped towards her, but then stopped.
‘You need some medicine and a bandage, I have some.’
‘OK.’
She watched him open the cabinet next to the door, take out a small bottle, some 2 x 2 bandages and a roll of surgical tape. He removed two bandages from the sanitary packaging, picked up one and poured antiseptic solution over it. He shuffled three steps to the bed and held it out to her.
‘Could you do it for me, Marc?’
‘Me?’
‘Please?’
‘D’accord.’
He stepped closer, dabbed the damp cloth to the wound. She flinched. He dabbed a few more times till the wound was clean.
‘I’ll make a bandage now.’
She watched him shuffle to the table, cut four strips of surgical tape from the roll and attached the strips to a fresh bandage, careful to make sure the strips were half on, and half off. He shuffled back towards her, holding out the bandage for her.
‘Here.’
She looked at him.
‘Are you a med student or something?’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It’s like a doctor.’
‘I’m not one of them.’
‘Could you hold the mirror for me?’
He held the mirror for her as she set the bandage over the wound.
‘How do I look?’
‘You look better.’
He gave her the mirror and shuffled back to the door. He stared at the floor, feeling the strange sensation of her presence in the loge.
‘Marc?’
He raised his eyes from the floor. In the soft candlelight of the loge she looked pretty again, he thought.
‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Because you’re lost.’
‘Lost?’ She pulled her knees under her chin, half smiling to herself. ‘I must still be hallucinating.’
Rochat wasn’t sure what the word meant.
‘Is that like imagining things?’
‘Yeah. Big time.’
‘I imagine things too.’
She looked at him. A crooked little man in a floppy black hat and long black wool overcoat, a mildly insane look in his pale green eyes.
‘Where on earth did you come from?’
‘Quebec City. It’s on the same line as Lausanne.’
‘The same line?’
‘The line on the globe in Maman’s house.’
Her eyes became heavy, overcome with exhaustion. She lay down on the bed.
‘That’s nice.’
That’s when Monsieur Booty jumped down from his hiding place behind the radio to stick his cold nose in her face, and Rochat said the cat’s name was Monsieur Booty and she said, ‘Hello, Monsieur Booty,’ and she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Rochat pulled his eyes from the lantern flame and blinked.
His cup of tea was cold now.
He whispered to himself:
‘The angel has come to Lausanne Cathedral, Rochat, just like Maman said. And she’s lost, so you must protect her. Like you protect Marie and Clémence and all the bells and all the old stones and teasing shadows and Otto and … you must protect her till she can go home. That’s what you must do.’