When at last he looks up he does not know how long he has waited there, but is aware of a new strength like an answer to a wordless prayer. Accompanying the strength is the knowledge of what he must now do. It is a course of action, but not of his own devising. It has come to him from outside himself – a phenomenon he has never before experienced. At first he is shocked at the enormity of what has been presented to him and its possible consequences, almost too dreadful to consider. Disturbed, he remains seated for some minutes, rejecting the idea, attempting to rid his mind of such thoughts – of all thought. But the restfulness of the spring induces a profound peace which assures him that all will be well and that he must trust the strategy gifted by this numinous place. He continues to sit. Each minute imparts an inner strength. A gust of wind stirs the leaves around him. He senses that Rhona is again beside him.
Buoyed by a new-found confidence, he stands and turns, ready for the descent. He has no fear now and negotiates the narrow path with ease. There is no sign of a landslip – had he imagined the sounds of falling rocks? – and further on, the break in the path has shrunk to insignificance. Walking through the pine trees, he thinks he hears an animal rooting about ahead of him, but sees nothing. Perhaps it is a wild boar. Or even a wolf. The thought does not worry him, and he recalls reading that in some Mediterranean countries it is considered lucky to see a single wolf.
Exhilarated by the mountain air, he increases his pace. The silence is broken only by the sound of voices from the village below, and as he leaves the pine trees he enjoys the panoramic landscape spread beneath him and gives little thought to his strategy. There is no need. It presented itself by the spring fully-formed in exact detail, as if the drops of water, on their journey through the granite rocks, had devised it for him and he can depend upon it. It is simple and it will be undetected. He is cheerful. He will enjoy today, even dinner with Alden at the hotel this evening
At Les Puits he finds Felix and Josh cooking a massive fry-up. He accepts their offer to join them; the walk has left him famished and he needs to be fortified for the tasks of the afternoon.
After a shower he lies on his bed. There are preparations to be made but the unwritten timetable states that he must not begin them until 4.00pm after he has rested. Not wishing to sleep, he is content to close his eyes and listen to the occasional creak in the old building, the gentle breathing of Les Puits during its own siesta.
When it is time he leaves his room and walks along the corridor to the locked store room. Pausing, he listens for footsteps but hears none. He finds the key in its hiding place above the architrave. Having unlocked the door he enters, closes it behind himself and allows his eyes to adjust to the faint light from the arched shutter. The room is as he had last seen it. He walks over to the wall on the left. The single side of mirror frame remains propped against the wall. He ignores it and steps over the rugs towards the cupboard. He unlocks the door. He glances at the parcel of mirror pieces but his eyes rest on the long, canvas-covered bundle. With one hand he lifts it out. It is heavy. Behind it is a tin box. He unties the leather straps on the canvas cover, lifts the upper flap and reveals the barrel of a rifle. On one of the flaps is some faded writing. He can just make out a name, Lynton Travers. Undoing all the straps, he finds himself holding a Lee Enfield .303. He smiles. It is like meeting an old friend, all but ignored three days ago. He does not linger to inspect its condition. That must wait until he is in the seclusion of his room, but instinct assures him the weapon is serviceable. He rewraps it. Opening the box he finds seven rounds of ammunition, a bottle of oil and a small roll of flannelette. All these he places in his pockets. On the cupboard floor is a pile of rags. He stuffs one in a back pocket. Rifle in hand, he makes his way back through the maze of boxes to the door. Here he waits, listens and peers down the corridor. It is silent. He rests the rifle on the floor, locks the door, replaces the key, lifts up the rifle and returns to his room where he locks himself in.
When he has unwrapped the rifle he lays it on the bed, takes off the safety catch, opens the bolt and sees that the chamber is empty. He takes the rounds from his pocket and places them in a row on the bed. Next he removes the rifle bolt and unclips the magazine, pleased that lessons in weapon training have remained engrained in his memory. Lifting the rifle, he aims towards the far side of the room. The barrel is unpitted. With the butt nestled in his shoulder he is transported back through the years to the Surrey ranges where he learned to shoot.
To work. Check condition of rifle. Walnut stock and butt are undamaged – not even scuffed. The surface has a patina almost as deep as the chest in his bedroom at home. Lynton must have cherished this rifle. Perhaps he had told Mathilde he would give it to a friend, but had never been able to bring himself to part with such a cherished possession. Check metalwork. No rust. Weapon has been well maintained. Tear strips of four by two inch flannelette from roll. Lift trap door in butt plate. Good – rope pull-through inside. Clean rifle. Don’t forget chamber and bolt. His school cadet force sergeant-major is at his side, checking his every movement. When he has finished, he wipes the rope pull-through and the copper weight at the end. He replaces them in the butt cavity. He wipes the trap, closes it. He replaces the bolt and magazine, takes a round from the bed, opens the bolt, places the round in the chamber, closes the bolt, lifts it again and ejects the round. All works perfectly. He loads and ejects twice more to reassure himself. To do so with live ammunition carries an element of danger. It is a risk he is happy to take.
He wraps the rifle in its canvas cover and places it under his mattress. He looks at the seven rounds on the bed, wondering which bullet will remove Alden from their lives. An unfamiliar rifle requires sighting shots, but an inner voice tells him that these will not be necessary. Alden will be less than a hundred metres away. The sights can be adjusted to their shortest range. He can trust the unwritten plan. And the rifle. He wraps the ammunition in a shirt and places these too under the mattress.
The old rag in a pocket, Luke quietly returns to the store room where he wipes all the surfaces he touched, even the books. He does not forget the pieces of frame in the cupboard and the single piece nearby. Lastly, on returning to the door, he wipes the knob and the surrounding area. On closing the door, he wipes all areas with which he has had contact, finally cleaning the key and the architrave. Satisfied all fingerprints have been removed, he goes back to his room, shakes the rag, folds it and places it under the bed.
At 7.00pm, on nearing the hotel, Luke surveys the crowded outside tables. Among the bright dresses and shirts he cannot find any of his party. Pausing inside the doorway, he looks around the main restaurant area, but again there seems no-one he knows and he is hit by the bewilderment felt when he has entered an auction room during a sale, but has failed to see among the crowd a single familiar face, whether ally or competitor. It is Rhona he notices first. He is surprised – he was half expecting her to avoid the dinner. She is seated with Russ and Matthew at a table by an open window. She is wearing the white linen dress she wore when they arrived at the village. Distracted, she stares down at the table as Matthew and Russ chatter. Luke notices Alden at the bar and hears him talking in French with a waiter. Rhona does not see Luke’s approach, but when Russ stands and beckons she lifts a drawn face which brightens as she throws him a guarded wave. Luke again looks across to Alden who continues to talk loudly, his face partly visible above rows of bottles in the mirror behind the bar.
Luke sits opposite Russ, leaving the seat at the end of the table for Alden. Russ is midway through a story about a meal he had once enjoyed in Venice.
Luke says to Rhona, ‘It’s very brave of you to be here.’
‘It may have been a mistake, but with you, Russ and Matthew I feel safe.’
Luke wants to speak further but Alden appears at the table.
‘Luke, where have you been hiding all day?’ Alden asks. ‘You should have joined us for breakfast at Lynton’s.’
‘I had a stroll in the h
ills, joined the boys for a fry-up, then slept it off.’
‘You’re hungry now, I hope.’
‘Starving.’
‘Excellent.’ He points to an adjacent table where a couple are being served by a waiter carrying an enormous dish of mixed seafood. ‘It’s a dish for two. Why don’t you and I share one? I could never manage it on my own. The others are having wild boar.’
‘Do let him see the menu,’ says Rhona, but without conviction.
‘No, I’ll go along with Alden’s recommendation,’ enthuses Luke, thinking, let him choose his last meal.
‘Great. Now next year you must bring Eva with you.’
‘Thanks. I’m sure she’d love to come here.’ Luke catches Russ’s eye and looks away towards Rhona who is staring out of the window. She is the only one to refuse hors d’oeuvres.
After their main courses arrive, Luke sees Rhona cutting off small slices of meat but eating almost nothing.
‘Next year’s play must be set in the present,’ says Alden who seems able to eat quickly, talk and drink at the same time. ‘Any ideas Matthew? Or should we write something ourselves?’
‘I don’t write,’ says Matthew. ‘You’re the man for that.’
‘But you’ll do the lighting?’
‘We’ll see.’
Alden turns to Luke. ‘You and Rhona going for your usual early morning dip tomorrow?’
Luke hesitates, knowing that to say yes might anger Alden, but to say no would be to concede defeat.
Rhona answers for him ‘Of course,’ she says firmly, but not looking up.
‘Will you join us?’ Luke asks Alden.
‘No, I’m having a working breakfast up at the school with a French lawyer. We’re drafting a trust to secure the school’s future. How about we all hit the beach tomorrow night?’
‘I’m not much of a beach person,’ says Matthew.
Unconcerned, Alden looks towards Rhona. ‘I forgot to tell you, darling, I skyped Moira this morning and she tells me they’ll all be over in October and will be returning from Hong Kong after Christmas. They’ll be living in the Kensington house of course, but she still hopes she can get involved in the business again. Isn’t that great? And she’s been looking at the accounts – we really can’t afford to give so much to your waifs and strays in India.’ He turns to Luke. ‘You would get on well with her – she likes her antiques.’
Luke sees Rhona’s pale face whiten further as she grips the side of the table. Her look of hopeless despair strengthens his already iron resolve to eradicate her torturer. Barely restraining his anger, he looks towards Alden, but Alden is on his feet looking towards another group of diners.
‘Do excuse me,’ Alden says. ‘I’ve just noticed Ignace. We need a word about next year’s arrangements. He leaves the table.
‘The shit,’ Rhona says through her teeth. ‘He picks his moments, puts the knife in, then slips away.’
‘He can stuff next year’s play,’ growls Matthew.
Luke wants to add, ‘There won’t be any more plays,’ but contents himself with an exchange of smiles with Rhona and slips a paper napkin into his pocket.
‘I shouldn’t have come out this evening,’ she says. ‘I’ve been with Agnes all day, avoiding him.’
‘Safety in numbers,’ says Russ.
‘Shall we say seven tomorrow morning?’ says Luke.
‘I’ll be there,’ she says.
When Alden returns to the table and they all have finished eating, he insists they share a Corsican almond cake with their coffee. Rhona declines and leaves the table. Luke notices that she has left a scarf hanging on the back of her chair.
Alden finishes his glass. ‘Local liqueur guys?’ He stands and walks to the bar.
Luke worries that Alden may have gone after Rhona, but Alden remains for several minutes by the bar talking with the waiter, and does not seem to notice Rhona’s return. When he rejoins them the waiter follows, carrying five glasses and a bottle on a tray.
‘You’ll love this,’ Alden tells them. ‘Lynton says it’s medicinal – made from myrtle which was sacred in the ancient world.’
‘Is that a pro or a con?’ asks Russ.
‘Just try it,’ orders Alden.
Rhona stands. ‘I must go and find Agnes. We have business emails to catch up on. You boys carry on drinking.’ As she walks past Alden’s left shoulder she gives Luke a look which he takes to indicate that he too should remain and that she will be safe for the night.
Having waited long enough to allay any suspicion that he might have wanted to follow her, Luke says to Alden, ‘Thanks for dinner. I’m knackered. I’ve got to turn in.’ He stands and shakes Alden’s hand. ‘A great liqueur.’
‘I always buy a few bottles to take home. You must try it again with us.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Can I take the empty bottle home as a souvenir?’ He takes the bottle from the table, says goodnight to the others and leaves.
Back in his room, Luke bolts the door, removes the rifle and ammunition from under the mattress and places them on the floor. He undresses, lies on the bed and rehearses in his mind each part of tomorrow’s plan until he is certain that every detail has been mastered.
22
At exactly 4am Luke wakes. He walks to the window and looks out into thick darkness. He puts on two T-shirts and a green denim shirt, pulls on jeans, unbolts the door and listens. There is no sound. He places the rag and seven rounds in a pocket, along with the used four by two flannelette and the small length remaining from the roll. He takes up the rifle, still wrapped, He carries the empty liqueur bottle with him. At the foot of the stairs he pauses. Again, silence. He enters the kitchen and drinks from the jug of well water. He pours more water into the bottle.
Silently moving through the hallway, he goes to the rear door of the house. Aware that the hinges grate, he opens it with care, steps outside and closes it. In the darkness he allows himself a deep breath of the early morning air. Holding the rifle parallel with his body, he walks round to the side of the house towards the gulley and looks up towards La Place des Pèlerins. A single yellow glow of a light from the hotel softens the darkness. There is no sign of life. He steals over to the gulley, climbs down the bank and walks towards the cover of some bushes among a cluster of rocks. Here he lies prone, the rifle, still wrapped, to his right. He looks towards the bridge, through the darkness just visible, about seventy metres distant. The sharp descent of the gulley between his position and the bridge is in his favour. It will be a near horizontal shot. The bullet will pass through the target – with how much deflection he cannot guess – and be lost forever in the maquis, perhaps a mile away. He moves into full cover and unwraps the rifle. From habit he checks it is still unloaded. Again he assumes the firing position, but this time with the rifle in his hands, its canvas wrapping between the butt and his right shoulder. He feels comfortable. The passage of years has not taken from him the ability to be at one with a weapon. He raises the rear sight, checks its setting and aims above the bridge.
Satisfied no further rehearsal is needed, he returns to cover, sitting on a low rock, the rifle butt down between his legs. It remains unloaded. It will be a long wait; rules of safety apply. By leaning forward a few inches the bridge comes into view. He leans back and lifts his shirt cuff to check his watch. Just after 4.30am. The target may not be in position until 6.00am, but regular checks must be made. And he must stretch his arms and legs every few minutes to avoid cramp. He is glad of the extra T-shirt; it will have another use later. He knows he must not think of the shot he will take. Nor of the target. Not even of Rhona. All preparations have been carried out. He knows each step of the morning’s work. Now is the art of waiting for the first grey light of morning. And for Alden. Fishing has been a good teacher of patience. Its lessons will serve him well now. And its memories will help pass the next ninety minutes.
He recalls his first rod, childhood visits to lakes, his first fish – a perch. Hours spent by rivers and
canals. His first pike. An Isle of Wight holiday when he caught his first mackerel. Escapes from school to fish the Surrey lakes. The minutes pass, he exercises to maintain circulation, leans forward every few minutes to bring into view the bridge, its stonework becoming lighter as dawn approaches. When his mouth feels dry he takes small swigs from the water bottle.
He familiarises himself with the rocks around him, the pebbles on the floor of the gulley and the branches and leaves of the shrubs – he does not know their names – which shield him from view. This morning all these surroundings are his allies, even the small, industrious insects creeping near the rifle butt.
It is now 5.30am. The insects near his feet are joined by others. There is no breeze. His mind moves to Norfolk and sea fishing, to fly fishing with Eva. So often with Eva. He is unlikely do so again. He thinks of bass fishing from the shore and from a boat above the wrecks off Yarmouth. Now, late-August, its season is underway. His memories are interrupted by two gun shots from the mountains. The echo rings round the village. It is a reassuring sound. He wonders what calibre rifle the hunters are using. He moves to a small loch on the Isle of Skye with the promise of wily brown trout. Eva’s cast is so much better than his own. Fly-fishing is best learned young. Like languages. Like shooting. His mind moves quickly to the Tweed near Melrose, not fishing but walking over the footbridge, pausing midway to watch the river flow beneath him. Which year was that? Which flies did they buy from the shop in town?
He hears a sound. He doesn’t move. Could it have been the front door? He listens for footsteps. He hears nothing. He waits and edges forward. A figure in khaki shorts and white short-sleeved shirt is on the bridge. It is Alden. He is almost motionless, head facing down, performing a breathing exercise.
No need for haste. Luke pulls out the paper napkin from his pocket, tears off two corners, rolls them into balls and plugs his ears. He removes a round from his pocket and in silence lowers himself to the ground. When comfortable, ignoring the roughness of the gulley floor beneath his left elbow as it takes the weight of the rifle, he opens the bolt, kisses the brass cartridge case, places the round in the chamber, closes the bolt. It makes the expected metallic click, muffled to his ears, but a glance towards the bridge indicates Alden has not heard. He looks down the sights, slowly breathing in, equally slowly exhaling. Alden is now performing movements with his arms, but his body is still.
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