by J Ryan
‘I hope he is on one of the other islands, where we can reach him from the beaches.’
‘What is this place?’
‘The Chateau d’If. One of the most notorious prisons on earth. No one has escaped from here except in romantic fiction.’ I shiver as we approach the foaming waves around those sheer cliffs. At that same moment, a flash soars upwards. For a second, the whole sky blazes. Then the trail of sparks blows away in the breeze. ‘He’s let off the flare in his life jacket! It must be him. I’m going in closer.’
I jet the torchlight towards the waves crashing over those jagged rocks. No one could be standing there with that massive force battering them into the sea. The beam climbs up those gleaming walls of stone. Nothing. Then from high over our heads, Monsieur’s voice calls. ‘Get away from the rocks!’ I look up but I can’t see anything except for the towering cliffs. The rib jolts. Beneath us the rubber floor heaves, scraping against something hard.
‘Father! Can you climb down to us?’
‘You must get away from the rocks! They will tear you to pieces!’ The rib is chucked sideways. It hits another rock and tilts violently. We all slide onto the floor, like we’re white water rafting. But the wave that dumps itself into the boat is like nothing I’ve ever met on the river. We’re in sea up to our waists. Becks and I frantically shovel it out with our hands. Arnaud swears as the outboard is kicked out of the water. It judders and stops. The torch floats beside us, shining randomly into the night. Its beams catch the shadow of a man high above us, as he arcs his body in a giant dive into the dark.
***
‘The torch, Joe! It’s going overboard!’
Seizing the torch, I stuff it hard under the bulwarks. My hand bumps against something that I recognise. Another wave tosses the rib against the rocks like a toy. It rears up and we all crash into each other in the stern. I fight my way back. ‘I think I’ve found what we need!’
Arnaud’s hands join mine, unlashing the oar. We push it against the rocks to try and get out of this gigantic washing machine. We might as well play with a matchstick. He shouts, ‘We need more weight at the back! You have to go and sit with Becks.’
‘You can’t push us off on your own!’
Furiously, his long dark hair flying around his face, he yells back, ‘What do you think I am? Some kind of kid?’
‘Don’t be stupid! I’m just stronger than you, that’s all.’
‘What makes you think that? Just because you’re bigger…’
‘Yeah, I am bigger and that makes me stronger. So you need to be the one who…’
Becks shouts, ‘STOP IT!’
In the middle of this mindless bickering, suddenly there’s more weight at the back of the rib. ‘Push – both of you!’ Kneeling in the prow, waves pouring over us, Arnaud and I heave the oar against the slippery rocks. The rib moves a few feet backwards. Then it’s picked up and hurled forwards, the floor shuddering. ‘Again!’
Hands locked together round the oar, we strain to free the boat. She starts to move. There’s a brief pause between waves. ‘NOW, Arnaud!’ We give the oar a huge shove and the rib slides clear. Monsieur tilts the outboard back into the water and yanks the starter. The engine stutters and fires. He guns it hard. ‘Get down, all of you!’ A freak wave with an ominous foaming crest is hurtling towards us. We pick up speed. At the last minute Monsieur swings the rib head on towards the wave. We crash into a wall of water. The boat bucks violently like it’s going to flip over backwards.
‘I can’t…!’ Becks is sliding. Her legs are in the sea. Arnaud throws himself across to her and grabs her arm. For a few horrible seconds, the rib is chucked around on top of the wave like a paper boat. The engine revs wildly as the stern comes out of the water.
‘Get to the front! Quickly!’ I take hold of Becks’ other arm. Gasping with the massive force of water that wants to throw us all out of the rib, we pull her back into the boat and towards the prow. As soon as we’re at the front, the rib tilts over and starts to rocket down the wave. ‘Into the middle!’ We scramble backwards. The rib hits the trough with a wallop then straightens out. With the propeller back in the water, the outboard powers us on, bumping and leaping. Holding the tiller, Monsieur sits calmly on the stern, staring intently ahead into the night. Then he turns to me. ‘The torch will be useful, now. We must keep a lookout for debris from the ship.’
Pulling out the torch, I shine it across the water. ‘We…hated leaving you behind, Monsieur.’
He shakes his head. ‘You did the only sensible thing. The Lisette could never have turned in that sea.’
‘How did you get to the island?’
‘I let the wind and waves take me.’
‘We wondered if you’d try and swim to the ship, where the lifeboats were.’
‘The greatest danger when you are in the sea is to try and fight it. Very soon, you run out of energy.’
Becks tosses streaming hair off her face. ‘I thought I was going swimming with the fishes just now. Thanks, guys.’
Monsieur swings us Starboard of the lighthouse. Behind us, beneath the twinkling stars, the Chateau d’If slowly gets smaller. Arnaud holds out his hand. ‘My apologies, Joe. I was a total imbecile.’
‘That makes two of us.’ We shake. I gaze at the grim, fortified island as it recedes into the waves. ‘Did you say no one has ever escaped from that place?’
With a half-smile, he glances at his father and back at me. ‘Not until tonight.’
Chapter 14
Talia
As we pass the harbour mouth, Monsieur switches off the outboard.
‘Are we running out of fuel?’
‘No. But it is better if our return is discreet. We cannot spare the time for police interviews, Joe. And they have all they need.’
‘Except for her…’
‘It is her daughter we must think about, now.’
‘Do you know which hospital Talia’s in?’
‘I instructed the ambulance drivers where to take her and James. It is a hospital that specialises in cases of poisoning.’ I shiver in the night breeze as Arnaud and I unlash the other oar and quietly dip the blades into the water. The Old Port is deserted; no sound but the faint tinkling of rigging from the forests of masts that barely move now. As we glide past one of the pontoons a black and white cat sits right on the end, completely still, watching us with bright eyes.
‘From where did you take the rib?’
I nod towards the yacht next to the Lisette. ‘We…er…borrowed it from your neighbours, Rob and Kathy. They were so kind to us after…everything….’
‘I will not forget that.’
The police car and ambulance are gone from the harbour side. Almost silently, our tough little rib drifts up to the mooring. While Monsieur ties it firmly to the pontoon, Arnaud and I ship the oars. I leave the torch where I found it and climb out, reaching my hand down to Becks. Her fingers are cold and wet as she steps from the boat to dry land.
Our legs have got so used to battling the waves that Becks and I totter like toddlers as we follow Monsieur and Arnaud past the rows of yachts. We approach the street where we left the Merc and I can smell baking bread again. My stomach hammers with hunger. I look at my watch; twenty five past eleven. It said that when the first rescue boat came in; I wonder when it finally gave in to the salt water. Looking back towards the horizon, I can see the faintest trace of grey light over the waves.
The Merc isn’t there. Monsieur’s voice is unsurprised. ‘The police will have taken it.’ He talks to Arnaud in rapid French. Arnaud nods, and disappears into one of the boulangeries. ‘The owner is a friend. He will let Arnaud use his landline. My mobile is at the bottom of the ocean.’
‘Who is he phoning?’
‘He is making arrangements for us to get to Paris in the shortest possible time.’
Becks looks dazed. ‘Do we know how she is? Was she poisoned?’
Monsieur’s face is grave. ‘We do not even know if the poor child is still alive.’
Arnaud reappears, striding towards us. ‘They can take off for Charles de Gaulle within twenty minutes.’
‘And the car?’
‘Is on its way.’ As we wait outside the baker’s, the scent of fresh croissants makes my mouth water. In the quiet, early morning air, the low throb of a powerful engine grows louder. Thinking of Andy, I try to picture the hospital. What we’ll find. ‘We’re not family, or anything. Will they let us see her?’
With a whisper of massive tyres, a black Bentley Continental careens round the corner and comes to rest at the kerbside, its engine purring smoothly. Monsieur’s voice has a quiet finality. ‘If she is alive, and pray God she is, they will let us see her. There is no one else now.’
***
Memories of my mad, bad and dangerous driving days rush through my head as we slip into the leather-scented interior. Monsieur seats himself next to the driver. Just as the engine revs up to move off, the owner of the boulangerie runs out of his shop, wearing a long white apron. He opens the car door and thrusts a carrier bag at us. The aroma of warm croissants and freshly brewed coffee completely swamps the scent of leather. Arnaud grabs the bag. ‘Mille mercies, Monsieur!’
‘Bonne chance!’
The surge of power pushes us backwards in the seat as the Bentley hurtles away down the empty streets. Oblivious of the city flying past, Becks and Arnaud dig into croissant heaven. At first I look on, horrified. ‘Mind the crumbs!’
Becks mumbles, ‘The hell with the crumbs!’
It looks like they’re going to eat the lot. My hands dive into the bag and I cram my mouth with the buttery sweetness. ‘Some for you, Monsieur?’
‘Later, maybe.’
‘Is this another of your cars?’
He glances back at us. ‘A friend who owes me a favour. Including the crumbs.’
Becks pulls the lid off her coffee and takes an appreciative sniff. ‘Why are expensive cars the only place that you’re house proud, Joe?’
Arnaud laughs. ‘Careful, Becks. That sounds like nagging!’ I’m still trying to brush bits of croissant back into the carrier bag when we arrive at the airport.
***
The driver doesn’t turn into the car park. We go past it and stop at a wooden barrier. He slips a card into the machine and the barrier swings up. The Bentley weaves its way through emergency vehicles that are parked outside a large hangar. We stop, right next to a runway. The twin rows of lights illuminate a pathway that glitters on towards the horizon, where the grey dawn is turning red, streaked with thin dark clouds. Ahead of us a copter waits, the rotors turning slowly. Sleepily, damp clothes clinging to cold skin, we follow Monsieur as he walks briskly to the copter and exchanges brief words with the pilot. Then he waves us forward. ‘Quickly!’ Arnaud and Becks take the rear seats. I sit in front with Monsieur, next to the pilot. The rotors roar and we lift off, swinging north.
As soon as we’re in the sky, I can’t stop my eyes closing. I dream, the massive thunder of waves in my head. With every tilt of the copter, I’m diving further into an endless darkness of sea water. Her white dress billows ahead of me. Her pale hand reaches out. It’s empty. Just those long fingers, stretching towards me. Then, I can’t breathe. My throat is closing up again. Like it did down there, with all those bones. I try to shout but nothing comes out.
A hand touches my arm. ‘She is gone, Joe. She can do no more harm.’
The relentless boom of waves becomes the machine gun of rotors. Sweat pours from my face and my hands throb, as I open my eyes and look around. Behind us, Becks and Arnaud sleep peacefully. My throat is still tight as I whisper, ‘What happened…under the sea, Monsieur?’
His voice is gently warning. ‘It will not banish those nightmares forever if I tell you. But I will tell you, if that is what you want.’
‘It’s what I want. What happened when you dived in after her?’
‘As soon as I reached her, her hands went round my neck.’
‘Was she trying to drag you down with her?’
‘More probably, she was panicking. It is a common reaction from a person who fears they are drowning. They fight their rescuer in their desperation to save themselves.’
‘What did you…?’
‘She must have breathed in a great amount of water. After a few seconds, her grip loosened. I pulled her to the surface. But it was over.’
I stare out of the window. The Mediterranean is fading, tinged red on the horizon by the rising sun. Clouds of seagulls wheel back out towards the quietened waters. When I turn back, Monsieur is watching me. He knows what I’m going to ask him. ‘Did you go in to get the remote off her?’
‘The remote was my first concern, of course. It soon became clear that she did not have it.’
‘But you still tried to save her?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I don’t understand. Didn’t you want her to drown, after what she did?’
‘It would not have brought Lisette back.’
‘But you’d have been setting yourself free. That long cord – it was your chance to cut loose.’
‘That chance came and went in Paris, Joe.’
‘When you were going to see her?’
‘I was going to offer her information that could have helped her fulfil her ambitions.’
‘To take over Bertolini’s territory?’
He nods. ‘In return for her agreement to leave me and those I love in peace.’
‘Do you really think she would have agreed, Monsieur?’
‘Before she tried to kill you, I had some hope. What a fool I was.’
‘So I still don’t understand. No one would have blamed you for just letting her drown.’
‘Tell me something, Joe. What would you have done, if you were me?’ All the way through that flight across the brightening skies, my eyes closing with sleep, then opening again, I think about Monsieur’s impossible question. Sometimes, I can dimly hear him talking over the copter radio in that same, calm voice. When we land at Charles de Gaulle airport, I still don’t have an answer. I can only feel a helpless anger at the terrible revenge the Contessa took when her strange, cruel passion wasn’t returned. And I feel a heavy sadness for the daughter she could never have loved.
***
The rotor blades swing slowly overhead as we stumble out, shivering in clothes that are still damp with salt water. In the taxi, Monsieur gives terse directions to the driver. ‘Centre Anti-Poison, Saint Denis. Aussi vite que possible.’
The Centre looks more like an anonymous office block than a hospital. An armed cop stands outside. Perhaps he’s there to protect Talia and James from the Contessa’s rampaging gang. I wonder if we bunch of tramps will get past him. But he lets us by as soon as Monsieur gives his name. We walk past the reception desk and into a lift. The faint smell of antiseptic reminds me of going to see Andy.
As the lift door swishes aside on the fourth floor, a young dude in a smart suit meets us. He and Monsieur shake hands and talk in French, so fast that all I can catch is ‘arrêt du coeur’. I’m so tired, I can’t think what that means. The two men disappear down a corridor and we flop into chairs in the waiting area. There are drinks and snack machines by the wall and a vase of fresh flowers on the table, next to copies of Elle and Vogue. I whisper to Arnaud, ‘What is ‘arrêt du coeur’?’
His voice is quiet. ‘It means a heart attack.’
Stunned, I stammer out, ‘Talia had…a heart attack? Because she was poisoned?’
‘The consultant said they could find no traces of any poison. He said she has a heart defect. It could have triggered the attack at any time, if she was
under stress.’
Becks and I stare at each other. The same cold horror is in her eyes. We’ve done this, haven’t we? Put a deadly stress on Talia, pressuring her about the lies her mother made her tell us. She whispers, ‘Is she going to live?’
Arnaud pushes the mane of damp, dark hair back over his shoulders. His face is pale and exhausted. ‘I think that is what my father is asking the consultant.’ The wait goes on. We sit there in silence as medics wheel patients past on trolleys and nurses bustle from one room to another. Then Arnaud turns to me. ‘How did you meet Talia? When did all this begin?’
‘It began not long after we’d said goodbye to you and your dad at Marseille. The Contessa approached us on the plane home. She seemed to know us…and about Corsica. And she said she had a daughter.’
‘How could she have known about Corsica?’
‘The police told us she ran a drugs gang that was aiming to take over Bertolini’s territory. She must have been watching him.’
He says calmly, ‘But that wasn’t the only reason for her interest in you, was it? It was also my father. So where did Talia come into it?’
‘She was a new girl at our school. Becks and I started to put two and two together and worked out that she must be the Contessa’s daughter…sent there to get information from us that would lead her mother to your dad.’
‘And, did she?’
I’m feeling more and more uncomfortable as I remember the cruel suspicion that poisoned our friendship with Talia. ‘She invited Becks and me to this party in Paris. She said you were going to be there…like, she knew you?’
‘She said she knew me…?’
Becks cuts in, her voice very quiet. ‘We only found out at the party…the Contessa had told her to lie to us. Talia didn’t know why and…she was terribly upset when we asked.’
I mumble, ‘It’s our fault she’s here, Arnaud. If we hadn’t pushed her to tell us…’
He shakes his head. ‘You did it for me and my father…and how could you have known? But, that woman…her own daughter…and she leaves her at the point of death, to save her own skin!’ He almost spits out the last words.