The Red Castle (The Lucas Trilogy Book 2)
Page 1
The Red Castle
Also by the same author:
Thrillers
The Lucas Trilogy:
le château vert
le château rouge - 24 Hours of Man
le château jaune - Death on the Paris-Dakar
Science Fiction
Space 3 Trilogy
The Red Castle
another conceit
by
León Melín
Handmaid Books
Published by Handmaid Books
First published in the UK 2013
Copyright © Tony Milne
All rights reserved
Set in Times New Roman
All photographs by Tony Milne
Published by Handmaid Books
This edition printed by CreateSpace 2015
milnetony@hotmail.com
Contents
Chapter 1 - Football
Chapter 2 – Town
Chapter 3 - Night
Chapter 4 - Dawn
Chapter 5 - Morning
Chapter 6 - Sand
Chapter 7 - Castle
Chapter 8 - Dinner
Chapter 9 - Chance
Chapter 10 - Body
Chapter 11 – Love
Chapter 12 - Fear
Chapter 13 - Hate
Chapter 14 - Fruit
Chapter 15 - Lust
Chapter 16 – Death
Chapter 17 – Choice
Chapter 18 – End
Chapter 19 – Start
Chapter 20 – Life
The Red Castle
Chapter 1 - Football
The Irishman walked methodically through the throng; around tables and chairs; in, out and over legs; the four plastic cups of beer seemingly the sole focus of his sad clown face. Lucas knew he was Irish, or dressed to look Irish, because of his green clothes. His shoes, or boots, probably, were a strange shape and extraordinarily long, while remaining graceful due to the obvious quality of their build and their dark, almost burgundy, shade of purple. Above the shoes, the rest of his clothes were green.
The Irishman’s socks stretched above his knees and were thick and knitted, ideal for the cold, damp bogs back home. Above these, green tights covered his thighs; up to, and into, what Lucas could only describe as culottes. Of green felt, the suit of jacket and short trousers was of equally good cut, and went well with the simple tie and checked waistcoat. On his head, Lucas recognised the cheap jester’s hat, now available in a variety of colours all over the world wherever sport’s fans competed; here in white and green.
Maybe the heat of mid-afternoon had melted his smile, or maybe the beers had sunk it but, with no benefit from make-up, the Irishman’s face told of tragic disappointment with the world and his part in it. The relatively successful enterprise of approaching the bar through the hundreds of morosely hostile England supporters and returning without, as far as Lucas could see, spilling a drop, was met with the equanimity of one either accustomed to such feats, or faced with one much greater.
The sweat, which exertion must have kept off his face while standing in the relative shade of the bar, broke out freely once sitting down in the sunshine; the leprechaun’s outfit – ideal for passing unnoticed through the crowd of invaders – now proved a handicap.
No smiles either as England scored again – Lucas couldn’t see the television but the massed bands of the sun-burnt beer-belly brigade, rising together to sing praise, proved the act and the scoring side – it didn’t look a good day for Ireland.
Lucas, too, felt uncomfortable in the bar; he might as well have been wearing a képi. Apart from Lucas and the Irish man, every other customer in the bar was wearing football clothes. They were the only ones wearing shoes. Lucas had removed his tie, and his jacket was hanging over his shoulder, no place to hang it. He didn’t look right, here, and felt a foreigner. The half-dozen Danes at a table now surrounded by the victory-enraged English men would probably feel worse, although the girl with them, the only female customer who appeared to be in the bar, had no difficulty or worry in squeezing out to use the toilets at half-time. Lucas, who had used the toilets that morning, couldn’t imagine she could use them, after thousands of litres of piss had been washed down there.
Lucas had counted, and his man had drunk, 10 glasses of beer so far, 5 litres. There were more than 200 fixed drinkers and at least another hundred who kept arriving, watched the game for a few minutes and then drifted in, around, out. There was no place to stand still, no view of the game, no beer to drink.
The crowd was solidly packed and noisily singing “Three-nil to the Engerland” which translation Lucas had to check by asking some of the quiet gentlemen at the back. Some were members of the Porsche or Ferrari or Bentley owners clubs, or rugby clubs. It didn’t seem to matter; there was no way they could get to the bar to buy beer.
The crowd launched into “You’re not singing over there”, directed at the returning six foot blonde Danish supporter, in her red top with a number “1” on the back. Lucas saw that the bar was momentarily reachable. A steady dribble of bodies followed the Dane and was only soaked up when another successful beer-gatherer blocked the road coming out.
Lucas had twice tried to enter, but his English and the need to physically move the beer-dead weight of the pigs had stopped him. He didn’t feel like pushing anyone around at the moment. This job was an easy one, and he didn’t want or need any intrusions. All he had to do for the next 24 hours was his job, and then go home.
The heat had got worse; the crowds pushing back to where Lucas was standing prevented him from seeing his man; the game was boring; one of the English fans had taken off his trousers and was dancing on a table, fat arse and bald pink testicles dangling above the Danes like a leg of ham at the butcher’s counter; another group tried to start a Mexican wave.
More attention was now focused on the barmaids, sent out to search for beer glasses, recycling used plastic ones; they’d run out, two hours before their busiest 24 of the year, a bar had run out of glasses, plastics; the Goddamns had drunk them out already, phenomenal English capacity for alcohol outstripping French capacity for business planning. Something had to be done to save the day. A dramatic Danish comeback ? Something quite beyond the French team. The descent of an alien spaceship ? The early start of the 24 Hours ? Or the two hundred beasts caged only by the chains of beer around their waists would rampage.
As so many times before, the headlines wrote themselves – Berserker British Beer Brawl – Catastrophe au Mans – (les Anglais, bien sûr) – before the action took place. The crowd violently but only verbally and sibilantly assaulted the barmaids, who resisted with calm and patience and continued up and down the stairs carrying trays now with full glasses to the drinkers stranded like Lucas himself on the dry, sunny side of the bar, the sol of the bullring; the tide of fresh beer sweeping up, past Lucas and beyond, refreshing, enlivening, invigorating, a brewer’s focus group the only missing object.
Twenty-four hours was going to be a long time for the drinkers in the Tertre Rouge if, after 60 minutes, they had lost interest in a World Cup game of football which their team was winning. It occurred to Lucas, who couldn’t see the television like at least half the audience, it occurred to him that the watchers were not the real English football fans. Maybe these were racing fans, as his undoubtedly was, but being English forced by tribal loyalty to sit in a bar, the only bar in all of Le Mans that showed the World Cup. For all Lucas knew, the only bar in all of France to show the World Cup.
Recently, familiar faces had smiled at him from bus shelters and advertising hoardings, cereal packets, books and wrappers. The branded faces of a National team,
the Blues, whose value – to the agencies and companies that used them – had suddenly plummeted. The most famous names in the football world were not mentioned now in France; like Laval, Pétain (except when talking about Verdun) or Darlan. Their choice to play football abroad would make resurrection difficult and a four-year gap before the next Cup an almost impossible hurdle to overcome. French boasts and hopes had been shown to be the puffed-up feathers of a chicken, and those humiliated hopers washed their hands of them with bleach.
Certainly, the English supporters would be happy with a victory, but the match now bored them. The iron-hard waitresses flinched not as the barrage of shouts and gesticulations advanced towards them, whenever they sallied out into enemy territory. Each successful sally, returning with 30 or 40 Euros, taunted the seated soldiers of Albion to cry louder.
Lucas had heard lions mating – not some animal porn case he’d investigated but the usual embarrassing family events round the colour television. Now he heard it again, no lion here, just the English ones, two hundred on their feet, not now shouting up at the television but down where one of the waitresses, overcome by the animal attention, had tripped, her stumble caught but not before she’d spilled a glass down her front, a sign of weakness that catalysed the hunting instinct of the crowd, instantaneously alert, grunting obscenities, pushing forward to see, to leer, to terrify as she waited for the coppers to be collected.
Even Lucas could recognise “Get your tits out” and “Show us your tits”; indeed, he could probably have sung them. Now, every time that that waitress appeared, the crowd started up. The landlord joked and one football fan collected money from the crowd to financially encourage the girl. Even 100 Euros were not enough for her, if any amount would have been with that crowd. She wasn’t worth paying to see, but Lucas was disappointed that Denmark’s failure to score three goals meant that there would be no extra time; the match had ended with no resolution of the waitress question. How much would she have gone for ?
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The crowd left the bar slowly, and unsteadily spread towards the track, timing perfect to hit the start of the race. That morning, Lucas had avoided the police patrols and stood at the turn of Tertre Rouge, downhill from the cemetery, the cars at morning practice heading directly towards him as they cut the apex of the bend. The drivers then all seemed to clip the inside kerb to get into the bend, and with the cars violently bouncing from side to side – like a football fan with 10 kilograms of beer-urine swilling in his bladder, 10 % of his body weight lurching him into a double step – the cars would turn again unpredictably and race down the hill onto the Mulsanne straight.
It was certainly a dangerous place to stand and now that perfect viewing position, for watchers over 1 m 80 cm tall, was defended by police, and the English group that Lucas was following carried on up the road to the Tertre Rouge entrance. Through, and behind the ticket collectors’ caravans for the 10-litre relief, and then to watch the start of the race, and the sounds and sights that would – through ferocity and repetition – stamp themselves on Lucas’ memory.
The flat beauty of the Audis, spaceship-like in their serene efficiency; the silent whisper of the Bentley, if they didn’t win, they would claim, it was because they didn’t really try; the barking roar and double-bang door-slam of the Corvettes; the beautiful V12 Ferrari with its huge wing; the aerial whine of the Dellorca. Each car would sound different at different parts of the track and what the engine was doing. The crowd, too, had its own characters, like the strange bubbling exclamations of the orange-wigged Dutchmen, extras from “Astérix goes to Amsterdam”, whose “hop, hop” of approval was reserved for the Spijker. With good weather, there was going to be a lot of watching and not a lot of accidents, and the toilets would soon become unusable, even now the straining English children were the only ones who did, adults and locals preferring the woods.
Lucas’ digital camera stored pictures of the English group drinking beer, eating hot dogs and ice cream, more beer, crossing the Dunlop bridge, more beer until they found a beer tent where they could sit and drink beer at the same time. Lucas had done enough for now; his man was not talking to girls, and he had the proof. He knew where the man would sleep and he could always pick him up in the morning.
Lucas needed to get some food. Hot dogs were not food; the absence of proper restaurants kept most French people away until after dinner. Lucas took advantage of the main exit to head for the bus and the relative sanity of Le Mans, whistling to himself the cheery tune, which he had learnt that afternoon was called “Let’s go fucking mental”.
Chapter 2 – Town
Lucas wasn’t too sure of the local geography or how busy the traffic might be on what should be the busiest weekend of the year. He didn’t drive much, but the hire car seemed better at home on the campsite than crawling around Le Mans.
He liked the public crush of a bus, the private anonymity and that feeling of belonging, especially as in this case all the passengers were coming from the same event, carrying their little trophies that said “Le Mans – I was there”; the toy cars, individually labelled with this year’s drivers’ names, a unique item in a child’s parent’s toy collection; the car memorabilia; Bentley clothing or Ferrari caps; balloons, bags, all making each individual anonymous, an anyone, a nobody, except for that man who looked just like the man in the Gold Blend advert. No, it was the man in the Gold Blend advert, clutching his Bentley bag just like the boy sitting next to him, forelock curling over his eyebrow, lips caressing the invisible beads his contract enforced him to wear forever dangling from his nose.
What was he doing here ? on a bus ? No-one else had noticed, not many French people watched television adverts for instant coffee, Lucas’ knowledge a result of the surgical silence that reigned in his apartment the last year of his affair, neither of them willing to break it to use the remote control.
Lucas looked down at the bag as the Gold Blend man caught his stare; the bag must have held something small, T-shirt, perhaps and not the fashionable leather jacket or tiny but expensive watch. Just a little something to say “I was there”. “Oh yes, Le Mans, of course, classic race this year, yeah ? Awesome machines.” Is that how he talked in real life ? He would, in the adverts, if he ever met another man; a pointless stilted conversation about a neutral subject. The blondes on television all understood the innuendo of their small talk – fancy a quick one ? or would you prefer a long wait for a strong one ?
Gold Blend caught Lucas again staring, at him, at those protuberant lips so that, on descending, Lucas, deliberately avoiding him, lost him. In the crush he came up against a large, well-packed rucksack that seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere. Lucas couldn’t remember it being on the bus, maybe it had been there at the stop. Old, or well-used, but good equipment; on top, a leather hat; a cowboy hat, he would have said, twenty-years ago; but nobody knew what cowboys were, nowadays. Lucas had grown up with cowboys, cowboys and Indians, but now it was spacemen and superheroes and karate kid. Few people could carry off a cowboy hat. You needed a horse and a gun; it didn’t really suit a blue rucksack, it certainly wouldn’t fit a hobo or a returning student.
“Excuse me,” said Lucas, and “Good Evening”, a formal politeness which seemed out of place, almost rude, as he pushed the rucksack sideways. The face that turned towards him was open and sun-tanned and friendly, ferociously sun-tanned, a man who didn’t work in an office; mid-June and the mahogany-polished red of high-winter or summer holidays, but no goggle pale patches; weather beaten, or weather beaten-off. The man smiled, inviting, but to what Lucas couldn’t fathom, perhaps just smiled at the thought of a good evening; what would the man do, choose to do, to deliver himself a good evening ? Like his rucksack, he looked well-made; if of an indeterminate era he was not old, and seemed, announced, that he packed phenomenal contents into his square frame. A self-contained man, Lucas saw in the image of the man, as he walked away and left him behind, a complete man, a whole man who wanted nothing. Like a snail, he
carried everything on his back. The hat was made for him.
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In Roosevelt Square, the night before, Lucas had watched the pilots in their tour of the city, riding high up on the boots of classic cars. The stereotype racing driver of the sixties; the mythical, film-based legend, half Hollywood, half television; white overalls, white teeth, chunky watch, sharp nose, moustache, greased-back hair, beautiful girl, all this remained. And yet, something had changed.
The danger, the excitement, death, burning cars, had always been there too, accepted; death had a seat at the table, was part of the crowd. Death had now become an unfortunate accident, unwelcome guest, who was kept at the door, not allowed in. There were no deaths at Le Mans now. There was driver error, perhaps; mechanical failure, more often; two cars touching in the night. Death was contained in the safety cell, the body bag, the coffin.
Perhaps the drivers themselves were no longer the brothers, the uncles that they used to be, a member of the family. Their full-face helmets, standard, sensible haircuts, and the relentless marketing changes to their cars and uniforms, made it hard to recognise any but the most famous drivers. And in Le Mans there were 3 drivers for every car. If any of them had died, Lucas couldn’t have shed a tear.
So it had been easier just to watch and wave, as the procession of old cars beeped and honked around the city, and admire the coppertoned skin of the girls.
The girls and the cars had separated at the Place des Jacobins, to the snorting of ancient race engines, now gods. Countless classics, from film, magazine, childhood, were drawn up around the huge, shapeless square, milling with the hundreds and thousands.