by Enzo Bartoli
The last time I saw him was ten years ago. My divorce was being finalised. My ex-wife and I decided on an amicable split – all straightforward enough. But she chose him as her solicitor, not knowing of my past with him, and he took me to the cleaners. As soon as he found out who she was divorcing, he went all out. It was as if the only idea he had in his head was to bury me. The house, my pension, compensation – he threw everything he could at me, even though my wife had asked for none of it. If she had allowed herself to be influenced by him or hadn’t been financially well-off herself, I would have been out on the street, living in some bedsit somewhere.
‘What became of him, then?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
Chloé’s absolutely delighted. She knows she’s struck a raw nerve and perceives the interest I’m showing to be an instant victory. ‘He’s a real bastard. He’s a defence lawyer now and helps protect politicians and big tax dodgers – often one and the same – from any lawsuits. And . . . just as a little aside . . . he’s been married twice. The first wife killed herself and the second takes so many antidepressants and sleeping pills that she’s little more than a zombie these days. It would be a real act of kindness to do him in.’
She cocks her head to one side, like a little girl asking you to pay for her sweeties.
But I’m not biting. ‘You’ll be able to sort it out on your own. And my soul will feel a little lighter for knowing it.’
She doesn’t keep at it, but I know her, and she isn’t done with me yet. She’ll pick up where she left off sooner or later.
For the moment, though, she gets back to her excitement about our current task. ‘So, this hotel, the Bora-Bora – do you know exactly where it is?
‘It can’t be far. I have a map.’
‘Shall we go and take a look?’
I don’t quite have the same level of energy as her, but I manage to pull myself up to a less horizontal position. ‘Yeah. Let’s go. Let’s go and kill Nkomo. That’ll make us feel better.’
‘You’re getting more and more sarcastic.’
‘I’ve got you to thank for that.’
CHAPTER 24
The hotel our dear friend has chosen is pretty much what you’d expect for your typical visitor to this island. It’s just like ours. It has a dominating white façade, a gigantic swimming pool and a dance floor with a DJ’s decks up on a stage. You could swap the two signs above the doors and nobody would know. It’s just a two-minute walk from our place. And just like the Hard Rock Hotel, the Bora-Bora is half-asleep, awaiting the nightmare of an evening that I’m sure is about to commence. It also has direct access to the beach, and there are a few people sitting outside by a bar under a big parasol, drinking cocktails and listening to the booming techno coming from a giant sound system that they’ve somehow managed to erect on the sand.
We walk over to this outdoor bar, and I immediately regret not having changed before coming out. Even though I’m wearing light trousers and a shirt, I stick out like a sore thumb among all the bikini-clad women and half-naked men. People will just assume I work at the hotel, I suppose. This often happens to me – in the supermarket, in public administration buildings . . . I’m always being mistaken for a member of staff. I must just have that look about me; for some reason, I don’t look like your average customer. And I don’t look like the boss. I look like someone who can give you information. I really feel like turning on my heel and running out of there – at least until there are a few more people around and I’ll be less noticeable. But I reason with myself, thinking that as Nkomo was always a real night-owl back in Paris, there’s very little chance of him being out and about now, in the glaring sun. But you can hold back the applause for my excellent powers of deduction, because there he is lying on a beach towel just a couple of metres in front of us.
I am very quickly relieved to see that he’s more than likely unable to take much notice of Chloé or me, given the state he’s in. He is half-reclining, looking up lustily at a bronze-skinned girl in a tiny bikini. She’s on a type of stand, a dance podium of sorts, and has something to do with the beach bar. She’s there to advertise and is posing for him lasciviously. He has a brightly coloured drink in his hand and he’s smoking a rolled-up cigarette which probably has something illegal in it. His head is bobbing up and down slightly to the music. He’s off-beat, though, because he’s clearly three sheets to the wind. I think back to what the barman at the Bronco said: He’s gone to ground. I hardly think so. He’s living it up. He is out of his mind and has no idea what’s going on around him. He tries to put his glass down, but it slips out of his hand and spills all over his towel. He’s not bothered, though. He puts his hand down his Bermuda shorts and starts touching himself. It must be a reflex action for him – but it has no effect. I’m sure even he doesn’t think he’s in a fit enough state to do what he wants to do.
Chloé and I exchange a look. She appears a little distressed, and I just fidget out of embarrassment. But we both know we’re thinking the same things. The first is that we’d be doing humanity a favour if we get rid of this animal, and the second is that he’s probably spending every day like this and that getting down to business won’t be anywhere near as tricky as we thought. I might even end up changing my mind about what I said earlier. We could well be catching a flight home sooner than I reckoned.
Chloé goes to get us a couple of beers while I find a seat and continue to observe Nkomo. He has just stubbed his joint out in the sand and is now rooting around inside an Adidas backpack. I’m sure it’s his personal pharmacy. From our lengthy observations of him, we’ve come to know his preferences in terms of recreational drugs. He likes to have a drink followed by a leisurely smoke, after which he tends to require a little pick-me-up. This means cocaine or an amphetamine. So I’m surprised when I see him pulling out a rubber band and a syringe. He must have had the wherewithal to source all this paraphernalia locally. He’s not going to do this on the beach, is he? I know that they’re fairly tolerant in terms of drug use on the island, but shooting up in public has to be a no-no.
The girl he’s been looking at jumps down from her makeshift podium and rushes to him. She grabs everything with astonishing authority and shoves in back into his bag. At the same time, she is clearly giving him a piece of her mind – and not in the friendliest of ways. There’s too much background noise for me to pick up what she’s shouting. What’s obvious is that her words aren’t having much of an effect on Nkomo, who simply shrugs his shoulders. He makes a move to get the equipment out again, but in what must be a moment of lucidity he thinks twice and takes a look around him. I’m not in the slightest bit worried, because I’m too far to his right. He’ll never turn his head around to that angle.
It looks as though he’s thinking. He suddenly takes on an air of disgust, spits into the sand and scrambles to his feet. It takes a lot of effort. He manages to pick his towel up and throw it over his shoulder before moving away from the bar, further down the beach and away from us.
He is unsteady on his feet as he makes his way slowly towards another set-up on the sand. It’s not a bar this time, but a boat-hire place with pedalos and kayaks. Chloé suddenly appears at my side and sticks a cold beer in my hand. I don’t recognise the brand. I hesitate for a few seconds before handing it back to her.
‘I’ll just be a jiffy. Keep an eye on that dancing girl while I’m gone.’
I don’t turn back to look at her, but I just know that she’s standing there, watching open-mouthed as I follow Nkomo without taking even the slightest precaution. He’s just a few metres ahead of me. His fat buttocks are wobbling as he tries to stay on his feet. He really is quite grotesque. His ankles can barely hold his weight and he teeters with every heavy step. He looks like a down-and-out. A nobody. If the men who work for him back in France could only see him in this state, I’m sure he’d lose a lot of kudos.
As he arrives at the boat-hire stand he looks around, not quite sure what to do with himself. He stumbles over to a smal
l fence they’ve erected around the pedalos, sits down and leans against it. But it must be too uncomfortable for him and he stands back up. He then looks over to a rack where at least ten kayaks are stacked on top of each other. He must be hoping for a bit of shade next to that. But no. He walks over and decides against it. There’s no cover there. I watch him floundering around the place and I note that I’m not in the slightest bit anxious, because he wouldn’t suspect anyone was observing him. Not even for a second. It doesn’t matter how close to him I get. I’m near enough to notice the spark of understanding in his eyes when he realises that he can hide behind the hut. There’s room and shade enough for him there. I wait for a few minutes before joining him.
There is an old wooden rowing boat behind the boat shack, lying in the shade of a bamboo windbreak. He sits down in it, looking pretty pleased with himself. I’m surprised it can bear his weight. He looks like a beached whale as he quickly becomes absorbed in preparing his shoot. He doesn’t even notice me staring at him . . . and I’m now directly within his sights. I decide it’s going to be too risky from this angle and walk around the boat-hire shack to the other side. I’m now standing just a couple of metres behind him.
I watch the ceremony. He is heating the heroin on a little spoon with his lighter. He’ll soon be filling his syringe. I’ve seen this in films. Once he’s tied the rubber band around his arm, he’ll inject, but it’s a fiddly affair for someone so out of it. I know that with this kind of drug there are a few seconds of intense pleasure where the person is completely and utterly defenceless.
I struggle to think what to do next. But not for long. I spot his towel on the ground – he must have dropped it before heaving himself into the boat. I step forward quietly, crouch down and pull it towards me. Almost on autopilot now, I roll it lengthways, so I have a scarf of sorts.
I don’t take my eyes off him the whole time.
I’m not surprised to see that it’s an effort for Nkomo. His movements are laboured and although he manages to load the syringe he fails twice to tie the rubber band around his arm. When he finally succeeds, he pushes the needle into a bulging vein. As he presses down lightly on the plunger, I see a drop of blood appear on his arm. I creep forward a little more, still keeping a couple of arms’ lengths between us. He still hasn’t seen me . . . yet.
But in a mixture of pain and pleasure as the poison starts to take effect, his head rolls back and that’s when his eyes meet mine. He looks surprised for just an instant and then this look turns to one of fury. I think that’s the only reaction he’s capable of. I wonder if he knows what’s coming as I jump forward and with all my might press the rolled-up towel over his mouth and nose, pull him backwards and hold his head down on the bottom of the boat. He tries to fight back – of course he does, it’s in his nature – but to little effect, for the drug has weakened him considerably. He has next to no upper body strength, but his legs are banging and thrashing around. I push the towel harder into his face and his eyes bulge out a little. I close my eyes and count to thirty in my head. I open them again and remove the towel. No reaction. He is perfectly immobile. I know I don’t even need to check for a pulse. I shift myself along the side of the boat, so I can face him fully and observe him at leisure. I am strangely calm. No doubt I’m getting used to seeing dead bodies now. Just as I expected, there are no marks from the towel on his dark skin. Only an autopsy would detect the true cause of death.
I don’t rush as I take a pack of tissues from my pocket and use one to pick up the needle that has dropped between his thighs. I am careful not to leave prints, using more tissues to cover my fingers as I examine the contents of his pockets and bag. As well as a small bar of cannabis resin, I find two more doses of powder and a bottle of Evian. I mix the powder in a little water. I don’t bother with the heating part because I wouldn’t have a clue, and I inject it into his left arm. I then put the needle in his right hand and brush at his clothes and body with the tissues, just in case I’ve accidentally touched him somewhere. I take one last look before I walk away. His body arouses no emotion from me still.
When I return to her, Chloé has moved to a little wicker sofa and is sipping her beer. She looks relieved to see me and moves to one side to make room. I sit down next to her and she hands me back my beer.
‘Where did the girl go?’
‘Some hot guy turned up and she went off with him. It was more or less straight after you’d gone. She looked very pleased to see him. They chatted for a while and looked to be walking back to the hotel and I haven’t seen her since.’
‘OK. So we can suppose that she’s not bothered about Nkomo’s well-being, then.’
‘I think we can.’
The beer is awful. I put it down on the ground and stand up.
‘What are we doing now?’ she asks me.
‘Nothing. Isn’t that what holidays are all about?’
CHAPTER 25
Of course, Chloé wants to make sure everything has been done by the book. She walks along the edge of the water and glances over to the boat hut. We can just see behind it from this safe distance. She notices that, to anyone walking by, Nkomo could pass for some party-goer who’s nursing his hangover and just having a quiet laze in the shade. She doesn’t think that anyone would be unduly worried, if they were even to notice him. But she insists that we stay near the hotel until the body is discovered. It’s nine o’clock in the evening before we finally see an ambulance show up and come to a halt on the small road behind the boat-hire place. And then nothing. It doesn’t even make the local papers. Over the next few days, we don’t notice so much as a police car anywhere near the Bora-Bora.
Chloé even dares to return to the spot on the beach where I left him. I don’t have the guts to go anywhere near it. She notices absolutely nothing. The old boat is still in situ. There’s no police tape around it to stop people approaching – no trace of an actual police investigation at all. The body has simply been taken away. That’s it.
We start to wonder what the hell might be going on. The next evening, we decide to go for a fancy meal a little way from the town centre and the rabble there. We start a conversation in our schoolboy (or schoolgirl, in Chloé’s case) Spanish with an elderly couple who were born and bred on the island. They tell us that they ran a hotel for many years, but had to sell the place when Ibiza stopped being the charming little seaside resort it once was and became a giant disco. They went to live in mainland Spain and only come back a couple of days a year now to see the few friends with whom they’ve remained in touch.
We admit that we don’t feel particularly at ease here. They both laugh and say how they understand our attitude, and that we don’t look like the sort of people to feel the allure of today’s Ibiza. And this is where Chloé astounds me. She takes advantage of what they’ve just said to complain about the tourists and the state some of them seem to get themselves into, and says she’s surprised that there aren’t more serious incidents on the island. Our neighbours oblige her and affirm that there are indeed many incidents but that the police, encouraged by the local authorities, don’t tend to look too closely, and just let most of them pass under the radar. It means the image of Ibiza can remain intact as a party destination, but a safe one. This allows us to leave the restaurant with the feeling that we’ll never hear of Abdou Nkomo again.
We put the wheels in motion to get ourselves back to France in double-quick time. Me because I can’t stand the decibel level of the place, nor the constant displays of extravagance on the part of the other hotel guests, and Chloé because even though I’ve repeated my categorical ‘no’ several times, she’s hoping she can get me to change my mind about Lionel Boucher once we’re back home.
As we imagined, we’re unable to find an earlier flight; we’re just going to have to make the most of things and enjoy the days that separate us from France as best we can.
Chloé spends a lot of time down at the pool, either in one of the many water aerobics classes she’s signed up
for, or sunbathing. She sometimes even goes to watch one of the shows put on by the hotel staff.
For me . . . it’s a little more difficult. I had my injection over twenty-four hours ago and I had to stay holed up in my room until I was feeling ready to face the world again; since then I’ve taken the odd stroll, looking for calm spots away from the other holidaymakers to find a little serenity.
I find a perfect little place: a narrow creek with steep cliffs rising on either side. There’s no way I can swim in it – it’s far too dangerous – but it’s a nice enough place to relax. It’s a four- or five-kilometre walk from the hotel and I enjoy the exercise. I actually manage it twice a day – both morning and early evening, when the first bass notes from the dance floor start to shake the hotel walls.
I spend many hours there, lost in my thoughts; often dark thoughts. I watch the sea and do my best to enjoy its peacefulness. I try to convince myself that my calm and truly beautiful surroundings away from all the noise and bother of my fellow human beings is a taster of what is to come when I’ve passed over to the other side. But I can’t see the merest grain of truth in it at all.
Yes, I hate the world I live in. Mankind repulses me to such an extent that, at the very end of my existence as part of it, I have been driven to kill several of its members in cold blood. You’d think that having reached this level of disdain for humanity I should be ecstatic to be getting out of here – to know it’s over.
I think of the people who have pushed me into being so contemptuous. My parents, first of all. They loved me, but they loved me badly. And they left without completing their role. Then there was my ex-wife. I shared three years of reciprocal indifference with her, but she was the only one to know that, behind the bad-tempered façade on display most of the time, there is a good soul who might show his face on occasion. And of course there were others with whom I crossed paths. Those I didn’t speak to, but with whom I exchanged a glance, or just a moment. Finally there were colleagues with whom I shared similar hopes, generous gestures or simply the occasional spark of goodwill.