It took him a moment afterwards to become orientated again. He'd pulled out and ejaculated on the ground and part of his weight was rested on the boy's back, his cheek against the bare skin, suddenly sweaty, sticky. He rolled off.
In the aftermath he lay on his back and stared up at the sky. He could still hear the boy gently crying, though intermittently it merged with and was drowned out by the rustling of the wind. They became one and the same.
Duclos looked over. There was a small trickle of blood running down the boy's inner thigh. He reached over and touched the boy's back, but felt him flinch sharply under the touch. He wanted to say 'I'm sorry', but it would sound so empty and futile now. He knew that he would have to be stern to warn the boy off. He sat up and gripped the boy's shoulder tight.
'Look at me. Look at me!' Duclos gripped tighter and shook the boy until he looked up. The boy's face was streaked with tears and he made a vain effort to wipe away a fresh tear with the back of one hand.
'What happened today never happened, you understand. It never happened!' Duclos looked at the boy intently, as if by staring and continuing to shake the boy's shoulder he could force his will home.
'It's our secret, and you're to tell nobody. Nobody! If you do, I'll come after you and kill you. I know where you live now, it will be easy for me to get to you.'
The boy nodded after a second. Duclos shook his shoulder once more for emphasis. 'You understand!'
But once again the boy's eyes betrayed him. Mixed with the fear, Duclos could see the uncertainty and confusion. He knew that whatever the boy agreed now, later he would be faced with awkward and insistent questions from his parents about the afternoon, and he would finally talk. The police would be called. With his distinctive car, he would be easily found, would face a trial, public humiliation and a jail term; his life and career would be ruined. His dreams and plans of becoming Assistant Public Prosecutor in Limoges within three years would be over.
He knew in that moment that he would probably have to kill the boy.
Duclos sat close to the window in the restaurant. From there, he had a clear view of his car at the far side of the car park. It was out of the direct path of people approaching the restaurant, but still he couldn't be too careful.
Having decided what to do, it had taken him almost fifteen minutes to secure the boy, ripping up the boy's shirt and using some rags from his car to tie his hands and feet and gag him. Space in the car boot had been very restricted, and he huddled the boy tightly next to the spare tyre in almost a foetal position, the arms draped over the tyre itself. He warned the boy not to make a sound or move about, otherwise he'd feed in a hosepipe from the exhaust and gas him. The boy had nodded fearfully, his eyes wide. It was the last image he remembered as he shut the boot lid - those eyes staring back at him, questioning, pleading.
At first Duclos wasn't sure why he'd delayed. It had just felt wrong killing the boy then and there on the spot. And he wanted time to think. But was the delay just to steel up courage for what he already knew was inevitable, or was he having second thoughts? In the end what he thought about most was if he had to kill the boy, how best to cover his tracks? He didn't want to take any action hastily.
The effort of tying up the boy and bundling him into the car in the heat had tired him. Duclos' clearest thoughts only came as he drove away, jig-saw pieces matching with how he saw the crime being re-constructed by investigators based on his past experience with forensics. By the time he reached the outskirts of Taragnon, he'd worked out most of the details, and the restaurant was an integral part of that plan. He checked his watch: 1.41pm. Timing would be the key. Ideally, he should stay just over an hour.
Duclos had already looked at the menu, and scanned it briefly again as the waiter came over.
'Plat du jour, but with the veal cassoulett, please. The mushrooms to start and the l' îsle flotant to finish.'
'And for the wine?' the waiter asked.
'Vin rouge, please, and some water. What is the house red that comes with it?'
'Chateau Vernet. It's quite good, fairly full.'
Duclos didn't ask the year. The house wines were nearly all non-descript recent vintage. In any case in the hot weather he normally mixed house wines with water, though if it was good he might savour one glass on its own.
The restaurant was the first that he saw after Taragnon with a reasonable car park in front. It was important that he could see the car while he ate. Simple and café style, it was very close to the village, less than a kilometre, and the roadside sign advertising Plat du Jour at only F3.40 had attracted a reasonable crowd that lunch time. Almost half full, Duclos counted another eight cars and two trucks in the car park.
The waiter had put his order into the kitchen and now returned with his wine and water. He poured the wine but left the water for Duclos to help himself. Duclos took a sip; it was full bodied, but had a slight acid aftertaste. Palatable but unexceptional. Duclos added some water, and noticed the other waiter behind the bar look over briefly. He was more surly and curious than his own waiter, and had been by the front window serving, looking out as Duclos pulled up and walked in. He could tell the look, he'd seen it a thousand times: young, nice car, nice clothes, Rich kid! Everything bought and paid for by his parents. The waiter, little more than his own mid-twenties, was slaving behind the bar day and night thinking that meanwhile kids like himself whiled away their summers on the coast on their parents' money.
But in Duclos’ case, the resentment was misplaced. He'd come from a family probably no better than the waiter's, his father just a simple works foreman in a local pottery factory. It had taken his father years to work up to foreman through various positions on the factory floor. Then three years later a badly stacked crate fell and injured his back. After increasing time off for treatment, he was forced to work part time, then the company finally wanted to let him go. The company was inadequately insured, the compensation poor, and it was only by involving a lawyer and the threat of a large suit that his father had finally won the day. The company paid for treatment, gave a six month pay cash settlement and a full time office position for his father handling inventory.
Only thirteen at the time, the object lesson of how the lawyer had managed to save the family when his father was virtually powerless had stayed strongly with Duclos. The power of being able to wield the law like a heavy sword to get what you wanted from life. He worked hard at school and graduated to take Law and a second of Business studies at Bordeaux University.
At twenty-one, three months after graduation, he'd joined the Public Prosecutor's Office in Limoges. The first year as a stagiare, then two years with case preparation for the Assistant Public Prosecutor and some lesser cases which he handled himself. But in the last year he'd handled a more important caseload, including two landmark cases for the Head of Public Prosecution who was retiring in three years. Everyone would then move up a rung, and he was one of three lawyers in line for Assistant Public Prosecutor. His success rate with cases was higher than the other two and his file preparation was noted for being meticulous. Three more years of hard application and the job was his.
The waiter came up with his mushrooms. He looked over towards his car again as he ate. He'd worked too hard for too long to give it all up now.
The friend that he was staying with in Salernes, Claude, he'd met at Bordeaux University and they'd stayed in close contact since. This was Duclos' sixth visit in four years, invariably for three weeks in August or ten days at Easter. Claude's family owned one of the area's largest vineyards, the main château had its own grounds and pool, and the Cote D'Azur was just over half an hour's drive away. Idyllic, particularly for summer vacations. Duclos would usually sneak off at least twice to Marseille to see his pimp and Jahlep, making an excuse about visiting an aunt in Aubagne; a boring but necessary social visit. Claude had never been suspicious.
Through the years he'd got used to covering up, had become quite professional at it. There had been no steady
girlfriends, but he was not unattractive and with his position he'd always been able to find girls for special dinner dates or work related functions. Keeping up appearances.
Finishing the mushrooms, the main course arrived after a few moments. Duclos checked his watch again. He'd been there twenty-five minutes. He might have to take coffee and brandy to stretch the time.
There was one small element still missing from his plan, and it began to trouble him increasingly. He dwelled on it through the cassoullet. Only as he was close to finishing, topping up his wine with water for the third time, did something strike a chord; he looked thoughtfully at the bottle. He wondered. It could work, but would there be enough water in the bottle? The thought was still gelling when an out of place movement in the corner of his eye made him look past the bottle towards the car park. His nerves tensed. Two women who had just left the restaurant were approaching the car next to his. As one went to open the car door, the other appeared to be looking over at his car. Was she just admiring it, or had some sound alerted her? She stood there for a moment, then finally looked towards the fence behind and got in. The car backed out and moved away. Duclos relaxed.
But his peace of mind was short lived. Minutes later a truck pulled in and took the vacant space, obscuring his view of his car. Duclos felt immediately ill at ease; now he could only see part of the furthest rear tail light.
He found it hard to concentrate on the rest of the meal. When the l' îsle flotant arrived, he ordered coffee and brandy from the same waiter to save time. Fifteen minutes more. The waiting was infuriating. His nerves had built to fever pitch by the time the brandy arrived. He had to steady his hand as he lifted the glass. He wasn't sure if it was the aftershock of what had already happened, or what he knew he faced. The other waiter was looking over at him again with that same curious expression. Or was he reading too much into it, seeing imaginary demons and problems? He just knew that he had to get out of the café fast. Having steeled his nerves over the past hour, he knew that if he didn't do it soon, he might never be able to. His composure and resolve would be gone.
Mopping his brow, Duclos signalled to the waiter. The waiter finished up an order three tables away and came over.
'The bill, please.' The waiter had turned to go when Duclos realized he'd forgotten something. He pointed to the bottle on the table. 'And some bottled water to take with me.'
The bar was noisy with conversation and the gentle clatter of cutlery. Duclos closed his eyes, fighting to calm himself while he waited for the bill. Had he appeared agitated? Was the timing right? Had the woman by his car earlier heard something? Thoughts of what might have already gone wrong and potential pitfalls yet to come jumbled hopelessly with soul searching. What might have been if he hadn't gone to Aix en Provence that morning? If he had never seen the boy at the roadside? All those years of reading affidavits from people who'd got themselves into hopeless messes, and how he always knew so much better. He shook his head in disbelief.
It took another six minutes to pay and receive his change, and by that time Duclos was trembling uncontrollably. He smiled and tipped generously, hoping that his nervousness wasn't outwardly obvious. He wanted them to remember him, but not in that way.
Getting back into the car, Duclos let out a deep sigh and fought to calm his trembling hands as he gripped the steering wheel. He felt nauseous and his mind was spinning with a thousand conflicting thoughts - and finally the build up of nerves overtook him and his body slumped defeatedly. He didn't think he could go through with it.
In the dark, the first thing Christian became conscious of was the sound of his own breathing.
He felt hot in the boot, despite being without his shirt. He'd managed to control his tears, but his body still trembled violently. How was he going to explain his shirt being destroyed when he got home, and why did the man have to tie him up and put him in the boot out of sight? He just hoped the man wasn't going to hurt him again. He knew that he would probably have to tell his mother what had happened. She was going to be furious; she had warned him so often about talking to strangers. But the man had reminded him of his cousin François who worked with one of the perfume companies in Grasse - not like the rough men he'd imagined.
Christian began to dwell on the man's threat. If you tell, I'll kill you... I know where you live now, it will be easy for me to get to you. Perhaps he could swear his mother to secrecy; though if she still had to tell the police, surely they would protect him. For what the man had done, would he be locked up so that he couldn't get to him, and for how long?
Christian listened to the monotonous drone of the car engine and the wheels spinning on the road. He strained to hear noises beyond. After a moment, there was a faint rushing sound, perhaps a lorry or car passing, then nothing. How far had they gone? It was difficult to judge speed, the only guide changing echo tones when they passed buildings. The echo was there for a while, then gone briefly before returning for a long continuous stretch. They were passing through Taragnon, unless they'd branched off and it was Bauriac. Ponteves was too far.
After a while the echoing stopped, another faint rush of something passing came immediately after, and not long after they slowed; he felt the car turn, then they stopped. And then the long wait.
The heat built up insufferably in the confined space. His body was hunched up tight and he could feel the twinge of cramps in his legs. For a while he wondered if the man had gone off and left him. At moments he could hear distant voices and thought about kicking the side to attract attention, the only action allowed him with the ties and gag. But they were distant enough that they might not hear, and what if the man was still close by? He waited.
With time passing, he became more fearful what the man might do to him. He found it difficult to breathe with the extreme heat, the hot air rasping uncomfortably at the back of his throat. He started to feel faint. It was then that he remembered the coin in his pocket: the silver twenty lire given him by his Grandpapa André. The luck token he took with him everywhere. It was in his left hand pocket. With his hands tied, it took a minute to fumble in his pocket and finally have it in his grasp. Moving his arms back over the spare wheel, he grasped the coin tight in his right hand and started a silent prayer: That the man wouldn't hurt him again, that he would be home soon, that the police would find the man and lock him up, and that his mother wouldn't be too annoyed when he told her what had happened.
The heat made him tired. He was on the edge of sleep when some voices snapped him alert. Unlike the other voices they were coming closer, until he could hear them virtually at the side of the car. There was some shuffling and the sound of a car door opening. He pondered on the action only for a moment - then kicked back with his legs against the back metal panel. Then waited, listening. Nothing, except some fumbling and another car door opening. He kicked again, but at that moment everything was smothered by the rushing of a car or truck passing. Then he heard the car doors closing. The engine started. The car backed out and moved away. Christian let out a long sigh and bit his lip.
Shortly after he succumbed to the heat and dozed off. He had started to think about the farm, and it filled his dream. There was a small stone wall in the main back field against which wild strawberries grew. One summer he'd cut down an area of the strawberry brambles and built a small hideaway house against the wall with wood and patched straw. He was in the hideaway when he heard his father Jean-Luc calling. He decided to stay hidden a minute, then leap up and startle his father. On the third call, he jumped up onto the ridge of the wall. But his father kept scanning the horizon; he hadn't seen him. Christian started waving one arm frantically. Once more his father scanned back and forth, more slowly and purposefully this time, calling his name yet again. For a moment more his father stood looking blankly across the fields, then finally turned resignedly and headed back across the farm courtyard to the back kitchen door.
Christian jumped down from the wall, calling his father's name desperately as he ran towards him.
But as he ran, the grass gradually became longer, obscuring his vision of the courtyard and his father. He became confused and lost. He could never remember the grass being that long, and now that he couldn't see the farm he'd lost all direction. He continued running, calling his father's name frantically; but with still no answer, he felt increasingly lost and was becoming tired. It was getting dark and he was frightened. He called his father's name once more with no response, then sat down defeatedly among the tall grass. He started crying. He felt deserted by his father. Why didn't you come and find me? After a moment the ground seemed to reverberate and shake with the heavy drone of an engine. The noise and movement perplexed Christian, and the only thing he could think of was that his father had brought the tractor out to try and find him.
That hope only quelled his tears slightly; he was still crying as he awoke to the reality of the boot and the rough track they were driving on. They had obviously turned off again from the main road. How far had they gone? He realized with a sinking feeling that he'd completely lost track of time and distance; they might be too far from Taragnon for his father to find them. Suddenly he felt as lost and alone as in the dream. Fear and dread crept over him and his body started trembling again.
Then he noticed with sudden panic that something else was wrong. Grandpapa André's coin was no longer in his hand. His right hand had relaxed slightly open and it had probably slipped from his grasp with the track's bumpiness. He started feeling for it in the dark. It was not on top of the wheel hub; the top of the hub was smooth metal, except for several small oval holes around its rim. They were too small to reach into, especially with his hands tied; if the coin had fallen through one of them, he wouldn't be able to retrieve it. He started feeling around the edge of the tyre.
Past Imperfect Page 3