Chapter Eight
I was about to scramble off
the boat onto the towpath when a snap sense of caution took over. A nagging
voice sounded deep inside my head: Viola
got herself killed by some sort of madman. You could be the next target if
you’re not careful. Think about it. You’re caught up in a brutal murder, not a
gentle game of boule in a French village square, or cricket on an English
village green.
That set
off a tangent thought. I could have been over there in England right now,
supping real English ale with Simone beside me. Tall and graceful Simone. Cool
and sophisticated Simone, with not a stitch of underwear beneath her uniform.
The
voice in my head spoke again: you’ve been
hoodwinked once already today and you don’t want it to happen again. If the
farm owners are involved in this, it would be best not to confront them
outright. Play things close to the chest to start with.
The
more I thought about it, the more concerned I became. Oh God! Maybe it was one
of the farm workers who had shot Viola. Certainly they had all the space they
needed to hide her dead body in one of the out-buildings. They could easily
hide my dead body as well if I played my cards too loose.
Think carefully before you act, the voice warned me.
I
stood on the foredeck, mind in a turmoil. Maybe I could ease my way into the
farmhouse on some sort of false pretext, as an American tourist, perhaps. False
pretext? Let’s face it, I was an
American tourist and I was well out of my depth here!
I ran
back to my cabin, grabbed a camera and binoculars from my luggage, locked up
the boat (I was learning fast) and then headed across the fields towards the
farm. Convinced by now that I had to play it ultra safe, I made my way towards
the rear of the building in the cover of hedges, bushes and anything else that
would keep me out of the sight of the occupants.
When I
was close enough to see into the rear garden I settled back and took a long,
steady look. The house was brightly painted and the rear garden was filled with
neatly arranged beds of exotically coloured flowers. There was an air of
precision about everything, as if the lawn was expertly manicured rather than
simply mowed, the flowers professionally cultivated rather than allowed to grow
free of their own accord. The whole scene spoke of better than average income,
even amongst the over-indulged community of French farmers. In the centre of
the lawn, surrounded by a wide-paved sunbathing area, was a large swimming pool
in which an attractive young girl was breast-stroking lazily up and down. As I
watched, the girl climbed out of the water and began to towel herself
vigorously. She wore a bright blue, one-piece swimsuit cut high above her hips
and low across her cleavage.
I
stared harder.
She
was quite short, no more than sixty inches at the most, even on tip toe, but
she was perfectly formed. She was clearly a youngster, but her figure was fully
developed. Very well developed. Tight, smooth skin wrapped about firm, rounded
body tissue. After towelling her hair she pulled down her swimsuit top and
rubbed her well-formed breasts, leaving me in no doubt about the quality of her
physical assets. I began to feel uncomfortably hot and it wasn’t just because
of the bright sunshine. At that moment I would have given anything to be in
there with the girl, cooling off in that swimming pool.
A sudden
movement at the rear of the house drew my attention. The kitchen door opened
and a grossly obese woman wearing a floral pattern apron shuffled languidly out
into the sunlight. I refocused the binoculars on her. The movement brought me
round to the direction of the sun and the stabbing light suddenly stung my
eyes. I lowered the binoculars and rubbed my sleeve across the tears which
streamed down my cheeks. When I again looked towards the back door, the woman
was standing on the patio, alternately staring up at the sky and then rubbing
the back of her sleeve across her sweating cheeks. I used the binoculars again,
but it took a couple of minutes for my eyes to fully readjust.
Whoever
she was, she was a broad, bulky woman with rough, red hands. Her eyes were a
muted, almost lifeless. Her skin was equally dull; ridged and folded like a
relief map of a dry desert region. Her greying hair, odd ends of which dangled
lifelessly below her ears, was tangled and weathered. She breathed in deeply
and folded her arms together beneath her rounded bosom as she eyed the young
girl. Words passed between them, but I was too far off to hear what was said.
Besides, my small smattering of French phrases useful to tourists wasn’t
anywhere near good enough to keep up with the fast rattle of the local patois.
The meaning was clear however—the girl shrugged and then pulled up the front of her
swimsuit.
I
retrained the binoculars directly onto the youngster who was standing at the
pool-side, once again briskly towelling her hair. The woman said something, a
jabbing finger directed at the girl. She replied by dropping the used towel in
the middle of a wet patch right alongside the pool and pouting back towards the
old woman. All the body language signs signalled that it was the defiant
behaviour of a petulant teenager.
She
was, I guessed, about seventeen or eighteen. No more, maybe less. She had a
round, rosy-cheeked face with a hair style which was a passable imitation of an
early sixties Beatle cut; black with a cute fringe across the front. Her lips
were full and drawn together as if in a permanent state of pouting.
I
widened the scope of my vision. There was something not right about the whole
picture in that garden. I couldn’t immediately put my finger on exactly what it
was, but everything smelt too strongly of unearned wealth for this to be a
genuine French farm. Was this really how the rural French lived? No, this had
to be well beyond the average farmer’s lifestyle. Or were the French even more
piratical than I had assumed? The more I watched, the more the swimming pool,
patio and general air of leisure just didn’t hang easy with me. That uneasiness
grew as another thought struck home. Was this all connected with Viola’s
murder? Was the expensive boat somehow connected with an expensive farm
lifestyle?
It was
time to get closer to the family and find out what was going on here.
I
backed out from the undergrowth and went round to the farmhouse front door. It
stood open, probably to allow a breath of air into the dark interior. I knocked
and the obese woman came shuffling towards me from out of the gloom. Close up I
realized that she wasn’t as old as I had imagined. She was probably mid or late
forties, well worn by life and child-bearing. It was the surplus weight which
made her look older.
“Good
afternoon, madam.” I did my best to smile disarmingly. “My name is Henry
Bodine. I came here with Miss Bracewell aboard the Breton Belle.”
The
woman looked at me as if I were a demented fool. Perhaps I was. After all, it’s
just a matter of how you view life. One person’s genius is another person’s
idiot.
“I
came with Miss Bracewell,” I repeated, louder and somewhat slower because it
was quite plain she didn’t understand me. “Miss Bracewell?”
I was,
I suddenly realized, making the classic error the English make when they’re
abroad. Someone once told me that they rarely bother to learn to speak other
people’s languages because it’s much simpler to raise your voice and speak
slowly to a foreigner, as if talking to a congenital idiot. The French respond
either by refusing to learn English or by pretending not to understand a word
while privately laughing up their sleeves. I cursed myself for falling into the
trap.
The
woman sniffed and replied in a thick torrent of French, which was quite beyond
me. When I gave her an expression of complete mystification, she turned up her
nose, eyed me with a suspicious look, and shuffled back into the house. A few
steps away from the door, she swung round and beckoned me to follow her. She
led me into a large living room at the back of the building. It was dimly lit
by a small amount of sunlight, which forced its way in through one tiny window.
Although dim, the room was very well appointed with expensive reproduction
furniture. Nothing seemed to have any great age to it. That puzzled me and
spoilt my pre-conceived notion of what a traditional French farmhouse should be
like.
Seven
children sprawled about the room, a miscellaneous mixture of boys and girls. I
didn’t register the exact proportions of the sexes. All but two were fully
dressed in identical tee shirts and blue jeans, which made visual
identification somewhat difficult. The exceptions were a baby and the oldest
girl who was still wearing her wet swimsuit and was sprawled out across a deep
leather armchair. The ages of the children appeared to range down in steps from
the oldest girl to the baby lying in a pram. Six of the children were watching
a television programme, while the baby alternately gurgled and sucked on its
dummy.
The
woman addressed the swim-suited girl in fast French. Once again, translation of
her words was impossible.
“Can I
help you, Monsieur?” The girl got out
of her chair and approached me. She spoke with halting, imperfect English and a
sensual accent rather like Bardot in her early television interviews. She
wiggled her pert little ass provocatively as she moved, adding to the young
Bardot image.
“Ah,
yes.” I was slightly wrong-footed by the raw, earthy essence of her appearance
close up: full, sultry lips, penetrating eyes and fully formed, well-rounded
breasts—truly a child of nature. I coughed to give me time to collect my
thoughts. “I came here with Miss Bracewell. Miss Viola Bracewell. I believe you
know her?”
“Oui.”
“I
wondered if you may have seen her of late.”
“She
was here at the farm yesterday. We gave her eggs and milk. We have not seen her
today.”
“No.”
Take care how much you divulge, I kept urging myself. “You wouldn’t have seen
her,” I said. “She’s missing.”
“Oh.”
The girl didn’t seem to be put out in any way. Not the slightest trace of guilt
or nervousness. Either she was innocent of any misdoing or damn good at
covering up her blacker emotions. “You are looking for her?”
“Yes.”
“She
is not here.” She spread her arms and shrugged while looking at me with clear,
smiling eyes.
I
tried a different tack. “You probably noticed the police over at the boat
today. I had to call them.”
“Non. We did not notice.”
Again,
her words held not a trace of undue emotion and yet I found her response a bit
hard to swallow. In any backwoods area of the States the locals knew instantly
what was going on when the cops were called out. The countryside here was
somewhat different to the American backwoods, but I figured the principle would
still be the same. The girl had to be lying. Damned clever at it, but lying
nonetheless.
“So
you didn’t know there was any trouble on the canal?”
“Non. What trouble?” She stared at me so
innocently and with such an appealing expression I was almost inclined to
believe she knew nothing.
But I
didn’t.
I
chose not to answer her question. “My name is Henry Bodine. I’m over there at
the canal, on board the Breton Belle.
Would you let me know if you get any word about Viola?”
“Oui.”
I
hesitated before I added, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“Brigitte.”
Her face slipped easily into a broad grin. “I am Brigitte L’Orly.”
“And
this lady…?” I nodded towards the woman who was standing nearby. “This is your
mother?”
“Oui. That is mama.”
I
nodded, smiling, towards the old woman who scowled back at me. She was
obviously aware that we were talking about her, but oblivious of what was being
said.
“I
see.” Somehow, the term Happy
Families just didn’t sit too well around here. “And your father? Perhaps I
could speak to him?”
“Papa
died four years ago. There is only mama and us to run the farm.” As she said
‘us’, Brigitte gestured round, taking in the children who had barely registered
my presence. French television must have something going for it.
“These
are all your family? Mama’s family?”
“Oui.”
Something
didn’t quite figure in that statement, something important, and this time I
picked it up straight away. If papa died four years ago, how did mama become
pregnant with the youngest child? The only logical explanation was that Mama
was as earthy as her eldest daughter. Perhaps it was a way of life in the
French countryside.
I
thanked Brigitte, nodded to mama who continued to watch me suspiciously, and
made my way back out into the early evening sunshine. Brigitte followed me out
of the house, but mama remained behind.
“Where
are you going, Monsieur?” she asked
when we were outside.
“Back
to the boat…”
“Non. I mean where are you taking the
boat?”
“Oh, I
see. Well, Viola was ferrying it down to La Roche Bernard. I just came along
for the ride. I’m here on vacation.”
“And
you will still be on the boat, going on to La Roche Bernard?”
“That’s
the plan. I suppose I owe it to Viola.”
“That
is good.” She turned back towards the farmhouse, lips parted in a sensual grin.
“I expect I will see you later.”
I
should have checked what she meant by that remark, but I left it too late. Too
late, also, I registered that she never did ask again what trouble that brought
the police to the canal.
Little
or no way closer to solving the problem, I went back to the Sunseeker and put
my feet up while I considered my next move. I was in a damned mess, good and
proper, and there was no clear way out. I couldn’t just abandon the boat and
take off. I felt I owed it to Viola to find out why she was killed, and what
happened to her body. I couldn’t call on the French police again, that was for
sure, but who could I trust?
I ran
over a list of likely killers: the young gorilla and his lying girlfriend, the
cigar smoking man in the background, or the L’Orly family. Who else? The
nubile, coloured girl? Ali Hassim? Almost certainly there were other contenders
of whom I knew nothing. It was no use; I was quite out of my depth. I didn’t
know the motive for the killing or the location of the body. Maybe I should
have got the hell out while I could.
It was
around seven o’clock when I heard footsteps on the deck. I jumped to my feet
just as a figure came down the companionway. I wasn’t entirely surprised when I
saw that it was Brigitte L’Orly. This time she was dressed in a tight-fitting
tee shirt and figure-hugging white shorts. She also carried an overnight bag.
“’Allo
Monsieur.” She beamed at me.
“Brigitte?
You have news of Viola?”
“Non.” She shook her head. “But I am
coming with you to La Roche Bernard.”
“You’re
what?” This was rapidly getting quite out of hand.
“I
must get down to La Roche Bernard. Monsieur
Hassim is planning to meet the Breton
Belle in the marina there.”
I
studied her carefully. “How do you know that, Brigitte?”
She
lowered her gaze. “Viola told me. Yesterday.”
“I
see. And Mr Hassim’s plans involve you?”
She
turned up her lips into a gesture of sensual reproach. “Of course. I am the
close friend of his.”
“Really.”
That gave me another connection to think about. “And you aim to meet him
there?”
“I
have to.” Her face creased into a frown. “It is most important.”
“I
see.” I didn’t really see, but she wasn’t to know. “Is this anything to do with
Viola being missing?”
“It is
a private matter. Nothing to do with you.”
“Or
Viola?”
“It is
nothing to do with you,” she repeated. And that told me a lot.
It had
already occurred to me that I was, for the time being, lumbered with the boat.
But there was no reason for me to get myself lumbered with this earthy and
sensual youngster as well. It could only spell more trouble. And yet I was
already picking up the idea that I could learn a lot from her. She sure as hell
knew far more than she was telling me.
Nevertheless,
I wasn’t going to give in to her demands easily. “I’m not planning on going on
down to La Roche Bernard until I find out what has happened to Viola,” I told her
firmly.
“Oh?”
She studied me like I was some sort of specimen under close observation. “But
you must go on down the river at some time, non?”
“I
suppose I have no choice. Eventually. But not yet.”
“Then
I will wait until you do go on down the river and then I will come with you,”
she said with an air of playful petulance.
“Nice
of you to ask first.” The sarcasm went un-noticed at first. When understanding
finally took hold, she set her lips into a moist pout—a sign of youthful
obstinate determination.
“You
will take me anyway. It is important,” she said. “Monsieur Hassim will meet the boat at La Roche Bernard and I must
see him. I must come with you.”
“I
told you, I’m not going just yet.”
It
does not matter as long as I am there when he meets the boat.” She dropped her
bag and stood, legs apart, hands on hips in a distinctly defiant stance. “When
the boat goes, I go.”
“I
suppose your mother knows where you are?”
“Why
do you ask?” A short pause followed in which I avoided replying. Eventually,
she continued. “It is my decision to go with you, not mama’s.”
“If
you say so.” I had already decided to give in, but for my own private reasons
alone. I was certain now that Brigitte held more than a few answers in the
mystery and, in any case, I needed someone who knew the language and the area. The
hell with it, if she wanted to inflict herself on me, I would make use of her.
“That
is good.” She picked up her bag and I showed her to Viola’s cabin where I left
her to settle in. Shortly afterwards she reappeared wearing a very short
cotton-print dress. Bare legs fell out from the bottom and most of her chest
bulged out from the top. It left little to the imagination, but I was not
surprised. She had already made enough of an impression on me to forestall any
possible element of surprise. Had she suddenly turned into a six-foot alien
with green skin, I would not have been surprised.
“You
would like me to do the cooking for you now?” she asked.
“I ate
earlier,” I replied.
“No
matter. I will make you the supper. How about the nice soufflé? You would like
that, non?”
It was
in my mind to refuse because I still mistrusted her intentions, but my stomach
held out for the soufflé. “All right,” I agreed. “You can cook the supper.”
She
busied herself at the galley while I sat at the saloon table studying her
shapely outline. Was I lusting again? Probably. What else was I supposed to do?
I recalled what Simone had said to me in St. Malo when I told her about Penny. If a sexy young nympho can turn you on,
you’re probably getting over the worst of it.
Maybe
she was right.
To
pass the time, I asked, “Did Viola mention me when she came to the farm
yesterday? I mean, did she say anything about me being here with her?”
“I do
not know.” Brigitte’s back was towards me so it was impossible to gauge her
facial expression. “She spoke to mama while I was busy in the garden. Maybe she
said something then.”
“And
mama said nothing to you? About me, I mean.”
Brigitte
shrugged again; a non-committal gesture that could be taken a number of ways.
She waited a few seconds before asking, “How do you know Viola Bracewell? Are
you her new lover?”
“No!
Good heavens, no.” What a delicious thought, but I put it aside instantly. “I
told you, I met her at St. Malo and she agreed to me stringing along for the
ride. I’m only here in France on vacation.”
“Vacation?”
“Holiday.”
“Ah. And
what do you do when you are not on holiday?”
“I’m
an airline pilot back home in the States. I fly long
haul jets.”
“The
big jet pilot?” She turned to eye me critically. “You must be very clever to be
the big jet pilot.”
“Thank
you for the compliment. I am very honoured.” I tried the sarcasm again but it
fell flat, much as I expected.
“I
like men who are clever,” she said. “They get to the top. I think you will go
far and be the top pilot one day.”
Her
standing rose once again in my estimation. Just a touch, not enough to make her
presence entirely welcome aboard the boat. “I’d like to think that,” I replied.
“That
is good,” she said. “I am going to La Roche Bernard with the very important
airline pilot. I will enjoy this trip.”
Her
soufflé, when it came, was a success and my stomach thanked me for allowing her
to use her culinary skills. I went off to my cabin early that night, not
exactly tired but in need of some quiet reflection.
About
an hour later I was lying in my bunk reading my novel, or doing my best to read
it, when the cabin door opened. No knock or other warning. It just opened and
there, framed in the doorway, was Brigitte dressed in a flannel nightshirt with
a teddy bear motif across the front.
She
smiled seductively. “You are awake? Non?”
Damn
silly question. Of course I was awake.
“What
do you want, Brigitte?” I asked, pulling the duvet up around my waist. She did
not seem the sort of girl to be put out by my lack of clothing. In fact it was
patently obvious that the discomfort was all mine.
“I
come to see how you are. To make sure you are comfortable.” She gave me a
sultry look, hanging on to the side of the door. “You are comfortable?”
“Yes.
Very comfortable.” It was a lie, of course, but I consoled myself that I had
been comfortable until Brigitte came to see me.
She
stepped into the cabin and sat herself on the side of my bunk, as self-assured
as if she had done it all before. “You sleep with Viola Bracewell?”
I
shuddered at her forthright manner. “Is that a question or an accusation?”
“You
think she is the nice person, so I expect you sleep with her.”
“She was a nice person.” I suddenly caught my
gaffe. I had not told Brigitte that Viola was dead. I quickly added, “She’s missing.
Remember?”
“But
you sleep with her? You have the nice time with her?”
“No. I
most certainly did not sleep with her. I was only thumbing a lift down to La
Roche Bernard. Nothing more than that.”
“Thumbing
the lift?” She looked puzzled.
“Working
my passage.”
“No
matter.” The pouting lips glistened. “You would like to sleep with me now? You
would like to have the nice time with me?”
I sat
up straight in the bunk. This was getting out of hand. “Hell, I don’t even know
you, Brigitte. Look, you’re a nice young girl and you’ll make some young man
very happy. But…” I searched round for an excuse. “I’m really too old for you.”
“No,
you are not.” She stood up suddenly, Beatle-cut hair curling around her pink
cheeks, and she slipped the nightshirt up over her head. “Don’t you like me?” Her
breasts bounced into view and carried on bouncing for some moments after, while
I struggled to compose myself. Her eyes focused on me from behind the dark
fringe, which shimmered across her forehead.
“Of
course I like you, Brigitte.” My voice cracked and sounded like it was pitched
an octave too high. “But I have someone else. Someone who’s very important to
me at the moment.” I was promoting Simone rather rapidly into the role of a
permanent partner, but it seemed like the best ploy.
“You
are married?”
“No,
but—”
“Then
she cannot be important to you. It does not matter, anyhow, because she is not
here and I am here. And I want you to give me the good time.” She sat down once
again on the side of the bunk and leaned towards me. “Tonight I will make you
happy.”
“But I’m
already happy.”
“No
you are not. You have things on your mind. But you are getting the horny, non?”
“For
heaven’s sake! Don’t do this, Brigitte.”
“Why
not?”
I
struggled to find a why not? “Do I look like the sort of man who’d sleep with a
girl half his age?”
“Oui,” she said cutely. Her sultry gaze
took the edge off my self-confidence.
“I’d
need a damn good reason,” I said.
“So I
give you one. I am what you want right now. That is your reason. You know of a
better one?” She shifted closer. “Besides, I am the best.”
“Don’t
brag about it, kiddo. It makes you sound cheap.”
“Cheap?
That means I am not very good. I am not
cheap, I am expensive. You could not afford me unless I do this for free.”
Something
told me she was dishing up the truth. I sighed soulfully and conjured up a
warning tone. “Brigitte, you remind me of my kid sister. She went astray,
wasn’t too careful who she went to bed with.”
“What
happened to her?” She looked suspicious.
“She
died. Got herself into something she couldn’t control.”
A
self-assured smile broke through her suspicions. “Then I am not like her. I
know exactly how I will control you.”
Somehow,
I just couldn’t come up with any more excuses. “You’ve done this before?” I
asked.
“Silly
man. Of course I have. And if you are very good I will put your name near the
top of the list for next time. Top of the list: that is what another man told
me. It is a nice thing to say, non?” She
pulled back the duvet and closed in on me with a familiar sort of movement.
This
time I made no effort to stop her.
Half
an hour later, I was exhausted and lay back in the narrow bunk with Brigitte
tightly packed beside me. My arms were wrapped about her shoulders and both of
us were breathing heavily. Through half closed eyes, I looked along the length
of her body. Her chest was gently rising and falling in time with her
breathing.
“That
was good, non?” Her head came up
suddenly, eyes ablaze. Her satisfaction was obvious while mine was already
becoming dampened by immediate feelings of guilt.
“We
shouldn’t have done it, Brigitte.” Nevertheless I felt deliciously tired.
“Why
not?” She sat up and shifted onto the edge of the bunk, looking straight at me.
“You do not like to make the love with me?”
“It’s
not that. You’re a teenager, Brigitte. I hardly know you and I’m nearly old
enough to be your father. It was wrong.”
“Huh!”
She shifted on the bunk and brought her knees up to her chest. Clearly, she
needed no recovery time. “If you do not like what I do, you are the fool. Maybe
you have been in America too long.”
“You
think so? They do it back home, you know. It keeps the race going.”
“Is
that all they do it for? I think that in America they must be so cold.” In the
confined width of the bunk, she leaned towards me. The warmth and the smell of
her were intoxicating, a fine wine to be enjoyed at leisure. “A girl like me
needs lots of the loving, but the English say it is wrong because it exploits
the girls. They call it the sexism. I think that they must say the same thing
in America as well.”
“We
don’t like to take advantage of girls, Brigitte.”
“Advantage?
Huh! What about me? I think there is nothing French over there in America.”
“We
have French fries.”
“Viola
calls them the chips. Huh!” She puckered up her face. “How can food be good if
you call it the chips?”
“I
don’t know, Brigitte and I’m past caring.”
“You
are tired, like an old man?”
“Exhausted.”
I closed my eyes and, without another word, Brigitte curled her warm body back
down into my outstretched arm. I began to doze.
Lying
there with Brigitte didn’t seem so terribly bad. At least, I tried to make
myself believe that. After all, better men than me had been in bed with young
girls and kept their good reputations.
In his
later life the great Gandhi decided to give up sex with his wife. Instead, he
took to sleeping with naked young girls to keep him warm and to ‘test his
resolve’. You won’t see much of that in Attenborough’s film about him because
it tends to tarnish the old boy’s public image. Personally, I think it makes him
a damn sight more human than the conventional histories like to portray him. Enjoyment
of the female form is so much more real than Godliness. I wondered how many
American presidents wished they could be like Gandhi.
Forget
Gandhi. What about Viola?
Oh
God! In the bliss of post-coitial warmth, I’d forgotten about Viola. I should
be searching for her body, not lying in bed with a young French nymphomaniac. I
tried to wipe the extra guilt from my mind, but without much success.
Brigitte
left me about an hour or so later. I awoke from a delicious dream to see her
walking slowly from the cabin with her nightshirt draped over her shoulder. She
glanced back and there was a big grin across her face.
“Good
night, Monsieur.”
“Good
night, Brigitte.”
I
switched off the cabin light and settled back down in my bunk, but I couldn’t
sleep. There were images in my mind I just couldn’t erase. It began with
painful memories of my sister, Marie. Then I thought about Penny, the stripper
who helped me identify Marie’s murderer. Penny: the woman I married. The woman
who died.
I
tried to formulate happier recollections of Simone and finally I progressed on
to images of Viola. Eyes staring out in horror from a dead face. Once Viola was
firmly back into my thoughts I couldn’t shake free of her. A couple of times I
got up and paced round the boat, wondering what I ought to do next. It must
have been nigh on four o’clock before I fell asleep.
And
that’s when an old nightmare came back to haunt me.
Why
then? God knows. My mind should have been relaxed after sex with Brigitte, but
something must have gone wrong with those damned synapses. I was back in my
dad’s vintage Buick Skylark with Carrie-Ann, racing along the Interstate 405
west of LA. My high school date was laughing. Her long golden hair billowed out
behind her. Then a drunken trucker pulled out in front of us and Carrie-Ann
screamed. The whole scene froze inside my head; the image of Carrie-Ann moments
before she died. Except that it wasn’t Carrie-Ann, it was a little girl in a
bombed-out orphanage in Bosnia, a little girl with deathly white skin. Her legs
were trapped beneath a large concrete beam. Another big beam creaked unsteadily
about six feet above her. It looked like it was going to fall at any moment. A
British Red Cross doctor sawed her legs off to get her free and I carried her
away without her legs. Someone else screamed, another child, just before that
beam fell and killed the doctor. And the child’s screaming went on while I was
looking at a girl I thought was my sister, Marie, in a Belfast mortuary. She’d
been killed by a bomb and her face was unrecognisable. Then I saw Penny in the
hospital where she died. She was lying on the bed but her eyes were open
staring at me.
“Your
baby killed me, Henry!” She screamed at me. “You made me pregnant and your baby
killed me! YOU KILLED ME, HENRY!”
I
jerked upright in the bunk with the sound of that her screaming still ringing
inside my head. I clamped my hands to my head while sweat poured down my cheeks
and my whole body shook.
And it
went on shaking.
Several
minutes passed before I was able to calm down. Full daylight was streaming into
the cabin. A glance at my watch told me it was half past eight. Birds were
chirping out in the fields as I staggered from the bunk and peered through the
cabin window.
The
nightmare images slowly faded but never vanished completely. Then I remembered
what I had done with Brigitte the previous evening and a voice inside told me I
should be ashamed of myself. Dammit, I was
ashamed. My mind was still filled with one whole mass of troubling thoughts
when I went out to the galley to make myself a mug of coffee. It was instant,
but that was all they had on the boat. I guess I was too bleary-eyed to notice
at first that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t until I was sat down to wait
for the kettle to boil that I spotted the main hatch was partly open. Then I
saw something down on the floor near the hatch door.
A
half-smoked cigar butt.
I
picked it up and saw that it was still glowing.
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