Flykiller

‘Vipere! serpent! I’m not listening!’

‘Then fly, asshole. fly!’

Ah no … No! The roof was slippery, the rope loose, but was it long enough or too long? wondered St-Cyr.

Careering down over the ridges and hollows, he tried to slow himself by turning sideways, wasn’t going to reach them, was going to shoot right past …

Snatching at Albert’s ankles, he grabbed one and hung on as the rope tightened. Ferbrave winced at the strain. A moment passed and then another. ‘Hermann, take up the slack!’

‘Now pray, messieurs. You, Henri-Claude, that he doesn’t fall to his death and walk you to the guillotine; and you, Albert, because we need you.’

‘I don’t know who dropped that knife in the shit. I don’t know anything about the vans. I thought I did but can’t remember.’

Ines blinked and blinked hard but still couldn’t see a thing. The door St-Cyr and Kohler had broken in was almost closed, but a wedge of light flooded out from an office of some kind, precious light that lifted her spirits and made her feel whole again.

Deschambeault and his son were in there – she knew this for she’d heard them arguing, their voices always muffled. But now they, like her, had to listen as, with agonizing slowness, Herr Kohler pulled his partner and Albert back up the roof.

Ferbrave had been left for the moment – he must have been, but where, exactly, he was located she couldn’t tell and that, she warned herself, was a worry.

Pressing a cheek against the wall, she strained to hear the sousdirecteur and his son above the noises from the roof.

‘Jean-Guy, it’s got to stop. Things are getting far too close,’ said the elder Deschambeault.

‘Stop, mon pere?’

‘Merde, imbecile, must you taunt me at a time like this? One van and no one was the wiser, but then another and another and what am I to do now, eh? Go to the Marechal and beg forgiveness when there are assassins about? Assassins, Jean-Guy!’

‘Resistants?’

‘It’s possible. Those people from Paris also. Doriot or Deat may have sent in the Intervention-Referat or the Bickler Unit to teach us a little lesson.’

The son took a moment to consider this, felt Ines, then she heard him asking suspiciously, ‘Did you inform Secretaire General Bousquet of your concern?’

‘Pah! Don’t be a fool. He’s the one who suggested it and knows far more about them than I do!’

Again the son took his time to reply but now there was sarcasm. ‘You worry too much, Papa.’

‘Will you never learn?’ demanded the sous-directeur. ‘Lucie’s dead. It’s over. Will that not satisfy you and that … that mother of yours?’

That bitch of a mother? she could hear the son thinking.

‘Maman hasn’t yet heard of your loss, and neither have Therese or Martine. Was it a boy or a girl that putain of yours dropped?’

Ah merde!

‘Batard, how can you speak to me like that? I who brought you here from Paris and saw that you were given the position you have? You were always the lanterne rouge of the class, Jean-Guy.’ The rear light. ‘Failure at mathematics, at chemistry, at everything else. This job, that job. Gambling, losing, cheating, lying. Mon Dieu, the number of times I’ve had to cover for you, yet you treat me like this? Ah! I admit you’re good at what you do here. One of the best. And perhaps in time, when this Occupation is over and things settle down, these stables will be yours.’

Sugar there. Some sugar, thought Ines.

‘What is it, then, that you want, Papa, the olive branch?’

‘You know very well. Quit visiting that brothel Ferbrave knows you visit because it’s his also. Leave it and stop all use of the vans. Tell the drivers they’ll continue to receive their extra wages for the long runs but are to keep silent or face immediate dismissal. Enough is enough, Jean-Guy. Good while it lasted. Oh bien sur, but finished for now because it has to be.’

‘And Lucie?’

‘I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Admit it, she was trouble.’

‘Trouble? Tell your mother I’ll visit her soon. All right, tell her I’ll even sleep with her if that will satisfy her.’

Again the son took his time before saying, ‘Broken fences are never easy to mend.’

‘And that doctor of hers? That quack who claims to calm her at my expense?’ hissed the father. ‘What part has he had in breaking those same fences, eh?’

‘Has he been fucking her – is that what you think?’

‘You know it isn’t, but why should I care, eh?’

‘She’s very ill,’ said Jean-Guy. ‘Why can’t you realize she’s psychotic? Torn by delusions, lives in hell because of you and your mistresses! Not just Lucie. The others before her!’

Still they hadn’t raised their voices. ‘How self-righteous you are,’ said the elder Deschambeault. ‘You who prefer the tenderest.’

Girls of fourteen and fifteen, said Ines to herself.

‘Menetrel knows that “quack” as you call him, father. Everything Maman has ever said to Dr Normand has been repeated to Menetrel.’