Bed of Nails (17 page)

“Hey, son, I didn’t think your bow and arrow were that good.”

“It’s a hunting bow.”

Bunker was holding a big army torch.

“Yeah, I can see. Because you go hunting with it?”

“Sometimes.”

So what had there been in Alan’s stuff?

John prepared a third arrow and aimed, his eye fixed on the little white square of paper, over the arrowhead in front of him. He was getting used to the half-light now. The arrow whistled off.
Thwack!
Spot on. In the centre, where two diagonals met bang in the middle of the paper.

“Bull’s eye!” Bunker switched on the torch and played the circle of light on the target. “On the button!”

Mesrine was on edge now.

Was it drugs, perhaps? Alan hadn’t been improvising, he had been preparing this for a long time. Perhaps there were more clues in the letter than he had realised. “
Between the lines
.” But why mention the photograph? Photographs. Blackmail? Was the studio used for something else besides painting? Whose portraits did Patricia paint? Did she press her breasts and belly up against … diplomats? Rich men, men like Hirsh, unearthed by Alan at the Caveau de la Bolée?
I’ve got money, don’t need any
. That was unusual. Someone – Alan? – might have taken photos in the studio from a hiding place. Or maybe Alan was taking part. Perhaps someone else was there, a third party, the one who was there today, the photographer perhaps? Were there some photos now of him, John? Did the blonde have some other tricks up her sleeve that he hadn’t been allowed to experience?

An antisocial fakir and a perverse bourgeoise. Their preferred prey: high-flying victims.

He pulled the cord tight. The target was in his head now, he had no need to look at it. He concentrated, his eyes half-closed. Then
he sensed two movements to his left. Mesrine had sprung up, and Bunker had turned towards him. The torch was exploring the park, sliding over the tree trunks. Bunker spoke in a low voice.

“Over here, son.”

Mesrine’s hackles were up, his teeth bared.

“Stay right there, Davy Crockett! And you stay put, too, old man.”

This voice was familiar.

A dark silhouette, hooded, slipped behind the old park-keeper. I was followed, John thought. So much for trying to dodge about like a secret agent. He still had an arrow engaged, and his arms started to tremble. The man was sheltering behind Bunker, he couldn’t shoot. Then he heard a sound behind him. This was it. Trapped.

“Drop the torch!”

Bunker did as he was told. The man had a gun aimed at his white hair. At the same time, John felt a cold steel barrel on the back of his neck.

“Drop the bow! Move.” He was being pushed towards the bench.

Two guns, two men; against them, a bow and arrow, a dog, a shrink 1 metre 80 tall, and an ex-con made of solid brick. Result: these two hoodlums weren’t sure they had the upper hand. And in fact they didn’t. That explained the nervousness in their voices. They had chanced on bigger game than expected.

John was calm. Bunker was imperturbable and even the dog was concentrating. In terms of nerves they had the advantage. John lowered the bow and took a step forward. The beam of the torch pointing to the ground, moved imperceptibly. Mesrine crouched, ready to spring.

Thwack!

A scream.

John had let fly his arrow, which he had still held poised, taut and pointing downward in his left hand. Blind, aiming behind him,
as he walked forward. The gun was no longer at his neck, and the guy was howling with pain.

Mesrine, without barking, had already fastened his jaws on a leg. Another scream. The torch was now shining into the mouth of the hoodie. A stupid face, its expression between pain from the bite and stupefaction. The cosh crashed into his jaw, and sent teeth flying. John had turned round. His own attacker was squirming in pain, his foot pinned to the ground by the arrow which had gone right through it. Dropping the bow, he brought his hands together and whacked the man on the temple. Out for the count. John turned towards Bunker who was calmly replacing the cosh in his belt.

The cabin was now crammed full of people.

Hoodie woke up first, finding himself tied to the stove. He probably wanted to speak, but things were against him. His jaw for a start, dislocated by about two centimetres; add to that the gaps in his teeth. Then there was the dog sitting opposite him, silently, but with a mouthful of sharp white fangs. And finally the sight of his fellow-conspirator laid out on the bed unconscious, his foot pierced with an arrow and dripping into a basin.

John broke the arrow, and took advantage of the man being unconscious to pull the tip out. The wood came out of the foot with a wet sucking sound. Better than a bucket of water over the head. The guy sat up with a howl. Bunker brandished the cosh above him, and he lay back down, shrinking against the wall. John tied a piece of cloth round the trainer, the same top-of-the-range model he had glimpsed the day before running away from him on the pavement of the rue de l’Hirondelle. This man, since his injury was to foot, rather than mouth, was the first to speak.

Two young Arabs, someone’s sidekicks, still wet behind the ears. Once their guns were gone, they lived in a world of total fear. John
had no need to insist. At the first question, Pierced-Foot confirmed they were working for Alan’s dealer.

“We just do what we’re told.”

“And what’s his name?”

Pierced-Foot turned to Hoodie.

“Fouad, from the Quatre Mille estate.”

“Fouad
what
?”

“… Boukrissi. Man, we’re just doing what we’re told, that’s all, we never worked for him before. He usually gets these other people to do it.”

“And what did he tell you to do?”

“Get the cash. Wait at the café and ask for the money.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“The picture, man, he gave us a photo.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kamal.”

“You’ve got the photo?”

Pierced-Foot twisted round with a grimace of pain. The cloth was drenched with blood already and dripping into the basin again. From his jeans pocket, he pulled out a folded print. Alan and John. Venice Beach. Sunshine. Ten years back. John’s head was ringed with felt pen and above it someone had written in capitals JOHN P. NICHOLS. He clutched the photograph tightly.

“How did Boukrissi get hold of this?”

“Shit, man, I don’t know. He told us to pick it up from this letter-box in a block of flats, that’s all. So we did. We didn’t want to … He just told us to wait at the café, give you a scare, and get hold of the five thou, and if we got it, to contact him and we’d get one thou for us. Then he told us you were in here, and we had to start again. Look, we gotta go to
hospital
, you can’t leave us like this.”

From the stove came a groan of agreement, stopped in its tracks by a growl from Mesrine.

About twenty-five years old, not-so-tough tough guys. A thousand euros and perhaps, if they were successful, jobs as a gangster’s errand boys. They’d already had it. Their career as hard men was over before it had started. As if John, still less Bunker, could give a toss about their future.

“How did he know I was here?”

“Don’t know.”

“You weren’t at Saint-Michel this evening.”

“No, he said to wait, not to go there. He sent us a text, told us you were here, that’s all. That’s how he contacts us. We don’t get to meet him. Two days, Fouad’s been sending us these messages. A bit of cash, that’s all we were in it for. For fuck’s sake, man! I’m in pain! I need a doctor.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

Kamal turned to his pal, his panic meter at red. Two useless sidekicks. All they were supposed to do was scare him off. First with fists. But the second time, they’d come with guns. Higher stakes.

Bunker moved towards the door and signalled to John to follow.

“Son, you really want to call the police?”

“No, it was just to frighten them.”

“Well, glad to hear it. But these two? They’re already scared to death. They won’t say no more, they know fuck all about anything. Your dealer there, he’s not stupid, he’s covering himself, sending these two clowns. It’s clear enough. They’re just working for a dealer who wants his money, no more to it. What you want to do is, you just go away, don’t get mixed up in this, or someone else is going to get themselves killed.”

“All this just for the money? That can’t be it.”

“Hell, son, when you get an idea in your head, it’s hard to shift it.”

“What?”

“You’re so damn stubborn. What the fuck else do you want to do?”

“Talk to the dealer, talk to Hirsh, ask that girl some more questions.”

“Talk to the dealer? Are you off your head? Set foot in the Quatre Mille, you won’t get out alive. These two, they got nothing to do with your pal’s death. Come on, son, he done himself in. He’d had enough … you’re just stirring up trouble for nothing.”

“Alan mentioned this photo in his last letter to me. Why? And who followed me here, if it wasn’t them?”

“Search me, but that’s not going to bring him back.”

“No, I know.”

“I wonder what you
do
know. You’re holding out on me, aren’t you, not telling me everything?”

“I’ve just got this hunch, Bunk. I can’t tell you yet.”

Bunker ran his hand through his white hair.

“Son, way I see it, eggheads like you, they shit their pants when someone pulls a gun on them, right. So why do I get this idea that you’re not a fucking shrink after all?”

John smiled

“Cos I am a fucking shrink.”

The old lag rubbed his scar, which reacted painfully to trouble, like rheumatism to rain.

“That’s what you say. I’ve met blokes like you, think they know it all. Well, you’re not running fast enough, cowboy, let me tell you.” He thought for a moment, still rubbing at the white line running across his wrinkled face.

“These two losers, right, we chuck ’em back on the street, and they’ll just have to take their chances, there’s a hospital not so far away.”

“That’s all?”

“We get the dealer’s address off ’em first, if that’s what you want.
One more thing, I’m helping you, son, O.K., but if I land back in jail because of you and your pal, the fakir guy, there’s another promise I’ll keep. You’ve had it. No exceptions.”

Bunker looked genuinely sorry to have made this point.

“Bunk, what accent do these kids have, where are they from?”

“They’re from some estate in the suburbs, son, it’s not a country.”

Back inside the cabin, the blood was still silently seeping into the basin. Bunker played with his cosh, swinging it to signify a more relaxed atmosphere. He had taken charge now.

“You, the cripple, where does this Fouad hang out?”

Kamal tried to summon up some saliva in his mouth, his lips were dry, he was sweating and shivering.

“He’s got lots of addresses, pal. We never know where he is. That’s the truth.”

“Respect! Like for my big friend here. I’m
not
your pal. So how do you get in touch with him, then?”

“Just by phone. But Fouad, you don’t call him, if he doesn’t call you.”

“You give us the number, and we’ll do you a little favour, right. No police.”

Hesitation.

Hoodie, with his dislocated shuddering jaw, and eyes wide open, was trying to find a convincing expression.

“Oh! Oh Oh-ee!”

Kamal seemed to understand.

“No police.” He pulled a mobile from his pocket, and Bunker snatched it.

“Not on. What’s the code?”

He gave them the code.

“Take us to hospital?”

“You get yourselves there, one of you can walk and the other can talk. What name on the phone?”

“François.”

“Fantastic. And your names?”

“Kamal Aouch and he’s Nourdine. Nourdine Aouch: he’s my kid brother.”

Bunker smiled, without joy.

“Unemployment, brother, is the mother of vice.”

John stationed himself at the south gate. 4.00 a.m. He waited a moment, then gave them a sign. Shoved from behind by the keeper and his dog, the two injured brothers dragged themselves to the exit. Bunker had put on his cap to look official. He unlocked the gate and let John have the last word.

“We hear another peep out of you, we call the cops. You find some excuse at the hospital,
don’t talk
, don’t mention us at all.
What do you
(Oh fucking French! I’m too tired to speak it. Shit!), what do you do to contact Boukrissi?”

“A text saying
O.K
., and the money in the letter box if we had it.
GONE
, if we didn’t find you.
P.B
. if there was a problem, and …”

Kamal stopped. He was meeting some resistance at the level of his conscience.

“What else?”

“
OVER
, if there was a different problem.”

Over
. A little text message, in case by any chance one of these two motherfuckers had put a bullet in his brain. The idea amused him. Bunker took hold of the Aouch brothers, Kamal the legless and Nourdine the speechless, and pushed them into the street. They collapsed in a heap, then got back up and, stifling their moans, made their way up the road, a three-legged pair.

Risky to let these two go free. But they didn’t have a whole lot
of choice, and the last thing they would do was go to the police. If they reported to Boukrissi, he didn’t mind if they said “over”.

“Son, I’m going to bury the guns. After that, not a peep out of you either. I’m going to sleep. And I get the bed.”

John emptied the basin of blood at the foot of a tree and went back in. He pushed the table against the wall and spread his blanket on it. He lay down slowly, lowering his ribs one by one onto the wooden boards.

Bunker came in without a word, his hands stained with earth. He hung his cap on a nail, took off his shoes and lay down fully dressed. Mesrine stretched out with a snort, burying his muzzle in one of his master’s shoes.

“Listen, son, it took me fifteen years to find this place. There’s nothing in the world to beat a one-room cell. And if I heard right, you’ve got one like this down in the Lot. Well, you better get back there. The guns are under the tree where I found you. And the day you use them, you won’t never come back here.”