Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé (39 page)

Once more Inès turned to Saïd. ‘Now take me to my son,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday, 28th August, 11.40 a.m
.

NO TREADMILLS TODAY
. That’s peculiar: Usually here, inside the whale, the sound is a constant heartbeat. And yet, it is not silent. There seems to be a crowd outside – a market? I don’t think so. Every crowd has a certain pulse, a recognizable tempo. A congregation sounds different from a marketplace, a sporting event, a playground, a classroom—

I cannot make out individual voices, but it seems to me that the crowd is large – perhaps even as many as a hundred people, up there, in the real world.

In spite of my increasing fatigue, I cannot help feeling curious. The cadence of the voices suggests that some are French, some Moroccan. What would bring so many people out on to the boulevard?

Once more, I go back to the air-vent, where I can hear them more clearly. There is nothing to see from here, though: just the brick of the opposite wall and a few dandelions growing between the stones. I crane my neck to see more. Nothing. A demonstration? Some of the voices sound angry; others merely excited. But there’s a resonance in the air, like a string tightened to breaking point. Something is about to snap.

Once more I try to see through the grille. If I stand on the pyramid of crates, I can just see, in the blurry corner of the screen, a vague impression of movement, of shadows flirting with the ground.

‘Maya?’ My voice is almost gone. It sounds like a broken clock movement, clicking at the back of my throat. Calling for help is futile. Even at its most powerful, my voice could never cut through the noise. And yet—

That impression of movement again, this time closer, and accompanied by a pair of feet. I know they are not Maya’s. Under the hem of the long black robe, a pair of pale-blue sneakers.

‘Hey!’ I rasp in my ruined voice. ‘Down here!’

A moment’s pause. Then a face appears at the grille. It takes me a few seconds to recognize Inès Bencharki’s daughter. In those black headscarves, it’s sometimes hard to tell who’s who, and besides, the child has never spoken to me. I’m not even certain of her name.

The dark eyes widened, then came a smile, almost startling in that solemn little face.

‘So
you
’re Maya’s Jinni!’

That’s wonderful. I’m so glad my situation amuses you. I’ll have you know that so far I have granted all three of her wishes—

Another flurry of movement. A second pair of sneakers, or what might have been sneakers at some time or other. Now they are as grubby and disreputable as the face appearing at the grille. Jean-Philippe Bonnet, I presume, otherwise known to some as Pilou.

‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I think it’s a riot. It’s awesome.’

Awesome
. What a word. All I need now is the damn dog.

‘We came here to get Vlad out of the way. He doesn’t like crowds.’

My wish has come true. A snuffling nose now appears at the grille, tipped with a wet black truffle. Vlad barks.

‘It’s OK,’ says Pilou. ‘They’ve come to get you out of here.’

‘What?
All
of them?’

‘Kind of. I think some people just came for the ride.’

That’s even better. Witnesses. When I walk out of here, dripping wet, with a three-day beard and a face like death, naturally the first thing I will want to see is half of Lansquenet, gawping at me. To say nothing of the police, or the fire brigade, or whoever else may have joined the circus. And Père Henri – will
he
be there too? Oh my God. Just take me now.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m
awesome
.’

‘Hang on. It won’t be long now.’

Suddenly, there comes a man’s voice close by, over the rumbling of the crowd. He is speaking Arabic, but I know Karim Bencharki’s voice. There comes a violent scuffling; the dog barks; the boy’s face withdraws; the long black robe blurs with dust. The pale-blue sneakers skid backwards in a sudden arc, then vanish from sight.

‘Hey!’ That’s the boy’s voice. ‘Hey! What are you doing?
Hey!
’

And then the girl begins to scream. The dog is still barking furiously, and for a moment the scuffed sneakers seem to indicate that some kind of tussle is going on. Then, there is a heavy thud; the boy falls against the wall. His head hits the ground just centimetres from the grille; I see blond hair; the curve of a cheek; a single, crawling line of blood.

Then a silence, deafening, even against the noise of the crowd.

And the door to the cellar swings open.

Saturday, 28th August, 11.40 a.m
.

The scent of chlorine was like a slap after the dusty heat outside, and the light was so dim in comparison that it took me a few seconds to adjust before I could see clearly. A big, bare room, once painted white, but now mostly grey and patched with damp, with a row of machines to one side – treadmills and cross-trainers – and on the other, a rack of free weights. Right at the back of the room, two doors, one leading to the changing rooms, the shower room and the storage cellars; the other leading out on to the walkway that links all the riverside houses.

Roux led the way. Inès followed us. Joséphine was close behind, with Zahra trying to stop the crowd from entering the gym. Outside, I could hear Omi protesting: ‘
Hee
, will someone let me through? This is better than Bollywood!’

I turned to Saïd. ‘Where’s Karim?’

‘He went out by the back door. The priest is in the cellar.’

I looked at Roux.

‘Get Reynaud,’ he said. ‘I’ll go out and find Karim.’

Saturday, 28th August, 11.45 a.m
.

The cellar was flooded and smelt of rot, wet plaster and the river. There was barely any light. Standing on a pile of crates on the far side of the room, Reynaud looked like a shipwrecked sailor on the smallest of islands; his face a distant blur of dismay, his hands outstretched as if in entreaty.

When he realized who we were he jumped down into the water – it was almost up to his shoulders – and started to move towards us. He moved as if exhausted; one hand raised to shield his eyes. He looked like a man in the throes of a nightmare so vivid that he no longer even dares to believe that he may ever awaken.

‘Quickly,’ he rasped in a broken voice, as soon as he reached the cellar steps. All but the top two were submerged; he managed to climb halfway up, then stumbled and fell in the water. Joséphine took one of his arms. I took the other, and together we managed to haul him on to his feet and up the steps.

‘Quickly,’ he repeated.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You’ll be all right.’

In fact he looked anything but all right. His face was pale beneath the three-day growth of beard. His eyes were screwed shut against the light, and his breathing was harsh and asthmatic. A fit of coughing seized him, and for a moment all he could do was double up, trying to breathe.

‘You don’t understand,’ he told me. ‘Joséphine’s son. The Bencharki girl—’ Once more he succumbed to an attack of coughing, gesturing wildly with his hands.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He tried again. This time his voice was stronger. ‘Karim took the girl. In the alleyway. Pilou tried to stop him. I think he’s hurt.’ He waved an arm at the far wall, and I understood where he was pointing; to the narrow passageway that links the boulevard to the riverside. I knew it well; it was the place where Maya claimed her Jinni lived—

Inès was already out of the door that leads on to the walkway. Joséphine had dropped Reynaud’s arm, but stopped when he fell to his knees again.

‘Francis—’

He waved an impatient hand. ‘Don’t waste time. Just get the boy!’

And then, we both heard the screaming.

Saturday, 28th August, 11.45 a.m
.

My eyes are unused to this dazzling light. The single bulb from the corridor has become the midday sun. I shield my gaze against it, but even so, it feels like looking into the eye of God. And against the brightness, three figures stand, enclosed in a triple corona of light—

I recognize Vianne and Joséphine. But who is the third? Could that be Inès? But the nimbus that surrounds her makes her hard to recognize, and the long robe looks like folded wings. Have I seen an angel? Much as I would like to believe in the possibility of a divine intervention, there is no time at present. I manage to tell them what happened – at least, enough to alert them to the danger Karim presents. The three of them run to intervene – I hope they are in time,
père
– leaving me at the top of the steps, half in and half out of the water.

The last of my strength is spent,
père
. A part of me just wants to die. But this is Lansquenet – like God, it will not let me go so soon.

Outside, I hear cries of alarm coming from the river. What is happening out there? I try to haul myself to my feet, using the side of the door for support. But my legs do not work any more; my head spins; my eyes hurt. And then I hear the sound of footsteps in the corridor; voices exclaiming in Arabic; the sound of the whale as it surfaces—

The light is still too bright for my eyes. All I can see are robes and feet; sandals, slippers, moccasins. These are the feet of my enemies. They will trample me into the dust.

A hand clasps my outstretched right arm.

‘
Alhumdullila
,’ says a voice.

Second only to Père Henri on the list of people I’d rather not see, it is Mohammed Mahjoubi. He lifts me from out of the jaws of the whale, and though the light still hurts my eyes, now I can see him quite clearly: white beard; white robe; face like a Gospel of wrinkles—

‘Thank you, I can manage,’ I say.

And then I go out like a candle.