The Blasphemer: A Novel (20 page)

Northern France. Last Wednesday of April, 1918

AS AN ACT OF WILL, THE MARKET TOWN OF NIEPPE HAS CHOSEN TO
ignore the Great War, meeting its psychopathic rages with a shrug. Though German, French and British soldiers have, in their turn, marched through its square, they have carried on marching, visitors passing through. The town’s only acknowledgement of the conflict comes in what it does not have. There is no water in the fountain and a tall building on the corner of the Rue de Bailleul has been stripped of its roof tiles by a stray shell, leaving a ribcage of charred beams. The window in the charcuterie has straw and empty crates on display – but the only meat hanging upside down from a hook is a solitary hare still in its fur. There are teenage boys running errands and old men sitting outside cafés playing dominos, but no young men. The streets are empty of them.

One of the few is a relative newcomer to the town, a bearded Englishman. Every morning he shoulders the haversack that holds the tools of his trade – a wrench, a set of spanners, a pair of canvas work gloves – and cycles from his lodgings on the Rue des Chardonnerets to wherever his work is taking him that day. He always rides his bike back home for lunch, however inconvenient the journey.

This is what he is doing as the church bells peel noon. In his basket is the baguette he has promised his landlady, Madame
Camier. She is a widow, her husband having been atomized by a German shell at Verdun. Andrew feels protective towards her. After her husband’s death she had volunteered as a nurse at an advanced dressing station, but had been sent home on permanent medical leave after only four months: shrapnel having severed her left arm at the elbow. She was awarded the LÉgion d’honneur in compensation.

Andrew speaks little French and Madame Camier little English, but over the months they have been living under the same roof they have developed a non-verbal language, one of exchanged glances and suppressed emotions. There is a formality to their relationship that they both find reassuring. He addresses her as ‘madame’, she calls him ‘monsieur’. Sometimes they listen to songs on the gramophone, or play cards, or read books, but more usually they sit together in companionable silence watching the fire burn down in the grate, listening to the echoey throb of a longcase clock. When nothing is left but embers, Andrew will bid her ‘
Bonne nuit
’, and she will say ‘Goodnight’ – their private joke. They go to their separate rooms, she to her double bed with its brass frame, he to his single – and she will sometimes hear him screaming and wonder whether she should go in and comfort him. She did once and found him drenched in sweat, his eyes wide open in terror, still asleep.

Some of her neighbours were scandalized when she took in the young plumber from England. But she ignored their stares and whispers. Her neighbours had never been particularly friendly towards her anyway, coming as she did from another part of France, the Pyrenees. That was where she had met her husband, a cloth merchant on a business trip. He brought her back with him to Nieppe, away from her family and friends. They had two children and both were stillborn. Hers had been a lonely life, until Andrew Kennedy knocked on her door. Her late husband’s clothes were a perfect fit.

Andrew is wearing them now as he cycles home through the sunlit morning: a leather jacket over a collarless shirt and waistcoat, a handkerchief knotted around his neck, a beret. His route takes
him past the Château de Nieppe, a Flemish structure with gothic gables and a slender turret. He slows down to stare at it, as he always does, then freewheels along a cobbled path that leads him under a row of overhanging timber-built shops, their bellies bulging out into the street, casting it in permanent shadow. By the time he reaches the market square, the vibrations of the handlebars have left the palms of his hands pleasantly tenderized. As he crosses, the only sound, apart from the squeak of his brakes, is the clatter of a rope against a flagpole, paying out slack, then taking it up. Attached to it is a Tricolour, flapping lazily, stirred by a gritty breeze. The red, white and blue bands look beautiful to Andrew against the cloudless sky. Ugliness, the flag says, has no place here. An old man studies the young plumber from a bench by the market cross, his grizzled chin resting on his hands which, in turn, are balanced on top of a cane. The pug by his side looks up and trots towards the cyclist, its hackles raised.

‘
Bonjour
,’ Andrew calls out.

The old man nods and calls his dog back. It returns immediately, satisfied its territory has not been compromised. Andrew continues up between the line of gas lamps and poplars on the Rue d’Armentières and on past the town’s unofficial tip – a discarded perambulator, a bicycle wheel, some bedsprings and a pile of rotting apples. He turns on to the canal path, a short cut to his lodgings, parks his bike up against the back wall, removes his clips and tucks the baguette under his arm. Madame Camier’s house is not large but with its cream walls and blue-painted shutters it has a certain dignity and presence. When he reaches its gate, Andrew takes off his beret and flattens down his hair. He can see Madame Camier in the kitchen wearing a high, lacy collar under a damp pinafore. She is lifting clothes off a washboard laid across the sink. Her hair is pinned up but stray strands are hanging down and, as she emerges into the melting sunshine carrying a clothes basket under her arm, she blows at them out of the corner of her mouth. Her lips are not full but there is a softness to her face, an aura of downy hair that catches the light. She feeds a sheet into a mangle set up in the yard and, as she straightens her back afterwards, rests
her hand on her hip, splayed fingers pointing backwards. She holds the sheet, now cardboard stiff, by its edges, one corner in her hand, the other in her teeth, and then, with rapid movements, she parachutes it open before snapping it crisply and billowing it out again. Andrew envies the sheet its proximity to Madame Camier. He also relates to its billowing. That is how he feels as he watches her, his soul floating gently outward, riding the warm air. Next she drapes the sheet over the line and puts two clothes pegs in her mouth. As he contemplates her golden, blurred beauty, Andrew forgets to breathe.

Adilah Camier is older than him by fourteen years. She seems taller than she is, the impression of height exaggerated by her slender figure and the coarse hair coiled up on her head. Ghosting in a rhombus of sunlight it looks reddy brown. Normally it is darker. Her brow is beaded with sweat. Andrew sees the highcollared shirt she is wearing has three buttons at the neck. It is pastel green: she no longer wears mourning black. The cuff of her empty left sleeve is pinned up to her shoulder. She frowns. Andrew frowns, too. Of what is she thinking? Her face clears and she smiles to herself. Her thoughts, Andrew concludes, are of him.

He checks his breath against a cupped hand and announces himself with a cough. When she does not hear this, he walks up behind her and places his hand over hers. She does not reel. Perhaps the sight of her late husband’s cuffs reassures her. ‘Allow me,’ Andrew says, taking the peg.

Madame Camier closes her eyes and rests her head momentarily against the young man’s shoulder. He can smell the soap on her skin. Half hoping she won’t notice, he gently touches his lips to the crown of her head. She is breathing through her nose: rapid, shallow breaths. She turns to face him and something passes between them, a pulse, a look of almost sexual intimacy.

He follows her inside past a rocking horse in the hallway, its paintwork bright and unchipped. She carefully clears a space on the kitchen table, lays out two plates and holds the baguette with her knee so that she can cut it. They eat in silence, as though nothing has changed between them.

London. Present day. Four weeks after the crash

THE ONLY PERSONAL TOUCHES IN BRUCE GOLDING’S OFFICE WERE
the signed photograph of Kylie Minogue and the Christmas decorations hung on the large yucca plant on his windowsill. The dust on them revealed that they had been up for more than a year. His desk was untidy: specimen bottles, a stethoscope and several trays stacked with files, magazines and medical books. Bruce himself was partially hidden by a flat screen. In his hands was a PlayStation console. He was wincing and pulling faces when he heard the explosion in the distance. He pushed his chair back on its rollers and swivelled around so that he could look out of the window across the Thames towards Buckingham Palace. There was a pall of black smoke rising over the buildings there. Without taking his eyes off it, he felt for his phone and pressed the conference call button followed by a speed-dial button. When a scratchy voice answered, he tilted his head towards the machine and spoke out of the corner of his mouth: ‘You know those code words we were supposed to learn?’

‘The emergency procedure codes?’

‘Yeah. What’s the one for a bomb?’

*

The van was in flames. Above it was a column of black, bubbling smoke. Daniel removed his sunglasses and watched in confusion as the cars behind it swerved. There was a sudden incongruous smell of fireworks in the air. Nitro-glycerine? Cordite? The flames were fifteen feet high. A water main began spraying. The traffic light across to his right was stuck on green. His iPhone interrupted his thoughts. He put it on speaker.

‘Is that Professor Kennedy?’ It was a woman’s voice, brisk and confident.

‘Associate Professor, actually.’

‘My name is Kate Johnson, I’m a producer at the BBC. I work on
Forum
. I think we met once at a book launch. You were …’

‘Who? I can’t … There’s been an explosion. A car bomb, I think.’

‘Where? Where are you?’

‘Birdcage Walk.’

‘
Shit
.’

Already a cordon of police tape was going up in front of him and a policeman was standing in front of Daniel’s car ordering him with urgent arm signals to drive down Queen Anne’s Gate.

‘Hang on, I have to move,’ Daniel said. The road was now emptying of traffic. His senses sharpening with panic, Daniel saw broken glass ahead of him and looked up to see that some of the windows of the buildings around him had been broken. He found himself heading back down Victoria Street, where he pulled over to allow a convoy of three ambulances with lights flashing and sirens sounding to pass as they headed towards the explosion. There was now a helicopter overhead.

‘I’m seeing pictures of it on
News 24
,’ Kate Johnson said.

Daniel had forgotten she was still on the phone.

‘You OK?’ she added.

Though he had not exerted himself physically, Daniel was short of breath. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Did you see it happen?’

‘Yes. Yeah.’

‘A car bomb?’

‘An explosion. It was a car, yeah.’

‘You better get away from there. They often plant two near each other to maximize …’

‘Can’t move at the moment. Roads are blocked. I’ll wait here.’

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘It was about a hundred and fifty yards ahead of me. A van. Think it was black.’

‘So it wasn’t parked?’

‘No, moving.’

‘Must have been detonated by mistake.’

‘I saw a flash, then saw the van lift off the ground, then I heard this dull thud. Couldn’t see whether there was anyone hurt. There were cars swerving and broken glass everywhere.’

‘Will you talk to one of our correspondents if I give them your number?’

‘Sure.’

‘Stay on the line a sec …’

The significance of the explosion was beginning to sink in. Daniel would have been driving directly behind the van had he not … He pictured the face of the young man at the demonstration. There had been recognition in his wide-set eyes. He had smiled. It was possible that the man had recognized him from his natural history series – that did happen occasionally, a fleeting shadow of uncertainty as they tried to place him. Where was the young man now?

‘Daniel, are you there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m looking at the pictures from the helicopter now. There seem to be three other cars that were caught up in the explosion.’

Daniel saw his reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘What were you ringing about, Kate? It is Kate, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Right. Sorry. We were wondering if you could come on
Forum
tonight. Obviously this bomb might have changed everything but I think it is even more relevant now. We’re discussing religious intolerance and thought you would have a good take on it.’

Daniel tried to sound nonchalant, but he had been hoping for this call for years. ‘So you want a token atheist?’

Kate Johnson did not laugh. ‘We’ve got a good line-up. A
bishop, a Muslim leader and the chief of police. Will you do it?’

‘Sure. Count me in.’

‘Great. It’ll be live so we’d need you at the studios by ten. We’ll send a car. Someone will ring for your address. I’ll give you a proper brief later … Take care.’

As soon as he hung up, Daniel turned on the radio. A news bulletin was being broadcast. Police believed it was a car bomb. Three killed, four including the driver of the van, several injured. Daniel rang his father. Amanda answered.

‘Have you heard?’

‘Daniel?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Heard what?

‘About the bomb. Birdcage Walk. Turn on the TV … I forgot, you don’t have a TV. Put the radio on.’

‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘Four killed … I saw it go off. There was this ball of light then I saw the van lifting off the ground. Can I speak to Dad?’

‘He’s having a nap,’ Amanda said. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

‘No, don’t. Tell him when he wakes up that … I’m all right. Also …’ Daniel hesitated. ‘Tell him I’m going to be on
Forum
tonight. BBC2, ten thirty. I know you don’t have a TV, but if you could tell him.’

‘We do have a TV. It’s in our bedroom.’

Pause.

‘Didn’t know that.’

Pause.

‘He’s always proud of what you do, you know, Daniel.’

‘He is?’

‘Course … By the way, has he said anything to you about his grandfather’s letters? He’s worried about them.’