The Cyclist (25 page)

Auguste wanted the man dead. He wished he had obeyed his impulse to shoot him in the face before the hangings. A few grammes of lead in the man’s brain and he could have solved the problem, but it was not so easy. He pondered how the German had gloated when he described the rape and murder. Auguste wondered whether, had it not been for the wine, he could have shot the man as easily after the executions as he could have before.

And where was his God in all this whirlpool of events and emotions? He thought for a moment he had lost his faith, but the thought did not linger. It would have made it too easy. If he did not believe, he could, without doubting his absence of faith, kill Brunner and never lose sleep over it. Life must be so easy for an atheist. No heaven, no hell. No concept of sin or its consequences. But such was not Auguste’s nature and he knew it. He had doubts, yes, but he did believe in Christ, the Passion, the Resurrection and the Church.

He knew what Odette would say about it all. She was a pragmatist, one who could always see the practicalities of life. She had steered him through his adult life in this way and kept him sane in a mad world. She would advise him to forget. She would tell him it was not now important to avenge Bernadette. The dead look after themselves.

Her question on the previous night rankled now. What was Bernadette to him, or more rightly what had she been? He had not loved her. No physical contact occurred, no promise of sweaty groping in the car. His feelings, he thought, had been innocent, yet her presence had stayed with him long after she had skipped to her mother’s doorway.

Auguste wondered whether he had become a child-chaser; she had been eighteen years old. He was old enough to be her father. The more he thought about it the more he realised it was that connection he had felt. She charmed him and he had fallen for her, but as a father might love a child. He calmed at the thought. It had not been sexual; he reassured himself.

He looked up and realised he had parked his car outside the Prefecture. His driving had been automatic and mechanical, transported far away by the depths of his thinking. He continued to sit in the car. Returning to work now seemed pointless. It had no meaning for him anymore. Without truth and justice, where was the purpose in being a police officer?

He lit another Gitanes inhaling with appreciation. He needed to kill Brunner. He had to get Odette and the two girls away afterwards and it had to be quick. He would do it, but he had to make preparations. They would have to leave as soon as the killing was done.

When? Soon, he thought. He would lure Brunner away somewhere where no one would find his body and then shoot him. In the back? No, too easy. He wanted Brunner to know what was coming and why.

More smoke. But it would condemn his soul forever. It was a mortal sin. It would be unforgivable in the eyes of the Church, in the eyes of God. He also knew his countrymen were fighting a war all around him. Was this not an act of war, to perpetrate on an enemy of his country? Had not millions died through the centuries in the name of God? Did God seek vengeance on soldiers, fighting for the faith? He recalled how in the Bible, Joshua had annihilated whole cities of people, even women and children, in the name of God. Auguste wondered whether he wanted Brunner dead in the name of God or was justice so far removed from God, he was making himself into an instrument of vengeance and ultimately Satanic.

‘No,’ he thought. ‘I know God will forgive me. It is all because I care. I care about the life Brunner took. I care about the evil this man is still free to commit. I believe it will be God’s justice and it is He who commands me, guides me. Brunner must die.’

Auguste felt he needed help. He needed to talk to someone who would not condemn him, who would not judge him. In his mind, he cried aloud for help and there was nowhere to turn. He knew all the likely answers. He knew what everyone in his life might say. He felt a fool. He had little hope if he ran and even less hope if he killed Brunner.

He needed Pierre. Only his childhood friend would know what the next step should be.

Chapter 21

1

Auguste entered Édith’s office at speed. She looked up at him and he made the usual gesture for silence. He indicated for her to accompany him and they went together down the Prefecture stairs.

Outside, Auguste offered her the crook of his arm and she took it, looking at his face as they walked.

‘What is happening Auguste? I have worried all day. Where have you been?’

‘I tried to convince Judge Dubois to prosecute Brunner. He refused.’

‘Did you expect him to agree?’

‘Yes. The Major confessed to Bernadette’s murder. I would have given evidence in court.’

‘It would mean nothing. A man like Brunner would protect himself. He has escaped your clutches, my friend.’

‘He has escaped the law. He has not escaped God’s justice.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I will have to help things along. They know how you and I have worked together for years. After I have done what I must, you may need to get out yourself.’

‘And where would a sixty-year-old widow run to? The south? Lie in the sun, until they come for me one day? Or should I go to England? A place of fog and rain, for the rest of my life? No Auguste, I will not run. They have little or no reason to come for me in any case. Have they not monitored the conversations in your office? They will always think I am an innocent victim of your machinations.’

‘You are certain?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then may God go with you Édith. You have always been loyal and I want you to know...’

‘Don’t say it. It can only cheapen it by speaking it aloud. I have always admired you. You have a capacity for justice not mirrored by anyone else in the Prefecture. If we never speak frankly again, I want you to know I will pray for you.’

He smiled to her and realised she was one of the few people he trusted in all this mess of killing and plotting. It struck him hard. It was as if he had marched through his life without noticing her and here she was, supportive and loyal. He wanted to kiss her but he knew a man who kissed his secretary on the steps of their place of work would raise more than a passing glance.

‘I will never forget you,’ he said.

‘No. I will always pray for you Auguste. I know you are a good man, but we have together, been forced into such a terrible situation. You will not return?’

‘I’m not sure. My justice may take time to execute.’

‘Execute is a good word to my ears.’

‘I still have doubts. I don’t know if I can get my family away.’

‘You must,’ she gripped his lapel, ‘you keep them safe, you hear?’

‘It is all that matters to me now.’

‘Then may God be with you.’

They parted at the Prefecture steps, she ascending and he watching. Emotions rose within him. He still needed help but felt there was no one to turn to. Odette would never agree to his plan. He wondered if the simplest solution would be to ask Pierre to set a bomb under Brunner, but he felt Brunner was his problem alone. It was his duty to ensure Bernadette’s murder was avenged. The Maquis might fail and they would lose more men. No. This was something he needed to face by himself, but the aftermath was the part with which he needed help.

He needed to see Pierre. The only contact he had for that, was François Dufy. He hoped Dufy delivered his message and Pierre would meet him in the forest. He decided to go home. It seemed pointless to be working. He would be away from here soon enough. Even if it looked suspicious to Brunner, he did not care.

2

It was on the drive home he began to have second thoughts. He drove past the church and he felt as if it beckoned him. He pulled up.

He wondered if what he wanted to do was wrong. He was racked with pangs of guilt over the murder he planned. To kill an enemy in cold blood and look him in the eyes as one does it, takes a special kind of man. Pierre was one of those, but Auguste had never killed anyone and he was now eaten by doubts whether he could do it when the time came.

He had known killers. He even flattered himself he knew Brunner but he had never even shot someone in the line of duty. It must be a sin. He was not the most devout and accepting Catholic, but even he knew what the church would say. Mortal sin, eternal damnation and hellfire. Christ had never killed nor had he ever condoned it, yet millions had died in the name of Christ.

He began to agonise over the rights and wrongs, the moral view of what he was about to do. He knew he had made up his mind, but wondered whether he had the strength to carry it out. From his car, he noticed the church doors were open as he drove past. Five minutes later, he turned his car and returned. He parked outside and crossed the street to the church doors. He stood there. Doubt gripped him and he was about to turn away when Père Bernard called from inside the church.

‘Auguste. You have come at last. You have prepared for your confession?’

‘Confession? Oh, yes, that is why I came.’

‘Come then, I will get my things. My surplice is in the vestry.’

Auguste followed and when the priest opened the door, he stood waiting. The wait took him back to his teenage years when he and three other boys had been on meditation. Père Bernard had taken them to a Cistercian monastery in Perigeux. The monastery had been winter-cold and damp and he regretted not bringing enough warm clothes. He recalled how, feeling cold and tired, he sat down with the monks and ate their bread and cheese, wondering what such people would get up to in the evening. The meal finished, the Abbot unlocked a chest standing against the dining hall’s wall. It contained bottle after bottle of red wine, some of it very fine. He learned a great deal about the Church, about theology and about drinking wine. The mental picture made him smile, for he had also learned the infinite capacity the monks possessed to imbibe their local wines.

Père Bernard returned. Auguste made the sign of the cross and the priest followed suit. They entered their separate confessionals and sitting down, Auguste waited, he felt a tension in his stomach and he was sweating. It was like visiting an elderly relative, much loved, but of fearful temper. He could not understand the tension within him. It was only confession. One of thousands in his life, yet there seemed to be something more serious, more significant to him this time. The hatch slid open between them.

Auguste said, ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned. It is three weeks since my last confession and I beg forgiveness.’

‘Tell me your sins, my son,’ the priest said; his voice flat and noncommittal.

‘My venial sins are small and require little discussion: I have a much graver matter to confess’

‘If you require counselling you must make an appointment, you know how to make your confession.’

‘Yes father.’

Auguste admitted his venial sins and cited their circumstances. He explained about his dishonesties, his carnal thoughts and his outbursts at home.

‘But I am in danger of losing my eternal soul, Father, and I need your guidance.’

‘But you have not committed this sin?’

‘No.

‘Then it is a matter for counselling. Your penance is fifty Hail Marys and a gift to the church of fifty francs. God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. Te absolvo in nominis Patris et Filius et Spiritus Sancti.’

‘Father , I need to speak to you.’

Père Bernard said nothing. He blessed Auguste with the sign of the cross and pressed an index to his lips. Puzzled, Auguste followed him to the door of the church. The priest took his arm in a large firm hand and walked him outside.

‘Here, walk into the graveyard with me.’

Still puzzled, Auguste went with him.

Père Bernard said, ‘there is a listening device in one of the confessionals and I cannot find it.’

‘A listening device?’

‘Yes, it has been there a long time but the SD imagine I do not understand.’

‘Father,’ Auguste said, ‘I need your help.’

‘Well?’

‘Is it wrong to take a man’s life if he deserves it?’

‘No man deserves death, you know it.’

Père Bernard patted him on the knee. It brought back memories of a similar conversation when Auguste had been a child. He had enquired about communion and its meaning. Père Bernard had made as much time for the seven-year-old as he might have for an adult.

‘I have already allowed people to be killed by the Nazis by a mixture of indifference and ignorance.’

‘Jews?’

‘Yes.’

‘The indifference is more serious than the ignorance but it would only be mortal sin if it was committed with forethought.’

‘Their blood will be on my hands all the same.’

‘I believe so. It is still not a mortal sin.’

‘How can it be so?’

‘His Holiness has said in his Christmas speech, the Church condemns, and I quote, the marking down for death of people by reason of nationality or race. He did not invite us to take arms against them.’

‘The Church then, does not encourage us to stand up to the Germans for this reason?’

‘What is on your mind Auguste? Here, sit.’

They sat on a stone bench in the graveyard, a weak sun trying to give some warmth from a cold sky. Auguste could hear a pigeon cooing nearby in an old apple tree over the cemetery wall. It reminded him of happier times.

‘Auguste, my son?’

‘Sorry. I... I...’

‘Auguste, tell me what has happened.’

Auguste began with Bernadette’s murder. He explained about the torture, the conversations with Brunner and Brunner’s confession.

‘So he killed an innocent child?’

‘He admitted it.’

‘And now?’

‘He will not face justice unless...’

‘It is a mortal sin and you know it.’

‘But he is a killer. We are also at war with Germany. In war killing is not murder.’

‘You imperil your immortal soul. It is not the fact of killing, it is the premeditation which makes a soldier in battle free of sin and a murderer guilty in the eyes of God.’