The Cyclist (26 page)

‘And if the killing is just? In God’s eyes? How can it not be?’

‘Killing for vengeance is not man’s role here on earth. Vengeance is God’s. Men like Brunner will never enter the afterlife and all you would do by taking the law—God’s and the State’s, into your own hands is to join him in Hell.’

‘You knew Bernadette?’

‘Yes, of course. I christened her. I held her in my arms just so,’ the priest said, as he formed a cradle with his arms. ‘I confirmed her too. You may recall her singing in the choir. The voice of an angel.’

The priest sighed. Auguste looked in his face. He could see unmitigated sadness as if the old man mourned the girl as much as Auguste felt he did.

Presently, Auguste said, ‘Père Bernard. If I do nothing, that monster will kill more girls for his depraved pleasure. I know it and I must stop it.’

‘For whom do you want to do this? To protect others? For God? Or is it for yourself? I cannot force you to any course of action, only warn you of the consequences.’

‘Do you not think God is more forgiving of us than the Church would have us believe?’

‘The Almighty Father forgives everyone.’

‘Then how can Hell exist?’

‘You are truly like Thomas Didymus my son. You want my reassurance God will forgive you for killing another with forethought and for revenge. I cannot give it. Is there no way to change your mind?’

‘All I know is Bernadette has a right to justice. In this war, justice has died. Evil sits in the Mairie and laughs at us. I have to eradicate it and I believe it is God’s justice as well as man’s.’

‘It saddens me to hear your determination. I will pray for your immortal soul and beg the Lord’s forgiveness. I understand why you want to do this, as any man would, but I cannot condone it.’

‘And the Maquis? Are they outside the Church’s grace too?’

‘Many of them are Jewish and Communists. They are not of my flock. If they do their work with Christ’s name on their lips they are mistaken.’

Auguste stood up. Père Bernard looked up at him and shook his head.

‘Go with God. I pray He will turn you away from this course of action.’

‘Goodbye Father,’ Auguste said.

He reached the bars of the cemetery gates and the rusty hinges made a sound like the groans of a dying man to his ears. He did not look back. He felt lonelier now than when he had parked his car outside. The sun hid behind a shroud of dark grey clouds and he reflected it might be symbolic. He had not lost his faith in God but he wondered whether the Church had let him down and eclipsed his only hope of salvation.

In the car, he thought about his conversation with Père Bernard. It had been foolish to imagine the priest would collude with his plan. He trusted the old man to keep silent but he questioned his wisdom in confiding in anyone, holy orders or not. He thought he would not tell Odette what the priest said. She would abhor the risk in any case and she had similar principles to her priest, Auguste knew that.

Chapter 22

1

Odette cleared the table. She was efficient. In less time than Auguste would have taken to get the plates and cutlery out she had washed up and put everything away. Auguste, sitting at the kitchen table felt the surface with a flat hand. He noticed a scratched area where as a teenager he once scrawled the name of a girl. Enamoured by her he had etched her name at every opportunity and could think of nothing but her for weeks. His father had used his belt to discipline him and tonight, he realised he was no different himself. Had he caught his thirteen-year-old son carving a name on his kitchen table he had no doubt about his feelings.

He got up and retrieved his walking boots from the porch. He sat back down in the kitchen and began lacing them.

‘Where are you going? It’s almost ten o’clock,’ Odette said.

‘I told you. I need to meet Pierre. I need to know the best route to take when we leave.’

‘Are we really going? Leaving our whole lives behind? I don’t know how I feel about going away. I have lived here all my life. So have you. There is Zara’s schooling too. She will lose everything.’

‘We have to go. We have Monique to think about and now I have pursued Brunner, our lives will be in danger. We can’t stay.’

‘Are you sure about this? Is there no other way?’

‘No. As long as we are alive and together it will be alright.’

She crossed the kitchen. She stood over him until he had laced his boots. He stood and took her into his arms. He kissed her on the cheek and she hugged him as if they were parting for a long time.

‘You think Pierre will be there?’

‘If the old poacher got the message to him then he will come. Did you know Dufy was a teacher once?’

‘A teacher?’

‘Yes, but he likes to drink and he lost his job.’

‘So?’

‘I mention it only because it shows what kind of small-minded place we live in. It may be good for us all to get out. Get away from the Germans anyway.’

Odette stared at the floor. She said nothing. Auguste had no need of imagination to understand what she must have felt. He knew. A grain of sorrow persisted in his mind but he valued his principles too much to abandon them. It was not at any cost, he reassured himself as he shut the backdoor. It was perhaps at the cost of leaving his home behind, but staying was becoming impossible.

2

He felt for his gun in his pocket. He gripped it as he walked. It gave a firm metallic reassurance. He was a good shot but he knew he would hesitate to shoot anyone, even a German soldier. He walked the path through the first section of forest and turned left at a tall pine tree. He knew the tree well. It was older than he was and he recalled how he had carved that girl’s name there too. Foolishness of youth.

For a second he thought he heard a twig snap behind him. He stopped. He strained his ears to listen. Light descended from a half-moon high above but the trees grew close together and little light illuminated where he stood. An eerie silence enclosed him. He waited, wondering if perhaps Pierre was following him. No more sound. He wondered if he had imagined the sound. He continued his walk. He missed his dog, but he knew even if she had been here, she could not come with them to Switzerland. A dog would have been a liability.

Fifteen minutes later, he reached a moss-covered tree stump. It stood at the side of a small clearing, a dark coffin shape in the moonlight. The long shadows of the pine trees drew a spider’s web pattern on the grass and he looked up at the moon. He wondered why the moonlit sky betrayed a red tinge behind the screen of black, waving boughs whispering together above him in the breeze.

Auguste stamped his feet. He looked at this watch and the luminous dial showed it was five minutes to ten. He waited. Sitting on the tree stump, he searched in his pocket for his cigarettes. He refused to admit to himself he was back in the habit of smoking, but had bought another pack on the way home in any case.

He tapped the end of a cigarette on the box to remove the loose tobacco and placed it in his mouth. He lit the Gitanes and inhaled. The smoke was thicker in this cold and he saw it rise like a plume of dense white as he sat on the tree stump. The damp of the moss seemed to penetrate and he felt his backside to see if it was wet.

A sound. It struck his ears like a drum in the silence surrounding him. Another sound; this time unmistakeable. A loud whisper. He looked over his shoulder in the direction from which the sound had come. More silence. He stood, facing the sound.

‘Pierre?’ Auguste said in a whisper loud enough to be heard.

‘Keep still,’ the voice came.

‘Pierre, it’s me. Where are you?’

‘Here.’

Auguste spun around and heaved a loud sigh.

‘Pierre, why did you sneak up like that?’

‘I needed to circle you to make sure no one followed you.’

‘No I wasn’t followed. I did hear a single twig snap behind but it was fifteen minutes away and there was nothing more.’

‘What have you made me risk my life to hear Auguste?

‘Are you not relieved to see me unscathed after the bombing?’

‘Of course I am. I knew you were unharmed. Come old friend, what am I doing here?’

‘I have to get the girls and Odette out.’

‘Where to?’

‘I plan to get to the Swiss border. I have those letters of transit. I can get Odette and Zara across and I plan to take Monique overland south of Geneve. They can’t police the entire border and there will be places to cross over.’

‘It is possible, but how will you get there?’

‘We will walk.’

‘It is over five hundred kilometres. With two children, how do you propose to do that? Even twenty kilometres a day, it will take a month. You will never get past the road blocks and the German patrols near the border without help.’

‘Can you get us out then?’

‘Impossible now. Since we killed that German bastard a lot of people will not support us. The escape lines are stalled for the time being. Why don’t you wait? In a month or two...’

‘I can’t wait. I have to settle a score with Brunner.’

‘The SD Major?’

‘Yes. He tortured and raped Bernadette Leclerc, I told you.’

‘Yes you say so endlessly. I thought you were going to arrest him.’

‘Judge Dubois is protecting him.’

‘Dubois? That is news. I will pass it on. So he is a collaborator. But Brunner goes free?’

‘No. I will kill him.’

‘You? Don’t be stupid.’

‘Yes. I cannot leave unless I do it. Bernadette must have justice.’

‘Don’t bother. My people can do it and we won’t even charge you a fee.’

‘No. it is something I have to do. I started the investigation. He boasted about it to me and I must do it.’

‘Don’t be foolish, man. You would risk everyone you love to get vengeance?’

‘No. It is a matter of honour and justice. He has to know why he is to die. You think I would endanger my very soul if I did not feel strongly?’

‘How will you do it?’

‘I haven’t decided. I will do it.’

‘Sounds half-baked to me. I will try to persuade my men to look out for you. When do you leave?’

‘Tomorrow night or maybe the night after, it depends on whether I can get Brunner on his own.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘We will need some route maps and some idea of where the patrols are. It is not information I can get without arousing suspicion.’

‘You leave tomorrow night?

‘Yes, we will drive to St Andre and bypass the Sarlat road and then head towards Lyon. There are no roadblocks on that road. After Lyon, we head for the mountains until we turn north. I don’t know the way after that.’

‘I will send someone to guide you. We will watch to see when you go. As you drive up the Cazenac road, look out for a man with a torch. If you are lucky and you have the support of my friends, you might be able to drive all the way. We’ll see what they say.’

‘Pierre, Monique will be safe. I swear it.’

‘You cannot swear to something out of your control. But I hear you.’

Auguste stepped forward and embraced his friend. Uncertain for a moment, Pierre kept his hands at his sides but seemed to change his mind. They embraced like brothers and when they broke, Auguste said, ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You don’t need luck you need divine intervention.’

‘Ha.’

‘Good hunting my friend. I will see you again.’

‘Yes.’

Pierre looked over his shoulder and strode into the darkness around the clearing. Auguste lost sight of him in seconds. Standing alone, he lit his last cigarette and walked towards the tiny path where he had emerged into the clearing. He wondered whether his communication with Pierre had been worth the risk. He might have written it down and sent it via Dufy, had it not been for the danger of any writing these days. If a written message fell into the wrong hands, all would have ended. Ended with pain and death.

3

He reached the tall pine tree. He heard the sound of a soft footfall behind. He stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Waiting, he placed his hand inside his coat pocket, gripping his pistol. His thumb slid the safety catch to ‘off’. When it happened, it made him jump.

‘Stop. Put your hands up or you’re a dead man.’

He let go of his pistol. He put up his hands. Listening, the night was dead and nothing moved.

A faint lunar radiance surrounded him and all around was bible-black. He wondered whether, if he leapt to one side out of the patch of moonlight, he would be invisible to his assailant, but he hesitated. He did not know how many he faced. They could encircle him for all he knew. Silence surrounded him. The absence of sound convinced Auguste he had to get away. He wondered later whether Pierre’s “divine intervention” played a part in the events that stimulated his actions.

An owl screeched close by. The sound, like a baby crying made him jump. It was a split second decision, but he made it. He risked much then. He threw himself headlong. He rolled. His body did not stop until it came to rest against a log. Lifting his head, bushes scratched him and he realised he lay hidden, by luck or by design, he had no inclination to decide. Auguste knew he had no time to reflect either.

A shot rang out in the wood. Like an icon lit by candle’s light, he saw a figure illuminated for the fraction of a second by the flame from the barrel of a gun. In silence, he drew his weapon from his pocket. Arms up in front, leaning on his elbows he pointed his weapon. Silence. Black, dark silence.

Auguste felt the ground around him. A deadwood branch lay close. He gripped it with his left hand, keeping his weapon pointed in the direction of the gunman. In silence, he launched the stick. He heard it fall into a bush to his right.

Another shot rang out, but he saw it before he heard it. He fired at the ghostly figure. It was a split second reaction, a reflex and he heard a cry. It was a cry of pain.

Had he killed or disabled his attacker? Uncertain what to do next he knelt in the underbrush. All was quiet. Listening, no sound broke the palpable, solid silence around him.