Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

Apart from filling up and snatching coffee and sandwiches at service stations, Matt didn’t stop along the nearly six hundred mile journey. He’d treated motorways as Grand Prix circuits wherever he could, travelling unreasonably fast and slowing only when he became aware of highway police vehicles.

  As with all long road journeys the final few miles always seemed to take forever, not helped by the excessive traffic he hadn’t expected. Still, the instructions had been clear enough so he hadn’t wasted too much time having to stop and ask the way. Which was just as well, Spanish was a language he’d given up trying to understand way back in sixth form.

  Miraculously, he was able to park precisely where Gratia identified. How she managed to achieve such perfection in organisation was beyond him. Though he was pleased to have some company tonight, Matt remained cautious as to why she wanted to meet with such urgency.

  He arrived at the designated address and looked up at the building. When Gratia talked of a reservation she obviously meant a suite at the most luxurious hotel in town. While he waited for reception to clear, Matt picked up a brochure and turned to the rates page. Rooms were priced between five to eighteen hundred euros, per night. It didn’t need a genius to work out where they would be sleeping tonight.

  Matt never objected to tipping staff. He did however, resent it when they stood there waiting for more. Perhaps Gratia would let him claim it back on expenses.

  The room, rooms more like, were vast. Replete with dining table, writing desk and hideously large flat screen television, the main living area was almost as big as the ground floor of his house back in Victoria. To the left a separate space housed two king sized double beds, his and hers no doubt. Facilities included an en-suite, tiled from floor to ceiling, boasting both a double shower and the biggest bathtub he’d ever seen. The whole arrangement was obscenely luxurious.

  He wondered how long it would take him to find Gratia, and whether he might need a map. The lights on the balcony provided a likely clue. Matt eased aside the long curtain and found the space devoid of human presence. Then he realised there was no other luggage in the suite. Perhaps he’d made it to Pamplona before her.

  Unperturbed he set about making use of the double shower, allowing his vocal tones licence to fully exercise their lack of melodic consistency. Having repeated the same chorus several times he stepped out to shave, dried himself and dressed into fresh clothes. His late evening raid on the mini bar, more the size of a household refrigerator, secured an attractive looking bottle of white which he opened and deposited on the balcony table. He was about to take up position in the warm night air when he heard the distant knock at the door.

  “You have arrived,” welcomed Gratia.

  The white blouse, another scoop neck, hung loosely from the shoulder. A pair of slim-fitting trousers complemented the well-practised Mediterranean look. With her hair tied up, full make-up and the shimmering colour of her Asian skin she mirrored the photographic perfection of Bollywood stardom. Matt hesitated to touch her for fear of disturbing the vision encamped at the doorway.

  “Perhaps I could enter,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” he stumbled. “Where is your luggage?”

  She offered him a mischievous smile.

  “In my own suite, where you would expect it to be,” she replied.

  “You mean they have another place like this?”

  “No, mine is better.”

  He felt ridiculously out of his depth as he pecked to each of her cheeks. Gratia breezed past him and took one of the plush seats by the coffee table.

  “I’ve opened a bottle of white, out on the balcony. Would you like a glass?”

  “Later, after dinner perhaps,” she said.

  “After dinner, where are we going?”

  No sooner had he spoke then the door rapped again and an entourage started to make its way through the opening. Once the dining table had been set, the guests were politely ushered to their chairs and the staff began service. Matt’s numerous glances across to Gratia during preparation had revealed her level of amusement at his bewildered expression.

  “Aren’t they leaving?”

  “Not until we are finished,” she replied.

  Matt found conversation initially difficult, surrounded as they were by a small platoon of restaurant staff. Gratia, more familiar with such arrangements, opened the conversation.

  “Tomorrow is the encierro. This is one reason I wanted to meet you here,” she began.

  “The what?” he said.

  He glimpsed a smirk on one of the faces of the waiting staff.

  “The encierro, the running of the bulls, part of the San Fermin festival. Surely you have heard of this?”

  He remembered, Pamplona. The place where idiots chose to run through the streets in front of enraged horned beasts.

  “You’re not hoping to run, are you?”

  “Me? No,” she laughed. “It requires far more courage than I possess.”

  “Have you been before?”

  “I come every year. The run is an exciting spectacle, very colourful and energetic. Maybe you might consider doing it one year.”

  Matt tried to picture the scene. He imagined running away from manically charged four-footed beasts within the tight confines of a narrow street, the urgent and excited cries of locals and tourists ringing in his ears as the razor sharp horns approached from behind.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

  She laughed openly, and he enjoyed her amusement. He found it hard to believe that behind the smile lay the hard crust of a gifted, corporate intellect such was her apparent warmth towards him.

  “You will join me tomorrow, yes?”

  “Only if you promise we’ll be well away from the action.”

  “The man who tells me he is content to stand close to wild bears fears the horns of a bull?”

  “I’ve never been stupid enough to get too close to any wild animal. And I’ve no intention of making that mistake with an angry, snorting beast.”

  Her brief smile faded, to be replaced by a more considered look. She looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if she were curious about something. He waited for the question to arrive.

  “Why did you decide to emigrate?”

  “A fresh start mostly,” he said. “I’d reached a point in my life where I needed a change, different scenery and a fresh challenge, that sort of thing.”

  “So why choose Canada? Did you have family there?”

  “No. I’d holidayed in Canada before and grown to like the place, something about the space and the natural environment. Society there is more relaxed than in the UK and the people are friendlier. They speak English too.”

  Gratia seemed happy with his explanation. She was about to question him again when he decided to try and change the subject, in an attempt to avoid further examination.

  “Considering you’re a Chief Operating Officer of a multi-national company you don’t spend much time at the office. Makes a man wonder how any decisions get made.”

  He could see in her eyes she understood this to be a clumsy attempt to shift the direction of the conversation.

  “The mobile and the laptop are my office. In practice, I am required to make few decisions on a daily basis. When it is necessary, I am contacted.”

  “All sounds very hi-tech and very comfortable,” he dryly observed. “Aren’t there times when you tire of this gluttonous excess?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little,” she replied with an amused smile.

  Matt breathed an inner sigh of relief at the success of his blocking tactic. He moved quickly on to draw her into more detailed conversation about Schafen Industries. Gratia described how, since the unexpected demise of Johannes, the company had become increasingly successful at securing profitable Government contracts.

  “Since when have Governments been in the business of shipping goods around the world?”

  “Even Go
vernments have transportation needs.”

  “So you’re really a Civil Servant then?” he teased. “No wonder you can afford all this. No doubt it’s on public sector expenses.”

  Gratia found the quip amusing, remarking that the entire world had become no more than a single market place. She expressed slight mocking surprise at his lack of perception of the global economy.

  “What can I say? One of the handicaps of trading as a small businessman,” he said dryly.

  She gave him an amused grin. Gratia sat back in her chair and gazed steadily into his eyes, as if she were trying to read into his mind. Matt happily accepted the challenge, ensuring his own expression revealed as little as possible. The moment was fleeting and she soon contented herself with moving on to lighter matters. She exhibited no anxiety, betrayed not a scrap of worry. He wondered if her previous concerns had been resolved. Certainly her good humour bore the signs all was fine and good in the world making for an extraordinarily pleasant and intimate evening, despite the attentions of the waiting staff.

  As the dessert dishes were cleared and the coffee served, the conversation fell into a temporary lull. His attention was drawn by Gratia’s right hand moving to the wine glass. She grasped the stem lightly between her fingers and thumb, and proceeded to slide her hand up and down the thin glass stalk in slow strokes. On occasion her fingers slipped upwards to surround the bulbous base of the glass, where they would hesitate briefly, before retreating back down the stem. Each and every stroke was conducted with masterful precision and deliberation.

  He struggled to free his mind from the apparent context of the mesmerising spectacle. If it were deliberate, an attempt to disrupt his train of thought, then it was working spectacularly well. Matt reasoned the movements could be no more than a subconscious act. He looked uneasily back to her face.

  The triumph in her ensuing smile was unmistakeable. He cursed inwardly at the lack of self discipline, knowing she had all too easily succeeded in unsettling his equilibrium. Gratia motioned to inform the waiting staff their presence was no longer required. Matt could only wonder what was to follow.

  As the door closed behind the departing hotel employees, his eyes immediately sought out his dinner partner.

  “Time for a glass of white on the balcony?” he asked.

  She nodded with a deliciously warm smile.

  “Pour the wine and I shall be with you in a moment.”

  He dutifully obeyed, lighting up each of the three candles parked in the ceramic tray, before taking one of the two chairs by the table. He smelt the scent of her arrival long before she took the adjoining seat.

  “Are you ready to answer my questions now?” she asked on joining him, taking a light sip of the white.

  “There’s always tomorrow, the journey was pretty tiring.”

  “Humour me. It is a weakness of mine. Once I have started to read a good mystery I am unable to put it down until I have reached the end.”

  He smiled hesitantly.

  “Okay, maybe a chapter or two.”

  She leaned forward, pressing her elbows on to the table to prop her head in her hands.

  “I am curious as to how Matt Durham suddenly arrived on the planet from seemingly out of nowhere.”

  Matt glanced into her penetrating gaze. Gratia knew exactly when to use the dark texture of her eyes as a weapon. She reached into her shoulder bag and produced a small clutch of papers, placing them onto the table directly in front of him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It is your file.”

  “What file?”

  “Have you forgotten? I have the resources of an empire at my disposal.”

  Temporarily shaken, he glanced at the papers. Though they were few in number, Matt felt it better to resist the temptation to examine them in detail.

  “You are a man without history,” she said authoritatively. “Other than your arrival in Victoria, to assume the legacy of a resident’s estate at the age of thirty, there exist no official details on Matt Durham. Surprising you should inherit a Canadian estate since you have admitted to not having any relatives in the country. Why is that?”

  “Public sector records are not what they used to be.”

  The piercing stare of her dark eyes unsettled him, glaring at Matt as if he were under interrogation from the secret police of a third world state. Despite the flirtation with insecurity she had exhibited on their first meeting, Matt now considered her corporate enemies stood absolutely no chance of survival at all. He chose not to add to the earlier comment.

  “Who are you?”

  “The research tells you who I am.”

  “No it doesn’t. Who are you really?”

  “Matt Durham,” he said.

  “You promised to answer my questions with honesty.”

  “And I have. My name is Matt Durham.”

  A further set of papers fell in front of him, press cuttings by the look. He glanced only briefly before diverting his gaze to the night sky.

  “Are you not going to read?” she said.

  “I don’t understand spoken continental languages, never mind the written word.”

  She picked the second set of papers from the table and proceeded to slam them down before him, one at a time.

  “Man in Hameln, found dead under a tree. Italian resident drowns off the sea at Bussana Nuova. Father and daughter found shot dead at home in Cogolin. Curiously, all of these people resided at the exact addresses identified in the diary.”

  Her voice was even, if slightly raised. Matt realised how bad it looked. He turned and looked into her eyes, a mixture of fear and anger.

  “What is this all about?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Matt, don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

  “Gratia, I don’t know. If I did then I wouldn’t be travelling the length and breadth of Europe visiting these places trying to find out.”

  She was quiet for a moment, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.

  “Did you kill these people?”

  “No.”

  “Did you?”

  “No!”

  Matt deliberately held his gaze so Gratia would know he meant every word. He hadn’t anticipated the next question.

  “Have you?” she asked quietly. “Have you killed people?”

  The subsequent blink was involuntary, and revealing.

  “I need to know.”

  Matt could feel his mind in turmoil, confusion even. This was the one question he didn’t want her to ask, the one he didn’t want to answer. The ongoing silence told her what to expect, but she wanted to hear him admit to it.

  “I remind you of your commitment to answer my questions with complete honesty.”

  There was no escape. To lie would mean an irretrievable breakdown of trust between them. To tell the truth however, could prove to be almost as damning.

  “I’ve learned,” he uttered.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “You have taken human life?”

  “Yes,” he said after a pause.

  Gratia jumped from her seat and strode to the end of the balcony, ostensibly to look out over the rooftops of Pamplona. He reasoned the damage was done but felt he had to try and offer an explanation. He approached cautiously and placed a hand to each of her arms.

  “Gratia …”

  She shook his hands off her body and he allowed them to drop to his side. This night, a night of such enjoyable warmth and intimacy, was turning into an unmitigated disaster. He despaired at the turn of events.

  “I can no longer help you, no longer wish to help you,” she whispered.

  “Whatever the circumstance?” he asked.

  “Whatever the circumstance,” she replied coldly.

  He thought for a few moments.

  “Is it because of your position in life?”

  “My position is irrelevant. I choose not to be involved with someone capable of taking the life
of another human being.”

  “You asked for complete honesty, and I was honest.”

  His hand touched at her shoulder.

  “Take your hand from me,” she ordered.

  Gratia refused to turn and look at him. For what seemed like minutes on end he waited in patient silence, hoping for some sort of conciliatory movement or gesture. There was none. She remained still, her mind so distant they may as well have been standing on opposite sides of the world. There was to be no acceptance.

  Matt walked away and stepped into the brightly lit suite. He placed the keys to the four by four on the desk, retrieved his case from one of the beds and headed for the exit.

  “The suite is already paid for. You may as well make use of it for the night.”

  He lifted his gaze to the ceiling.

  “No,” he said.

  “The obstinate pig re-appears.”

  The jibe irked him. This was no time to fight over verbal insults however.

  “No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You have done enough for me.”

  The handle responded to his touch and the door started to open.

  “How could you?” she called.

  Matt exhaled deeply and shook his head again.

  “I don’t know why. I only know I can.”

  “Did you know these people? The ones mentioned in the papers.”

  “No. The man in Hameln was called Kessler, according to his credit card. The name means nothing to me. He died of a heart attack while I was chasing him. I was told the guy at Bussana Nuova had already left town, so I’ve no idea how he ended up dead in the sea.”

  Matt dropped the case to the floor and turned to face Gratia.

  “The young girl was called Mathilde. I met her by chance, when asking for directions. She offered to help me locate the address and made a call. I was about to enter an alleyway when she pushed by, calling out in French. The man lying in wait fired the shotgun, thinking it was me. Once he’d realised he’d killed his own daughter he turned the gun on himself.”

  A horrified expression crossed Gratia’s face.

  “Mathilde intended to lead me into a trap. For reasons known only to her, she changed her mind at the last minute. If she hadn’t, hadn’t tried to help me, then I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

  Gratia’s gaze darted around his face, trying to understand.

  “Mathilde was a pretty girl. At best she was in her early twenties, possibly late teens. Her last words were to tell me her father had been told I was coming for him.”

  “Who told him that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They stood in silence. Matt couldn’t tell what thoughts were going round inside her head. After a few uncomfortable moments he reached down and picked up the case.

  “You may as well stay for the night,” she said, looking at her watch. “You will not find another room at this hour.”

  Gratia moved to the door. She glanced at him with a look which demanded he step aside. Matt considered holding his ground. She glanced once more with cold disappointment in her eyes.

  “Use the room,” she said. “Then go,” and briskly left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bull Run