Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  He followed with a short right hook to the chin and the man was down. The second officer, older and more senior, was now fiddling with his holster. His fingers were short and clumsy and he was still working the buckle when the tip of Michel’s boot stabbed into his crotch. The man fell face first onto the cobbled sidewalk.

  Michel rolled the writhing body over and stole the Luger handgun that the officer had failed to retrieve. He followed with a fist to the face just to be sure the German behaved, then he aimed, trying to find Kranz, but there were others amid the chaos and he could not risk it. He held the Luger high and fired harmlessly into the air, pop pop pop. Bodies sprawled onto the pavement.

  Michel bounded to his feet and sprinted across the road, into a manicured park.

  Pop pop, pop pop pop.

  They were firing at him now—no doubt Kranz, probably others. Michel slowed enough to face the pistol behind him, pop pop pop, and kept running. Other weapons fired—the louder cracks of rifles, which meant soldiers were in pursuit. The little nibs of lead that would rip through his flesh and come out the other side hit foliage, dirt and wood, and made fft sounds as they zipped past. It was hard to hit a moving target. Michel fired his own final bullet around his body, dropped the empty pistol and kept running.

  He burst through a thin bush on the other side of the park, crossed the road and pounded down a narrow alley. His feet slammed hard on the uneven cobblestones and what had been a twinge in his left knee jarred into something worse. Every movement carried a sharp pain, and there was nothing to be done but continue. Ricocheting stone flecked the back of his head as a deflected bullet whistled past his cheek.

  Voices and gunfire filled the alley from the rear and Michel realized that already he was nearly exhausted, unfit from weeks of recuperation. He turned a corner and ran. He had thirty yards on them, thirty yards without bullets. He turned left again and still no bullets and he felt relief, but the voices and yelling now seemed to come from ahead, getting louder. Michel realized he had turned back on himself. He was running toward the park. He was running right to them.

  He stopped and looked back, along the alley. One way in, one way out. No gaps between buildings. The alley was narrow and dark, the stone stained an insipid black from the soot of charcoal fires inside the homes. It was cold, for the stone was only warmed by overhead sunlight for an hour or two a day. It smelled of piss, too.

  Michel, seemingly with all the time in the world, looked at the wet cobbles beneath his boots and wondered if he was not standing in piss right then. Dog piss? Man’s piss? He did not know which was worse: to be gunned down in a puddle of another person’s or another animal’s piss. Whichever the case, he was done.

  A door opened. It had once been a blue door, but the paint had worn and flaked till what remained was like everything else, caked in soot, so that it was the color of a weary sky that threatened to break out in blue but never did. A round face and stubby hand appeared in the crack. The face looked at Michel, then poked out far enough to glance left then right and back at Michel.

  The woman spoke words in Dutch that Michel did not understand, but he understood the language of gesture, her hand beckoning. He lunged forward and nearly knocked the woman down getting past her and inside. She slammed the door and said something else, the urgency in her voice translating in Michel’s mind to quick, come, come quick.

  He followed her through the lounge and into a hallway. She ripped back a rug from the wooden floor, bent down and pulled a near invisible handle that opened a trapdoor to a stairway. Michel looked at the woman and she nodded. He could hear voices outside. The Germans had arrived. Only now did he wonder if he could trust this woman.

  And why the hell not? She is Belgian, they are German. Enemies. And an enemy’s enemy …

  Michel followed the stairs into a barely lit basement. The woman pushed the trapdoor shut and he heard the rug being thrown into place. Michel continued down. He noticed the warmth. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and slowly the image of a man materialized. A fat man sitting on a chair in front of a crate. He wore nothing but a pair of yellowed underpants. The elastic was shot and a scrotum protruded from the right flap of fabric.

  The man looked at Michel. Though there was surprise on his face, he smiled.

  “Guten tag,” whispered the man. He nodded and gestured to the chair opposite him. Then he looked down, following Michel’s gaze.

  “Hoppla!” he said in hushed exclamation. He tucked his scrotum into his underpants.

  Michel realized the man spoke German in a German accent. He ripped the knife from his pocket and had it unfolded and pressed against the German’s throat in an instant. The man was still smiling, but it was a stupid smile, nervous and scared.

  “You’re a German,” whispered Michel.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “Then tell me who the fuck you are and what you’re doing here and why I shouldn’t slit your throat right now. Right now!”

  41

  The man went to speak but Michel put his finger to his lips. His knife remained against the German’s throat. He could hear footsteps and voices above. Then he heard the woman abusing the soldiers inside her home. Her voice was loud and shrill.

  The soldiers yelled back at her and made threats and still she carried on, utterly fearless. It was surely a way of distracting them. Making them focus on her and not their job. Michel heard furniture moved and doors open and shut, and still the woman’s voice, annoying even from the basement, then they were gone.

  Michel had barely breathed. Now he filled his lungs. He felt a little dizzy with the rush of air, or perhaps it was the rush of relief.

  Michel looked at the German in front of him. “Now. Now you speak.”

  The fat German gulped. “I am Orbart,” he said in a monotone voice. “You do not have to stab me. I do not want to hurt you. I am hiding from them, too. I was a German soldier, but now I am a deserter. They will shoot me if they find me. So you do not have to stab me. In fact, please do not. Please do not stab me.”

  A wanted man. If he was telling the truth, that meant he would not give Michel away, for it would be his own death sentence. Michel relaxed a little. He dropped into the chair opposite Orbart, though he kept the knife high, pointed at the fatty flesh of the German’s throat.

  “Go on. Tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Hiding. I have been hiding for six days. I go up sometimes, but it is safer if I stay here. I call it my dungeon. Margot calls me her dragon. It’s … well, I suppose I should explain, Margot and I … we are lovers. I love her and she loves me, so we are lovers. We are going to marry. But not if Germany wins the war. Then they will find me and shoot me. I know it must be hard to believe, but, whoever you are, we are on the same side. I want my country to lose the war, so that I can be with Margot.”

  “Then you really are a coward,” said Michel.

  Orbart looked at Michel with big dopey eyes that blinked too quickly, and suddenly he was a human. Michel felt a sharp pang of guilt.

  “Jesus …” Michel folded his knife and put it in his pocket. “I guess that does mean we’re on the same side.”

  “Yes, I think we are. Thank you for not stabbing me.”

  “All right, Orbart, nobody is getting stabbed,” said Michel and smiled. “Six days, you say?”

  “I think so. One loses track of time without the sun.”

  “Well, I’m not waiting six days. Soon as it’s night, I’m gone.”

  “Very well. And may I ask why it is you are running from my countrymen. You have an accent, if I am not mistaken. Are you a franc-tireur?”

  “A resistance fighter? No. I’m a soldier. French. British Army.”

  Michel did not know why he was explaining himself to the German. He supposed there was something about the man that was unusually disarming. Perhaps the flesh encircling his face; it made him look jolly and friendly. Then there was the fact he was in his underwear, concealing nothing.

  “Trut
h is, I shouldn’t be here, either. I should be back on the front,” said Michel.

  “We have much in common!”

  “Shh,” hushed Michel. “They might still be up there.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Orbart in a low voice, “I am a little excited. I have not had company other than Margot since she brought me a kitten to be my companion. It kept meowing. It nearly gave me away. Sadly, it is no more. Margot had to …”

  Michel waited and Orbart only shrugged.

  “She killed it?”

  “Yes. Snapped its neck. She did not want to. She did it for me. She loves me very much.”

  Snapped a kitten’s neck for him … I suppose that’s one way to measure love.

  “She couldn’t keep it herself?”

  “She does not like cats. And there are too many strays in Roeselare already. She is an ethical woman. Highly ethical.”

  So the ethical woman snapped the kitten’s neck … makes sense, in a strange, fucked-up way.

  Orbart started wagging his finger. “I have forgotten my manners! Do you want—ah, first, what is your name? What should I call you?”

  “Michel.”

  “Michel, nice to meet you. Do you want some sausage?”

  Orbart reached across and picked up a board with sausage and a knife on it. He took the knife in hand, and Michel watched him without concern.

  “It is mettwurst. Do you like mettwurst?”

  “The dry sausage?” said Michel.

  “Yes, it is smoked. This one is quite good, meant for the officers here in Roeselare. Lots of fat and garlic.”

  Orbart held out a piece and Michel took it. He bit down and chewed. “How did you get it?”

  “Margot gets it for me. She works in the administration of one of our warehouses. A little here and a little there, nobody notices. You know, I’ve tried the British Army rations. Corned beef. I found a can when I was still a soldier, scouring the trenches after a successful advance. Do you like corned beef?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither! Sorry, sorry,” said Orbart, dropping his voice back to a hush. “Those poor men. Having to eat that way. I am surprised they have not lost the war on such rations.”

  Michel snorted, suppressing laughter. “You may have a point. It’s pretty fucking grim at times. Though I hear German soldiers do it tough as well.”

  “It is true.” Orbart cut another piece of sausage and handed it to Michel. “But not the officers, and today we two soldiers eat like officers.”

  “So you’re doing this—staying in a basement eating sausage for God knows how long—just to be with that woman up there? Couldn’t you have waited out the war and then been with her?” said Michel.

  “No, the risk was too great. You must have seen your comrades, there one moment, life snuffed out the next. We never know when it is coming, only that if you stay on the front long enough, the chance of your unlucky day arriving increases every day. What scares me is what it would do to Margot. I don’t want to die, and I am not good with pain, but I would rather die a thousand tortured deaths than hurt that woman up there. She is the light of my life. An angel. A beautiful angel—”

  … a beautiful angel might be stretching it …

  “—and I will do whatever it takes. If that means staying down here a while longer, so be it. One day we will be together and free, and it will be worth every sacrifice.”

  “Then I am sorry for what I said earlier. About being a coward, because you’re not. Sometimes dying seems like the easiest thing a soldier can do. Too easy. And staying alive, for the right reasons, it’s …”

  “It’s a different courage that keeps a man alive, yes. So, tell me—if you can, and if not, that is all right—tell me what has kept you alive when it seems many of my countrymen would like to see you in chains, or perhaps dead. We are a long way from the front. You must have had quite an adventure.”

  Michel told Orbart the bare bones version. He had been living a ruse that fell apart today when he saw an officer he recognized. He had been stupid and acted out of instinct, out of dumb emotion. He had desperately wanted to …

  Fuck it, why not tell him the truth?

  Michel looked squarely at Orbart. “I wanted to kill a man today. One of your officers. An evil son of a bitch. And I would have done it, if not for a friend. As it was, I almost got both of us killed. I would have ended up dead if not for your Margot.”

  “Evil … that is a serious word. Do you really believe that? That some men are evil, and not just doing what they think is right? Right for them and theirs, different to you and yours.”

  “I get your point, Orbart. We’ve all done some terrible things. I don’t pretend otherwise. But this man is different. He takes pleasure in inflicting pain and humiliation. I’ve seen it in his eyes. And the scale … Kranz has killed hundreds. So, yes, this cocksucker is evil. He deserves to die. To suffer and die.”

  “Kranz? You mean Colonel Kranz?” said Orbart.

  “You know him?”

  “He only arrived on the front recently. And he seemed so nice. What do you mean, he has killed hundreds?”

  “You fucking know him?”

  “Lower your voice, Michel. Yes, I met him. I was part of a squad that delivered animals to him. He was very gentle and loving with them. Maybe you are mistaken …”

  “What? Animals? What are you talking about?” said Michel.

  “Stray dogs. We took them to his compound.”

  “I thought you were in the infantry!”

  “Me? No. I am—I was—part of the logistic support regiment,” said Orbart.

  “And you deserted! You deserted a fucking logistics regiment because you thought you were going to be killed—how, exactly?”

  “Our men die, too. There are many ways to die in this war. Artillery, accidents, sometimes when we go into the lines to progress a retreat or an advance. You never know.”

  “You know what, Orbart? You’re right. A man can die a million ways. Just lying in his own bed in his own home and a giant seagull takes a huge shit that crashes through the roof and kills him. So if you don’t want to risk your life doing whatever the fuck it was you did, that’s fine. None of my business. But now I want you tell me the complete truth. What animals? And where? And why? Everything you know about Kranz. Tell me everything. Because I promise you, Orbart, I am going to kill that evil old cocksucker.”

  Orbart looked down. He had not noticed Michel taking the knife from his pocket and unfolding the blade, but there it sat in Michel’s hand. Not overtly menacing, not pointed at the flesh of his throat, but at the ready if he chose to use it. Orbart turned his head and looked at the knife in his own hand—the knife he used to cut sausage—then back at Michel. He sighed.

  “All right, Michel, I will tell you everything I know. I am not a hero. My only allegiance is to Margot.”

  He cut a slice of sausage.

  “It really is a wonderful sausage, mettwurst,” said Orbart. “If only everything was as simple as sausage.”

  42

  Axe was desperately worried—no longer about the case and Elmo’s claim, for she had come to peace with the prospect of accepting an impartial arbiter’s decision, but about Godewyn and Michel. The proceedings in the Roeselare court were almost over, and still no sign of either.

  That look on Michel’s face …

  And Godewyn, damn him. He had no right telling me to stay while he went after Michel.

  I should have gone …

  But at least she had made the right decision in court—to not lie or obfuscate. To not debase herself in a way that would have shamed her mother and father. Now, it was almost done.

  “You are a very truthful young woman, Miss Lancelin. It is all too rare these days, and especially in these chambers. In sum, you offered up the evidence of your father’s letter, without making argument as to how the court should interpret its contents. Mr Uffe presented evidence of a contract that appears to deed your father’s land to him. You did no
t directly challenge the validity of that contract. You respectfully submitted that you are not competent to draw a conclusion in that regard and would wish to leave it to the court’s discretion. Is that correct, Miss Lancelin?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Axe.

  She looked across to Elmo. He seemed so small. Strangely happy—and strangely small.

  “Very well. There is a level of uncertainty attendant on any transaction lacking formally filed paperwork, but filed paperwork proving a bill of sale and a valid bill of sale are, as I have explained, entirely different things. It is the opinion of the court that the letter presented by Miss Lancelin, which appears to be a letter in the hand of the late Mr Lancelin, contemplated the possibility of sale. Combined with the plaintiff, Mr Uffe’s, submitted evidence of a signed and witnessed bill of sale, and without any counter-evidence impugning either the character of the plaintiff or directly controverting—”

  The door at the back of the courtroom thrust open. It slammed shut. The judge looked up.

  “Excuse me, sir, this is a courtroom in session! What business have you?”

  It was Godewyn, sweaty and short of breath. He shuffled forward. “Forgive me, do forgive me, so very sorry, very sorry.”

  “I asked, sir, what business have you in this courtroom?”

  Axe smiled at Godewyn and then turned to address the judge. “This is Godewyn Faas, Your Honor. He is my neighbor, and my Godfather. He was kind enough to escort me here today. He had some difficulties with the horses.”

  “Hmm. I see. An obstreperous horse submits to no man’s will, it is true.”

  Godewyn stood next to Axe. He leaned toward her. “What did I miss?”

  “It’s over, Godewyn,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean, over? You won already?” He dabbed at his face with a huge handkerchief.

  “No. I lost. The judge is about to rule. It’s all right, Godewyn. It has to be this way.”