Contents
Publication information
Part One: I
Part One: II
Part One: III
Part One: IV
Part One: V
Part One: VI
Part One: VII
Part One: VIII
Part Two: I
Part Two: II
Part Two: III
Epilogue
Publication Information
THE DARK RETURN OF TIME
First published 2014 by Swan River Press, Dublin.
This edition is published by Tartarus Press, 2014 at
Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn,
North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY, UK
The Dark return of Time © R.B. Russell, 2014
Cover art © Jason Zerillo, 2014
Cover design © Meggan Kehrli, 2014
The publishers would like to thank Jim Rockhill for his help in the preparation of this volume.
Dedicated to Rosalie
PART ONE I
There was a subtle change in the light. I looked up from my newspaper, aware that someone was standing in front of our small shop window. Over the top of my spectacles I could see that a man of late middle age, well-groomed and smartly dressed, was peering in at the display of Penguin modern classics. I decided that he was out of place, but I could not immediately identify why. I guessed that he was English; there was something about the way that he frowned and rubbed his chin. He presumably believed himself to be unobserved. He was interested in the books, but he also appeared to be disapproving.
And then he was gone, leaving me feeling slightly irritated. I put down the newspaper and walked over to the door. Through the glass I could see that he was on the pavement opposite, contemplating our sign that declared ‘Bennett’s British Bookshop’. He was leaning on a cane, which had to be an affectation, and my annoyance with him increased as he checked a pocket-watch on a fob chain. I was pleased to see him walk away, idly, down the rue Berthe.
It was a quarter to six. My father’s shop was empty and likely to remain that way. I loved it at such moments; it seemed to exist outside of time and space. The silence was an almost physical presence among the shelves, sifting down onto the books with the dust through the soft, late afternoon light. The clock above the counter may have been ticking to itself, but it signified nothing. I treasured those fragile moments, because they could be disturbed upon an instant by the appearance of a customer.
I turned the sign on the door to fermé, and in the small office behind the counter I switched off the lights. My father would not be returning from his book-buying trip until late, so there was no chance of a reprimand for closing early.
Out on the constricted pavement, between the buildings and the parked cars, everything seemed somehow under pressure, waiting, expectant. A grey layer of cloud was pressed down tight like a lid on the city, reducing my awareness of it to just those few thoroughfares I needed to negotiate to return to my apartment. As usual I had an excuse to visit the Epicerie on the rue de Trois Frères, buying milk and peaches. The dark interior of the shop always smelled strongly of fruit, of earth, and indefinable spices. In some ways it reminded me of shops I had known as a child, but the French labels and packaging had an allure and an exoticism, even when they were for the most mundane of everyday provisions.
My thoughts turned to what I would be making myself for dinner that evening, and I wondered whether I would be able to resist eating one of the peaches before I reached home. Back outside it was too bright, and the passing traffic sounded loud and harsh. Across the road, however, was another haven from the noise of the city; the narrow series of stone steps down into the Passage des Abbesses.
As I descended, I was intrigued by the sight of a woman at the foot of the fourth and final flight. She was looking around uncertainly, as though lost. Her long black coat concealed her figure, and she looked away as I reached the bottom of the steps. All that I received was a glimpse of her face, and a hint of her perfume. She reminded me of Corrina.
I was a few paces into the square formed by the dog-leg in the Passage, where it opens out and is accessible to traffic from the other direction. My thoughts were of Corrina, but I still noticed the man who had so recently been standing outside my father’s bookshop. He was now lounging in a doorway, looking again at his ridiculous watch.
I wanted to divert my emotions into anger at the man, but at that moment, in the far corner of the courtyard, a door burst open. It crashed against a parked car and bounced back towards a large man in a balaclava who was coming out. He caught the door as it rebounded, looked around quickly, and pulled from behind him a naked, white, skinny man. His wrists were bound together with thick grey tape and he reeled from the other’s grasp. Unable to save himself, he fell to the ground.
I was transfixed. A large white van was parked with its engine running, its rear doors open. The man in the balaclava lifted the naked man off the ground and flung him inside as though he was no weight at all.
Immediately afterwards another thug, similarly dressed, came out. This one was dragging a naked, gagged and bound woman. He swung her around by her pink-dyed hair and pushed her backwards into the van, jumped in, and dragged her inside. The doors closed, and immediately the engine was loud in the narrow confines of the Passage; the van drove off towards the rue des Abbesses.
‘What the hell!’ I shouted, suddenly able to move. I turned to my neighbour in the doorway, but he was already walking back towards the Passage steps. ‘We must call the police!’ I insisted.
As he ignored me I assumed he must be French after all. ‘Nous appeler la police!’ I called. He continued to take no notice; he was climbing the steps, apparently unconcerned.
‘Appelez la police!’ I called out again, rushing after him, hoping that he might have a mobile phone. He still refused to turn around, and even the woman who had reminded me of Corrina was running away, now taking the top flight two steps together. At that time of the evening there were normally dozens of people walking up and down the Passage. Now, however, it was deserted. I looked around at the high buildings that enclosed the space, at the myriad blind windows. The whole of Paris seemed not to have just been unaware of what had happened, but had turned its back on it.
To my relief, a door opened just a few feet away and an old woman in a faded floral housecoat emerged uncertainly. When I strode towards her she drew back inside, confused and perhaps worried. However, she stopped short of closing the door on me when she realised I wanted her to call the police.
I couldn’t think of the French for ‘kidnap’ so I said, ‘les hommes ont pris deux personnes!’
Her expression changed to one of concern. She suggested that I follow her inside and make the call myself. The telephone was in the corner of a dark, cluttered and dusty living room, and she watched me closely as I dialled. She then listened, with increasing disbelief, as I tried, in my halting French, to tell the operator what had happened. When I was able to put the phone down the old woman asked me to explain again what I’d seen. It was slightly easier the second time because the words had been rehearsed, and her incredulity turned to horror as she understood me.
Back out in the square people were walking through the Passage once more, quite oblivious to what had happened. The old woman made me show her the door through which the couple had been dragged. It gaped open obscenely, and in the darkness beyond all we could see were some uncarpeted stairs.
‘Je ne connais pas les couples qui vivent là,’ she was saying. ‘Mais, ils ont toujours semblé si gentil et tranquille.’
I wasn’t sure that I’d grasped the tenses she had used; what she said sounded as though she blamed the couple for what had happene
d. She continued talking, but I gave up trying to follow her words.
The police seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to arrive, and the old woman accosted a neighbour who looked suspiciously out from a doorway opposite. As I listened to her describing what had happened, I began to tremble. Soon I could do nothing to stop the shaking. I knew that it had to be shock and I pressed my back against a wall, hoping to use the great mass of the building to calm myself. I felt a fool; unsure whether I’d be able to speak again without my fear being obvious.
Another neighbour came out, and then another, and they stared at me and pointed accusingly. It was comforting to finally hear the siren of an approaching police car, although I felt an unaccountable desire to flee the scene. When the police car came in through the archway from the rue des Abbesses the siren increased in volume as it echoed off the high walls, and it still rang in my ears when it was cut.
The woman took charge of the situation, telling the first policeman that I was a tourist, which I resented. However, my annoyance enabled me to explain that I lived in Paris. Now that it was time to give a third description of the events my words were more assured and I was able to appear relatively composed.
However, the policeman was unimpressed. When I said that I didn’t know the registration number of the van he frowned and said, ‘Pourquoi n’avez-vous pas noté?’ The policeman, the woman and her neighbours all shook their heads when I admitted to not even noticing what make of vehicle it was.
When I said ‘Il était blanc,’ they all looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
The exasperated policeman asked if it had any ‘distinction des caractéristiques’. When I could only shrug he asked, ‘Quelle direction il a disparu quand elle est partie du passage; gauche ou droit?’
Again all I could do was apologise and further knowing glances were exchanged between the policeman and the locals.
‘Pouvez vous décrire les assaillants?’ the policeman tried. I felt even more of an idiot, unable to think of a French word for balaclava.
‘Y avait-il un troisième homme?’ I was asked. ‘Un conducteur?’
‘A conductor?’ I thought, and realised that he was asking about the driver. I couldn’t have described him even if I was sure there had been a third man.
‘Étaient ils ont armé?’ he asked seriously, and mimicked a man firing a gun.
I shook my head, but I wasn’t sure. I closed my eyes and tried to picture them, each assailant using one hand to pull the people out of the building. The first had dragged the man out by the arm, the second the woman by the hair. I told the policeman that I thought they might have been carrying guns.
During the fruitless cross-examination, his partner had entered the building and returned to report that there had been a ‘combat’, a fight in the apartment.
I noticed blood on the ground where the kidnapped man had fallen.
‘L’homme nude,’ I said, knowing that the word wasn’t quite right. ‘L’homme de l’intérieur, il est tombé à la terre, là,’ I pointed. ‘Blood.’ Already it had dried and was not so obvious on the stone setts. I repeated ‘Sang’, not sure if he understood. I was flustered; all the words sounded absurd in my mouth; French and English.
The first policeman dismissed the onlookers who merely retreated a few paces. The other patiently asked: ‘Did anyone else see what happened?’
I was irritated that I had struggled to speak in French to his colleague when this man obviously understood me.
‘Yes, there was a man in the doorway over there,’ I said. ‘He would’ve seen everything.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘He went back up the steps towards the Trois Frères.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Late middle-age, grey hair, smart suit with a waistcoat. He was carrying a cane...’
The policeman was incredulous: ‘You can describe the witness, but not the criminals?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ashamed.
‘Was there anyone else?’
‘A woman, coming down the steps, but she turned and hurried away.’ An image of Corrina came into my mind, but I fought to dismiss it. ‘She had long dark hair and was wearing a black coat... but she probably wouldn’t have seen anything from up there, at that angle.’
I gave my name and address, and all the time further cars arrived and more policemen appeared, demanding and receiving explanations. I was able to follow this quite well, and understood the insulting description of me as a foreigner. I was told to sit in the back of one of the cars.
The attitudes of the various policemen annoyed me and I decided that I would wait beside the car rather than get in it. An officer was putting up tape between the two No Parking signs on either side of the entrance to the Passage, causing people to stop in the rue des Abbesses and look in at what might be happening.
Time passed slowly. I was nervous; the idea of more questions filled me with dread and I was beginning to wish that I’d ignored what I’d seen, just as the man with the cane and fob-watch had done. I had always felt that Paris was a friendly city, but now it seemed quite hostile. Although I had thought that I was a part of it, I was being reminded that I was a foreigner.
‘Your name is Flavian Bennett?’ the plain-clothes policeman asked, in very good English, once I had been called over.
‘Yes. I have an apartment on the rue Andre Antoiné.’
‘And you are English? What sort of name is Flavian?’
‘It’s Roman. They were Emperors. My father…’
‘So, you saw everything, but can’t describe the kidnappers or their vehicle?’
‘No.’
‘You were just passing?’
‘I work on rue Berthe. I was on my way home.’
‘Can you describe the people they took away?’
‘They were both young; in their twenties or thirties. He had long dark hair and was unshaven, very skinny. She was short, perhaps a little fat, with dyed pink hair.’
‘They were naked?’
‘Yes. They looked like they’d been beaten.’
‘Did they have any facial piercings?’
‘I don’t know. I was over there,’ I pointed. ‘It all happened very quickly.’
‘Show me.’
I took him to where I had been standing and explained, ‘I could see the door and the back of the van. I had a clear view, but it was distant.’
The policeman produced a photograph and I put on my spectacles.
‘You weren’t wearing those before?’ he asked. ‘That’s why you didn’t see anything?’
I didn’t answer; the glasses were only for reading, but I was happy to have an excuse. Instead of answering I stared at the photograph, which showed a young couple sitting together on the grass. They were in some sort of park or garden and were grinning at the camera.
‘I’m sure that’s them,’ I confirmed, putting my glasses away.
The man glanced around and up at all the windows in the high walls. By now there were plenty of people staring out at what was happening below.
‘And the other witness was standing in this doorway here?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You say he was old. Grey hair, well dressed, with a cane?’
‘Not so old; late middle-aged. He hurried away back up there…’
The policeman nodded.
‘Thank you Mr Bennett. You can go now. We have your address and may wish to talk to you again. But it seems unlikely....’
‘You don’t want me to make a statement?’
‘Why would we? We know the couple that live there have been taken by men you can’t describe. They were driven away in a white van of unknown make and registration. You aren’t able to tell us anything we weren’t already aware of. But if you happen to remember anything useful …’
‘Well, you’ve got my address. If you want to contact me during the day I work in my father’s bookshop, Bennett’s, on rue Berthe.’
‘You can
go the long way home, back up the steps. This is now a crime scene.’
And then he added, with heavy sarcasm: ‘Thank you for your help.’
II
I made myself a simple meal that evening, but couldn’t eat it. I drank a whole bottle of cheap red wine; the first mouthful was bitter and almost rancid, but the second glass had improved on the first, and by the third I wasn’t thinking about the taste.
The events in the Passage des Abbesses would not stop replaying themselves over and over in my mind, but the alcohol helped me sleep. When I woke up the next morning, a minute or so before the alarm was due to go off, I knew I’d been dreaming of the abduction. I’d been watching the whole thing from a different viewpoint, though, closer than in reality. The men were carrying ugly, heavy guns, and the naked man was screaming, although there had been tape over his mouth in reality. He had coarse black hairs over his emaciated body. The woman had terror in her eyes and she passed so close that I could have held out my hand to touch her.
Emerging from the dream I imagined striking out at the hooded man, landing a blow on his chin. In the scenario I created, the gun was dropped and I picked it up. I called out to them to put up their hands, and I shot at the tyres to stop the van from driving away...
As I lay in my comfortable bed, the early morning light finding its way around the curtains, I thought of the man and woman who had been taken. I imagined them being held somewhere, tied up, while a ransom was negotiated. I felt guilty for thinking that they’d both looked so pathetic, and I tried not to think of them being beaten again.
I remembered the man being picked up off the ground, and I realised that the assailant couldn’t have been holding a gun.
And then the alarm went off. I tried to dismiss what I had seen. I was up and about my usual routines, taking a shower, making breakfast and feeding the fish in the large tank in the living room. It was wrong that everything should continue as normal, but when I left the apartment I couldn’t make myself climb up the steps to the rue des Abbesses towards the Passage. Instead, I turned left along the narrow part of rue Véron and then right up the anonymous rue Germain Pilon. The pavements were slick with rain that had come down in the night, and the city did not look as picturesque as it usually did. It was in the early morning that I appreciated Paris most, when the streets were blocked by delivery vehicles, and people were hurrying to work. As it prepared itself for the day, before the tourists filled the city, I always felt that I was a legitimate part of it. Normally I treasured the atmosphere, but I was now feeling as though I had never really belonged.
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