THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  Sa­bir drop­ped the as­pa­ra­gus and star­ted to run.

  The first thing he saw was Ale­xi flo­un­de­ring in the ri­ver. ‘Qu­ickly, Adam. I can’t swim. She’s in the wa­ter.’

  ‘Whe­re?’

  ‘Just be­low you. Her fa­ce is down but she’s still ali­ve. I saw her arm mo­ve.’

  Sa­bir cres­ted the bank and exe­cu­ted a clumsy le­ap in­to the slow-mo­ving ri­ver. He re­ac­hed Yo­la with his first sur­ge and le­ve­red her up in­to his arms.

  She ra­ised a hand as if to­ward him off, but her eyes we­re de­ad when they lo­oked up at him and the­re was no re­al for­ce left in the mo­ve­ment. Sa­bir clutc­hed her to his chest and al­lo­wed the for­ce of the ri­ver to swe­ep them back to­wards the bank.

  ‘I think she’s had a fit of so­me sort. Run up to the car and get a blan­ket.’

  Ale­xi flo­un­de­red out of the wa­ter. He ga­ve a sing­le, an­xi­o­us glan­ce back­wards and then po­un­ded up the hill to­wards the car.

  Sa­bir la­id Yo­la down on to the sand. She was bre­at­hing nor­mal­ly, but her fa­ce was she­et-whi­te and her lips had al­re­ady tur­ned an un­he­althy blue.

  ‘What is it? What hap­pe­ned?’

  She be­gan sha­king, as if, with her ret­ri­eval from the wa­ter, so­me ot­her non-mec­ha­ni­cal pro­cess had be­en trig­ge­red.

  Sa­bir glan­ced up to check on Ale­xi’s prog­ress. ‘Lo­ok, I’m sorry. Ale­xi’s brin­ging a dry blan­ket. I’m go­ing to ha­ve to get you out of the­se clot­hes.’ He had ex­pec­ted - even ho­ped for - an ar­gu­ment. But the­re was no res­pon­se. He be­gan un­do­ing Yo­la’s blo­use.

  ‘You sho­uldn’t do that.’ Ale­xi had re­ac­hed Sa­bir’s si­de. He prof­fe­red the blan­ket. ‘She wo­uldn’t li­ke it.’

  ‘She’s cold as ice, Ale­xi. And she’s in shock. If we le­ave her in the­se clot­hes she’ll catch pne­umo­nia. We ne­ed to wrap her up in this blan­ket and then get her back to the car. I can start dri­ving with the air con­di­ti­oning set to full he­at. She’ll warm up qu­ickly then.’

  Ale­xi he­si­ta­ted.

  ‘I’m se­ri­o­us. If you don’t want to em­bar­rass her, turn away.’ He eased off her blo­use and then wor­ked the skirt down over her hips. He was surp­ri­sed to no­ti­ce that she wo­re no un­der­we­ar of any sort.

  ‘God, she’s be­a­uti­ful.’ Ale­xi was sta­ring down at her. He was still clutc­hing the blan­ket.

  ‘Gi­ve me that.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  Sa­bir wrap­ped Yo­la in the blan­ket. ‘Now ta­ke her legs. Let’s get her up to the car be­fo­re she fre­ezes to de­ath.’

  39

  ‘Don’t you think it’s ti­me to call in back-up?’

  ‘We’re forty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes be­hind them. What sort of back-up do you think we ne­ed, Mac­ron? A jet figh­ter?’

  ‘What if the eye-man stri­kes aga­in?’

  ‘The eye-man?’ Cal­que smi­led, amu­sed by Mac­ron’s unex­pec­tedly cre­ati­ve ima­gi­na­ti­on. ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How can you be so su­re?’

  ‘Be­ca­use he’s ac­hi­eved his pur­po­se. He’s bo­ught him­self a few ho­urs’ le­eway. He knows that by the ti­me we’ve res­to­red…’ Cal­que he­si­ta­ted, se­arc­hing for the right word.

  ‘GPS tri­la­te­ra­ti­on?’

  ‘GPS tri­la­te­ra­ti­on… exactly… and ca­ught up with the car, he’ll ha­ve what he wants.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Se­arch me. I’m af­ter the man, not his mo­ti­ve. I le­ave all that sort of rot to the judi­ci­al co­urts.’ Cal­que ma­de a pil­low of his jac­ket and pla­ced it bet­we­en his he­ad and the win­dow. ‘But I know one thing for cer­ta­in. I wo­uldn’t want to be in Sa­bir or the girl’s sho­es du­ring the next sixty mi­nu­tes.’

  ***

  ‘Is she co­ming ro­und?’

  ‘She’s got her eyes open.’

  ‘Right. I’ll stop the car but le­ave the en­gi­ne run­ning for he­at. We can put the back se­ats down and stretch her out mo­re com­for­tably.’

  Ale­xi glan­ced ac­ross at Sa­bir. ‘What do you think hap­pe­ned? I’ve ne­ver se­en her li­ke this.’

  ‘She must ha­ve be­en pic­king as­pa­ra­gus ne­ar the wa­ter’s ed­ge and fal­len in. She pro­bably struck her he­ad - that’s a hefty bru­ise she’s got on her che­ek. Any­way, she’s de­fi­ni­tely in shock. The wa­ter was inc­re­dibly cold. She wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en ex­pec­ting it.’ He frow­ned. ‘Is she epi­lep­tic, by any chan­ce? Or di­abe­tic?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not­hing. For­get it.’

  Once they’d ar­ran­ged the back se­ats and set­tled Yo­la com­for­tably, the two men strip­ped down.

  ‘Lo­ok, Ale­xi, I’ll dri­ve whi­le you dry the clot­hes on the he­ater. Do Yo­la’s first. I’ll put the thing on blow. We’ll swel­ter, but I can’t think of any ot­her way to do it. If the po­li­ce catch three na­ked pe­op­le in a mo­ving ve­hic­le, it’ll ta­ke them we­eks to fi­gu­re out what we we­re do­ing.’ He re­ac­hed for the auto­ma­tic shift.

  ‘I told him.’ It was Yo­la’s vo­ice.

  The two men tur­ned to­wards her.

  ‘I told him everyt­hing.’ She was sit­ting up now, the blan­ket pud­dled aro­und her wa­ist. ‘I told him we are go­ing to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. And abo­ut the Black Vir­gin. I told him whe­re the ver­ses are hid­den.’

  ‘What do you me­an, told him? Told who?’

  Yo­la no­ti­ced her na­ked­ness and slowly drew the blan­ket up to co­ver her bre­asts. She ap­pe­ared to be thin­king and ac­ting in slow mo­ti­on. ‘The man. He jum­ped on me. He smelt stran­gely. Li­ke tho­se gre­en in­sects you crush and they smell of al­monds.’

  ‘Yo­la. What are you tal­king abo­ut? What man?’

  She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. ‘The man who kil­led Ba­bel. He told me. He sa­id he wo­uld bre­ak my neck just li­ke he bro­ke Ba­bel’s.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’

  Ale­xi le­ve­red him­self up in his se­at. ‘What did he do to you?’ His vo­ice was sha­king.

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. ‘He did not­hing. He didn’t ha­ve to. His thre­ats we­re eno­ugh to get him everyt­hing he wan­ted.’

  Ale­xi clo­sed his eyes. He snor­ted. His jaw be­gan to work be­hind his tightly pur­sed mo­uth as if he we­re con­duc­ting an angry in­ter­nal di­alo­gue with him­self.

  ‘Did you see him, Yo­la? Did you see his fa­ce?’

  ‘No. He was on top of me. From the back. He had my arms pin­ned down with his kne­es. I co­uldn’t turn my he­ad.’

  ‘You we­re right to tell him. He’s mad. He wo­uld ha­ve kil­led you.’ Sa­bir tur­ned back to the ste­ering whe­el. He slip­ped the car in­to dri­ve and be­gan ac­ce­le­ra­ting wildly up the ro­ad.

  Ale­xi ope­ned his eyes. ‘What are you do­ing?’

  ‘What am I do­ing? I’ll tell you what I’m do­ing. We know whe­re the bas­tard’s go­ing now, thanks to Yo­la. So I’m go­ing to get to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur ahe­ad of him. And then I’m go­ing to kill him.’

  ‘Are you crazy, Adam?’

  ‘I’m Yo­la’s phral, aren’t I? You all told me I had to pro­tect her.? To ta­ke re­ven­ge for Ba­bel’s de­ath.? Well now I’m go­ing to do it.’

  40

  Achor Ba­le watc­hed the blip di­mi­nish and then fi­nal­ly di­sap­pe­ar off the ed­ge of his scre­en. He le­aned for­ward and switc­hed off the trac­king de­vi­ce. It had be­en a very sa­tis­fac­tory day’s work, when all was sa­id and do­ne. He had ta­ken the ini­ti­ati­ve and it had pa­id off hand­so­mely. It was a go­od les­son. Ne­ver le­ave the enemy to his own de­vi­ces. Ir­ri­ta­te him. For­ce him in­to sud­den de­ci­si­ons that are open to er­ror. That way you will ac­hi­eve yo­ur en
d sa­tisf­yingly and with com­men­dab­le spe­ed.

  He chec­ked the map on the se­at next to him. It wo­uld ta­ke him a go­od three ho­urs to get to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. Best to le­ave it un­til the crypt was shut and the staff had go­ne to the­ir din­ner. No one wo­uld ex­pect a bre­ak-in at the Sanc­tu­ary - that wo­uld be an ab­surd idea. Per­haps he sho­uld crawl up the steps on his kne­es, li­ke Eng­land’s King Henry II - a des­cen­dant, or so they sa­id, of Sa­tan’s da­ugh­ter Me­lu­si­ne - af­ter the pri­ests had per­su­aded him to do re­luc­tant pe­nan­ce for the mur­der of Tho­mas a Bec­ket and for his de­ad son’s sac­ri­le­gi­o­us plun­de­ring of the shri­ne? Ask for dis­pen­sa­ti­on. Se­cu­re him­self a ni­hil ob­s­tat.

  Mind you, he hadn’t ac­tu­al­ly kil­led any­body re­cently. Un­less the girl had drow­ned, of co­ur­se. Or the wo­man in the car had asphy­xi­ated her­self. Her hus­band had de­fi­ni­tely still be­en twitc­hing, when last he lo­oked and Sa­ma­na had be­en in­dis­pu­tably res­pon­sib­le for his own de­ath.

  All in all, then, Ba­le’s cons­ci­en­ce was cle­ar. He co­uld ste­al the Black Vir­gin with im­pu­nity.

  41

  ‘We’ve fo­und them aga­in. They’re he­ading to­wards Li­mo­ges.’

  ‘Excel­lent. Tell the pin­he­ads to gi­ve us a new re­ading every half an ho­ur - that way we’ll ha­ve a chan­ce to ma­ke up for lost ti­me and get them back on our scre­en.’

  ‘Whe­re do you think they’re go­ing, Sir?’

  ‘To the se­asi­de?’

  Mac­ron didn’t know whet­her to la­ugh or to cry. He was be­co­ming mo­re and mo­re con­vin­ced that he was te­amed up with an un­re­ge­ne­ra­te mad­man - so­me­one who bent all the ru­les on prin­cip­le, simply to su­it his own agen­da. The two of them sho­uld ha­ve be­en back in Pa­ris by now, hap­pily con­fi­ning them­sel­ves to a 35-ho­ur we­ek and le­aving the con­ti­nu­ed in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on of the mur­der to the­ir col­le­agu­es in the so­uth. Mac­ron co­uld ha­ve be­en wor­king at his squ­ash and imp­ro­ving on his six-pack at the po­li­ce gym. Ins­te­ad, they we­re sub­sis­ting on pre­pac­ked me­als and cof­fee, with the oc­ca­si­onal cat­nap in the back se­at of the car. He co­uld fe­el him­self go­ing physi­cal­ly down­hill. It didn’t mat­ter to Cal­que, of co­ur­se - he was a wreck al­re­ady.

  ‘The we­ekend’s ap­pro­ac­hing, Sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And not­hing. It was just an ob­ser­va­ti­on.’

  ‘Well, con­fi­ne yo­ur ob­ser­va­ti­ons to the ca­se in hand. You’re a pub­lic ser­vant, Mac­ron, not a li­fe­gu­ard.’

  ***

  Yo­la emer­ged, fully clot­hed, from be­hind the bus­hes.

  Sa­bir shrug­ged his sho­ul­ders and ma­de a fa­ce. ‘I’m sorry we had to und­ress you. Ale­xi was aga­inst it, but I in­sis­ted. I apo­lo­gi­se.’

  ‘You did what you had to. Did Ale­xi see me?’

  ‘I’m af­ra­id so.’

  ‘Well, now he’ll know what he’s be­en mis­sing.’

  Sa­bir burst out la­ug­hing. He was as­to­nis­hed at how re­si­li­ent Yo­la was be­ing. He had half ex­pec­ted her to re­act hyste­ri­cal­ly - to lurch in­to a dep­res­si­on, or me­lanc­ho­lia, trig­ge­red by de­la­yed shock from the at­tack. But he had un­de­res­ti­ma­ted her. Her li­fe had scar­cely be­en a bed of ro­ses up to that po­int and her ex­pec­ta­ti­ons abo­ut the depths to which pe­op­le wo­uld sto­op in terms of the­ir be­ha­vi­o­ur we­re pro­bably a go­od de­al mo­re re­alis­tic than his own. ‘He’s angry. That’s why he’s go­ne off. I think he fe­els res­pon­sib­le for the at­tack on you.’

  ‘You must let him ste­al the Vir­gin.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Ale­xi. He is a go­od ste­aler. It is so­met­hing he do­es well.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Ha­ve you ne­ver sto­len anyt­hing?’

  ‘Well, no. Not re­cently.’

  ‘I tho­ught so.’ She we­ig­hed so­met­hing up in her he­ad. ‘A gypsy can ste­al every se­ven ye­ars. So­met­hing big, I me­an.’

  ‘How did you fi­gu­re that one out?’

  ‘Be­ca­use an old gypsy wo­man saw Christ car­rying the Cross on the way to the Cal­vary hill.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she didn’t ha­ve any idea who Christ was. But when she saw His fa­ce, she felt pity for Him and de­ci­ded to ste­al the na­ils with which they we­re to cru­cify Him. She sto­le one, but be­fo­re she co­uld ste­al the se­cond, she was ca­ught. The sol­di­ers to­ok her and be­at her. She cri­ed out to the sol­di­ers to spa­re her be­ca­use she had sto­len not­hing for se­ven ye­ars. A dis­cip­le he­ard her and sa­id, ‘Wo­man, you are bles­sed. The Sa­vi­o­ur per­mits you and yo­urs to ste­al on­ce every se­ven ye­ars, now and fo­re­ver.’ And that’s why the­re we­re only three na­ils at the Cru­ci­fi­xi­on. And why Jesus Christ’s fe­et we­re cros­sed and not spre­ad apart, as they sho­uld ha­ve be­en.’

  ‘You don’t be­li­eve all that ho­kum, do you?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se I be­li­eve it.’

  ‘And that’s why gypsi­es ste­al?’

  ‘We ha­ve the right. When Ale­xi ste­als the Black Vir­gin, he won’t be do­ing anyt­hing wrong.’

  ‘I’m very re­li­eved to he­ar it. But what abo­ut me? What if I find the man who at­tac­ked you and kill him? Whe­re do I stand?’

  ‘He has shed our fa­mily’s blo­od. His sho­uld be shed in turn.’

  ‘As simp­le as that?’

  ‘It’s ne­ver simp­le, Adam. To kill a man.’

  42

  Sa­bir he­si­ta­ted by the car do­or. ‘Ha­ve eit­her of you ever ta­ken a dri­ving test?’

  ‘A dri­ving test? No. Of co­ur­se not. But I can dri­ve.’

  ‘Can you dri­ve, Yo­la?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, then. We know whe­re we are. Ale­xi, you ta­ke the whe­el. I’ve got to map us out a dif­fe­rent ro­ute to the shri­ne. Ba­bel’s mur­de­rer ob­vi­o­usly knows our car - he must ha­ve fo­und it and fol­lo­wed us all the way from the camp. Now that he thinks he’s fi­nal­ly got rid of us, we don’t want to tip him off aga­in by blun­de­ring past him in the over­ta­king la­ne, do we?’ He spre­ad the map out in front of him. ‘Yes. It lo­oks li­ke we can bypass Li­mo­ges and get to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur via Tul­le.’

  ‘This car hasn’t got pro­per ge­ars.’

  ‘Just stick it in dri­ve, Ale­xi and press on the gas pe­dal.’

  ‘Which one’s dri­ve?’

  ‘The fo­urth one down. The let­ter lo­oks li­ke a hor­se stir­rup, but si­de­ways on.’

  Ale­xi did as he was told. ‘Hey. That’s not bad. It chan­ges ge­ar by it­self. This is bet­ter than a Mer­ce­des.’

  Sa­bir co­uld fe­el Yo­la’s eyes fi­xed on him from the back se­at. He tur­ned to­wards her. ‘Are you okay? The­re is such a thing as de­la­yed shock, you know. Even for to­ugh nuts li­ke you.’

  She shrug­ged. ‘I’m okay.’ Then her exp­res­si­on clo­uded. ‘Adam. Do you be­li­eve in Hell?’

  ‘Hell?’ He ma­de a fa­ce. ‘I sup­po­se so.’

  ‘We don’t.’ She sho­ok her he­ad. ‘Gypsi­es don’t even think the De­vil, O Beng, is re­al­ly such a bad man. We be­li­eve that ever­yo­ne will co­me to Pa­ra­di­se one day. Even him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think this man is bad, Adam. Re­al­ly bad. Lo­ok what he did to Ba­bel. It’s not hu­man to do that.’

  ‘So what are you tel­ling me? That you’re chan­ging yo­ur mind abo­ut Hell and the De­vil?’

  ‘No. Not that. But I didn’t tell you everyt­hing he sa­id to me. I want you and Ale­xi to un­ders­tand exactly who you are de­aling with.’

  ‘We’re de­aling with a mur­de­ring ma­ni­ac
.’

  ‘No. He’s not that. I’ve be­en thin­king abo­ut this. He’s cle­ve­rer than that. He knows exactly whe­re to stri­ke. How to da­ma­ge you the most and get what he wants.’

  ‘I don’t get it. What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘He sa­id he wo­uld knock me out. That whi­le I was un­cons­ci­o­us, he wo­uld da­ma­ge me in­si­de with his kni­fe so I co­uld no lon­ger ha­ve ba­bi­es. No lon­ger be a mot­her.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Lis­ten, Adam. He knows abo­ut us. Abo­ut gypsy ways. Per­haps he’s even part-gypsy him­self. He knew that if he just at­tac­ked me and tri­ed to hurt me, I might not ha­ve told him what he wan­ted to know. I might ha­ve li­ed. When he sa­id what he sa­id to me, I was so con­vin­ced that he wo­uld re­al­ly do it that I wet myself. He co­uld ha­ve do­ne anyt­hing to me then and I wo­uldn’t ha­ve fo­ught him. And with Ba­bel. The sa­me thing. Ba­bel was va­in. It was his ma­in we­ak­ness. He was li­ke a wo­man. He spent ho­urs lo­oking at him­self and pret­tying him­self be­fo­re the mir­ror. This man mar­ked his fa­ce. Now­he­re el­se. Just his fa­ce. I saw him in the mor­tu­ary.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘He works on pe­op­le’s we­ak­nes­ses. He’s an evil man, Adam. Re­al­ly evil. He do­esn’t simply mur­der. He’s a dest­ro­yer of so­uls.’

  ‘All the mo­re re­ason to rid the world of him then.’ Yo­la usu­al­ly had an ans­wer for everyt­hing. This ti­me she me­rely tur­ned her he­ad to­wards the win­dow and held her pe­ace.

  43

  ‘They don’t se­em to pro­vi­de tyre irons any mo­re in cars.’ Sa­bir rum­ma­ged furt­her in the re­ar sto­ra­ge com­part­ment. ‘I can’t exactly hit him with the jack. Or the war­ning tri­ang­le.’

  ‘I’ll cut you a thorns­tick.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘From a holly bush. I can see one over the­re. It’s the stron­gest wo­od. Even be­fo­re it’s be­en dri­ed. If you walk so­mew­he­re with a stick, no one will ever qu­es­ti­on you. That way, you al­ways ha­ve a we­apon.’