The Secret Prophecy

by Herbie Brennan

  As surely as he’d known she was lying before, Em knew now there was something she was covering up. “Where’s Tom going to?” he asked.

  “France,” his mother said brightly. “It’s lovely at this time of year. Beautiful scenery . . . lovely food . . . You’d see a bit of Paris and then I think Tom’s planning some time in the South of France. Millionaire’s playground, eh? You might even see a movie star. Or a pop star, better yet. What do you think?”

  Em thought there was something going on. But he knew better than to ask Mum about it directly. She was an expert at denying stuff—and making you feel guilty that you’d even asked. “Tom mightn’t want me tagging along,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d be delighted!” Mum exclaimed. “The two of you get on so well—he’s like another uncle to you.”

  She’s asked him already, Em thought. She must have asked him at the funeral; there just wasn’t any other time. How creepy was that? And Tom had said yes. What else could he say? Mum dripping all over him, grieving widow, Ed’s best friend. Mum had set it all up and was now pretending it was an idea that had just occurred to her so he wouldn’t feel pushed around.

  All the same, she was right. He did get on well with Tom. Any time Tom called to see Dad, he treated Em like a grown-up, which was more than a lot of people did. And they talked about stuff together—interesting stuff, not the usual adult How are things at school, then? They both had an interest in Gothic cathedrals, for example, and the mystery of how they got built. Tom liked mysteries generally—rains of frogs, sea monsters, the Egyptian pyramids, lost civilizations—and so did Em. A bit of time together with Tom would be no hardship.

  Especially with his daughter there.

  Em pushed the thought aside. The other thing was that he’d never been to France before. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. His geography class had once gone on a day trip to Calais, but that wasn’t seeing France. Paris would be very different. The South of France would be very, very different. Besides, Mum might need some time to herself.

  Em licked his lips. “Well, if you think Tom wouldn’t mind . . .”

  The look on his mum’s face was relief. She just couldn’t hide it, although she tried very hard. But after a second it faded. “There’s one other thing . . . ,” she said hesitantly. Em waited. “Your father”—she swallowed—“just before he got sick, he bought you something. For your birthday.”

  “My birthday isn’t until October,” Em said blankly.

  “Yes, I know. I don’t know why he got it so early. Maybe it was on special offer or something. And then he wanted to get it engraved, and he may have thought that would take longer than it did. But anyway, when he was at the worst of his fever, when it was looking touch and go before he started to”—she swallowed again, and he saw to his horror that her eyes were brimming with tears—“before we thought he was getting better, he gave it to me to give to you on your birthday. But I think maybe since you’re going away, I should give it to you now. I don’t know much about these things, but seems to me you’d have more use for it on holiday. And it would be a little memento of your father. . . .”

  Like he needed one. Em wondered what it was. If his father had it engraved, it was probably a watch. As a hint. Dad had always been fussy about punctuality. He never seemed to figure out it didn’t mean much to a teenager.

  But it wasn’t a watch. It was a brand-new iPod touch. The engraving on the back said:

  GOOD LISTENING. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EDWARD,

  FROM YOUR LOVING FATHER

  Em felt the tightness in his chest and turned away quickly so his mother would not see his reaction. He slipped the iPod into his jacket pocket, scarcely able to hold back the tears. He’d dropped hints about an iPod; but it would be a long, long time before he could bring himself to use this one.

  Chapter 7

  They were traveling first class. The railway carriage had really neat beige seats with bright orange headrests and new carpet on the floor. A pretty girl in a trim blue Eurostar uniform swooped in with a tray as they were in the process of sitting down. “A glass of champagne, sir?” she asked, smiling. “Compliments of the management.” She was talking to Tom, of course.

  “Thank you,” Tom said gravely. He gave the two of them a grin that said Aren’t you jealous that you’re not grown-up?

  “I’ll have a Coke. Lots of ice,” Charlotte told the hostess without being asked.

  That’s what came of living in California, Em thought. American confidence rubbed off on you, like picking up the accent. He wished some of it would rub off on him. He realized the hostess was looking at him now, dropped his eyes, and muttered, “Me too.”

  As the train pulled out of St. Pancras station, Tom Peterson stood to retrieve his laptop from the luggage rack. “Do you think you two could stay quiet for the next couple of hours?” he asked. “I need to finish my symposium paper.”

  Em groaned inwardly—he’d been looking forward to a real chat with Charlotte—but Charlotte herself said firmly, “Oh, don’t be such a bore, Dad. You know we can’t possibly keep quiet for two hours.” She glanced around the carriage with its light sprinkling of fellow passengers. “Em and I will go and sit somewhere else. Then we can talk and you can get on with your rotten paper.”

  “I’m not sure they let you do that,” Tom said uncertainly. “We have reserved seats. I expect everyone else does too.”

  “The cabin is half empty!” Charlotte exclaimed. “And if they don’t like us sitting somewhere else, what are they going to do: spank us? Honestly, Daddy, we’ll just come back and irritate you if they move us.”

  It was obvious that she had him twisted around her little finger despite the years with her mother. Or maybe because of them, Em thought. Either way, Tom was grinning as she wriggled out of her seat and scurried down the aisle to take another vacant place as far distant as she could get. Em glanced at Tom helplessly, then got up and followed her.

  After making all the fuss, Charlotte lapsed into silence and gazed out the window as the rolling cityscape gradually gave way to countryside. Em, who’d always been a bit shy around girls—especially the pretty ones—couldn’t think of anything to say, so he stared woodenly ahead, feeling stupid.

  Eventually he coughed and asked casually, “Where are we? Do you know?”

  “Somewhere in Kent probably,” Charlotte said. “I looked at the map yesterday, and we go through Kent before we reach the Chunnel.”

  The Chunnel was the Channel Tunnel, and Em was frankly just a little freaked out about it. What worried him was the thought of traveling through a shaft that carried the weight of the entire English Channel, not to mention several hundred thousand tons of rock. What would happen if it all just . . . collapsed? Actually he knew perfectly well what would happen if it all just collapsed.

  He coughed again. “Have you ever traveled this route before?”

  “I’ve never even been to France. I might as well have been an American since Mum and Dad divorced. Californians never go anywhere, except to other parts of America.”

  “So you don’t know when we go into the tunnel?”

  “They tell you,” Charlotte said. “According to Dad. They announce it, like the pilot telling you to fasten your seat belts. But anyway, you’ll know in daylight. You can’t see the scenery, and they put the lights on.”

  “Does it take long? Like, inside the tunnel?”

  “About fifteen minutes, I think. Maybe twenty.”

  “Is that all?” Em asked, suddenly relieved. Fifteen minutes was nothing. Even twenty wasn’t much.

  Charlotte turned to look at him. “You aren’t worrying, are you? About going through the tunnel?”

  “What, me?” Em spluttered. He gave a bright, loud laugh. “No, of course not.”

  “Oh good,” Charlotte said, and turned back to the window.

  It was exactly as she predicted. A male voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are enjoying your journey with Eurostar.
We shall soon be entering the Channel Tunnel, and interior illumination will be switched on for your convenience. I’d like to take this opportunity . . .” And so on, just like an airline pilot. The lights did go on shortly thereafter, and the outside world disappeared, leaving Em to stare at his reflection in the window.

  “Know what?” one of the pasengers said to his wife. “If there was ever a good time for a terrorist attack, this would be it. Couple of well-placed bombs, and the whole place would come down.”

  “Let’s hope there won’t be a terrorist attack then,” his wife said calmly.

  Ten minutes later, while they were still in the tunnel, all the lights went out.

  Em barely mastered an impulse to grab Charlotte’s hand. His stomach was suddenly tight.

  “They’ll sort it out in a minute,” Charlotte said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a cheerful female voice over the intercom. “A slight technical hitch with the lights as you may have noticed, but the engineer tells me he’ll have it corrected before you”—the lights came back on—“ah, there we are! Our apologies about that, but we’re almost back to daylight in any case.”

  Em looked around. The worried husband and wife were gone. There was no sign of a terrorist attack, no sign of anything unusual. At least he didn’t think so. There was a man in a well-cut suit seated near the back of the carriage behind a group of Japanese businessmen. Em didn’t think he’d been sitting there before, although his face did look vaguely familiar. But probably Em was wrong. Probably the man had been sitting there all the time.

  “Have you been to France before?” Charlotte asked. She seemed completely unfazed by the whole lights business.

  “School trip,” Em said. “It was awful.” He glanced back toward the end of the carriage. The man behind the Japanese businessmen was gone. It wasn’t until the train was pulling into the Paris Gare Du Nord that Em realized why his face looked familiar.

  It was the same man who’d been carrying the gun at his father’s funeral.

  Chapter 8

  There was a full-color brochure that featured a chorus line of showgirls on the reception desk of the hotel. Em turned his head away while trying surreptitiously to get a better look. He’d decided that the man on the train couldn’t possibly be the same man who’d been at the funeral; but all the same he was feeling a bit emotional, reminded of his father’s death, and a bit nervy, probably from being in an unfamiliar city. And the showgirl brochure underlined how unfamiliar Paris really was. The girls were only wearing feathers, which didn’t cover very much. You’d never see a brochure like that in a London hotel.

  “Freshen up,” Tom said as he handed them their key cards. “Have a rest or a bit of a nose around, practice your French. I’ve got a couple of things to do in my room, so don’t disturb me unless you absolutely have to. Don’t get into trouble. Don’t leave the hotel. Don’t charge up anything more than a Coke—”

  “How big a bottle, Dad?” Charlotte asked deadpan.

  “Very droll, darling. Now, all three of us will meet up here, in the lobby, at quarter to seven for an early supper. We’re off first thing for my big day, so you need to get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to have to drag either of you out of bed in the morning.”

  Tom’s big day was the symposium on something where he was delivering his paper. Em would have avoided it if he could, and so, he suspected, would Charlotte; but there was no way Tom was going to let them loose in Paris on their own, so attendance was compulsory. As was guaranteed death by boredom. It was the only bit of the whole holiday that Em was actually dreading. He realized his father’s old friend was looking at him. “Right,” he said.

  He was in his room trying to figure out how the shower worked when there was a quiet knock at the door. Charlotte slipped in without invitation when he opened it. “Fancy a walk?” she asked.

  “Where to?” What he actually fancied was a long, cool shower, but he didn’t want to say no. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Charlotte. She was terribly pretty and very friendly, but he was wary of her. She seemed a lot older than he was, although he knew she couldn’t be. Maybe living in America had made her more sophisticated or something. Her confidence felt alien.

  “Just explore a bit,” Charlotte said easily. “See the artists in the Latin Quarter or visit Notre Dame or stare at the Seine or whatever we can do from here and still get back in time for supper.”

  “Your father said we weren’t to go outside.”

  She gave him a withering glance. “Do you always do what you’re told?”

  “Well, no,” Em said uncertainly, “but . . .”

  “Then come on!” Charlotte urged. “This is my first time in Paris. Tomorrow we’ll be cooped up in Daddy’s miserable symposium, and the day after that we’re on the road again. This is our only chance. The City of Light! Gay Paree! Do you have cab money?”

  “A bit,” Em admitted, “but . . .”

  “Then we can go absolutely anywhere.” She gave him a huge grin. “Wouldn’t you like to look at the posters outside the Folies Bergère?”

  He realized suddenly he was being a total wimp. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s explore.”

  He felt nervous passing the door of Tom’s room, but they reached the foyer without incident. The hotel entrance faced onto a quiet side street. “I don’t suppose you have a street map?” he asked.

  Charlotte glanced up at him. “I do, as a matter of fact. There was a brochure thing in my room at the hotel. It has a map of the city center.” She pulled it from her pocket. “Is there somewhere you specially want to go?”

  There was a hint of excited enjoyment rising from his stomach. He was beginning to realize he actually was in Paris, with money in his pocket (not a lot, but enough) and could go anywhere he wanted. “I’ve always fancied seeing the Louvre ever since I read The Da Vinci Code.”

  “There’s a coincidence.” Charlotte grinned. “Me too. I think we can walk from here. We need to get onto the main streets though.”

  “Okay,” Em said. “I’m game if you are.”

  They found their way onto a main road; but as they were crossing the river, Charlotte suddenly hesitated. “I keep getting the feeling we’re being watched. You know, like when somebody stares at the back of your neck.”

  Em glanced around him. Traffic on the bridge was heavy, but none of the hurrying pedestrians seemed to be paying them any particular attention. “I don’t think so,” he said uncertainly. “What’s given you the feeling?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Oh, you know—woman’s intu-ition.” The smile became apologetic. “It’s probably just my imagination.”

  “Yes, probably,” Em said.

  As Charlotte promised, the museum was not far, but as the pyramid came into view, they realized that the queue to the ticket desk stretched across the square and down one of the surrounding streets. Em stared at it for a moment. “I don’t fancy standing in line for hours,” he said.

  “Neither do I,” Charlotte said at once. “Let’s find somewhere and have a cup of coffee.”

  They discovered tables set out in a colonnade to one side of the square, most taken by chattering couples and groups drinking wine. A scurrying waiter pointed to a small table for two beside one of the pillars and said cheerfully, “Ici!” As they sat down, he asked, “You do not require a full meal?” Em shook his head quickly. “In that case, this menu.” The waiter handed them a printed card. “I shall return when you have time to consider.”

  “How did he know we were English?” Em asked, frowning.

  Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps we look English. When he comes back, I’ll order us citron pressés in French; that’ll confuse him.”

  From their vantage point they could still see the queue for the Louvre. A coach had pulled up in the square, disgorging an enormous party of very young schoolchildren who milled about noisily, quickly filling much of the free space. Em was watching them, and pitying their poor teachers, as their citron pressés arrived.
The drink proved chilled and very sour, much like lightly watered lemon juice. He fought down the instinctive reaction of his mouth to purse violently, managed something resembling a smile, and gasped, “Delicious!” Citron pressés were for sophisticated people with sophisticated tastes. He didn’t want Charlotte to think he was a bumpkin.

  Charlotte smiled back, then leaned across the table until her lips were an intimate distance from his ear and asked quietly, “You know that feeling I had?”

  “On the bridge?”

  Charlotte nodded. “We should have paid attention to it. Someone has been following us.”

  Chapter 9

  Charlotte said, “I want you to look back into the square as if you’re still watching the schoolchildren. Then I’ll say something to you; and when you turn to look at me, check out the man sitting at the table at the far end of the colonnade just beyond the door. Linen suit, dark glasses—he’s actually the only person in the whole place sitting alone.”

  Em set down his drink and glanced quickly back to the square. Two harassed adults, presumably teachers, had somehow managed to herd most of the children into ragged lines and were currently trying to round up the stragglers. The coach driver was slowly backing up his empty vehicle, obviously preparing to leave his passengers to their fate. The queue for the pyramid looked changed, but undiminished, and was now largely composed of what Em took to be Japanese and American tourists. Followed? Em thought as Charlotte said something to him.

  As he turned toward her, everything seemed to go into slow motion. He stared along the colonnade past family groups and couples, past two gaggles of brightly dressed girls at adjacent tables clearly celebrating something, past the busy waiters in their white aprons, past a cluster of businessmen who had shed their jackets because of the heat, and beyond the restaurant doorway to a solitary table squeezed in right at the very end.

  The linen suit Charlotte had mentioned looked Italian in cut and made of lightweight, cream-colored cloth ideal for a sunny summer’s afternoon. The man wore it with a white, open-necked shirt stretched over a muscular chest. There was a Panama hat on the table in front of him; and like maybe 80 percent of the other patrons he was wearing dark glasses—no surprise in this weather. As his gaze swept past, Em had the uneasy feeling that their eyes met briefly, but it was probably imagination: there was no way to see past those shades.