The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  He moved quietly about the loge, blowing out the candles. All but the candle in his lantern, in case she woke and was scared. Then she’d know she was in the belfry and was safe, he thought.

  He took off his overcoat and sat on the wood floor, his back at the door.

  He laid the coat over himself like a blanket.

  He watched her sleep.

  book three

  the awakening

  twenty-one

  Steel wheels on steel rails.

  Running east to west this time.

  Hotel telly didn’t have History Channel so Harper spent the night waiting for the cathedral bells to count off one more sleepless hour. Wasn’t much, but it beat counting and recounting dead soldiers in the ashtray. A packet of smokes’ worth now.

  Steel wheels coming again. The sound like a wave rolling up from Geneva, cresting at Gare Simplon, rolling on to Montreux.

  Christ, Montreux.

  Once or twice, drifting in the almost sleep, Harper saw the night clerk pinned to the wall. But it was only the curtains at the balcony door moving in the draught. Then he thought he saw Yuriev stumbling out of the casino on his way to his own grisly end. That one was only trails of cigarette smoke floating through the room. Two poor sods you never met, Harper thought, slaughtered because they talked to you on a telephone.

  Another train.

  West to east.

  Heavy and lumbering.

  It slowed into Lausanne but didn’t stop, it picked up speed, moved on. Had to be a freighter. They rolled by Lausanne like clockwork on the twenty- or forty-minute mark all through the night.

  Just after the seven o’clock bells, lighter trains came every two or three minutes. Leaving behind pecking sounds of feet on icy pavements that grew more in number with the coming and going trains.

  The eight o’clock bells brought buses and trolleys and gathering voices. Harper climbed from the bed, crossed the room and pulled open the curtains. He saw locals in the streets on their way to their daily bread. He saw morning light glowing firelike on the iced cliffs above Lac Léman.

  He walked back to the bed, downed three aspirin, looked at the telephone. The thing had buttons with pictures next to them. Man carrying bags, woman behind a desk, woman in maid uniform, man with a tray, man holding a suit of clothes. Harper picked up the receiver, pushed a button.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Harper, how may I serve you?’

  ‘Are you the man with the tray?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’d like a pot of coffee and croissants, please.’

  ‘Absolument, monsieur, tout de suite.’

  ‘Do you have the Guardian?’

  ‘Pardonnez-moi?’

  ‘English newspaper. I’d like to give the state of the world another go.’

  ‘Of course, monsieur. I can purchase one from the tobacconist. May I charge it to your room?’

  ‘Sure, and add five francs for yourself.’

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’

  ‘Hang on, what day is this?’

  ‘Jeudi, monsieur.’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  Harper hung up the phone, headed to the shower and lingered long enough to feel the cobwebs of the long night clear a bit. He dried himself before the steamy mirror. Drips of water snaking down the glass letting him see watery reflections of his face, his chest, the still healing bruises on stomach and ribs. Couldn’t remember where they’d come from. Must’ve been way beyond pissed at the time. Took a fall down some stairs maybe.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist and found his valise. Everything inside arranged as only a Swiss copper could’ve done it. The socks were perfect. He took his shaving kit to the sink, did the deed without slicing open his throat. He stared at the face in the mirror a good long while.

  ‘What?’

  Down on a stool, a hotel bathrobe folded nice and neat. He picked it up and shook it out, wondering about the man who spent his life folding bathrobes. Thinking that’s the job he should’ve had in Lausanne. Out of sight, out of mind. Locked up in some basement. Left sleeve, right sleeve, fold twice, tie snugly with belt. He slipped it on as someone came rapping at the door. He walked over, looked through the spy hole. Young woman in white busman’s jacket standing behind a serving trolley. Silver pot, china cup and saucer, basket of croissants, neatly folded newspaper. The newspaper looking as if it’d been folded by the same man who did the bathrobes. He opened the door.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

  ‘Sorry, not quite dressed.’

  She wheeled the trolley through the door. Harper stepped into the hall.

  No bad guys this way, no bad guys that way. No good guys either.

  ‘Do you wish me to pour the coffee, monsieur?’

  Harper stepped back in the room.

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll do it.’

  ‘As you wish, monsieur.’ She offered him the bill in a leather folder. ‘This is only for record purposes. The Swiss police will be paying your bills.’

  ‘I should hope so.’ He signed it and handed it back. He saw the bulge under her busman’s jacket. ‘I take it you’re one of Inspector Gobet’s gang?’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘The gun under your coat. Rather hefty from the look of it, or perhaps that’s because you’re such a delicate thing.’

  She took the leather folder.

  ‘I’ll be delivering all your meals during your stay. If anyone else appears at your door, don’t answer and dial triple zero on your telephone. The code will alert us.’

  ‘What about the maid?’

  ‘Fresh towels are under the breakfast trolley. Inspector Gobet suggests you make your own bed. He also suggests you do not leave the room. Please feel free to use the minibar.’

  ‘I didn’t see any guards in the hall.’

  ‘There are CCTV cameras in the lobby and lifts. As long as you stay in your room, you should be safe enough.’

  ‘Should be?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned to leave.

  ‘There’s no History Channel on the telly.’

  ‘Inspector Gobet left instructions you were not to have History Channel.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He thought it best you find another way to pass the time.’

  ‘Any idea what that might be, besides die at his beck and call?’

  ‘I’m sure I’m far too delicate to know such things, monsieur.’

  She walked out of the room, closed the door.

  Harper rolled the trolley to a chair near the balcony windows and tucked in. Two cups of coffee and half a croissant later he checked the headlines. World still going down in flames, just faster than yesterday. As if caught in the laws of physics, gravity dragging the whole bloody thing down. He tossed the paper on the bed, stared out at the big rocks across the lake. Orders of the day: stay out of sight, look for a new hobby. Wait for a pack of fucking psychokillers to find you. How lucky can a man get?

  Laws of physics.

  Gravity.

  Luck.

  No such thing.

  He searched the room for his mackintosh. Nowhere to be seen till he opened the closet and saw it in a heap on the floor. A hanger lying next to it, as if in the wee hours he’d given up the struggle. He hung the mackintosh up properly and pulled the manila envelope from the pocket. He poured another cup of coffee, pulled the photos from the envelope, flipped to the last shots: Yuriev stumbling out of the casino.

  Laws of physics somehow remembered: To stand, the force of gravity on body mass must be countered by an equal or greater force as applied by the legs, or you fall down. More laws of physics: Walking requires legs and feet to move in alternate but co-ordinated steps of equal pressure per square inch to maintain balance and resistance to force of gravity on same body mass, or you fall down.

  He laid out the photos.

  Yuriev’s feet were all over the place. His body mass leaning forward, way off balance. Shoulders pinched b
ack, arms hooked to the sides.

  Laws of physics said he should’ve fallen flat on his face.

  Harper checked the photos of Yuriev at the slot machines. The poor sod’s eyes flipping from side to side. Harper found the overhead photos, compared them to the head-on shots, following Yuriev’s eyeline. The man wasn’t talking to the slots, more talking to people either side of him, but there was nobody there. Back to the last shots, Yuriev’s arms rising from his side, arced and twisted as if he’s being dragged from the place. Harper’s eyes searched the photo. Halogen lamps in the ceiling, hitting Yuriev’s back. There were shadows on the carpeted floor.

  ‘You must be bloody joking.’

  By the time the tenth bell rumbled through the loge Katherine was letting go of the walls. The vibrations subsided and the door at the end of the room opened. A fat grey cat darted in followed by a crooked little guy in a long black overcoat. He was carrying a yellow plastic tub loaded with what looked like Chianti bottles. She pulled the duvet over her body.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Marc Rochat.’

  ‘The guy with the lantern.’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And this place is the cathedral.’

  ‘In the belfry, on top of the cathedral.’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Is it morning?’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock. Didn’t you hear Marie?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marie-Madeleine, she rings the hour.’

  ‘Oh yeah, her.’ Katherine leaned against the wall. Monsieur Booty hopped to the table and then on to the bed, he nestled in the duvet. ‘And this is your cat.’

  ‘My cat, Monsieur Booty.’

  Rochat set the yellow tub on the table and stood by the door. Katherine stared at him, his round face framed by a mop of uncombed black hair.

  ‘You look different without your hat.’

  ‘I forgot to put it on when I went out.’

  ‘And there’s snow on your coat.’

  ‘I was shovelling snow from the tower roof, before I got water from the fountain.’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed to the bottles in the yellow tub.

  ‘I got fresh water from the fountain.’

  ‘Those are Chianti jugs.’

  ‘I use them to get water from the fountain, so they’re for water now.’

  ‘Where’s the fountain?’

  ‘On the esplanade. Do you want to see?’

  She watched him, standing still with a nervous look on his face.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I have twenty-one years.’

  ‘You look younger.’

  ‘I have twenty-one years.’

  ‘My name’s Katherine.’

  ‘You told me your name was Katherine before you went to sleep.’

  ‘I did?’ The night flashed through her mind, she touched the bandage on her face. ‘What … what else did I say?’

  ‘You said, “Do you have a bell named Katherine?” and I said, “No.”’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, and you told me your name was …’

  ‘Marc Rochat.’

  ‘Yeah. So, Marc, I don’t know how to say this but … I need to pee.’

  Rochat thought about it. He reached behind a timber, found the plastic water bottle with the top cut off and held it out to her.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The piss pot.’

  ‘You pee in an Evian bottle?’

  ‘I pee in an Evian bottle.’

  ‘What do you do with it when you’re finished?’

  ‘Empty it on the roof of the cathedral and rinse it out and put it back.’

  ‘Isn’t dumping pee on a church a sin or something?’

  ‘Monsieur Buhlmann said, “If these blasted pigeons are free to shit all over the cathedral roof, I don’t think the creator gives a hoot about a little piss from the likes of you or me.”’

  ‘Who’s Monsieur Buhlmann?’

  ‘He worked in the tower before me. He only works on Sundays now because he’s old.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it works for you and Monsieur …’

  ‘Buhlmann.’

  ‘Buhlmann, yeah. But my plumbing’s different, you know?’

  Rochat thought about it some more. He turned and put away the piss pot, he removed jugs from the yellow tub and held the tub out to her.

  ‘You mean you don’t have a toilet up here?’

  ‘Not in the tower. But there’s one under the unfinished tower for when I need to … other things.’

  ‘Can I go there?’

  He took the skeleton keys from a hook on the wall.

  ‘I can take you. Do you want slippers? I have slippers under the bed.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

  Rochat shuffled to the bed, she jumped as he came closer. He stopped.

  ‘They’re under the bed, in the little closet.’

  Katherine lifted her feet and slid to the corner of the bed. He opened the closet, found the leather slippers with thick cotton inside. He laid them on the bed and closed the closet door. He shuffled back to the door, watched her try them on.

  ‘Wow, fuzzy slippers, I love fuzzy slippers. You don’t have any extra clothes, do you?’

  ‘I have some trousers and some wool socks and some shirts and two jumpers. They’re under the bed, too, in my rucksack.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  Six steps back across the loge, under the bed, up with the rucksack.

  ‘And there’s an extra toothbrush. You can wash it and use it, I have another one in the loge, it’s in a jar.’

  Rochat shuffled back to the door and stood. Katherine looked at him, feeling suddenly shy.

  ‘Um, could you go outside for a minute, Marc? While I get dressed?’

  ‘I can go outside for a minute while you get dressed.’

  He shuffled out of the loge, closed the door behind him.

  He looked out over Lausanne and the lake, he felt warm sunlight cut through the cold air. He turned and saw Marie-Madeleine hanging in her timbered cage, detecting a severe scowl on her bronze face. The snowman near her, however, smiled with walnut teeth.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Madeleine et Monsieur Neige. A good rest, I trust?’

  Marie was silent. Rochat reached in the timbers and gave the great bell a rap with his knuckles. She grumbled.

  ‘What do you mean, what must I be thinking? You saw what happened last night, those men from the bad shadows hurt her. And Monsieur Rannou said an angel would come to the cathedral to hide and I have to protect her. It’s my duty, so there.’

  The door of the loge opened, Katherine peeked out.

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Who’re you talking to?’

  Rochat pointed into the timbers.

  ‘Marie-Madeleine.’

  Katherine looked around the stone pillars and into the criss-cross timbers and saw the massive bronze thing.

  ‘You’re talking to a bell?’

  ‘She’s not happy this morning.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Rochat couldn’t decide if it’d be rude to tell the angel Marie didn’t like her hiding in the belfry, so he rocked on his heels and didn’t speak. Katherine looked around the stone pillar again.

  ‘And why is there a snowman in there with the bell?’

  ‘I made him in front of the loge first, but Monsieur Taroni said I had to get rid of him, but I didn’t want to chop him up, so I hid him next to Marie.’

  ‘Who’s Monsieur Taroni?’

  ‘The caretaker of the cathedral.’

  ‘So your snowman’s on the run too, huh?’

  Rochat looked at Monsieur Neige, then Katherine.

  ‘He doesn’t have any legs.’

  She stared at him, not knowing if he was joking or truly insane.

  Soft bells rang up from Place de la Palud – tink, tink – Katherine’s eyes followed the sound. She saw t
he snow-covered roofs of the old city, curly streams of smoke from chimneys. She saw the long crescent of the lake, the French Alps rising above Évian and the Swiss Alps rising to the east, all the world rising into the clearest of blue skies.

  ‘Gosh, it’s like flying up here.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yeah, it really is.’

  ‘I imagine I can fly when I come to the belfry at night.’

  ‘No wonder.’ Katherine looked over the railings and down to the esplanade, she saw people walking along the cobblestones, she jumped back. ‘There’re people down there.’

  ‘But people don’t look up when they walk under the tower, except when the snowman was standing here yesterday. Monsieur Buhlmann says the bell tower was once the tallest building in Europe and people always looked up then. But they stopped when it wasn’t any more.’

  Rochat saw his jumper and trousers on her body, his slippers on her feet. The towel he gave her last night was over her shoulders. She held the toothbrush, toothpaste and Marseilles soap in one hand, her other hand held up the loose-fitted trousers.

  ‘My clothes look funny on you.’

  ‘They feel funny, but we’ll worry about that later. Can we go now? I really need to pee.’

  ‘We can go now.’

  He shuffled along the balcony, pointing into the west timbers.

  ‘That’s Clémence, she’s always grumpy.’

  Katherine looked in and saw another big bell with pigeon shit on it. Rochat hopped down the tower steps and spiralled out of sight. She felt a sudden rush of panic like the night before.

  ‘Hey, wait.’

  He leaned back around the newel.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just wait for me, please.’

  He watched her come down the winding steps to meet him.

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘I’m all right. Just don’t run away.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  He led her two turns down the tower to the low wood door built into the curving stone wall. Rochat pulled his skeleton keys from his overcoat, gave them a shake and found the right one. He unlocked the door.

  ‘There’s a tunnel and you have to bend down and it’s dark.’

  ‘There’s not another way?’

  ‘We could go outside and around the façade, but I imagined you didn’t want to go outside so people wouldn’t see you.’