This shot, despite the interval of time, the shorter range, the different target, is like hundreds of others in his memory. He is at full concentration. His body is relaxed. His right hand is firm but not too tight round the small of the butt. He moves his right index finger so it is touching but putting no pressure on the trigger. Again, he inhales slowly, again aims at Alden’s chest, begins to exhale and squeezes the trigger.
He hears the shot as the recoil, more forceful than expected, makes him close his eyes. When he opens them there is no figure on the bridge. The target has vanished with the echo. The gulley is silent. In the undergrowth below the bridge, he sees a patch of white, Alden’s shirt. It does not move. An image surfaces in his mind of a dead seagull shot with a .22 rifle by his shooting instructor when it had perched on the school range before target practice. The boys had cheered at their teacher’s accuracy, all except for one who thought the shot brutish and sickening.
He moves back into cover, removes the ear plugs and wraps the rifle. He turns and with his back to the bridge edges down the gulley until, beyond a bend, the continuing silence assures him that it is safe to climb the bank. At the top, near the edge of the path to the mountains, he does not pause or look back. The task is not complete. His concentration is now focussed on the next stage. He walks quickly through the olive trees, but where the path forks he walks beyond the danger sign towards the ravine. Five minutes later he arrives at a point where the terrain to his left begins to slope, gently at first, but soon steepening until it becomes sheer as the ravine opens. On the right, the mountainside, its gullies lined with opportunistic pines, towers above him. Eyes fixed ahead, he continues. After about two hundred metres his way is half blocked by a fallen tree. Its base and roots hang over the precipitous drop. He halts. The place is perfect. Crouching, he removes the rag from his pocket, unwraps the rifle and wipes every surface. He removes magazine and bolt, wipes these too. Having laid the rifle down, he removes his denim shirt, takes off a T-shirt and wraps it around his left hand. Rag in his right hand, he lifts the rifle and hurls it away from him over the edge of the ravine. For a moment it seems to hover in front of him before disappearing into silence.
Luke pulls on his shirts again and carries the bolt and magazine wrapped in the canvas cover further along the track. A few minutes later he halts by a pile of fallen stones. Choosing one of sufficient weight, he wraps it in the canvas cover and throws it into the ravine. Next, his hand covered with the rag, he throws away the bolt and magazine, followed by each of the unused rounds. There is some pleasure in consigning a forgotten weapon to an inaccessible abyss. In celebratory mood, he throws away the final round with as much power as he can muster, but slips on the path, breaking his fall with his left hand. He picks himself up and examines a gash on his palm. He presses his fingers over the wound to prevent bleeding. He smiles: it is minor damage in a greater scheme. He dusts himself down and turns back to the village. A little further on he wraps the rag in a stone and consigns this also to the ravine. Thirsty, he drinks the remaining water from the bottle, but does not throw it away. It will be treasured, not as a souvenir but a trophy. Now to forget. Today he woke up, left his room, enjoyed an early walk. That is all. With each step the images of gulley slip away. Only the picture of the dead seagull lingers, a remote memory imposing itself on a morning stroll, a trivial incident from schooldays, too long ago to concern him.
As Luke approaches Les Puits he gives no more than a glance towards the empty bridge. No-one is in sight. He enters the house and goes to the kitchen. Rhona is at the table drinking tea. In surprise she looks up at him.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ She remains seated.
‘Rhona, darling.’ He walks over and kisses her. ‘All set for a swim? I’ve already been for a walk.’ He places the bottle on the table.
‘I heard the door and thought it was Alden.’
‘I hope you’re not disappointed. River, isn’t it?’
‘Alden said he had to go and see Mathilde after his tai chi, then he was coming back here for a quick coffee before meeting the lawyer. I thought you were him.’
‘But our swim?’ He puts an arm around her.
‘No, Luke.’
‘Your car or mine?’
‘No.’
‘Rhona?’
She shrugs him off. ‘Alden and I worked out a load of stuff last night.’
Luke stares at her, unable to speak or move.
She stands and rests her arms on his. ‘Please don’t be angry.’
‘He’s got to you. You’ve been bullied, brain-washed.’
‘You’ve been very sweet, Luke . . .’
He places his hands on her shoulders. ‘What’s the bastard done to you?’
‘It isn’t like that. We talked and we’ve made a decision.’
‘But you and I had planned everything.’ His arms tighten on her.
She gently places her hands on his wrists and lowers his arms from her body. ‘I shall always remember this summer, Luke. I hope we can remain friends.’
‘But he hurt you. He’s violent. You said you wanted him out of your life. You wished he’d been pushed off the balcony. You wanted him dead.’
‘We’ve all said a lot of things which would have been better unsaid.’
‘He bullied you into this. Did he threaten you?’
‘Luke, sweetest, do I look bullied?’ She smiles at him.
He notices a tone of pink lipstick he has not previously seen her wear. Nor has he ever seen the pale blue dress.
‘He’s really poisoned you this time.’
‘It’s not like that. Have some coffee. I’ll explain.’
‘No, he’s infected your mind.’ He goes to the sink, pours a glass of water and gulps it.
She follows him. ‘Please don’t take it badly. I shall always treasure my memories of this summer. Alden likes you too, even despite the thing between you and me. He’ll be here in a minute.’
Luke, still holding the glass, in confused pity and anger looks into her eyes. He sees her smile change to suspicion. She steps back.
‘You’ve hurt your hand.’
‘It’s nothing.’
She frowns.
‘On my walk I tripped. I grazed it.’
‘Did you see Alden?’
‘I went on the mountain path. I saw no-one. Come on, let’s go to the river.’
‘You have seen him.’
‘Why should I want to?’
‘You didn’t fight with him, did you?’
‘He’s the violent one, not me.’
Two steel blue eyes fix him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Luke.’
‘I love you, Rhona.’
‘You mustn’t talk like that.’
‘I’ll do anything for you.’
‘Now you scare me. Where is he?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I’m going up to Mathilde’s.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, go and have your bloody swim.’
He takes her arm.
‘Get your hands off me.’
He follows her out to the courtyard and dashes to the door, barring her way. ‘Rhona, wait.’
‘Let me out, will you.’ She pushes him away, opens the door and strides out.
‘Rhona,’ he shouts.
She turns round. ‘Go and drown yourself.’ She waves a fist at him.
‘Rhona,’ he shouts again.
He hears her scream, ‘Alden, Alden!’ as he watches her break into a run towards Mathilde’s. In the centre of La Place des Pèlerins she stops and again screams, ‘Alden, Alden!’
Unable to move, Luke stares after her. Perhaps he should change his plan. Forget the swim. Isn’t it best to be here when the body is found? Why not make the discovery himself? No, that was never the plan. Last night three witnesses heard him say he would go for a swim. The plan must not be changed now. He must not allow Alden, even after death, to work on his mind, as he must have worked on Rhona’s last night. In th
e hallway by the back door he meets Josh in trainers and holding a flask of water.
‘Hi, Luke, want to join me for a quick run?’
‘I thought I’d go to the river for a swim.’
As Josh opens the door a rifle shot echoes from the mountains.
‘Sounded a bit close,’ says Josh. ‘Enjoy your swim.’ He runs off.
As Luke walks to his car, another shot echoes around the La Place des Pèlerins.
23
As the road climbs away from Santa Marta Luke assures himself that it was Alden’s voice talking in the kitchen, not Rhona’s. It is not possible that she has rejected him. Whatever Alden-induced anger has infected her, into whatever cauldron of emotion she will be immersed when Alden’s body is discovered, in a short time all will give way to the calm knowledge that she is free. Of course, at first she will be sad. A bond will have grown between Alden the captor and her the captive, and which will now be followed by the almost inexplicable feeling of guilt felt by the victim when the tormentor is found dead and the prisoner finds freedom: her own form of Stockholm Syndrome. He will wait until they have returned home before he tells her that it was he, not a stray bullet from the mountains, who removed Alden from her life. There will be a right time; the opportunity will show itself, as naturally as the day she first walked into his shop. And she will understand. Meanwhile, he must wait for her as he has waited before. But a mile from Santa Marta the image of the lifeless seagull again reasserts itself. The tyres of the Peugeot scream into the road surface as he brakes. He clutches the wheel and gasps. Now he remembers. He did not throw away the spent cartridge. He did not even pick it up. It is still in the gulley. In an automatic reaction he had pulled back the bolt, ejected the brass case and without thinking closed the bolt again.
In frantic recall he sees it lying on the baked mud, but distracted by a distant memory, he leaves it there. He remembers that by the ravine he removed the bolt, but there was no cartridge. And further along the track he threw away only live rounds. In desperation he searches his pockets but fails to find it.
He must go back and retrieve it. No, the search party will already have found the body. Already someone will have phoned the police. His heart pounds. His hands shake on the wheel. He imagines someone seeing the brass cartridge case as it catches the sun on the gulley floor. He sees a handkerchief pulled from a pocket. He sees the evidence, covered with his fingerprints and DNA, lifted up. Someone else is shouting, ‘Leave it there for the police.’ It is too late to return. His mouth is so dry it is sore.
What to do? He cannot turn back. He is finished. There is now no point going to the river. Unless, as Rhona suggested, he drowns himself. Struggling for breath, he starts the car. Unsure where he should go, he drives to the main road and follows the sign to Zonza. A coach from the other direction sounds its horn. He is too close to the centre of the road. For a moment he doesn’t care. At the last moment he swerves to avoid it. He must think. He pulls into a passing place. He must not panic. The cartridge may not yet have been found. He must go back. It is his only chance. He should have turned round immediately. It is too narrow to turn here. He drives on a mile without finding a place. He feels sweat pour down his arms. A white car approaches. He wonders if it is a police car – are they already looking for him? He expects it to slow down. They will already know the make and colour of his car. He wishes he had brought his sunglasses with him. The car, an estate with a family inside, passes by. He cannot possibly return to Santa Marta. He is safe, but perhaps only for a short time. He has become a wanted man, a hunted animal. Every second of freedom now is precious, borrowed. Too soon he finds himself in Zonza. A group of people sitting outside a café seem to stare at him. He drives through the town, eyes fixed on the road and follows the signs to the D368.
Having no plan of escape, he knows he is facing a trial followed by years in a French prison. The prospect is unthinkable. He begins to entertain thoughts of suicide which, with each mile, seem better than any alternative. The decision made, he drives slowly, searching for a secluded side road where he can park, find a mountain path, climb and let himself slip. But no side road appears. After some miles he looks at the edge of the road. Parts are not protected by a wall or crash barrier from a sheer drop. There are places where he could drive off the edge. His heart races. No, a fall from a mountain would be preferable to ending life crushed in burning metal. He must find a place to park and begin his final walk.
Several times he sees a promising side road, but on each occasion a car is close behind and the opportunity is lost. For a few minutes there are no other vehicles on the road. A series of sharp bends demands full concentration. There is still no suitable stopping place. Half a mile later, he sees another car approaching. He gasps, recognising a police car. He tries not to look at it, to retain his speed, but cannot help slowing. He is certain it will stop. It passes, disappearing beyond a bend behind him. He drives on, waiting for it to reappear in his rear view mirror but the road behind him remains clear. The urgency to find a turning off the main road increases. He is trapped in this car, a marked man. A mountain path would offer the freedom to do away with himself, but with each mile, as the road descends, the chance of that choice recedes.
The business of negotiating the unfamiliar road diminishes his urge to leave the car. While he is driving, he is protected from his thoughts. To stop would be final, a punctuation mark in his life for which he is not ready. And what of Rhona? However long the prison sentence – fifteen, twenty years, he has no idea – would she stand by him, wait for him? He drives on. The miles between him and Santa Marta now distance the events of the morning, diminish their reality. He tries not to think of them. He passes a lake. He could stop here under the pines and leave the car. He slows and sees two men beside a Mercedes. They have parked under the trees to look at a herd of wild boar. The animals are rooting about at the lakeside, unafraid of the proximity of humans. The men and the associations of the boar urge him to drive on. To ward off destructive thoughts he tries to think of home, of the shop, of his garden where fruit is waiting to be picked, his allotment where there will be so much to harvest. And Eva? He pictures prison visits from her: the thought is unbearable. The road becomes less steep. Passing cars no longer pose a threat. For much of the time he is travelling with the sun in his face. He squints, makes himself breathe steadily, tries to listen to the inner voice. It remains silent. He can do nothing but continue to drive, for snatched seconds pretending he has never visited Santa Marta. The mountains give way to gentler hills. Glimpses of the sea suggest he should drown himself. There is some everyday comfort in signs which point down side roads to villas or holiday complexes until one disturbs him: La Lezardière reminds him of the green lizard they saw on the courtyard wall of Les Puits his first evening on the island. It is a lifetime away.
Struggling to maintain equilibrium, he finds himself entering Porto-Vecchio. Here the sight of people is a renewed threat. He suspects that every pedestrian has heard a news flash that a murderer is on the loose, and that a description of his car has already been broadcast. His arrest is inevitable. He turns into a side road. At the end is a rough piece of land, a makeshift car park with no ticket machine. He chooses a space between a skip and a dirt-covered lorry which seems not to have been driven for weeks. It is only when he has cut the engine and sat back in his seat that he realises his shoulders ache with tension and that he is painfully hot. He peels off the denim shirt and two sweat-soaked T-shirts, and sits, bare-chested in hopeless thought.
After half an hour, thoughts of suicide are overcome by an idea to escape the island by ferry. He pulls on the denim shirt, still clammy to the skin. With the germ of a plan, he leaves the car and heads in the direction he guesses will lead him to the harbour. Russ’s advice never to be without passport and wallet might prove to be a life-saver.
As he approaches the town centre he regains confidence. Families, couples, groups, mainly French and Italian, are too busy to notice one more ho
lidaymaker among hundreds. Nevertheless, for safety, he enters a tourist shop and buys sunglasses and a straw hat. He pays in cash and picks up a street map from the counter. Leaving the shop he feels he has also bought himself time and now the occasional sight of a gendarme or police car does not worry him. At a food store he buys a bottle of water and drinks it in a doorway. When he arrives at the harbour there is breeze, but the rattle of halyards on masts transports him to childhood holidays on the Isle of Wight, whose memory adds a deep sadness to his alienation. He turns towards the ferry port. Here he discovers that there is a sailing for Marseilles at 6pm, but it occurs to him that the purchase of a ticket might require him to show his passport. He has some recollection that rules have changed and this might no longer be necessary, but can he risk it? It might be as good as giving himself up. And his name, perhaps a photo too, will surely have already been circulated to ports and airports. He is trapped. He must think. He is still free. There must be another way of escape.
He returns to the town centre. In a square, shadowed by a tropical tree, a busker is singing to the accompaniment of an electronic keyboard. He recognises the plangent cadencies of Jacques Brel’s Amsterdam. A small crowd has gathered round. He slips among them and sits on the ground. Here, attention is not focused on him. He is safe. He can steal time in which to make a decision.
He listens to the song. It is about sailors, life and love in another port. The words suggest escape. Even in the mournful melody there is hope. Perhaps he should risk the ferry.
The Mirrror Shop Page 32
