by Tom Knox
He stared and drove, and thought of his grandfather. His grandfather’s strange and guilty shame.
Desolada, desolada, desolada…
Three hours later the sun had gone, and the violet-purples had turned to grainy black, and they were racing, silently and very fast, through the darkness. The true and noble darkness of the desert.
It was cold.
They were quiet and exhausted. Every so often the eyes of a nocturnal animal would catch in the headlights – a bat-eared fox, a desert hare. Then darkness. And then the headlights illuminated a big sign: Sperrgebiet. Diamond Zone 1. Extreme Danger.
‘OK,’ said Angus. ‘Down that dirt road.’
Two hundred metres further, sudden lights blazed. Two armed black men had emerged from a wooden hut, with rifles cocked. They had torches: their faces were grim and determined.
‘Stop!’
Angus leaned out of the car.
‘Solomon. Tilac. It’s me!’
A silence.
‘Angus?’
Now the men were smiling.
‘Angus. You de bloody mad man. We could have shoot you!’
‘Sorry – sorry –’
The guards stepped back. One of them was flamboyantly waving them through.
They sped past; the untarred road was rumbling and rocky. Though it was hard to tell in the silvering darkness, the landscape seemed to have changed. The night air was still cooler. David realized he could smell the sea, salty and pungent.
And there indeed was the ocean, glittering malevolently in the moonlight. The road ran up and over seaside rocks, bare grey rocks. Ahead of them was the twinkle of more lights: the silhouette of structure, a large complex of buildings, bristling with antennae and satellite dishes.
‘Tamara Minehead,’ said Angus. ‘Park here.’
The reaction to their arrival was immediate: several men came straight out, one of them a tall and languid white man, in an intoxicatingly impractical grey flannel suit.
‘Nathan,’ said Angus, very wearily. ‘This is Amy…Myerson and David…Martinez. Friends…those friends of Eloise. Friends, this is Nathan Kellerman.’
Nathan Kellerman stepped closer. He was young and handsome.
‘My God, Angus, what happened to you all? You look terrible.’
‘We’re fine. Just need sleep. Fine.’
‘And Alphonse, where is Alphonse? Everyone else? What the hell happened?’
Angus shrugged; a painful silence enveloped them.
Nathan Kellerman lifted a manicured hand. His tone sharpened. His accent was faintly American.
‘Do you have the blood samples? The last blood samples, Angus!’
‘Yes.’
‘Then –’ David could see Kellerman’s relieved smile, his perfect white teeth. ‘Then all is well. Let’s go inside. Robbie, Anton. Help the good people.’
Slowly they shuffled through the bright modern building: offices, corridors, bedrooms. The cleanliness and modernity made an intense contrast to the privations of the desert. Expensively thin TVs, gleaming white kitchens. Cold steel fridges with glittering test tubes. It was another stunning dislocation, like stumbling on a Venetian palazzo in the jungle.
David and Amy were led to a bedroom. He tried to look calm and normal as they undressed, but some uncrystallized thought was troubling him. Something. Something. What was it?
He looked at his hands. Were they twitching? Maybe there had been some infection. From the body liquor.
He thought of Miguel sniffing the meat. He thought of Amy’s eyes as she looked at him; would she still look at Miguel the same way, sometime? David was bewildered by the absence of Eloise. Amy came close and kissed him.
‘Hey –’
‘Eloise,’ he said. ‘Where is Eloise…?’
‘I know,’ said Amy. ‘I know. But…I am so tired. I can’t even think…Let’s just…Tomorrow…’
Amy was nuzzling close. Scared and close and exhausted. The bedroom looked out onto the sea; a sharp salty breeze was lifting the curtains through the open window. The moon was high. It looked like a white screaming face, the face of someone being tormented.
They lay together in the moonlit bedroom, quite still, for a few moments.
Then they quickly fell asleep.
And he dreamed.
He was eating some meat, chewing on some gristly biltong; the dried meat was really gristly and bony. He was in his grandfather’s hospital room, the desert was blinding outside. Then Granddad reached from his bed and pointed. David turned, with a mouthful of biltong, and he saw a naked girl, standing outside in the desert. And then he saw: she had no hands. And the reason she had no hands was because David was eating her hands. He realized he was eating her hands.
David woke with a jolt of terror; it was the middle of the night, he was staring at the still-screaming silent desert moon, through the square windows, with Amy snoring courteously beside him.
At last he had the truth. David now realized the truth: why he had been thinking about his grandfather. His grandfather’s shame and guilt. The inability to explain, the terrible furtiveness.
He was in the Forbidden Zone in his mind, he had crossed into the Forbidden Land.
Granddad was a Cagot. It was the only explanation that made any sense; that explained it all. Granddad was a Cagot. An untouchable. A pariah. A cannibal of Gascony. The Cagots were indeed cannibals. And David was descended from a Cagot: he was one of them.
Amy snored and turned over; her bare young shoulder was soft in the moonlight. Soft like a succulent peach.
40
Simon was standing at a payphone, by a bunch of exiled smokers just outside Gate A of Lyon Saint Exupéry airport. A watery October sun was rising over the terminals. The first planes were rumbling and ascending into the grey morning air.
The journalist weighed the shining euros in his hand. He’d tried calling Suzie through the night but got no reply. Were they safe? Where was Tim? His heart confessed his guilt – with a nasty stab of pain. He’d got some information out of the monk at Tourette, but was it worth it? What if something had happened? Where was Suzie? She could just be at work. But it was so early. And Conor. What about Conor? Where was his mother-in-law? And Tim?
The questions raked his soul.
There was no one left to call. But he’d also tried his parents, and they too were out –
So he had no choice. He had to try the police. Simon stared down at his euro coins. One, two, three…?
Fumbling with the change, he fed the phone. It rang. And it was answered.
‘DCI Sanderson.’
Simon paused – took a breath of diesely air – and then he gabbled his questions. Tim. Conor. Suzie. Conor. Tim.
The policeman interrupted:
‘OK, Quinn, OK. I’m with you. Calm down. Are you on a payphone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
The doubt crept into Simon’s thoughts.
‘Somewhere in France. I chucked my new mobile. Don’t trust it. Don’t know…who to trust…Tell me what is happening.’
Sanderson said, very gently: ‘They’re fine. Your wife and son…are fine. But…there’s been…developments. Last night. I’m heading into my chief super’s office now. We’ll call you, I promise, in a few seconds. What’s your number?’
‘Developments? Is Conor OK? Have they found Tim?’
‘Conor’s totally fine. Suzie too. Safe as houses. What’s your number?’
Simon swallowed his anxieties; his anxieties had the horrible savour of bile, as if he had recently thrown up. He pressed a finger against his other ear, to drown out the sound of the airplanes. And he spelled out the digits.
‘Wait there,’ said the DCI. ‘I’m talking to the CS right now. Wait there and…trust me?’
Simon nodded and chunked the receiver. He looked at the dull steel payphone.
‘Bonjour…’
He swivelled. An affable-looking French chap, in neat jeans, and a light turquoise cas
hmere jumper – thrown suavely over his shoulders – was standing behind; the man was gesturing at the phone and smiling.
‘Je voudrais utiliser?’
Simon growled.
‘Go away.’
The man stared at Simon. Perplexed.
Simon growled again.
‘Go away! Merci fucking beaucoup!’
The Frenchman backed away, then actually ran into the terminal.
The phone trilled. Simon picked up.
‘OK –’ Sanderson’s tone was clipped, yet sympathetic. ‘I just wanted to get the latest from CS Boateng.’
‘What are these…developments?’
‘I’ve got extra men looking after your wife and son. And your mum and dad. That’s why they are safe. No one can get to them – these religious geezers, no one. No one can touch them. We haven’t rung you because we are being very careful, after what’s happened…’
The journalist had a cruel sense, at last, where this conversation was going.
The policeman confirmed it.
‘It’s Tim. Simon. Yer brother Tim. Why didn’t you tell us anything about Tim?’
‘I…don’t know…I just don’t know why.’
Simon shuddered with remorse. Tim. Of course. Why hadn’t he mentioned Tim? When Sanderson had asked about family members who could require protection, he had not cited Tim. Why? Was it because he was ashamed of Tim? Or because he just didn’t want to think about Tim? Or because he really thought Tim was safe so it was irrelevant?
Maybe it was all three explanations. Tied into a knot of denial.
‘What’s happened to him? Jesus. Is he…’
‘Not dead. But we know he’s been taken. Kidnapped.’
‘How do you know? Are you sure he hasn’t just run away?’
Sanderson’s voice was dry and cool. ‘Sorry. No. We have proof. They took him.’
‘Proof?’
‘A video. In an email. The captors sent it to everyone late last night. It went to your wife, your parents, and you, I’m guessing. If you get a chance to look at your email. You’ll find it. I suggest you delete first.’
‘Sorry?’ ‘Don’t watch it, Simon. Really. Don’t watch it!’
‘Why?’
‘It’s…bloody distressing.’
A plane was landing, with a malign roar. Simon pressed the phone closer: ‘Are they torturing him?’
‘No. But they are…using him. Manipulating emotions. And they do it well. They want to use your feelings, your guilt, to get at you. He’s their purchase on you. They clearly know you are in touch with Martinez, and Myerson. They will want all this, they want everything you know. Tim is in a lot of danger.’
‘So what do I do now? What can I do? Come home?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?
‘Hide.’
Simon pressed the phone closer to his ear, to make sure he was hearing correctly. ‘Hide? You just want me to…hide out?’
‘Just for now. Yes.’ Sanderson’s voice dropped a few tones. ‘I’m sorry but there it is. You chose to do what you did. You’re out there now. I don’t blame you for that. But…haring across France. Not telling us. Less than brilliant. But you’ve made your decision. And now you’re probably facing a bigger risk if you come back to London. You might be spotted en route, they will expect you to try and find your family. Your friends out there said we can’t trust the police in France, right? So it’s very bleeding tricky. Who knows where they will have people.’ He sighed, fiercely. ‘Main thing is – your wife and son are safe: I can vouch for that. My men are good. And there’s nothing you can do to help us find Tim.’
‘So I stay here?’
‘Stay there, for now, until we work this out. Stay quiet in France or Germany, you can cross the border unseen thanks to Schengen. Lie low. Very very bloody low. You know to use payphones only.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t even use the same payphone twice. Call me direct as before…Call Suzie on this special number.’
Simon patted his pockets and found a pen. He wrote the number.
The DCI sighed.
‘Simon…I’m sorry about this. But you should…prepare yourself for the worst. And don’t watch the video. You know how ruthless these bastards are. Speak soon.’
The phone clicked and brrrd. Simon thought of his brother.
I made a dog hope you like it.
41
The morning was bright and unutterably dazzling. David was woken by a knock on the door. Another employee, explaining:
‘Mistah Kellerman want you to join him on the terrace.’
David glanced across. He must have fallen asleep again, and the exhausted sleep had been profound: they hadn’t noticed the sun rising behind the flimsy curtains.
He tried not to think about the nightmare as they showered.
But Amy sensed something.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Yes of course…Thank God we made it.’
She looked at him.
‘Let’s go and find Eloise.’
They changed into clean clothes, sourced from a wardrobe, then they exited into the corridor. Immediately the assistant appeared, and guided them out onto a sunlit terrace, overlooking the sea.
The wind had dropped. The view was austere but pristine: an entirely empty beach, a couple of small rocky islands in the bay. The barking of distant seals. South and north stretched rocky wilderness, echoing coves and cliffs. Only the hulking metal shape of a diamond mine interrupted the abject desolation, far in the distance.
A table was set up on the terrace. Angus was there, drinking coffee. Kellerman was beside him, dressed in a cream linen suit, and a discreet silk tie.
And Eloise was sitting across the table.
Amy ran over, and hugged the young Cagot girl.
Nathan gestured in David’s direction.
‘Please sit.’
They sat. They talked animatedly with Eloise. She seemed relaxed, even happy. Or at least, not afraid.
Someone served a basket of pastries, and more fresh coffee, freshly squeezed juice, and cold meats and bread. The luxury was sumptuous and startling: like they had just checked into a surprisingly good hotel in Hell.
David and Amy both fell upon the food: instantly realizing how hungry they were. But then David stopped, and paused, and shuddered – and slid the glistening pink ham off his plate back onto the serving dish. He chose more fruit and bread. Not meat. He didn’t want meat.
Kellerman watched them, sipping his coffee from a china cup. Silent and aloof. His slender cellphone resting on the table. David had never seen such an anorexic cellphone.
Angus spoke first: ‘Guys. We’re safe here for the moment. I’ve been talking with Nathan. They won’t dare to come into the Sperrgebiet. Not past the guards.’
‘Are you sure?’
Angus flashed a glance at Nathan. Who nodded, rather casually; he was checking something on his phone.
Angus turned back.
‘So we can relax. For a day or two.’
David nearly laughed, with open and outright contempt, at the word relax.
Relax?
The image of Alphonse was cut into his thoughts, tattooed on his neocortex. A man burnt to cinders, screaming his death agony: Miguel inhaling the scent of the meat. The Cannibalistic Cagot…
He suppressed his shudder and finished breakfast. Bread and fruit and cheese. No meat. They talked about the penguins and the seals on the islands offshore. Eloise said she had found a sandrose on the beach the previous day, a beautiful sandrose.
‘And there are agates too!’
Her enthusiasm was touching, and teenage, and winning, but David couldn’t cope. It was all too much. He just couldn’t make small talk. Just couldn’t. He pushed back his chair, and stretched and apologized – he needed to be alone. Amy looked his way and he tried to smile and failed, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to talk about anything.
David walked across the ter
race, down some concrete steps onto the empty beach. A big factory ship was way offshore, beyond the islands. The sands were grey and shining in the hot sun. The coastline, as far as he could see, was lunar in its sterility. The coastline of the Forbidden Zone. Last refuge of the Cagots.
‘Hey?’
He swivelled. It was Angus, joining him.
‘David. You OK?’
A brief and piercing pause.
‘I’m fine.’
The Scotsman’s answering smile was sad, and sceptical. He said nothing. David could bear it no longer. He had to confess; he needed to confess.
‘Angus…do you think it is possible…’ He had to force the words out of himself. ‘That I am a Cagot? Of Cagot decent, at least. I’ve been thinking about my grandfather. His guilt and shame. The only thing that makes sense is…that he was a Cagot too. Maybe he found out at Gurs, like José Garovillo.’
The scientist tilted his head, his pale white face even paler in the harsh Sperrgebiet sun.
‘I had wondered if you would reach that conclusion.’
‘So? What do you think?’
‘To my mind, you do not present any of the obvious Cagot syndromes, but you do have, maybe, the colouration.’
‘S’what I thought. Jesus.’
‘It doesn’t mean you will go mad. Not definitely. You may be fine, like Eloise. And then again you may not be.’
‘Christ.’
‘The only way we can know for sure is genetic testing. If you want. If you want I can do that here, in the labs. Do you really want to know?’
The truth was close, yet utterly unbearable. Like an HIV test, but infinitely worse. David stared out to sea. A smaller boat was floating there, closer than the great factory boat. Maybe a skiff, belonging to local fishermen.
David exhaled.
‘I don’t know, Angus. It’s…so fucking difficult. I’m frightened, if I’m honest. I don’t want to know that…I am like Miguel. How could I tolerate knowing that?’
‘Of course.’
The two men kicked stones, and walked further down the beach, talking quietly. Angus was in pensive, discursive mood: speaking of the Serpent Seed, the Biblical tales of separate races of men. Then the scientist stopped, and stared at the virulent blue sea, the little islands offshore; he was speaking of earlier forms of hominid, Homo antecessor, Homo habilis, and then Homo floresiensis, a dwarf-like relative of man.
