Bed of Nails

by Varenne, Antonin

  There was another guy waiting outside, a hundred kilos, tough, fists at the ready and no hesitation. Lundquist had certainly not come alone. John’s nose burst open and he fell to his knees. The gorilla prepared to have another swing at him, but Lambert raised his pistol three times. The barrel of the Beretta was covered in blood. The second bodyguard rolled into the gutter, bleeding from the head.

  Lundquist was hopping up the road: his fractured spine prevented him from running, so he used his cane as a pivot to provide speed: a three-legged insect, damaged, escaping down the rue de l’Hirondelle. Lambert crouched in firing position, as in the gun club. Facing front, both hands gripping the Beretta’s slippery handle, his legs flexed and apart.

  “Police! Stop or I’ll fire!”

  Lundquist stopped dead in his zigzag flight, and wheeled round. He was holding a handgun. “Shit,” Lambert whispered, and smiled.

  Bubbles of air and blood were spurting from the bridge of John’s broken nose. His head was whirling. He wiped his eyes, brimming with tears, got to his feet and saw the two men standing in the street, both armed.

  Everyone hit the wrong target

  John sprang to cover Lambert with his body.

  Lundquist fired twice.

  “Empty shells” was John’s last thought before he felt the shock, and a bone shatter somewhere in his body.

  The door of the club opened, and cheerful voices spilled out into the street. Guérin saw a man in a suit stretched out on the ground. Lambert and Nichols were a shapeless mass in the middle of the street. Lundquist was still pointing the smoking gun, his eyes staring.

  Guérin took one of the Aouch brother’s pistols from his coat pocket, slowly and with regret. He aimed for the legs.

  Ariel came out, pushing aside the open-mouthed crowd which was now spreading into the street. She looked at the last man left standing. Guérin, his big head to one side, was already searching for possible explanations.

  18

  Juliard didn’t get the call from Paris till 6.00 a.m.

  Three motorbike gendarmes left first, while the others loaded two vans and a 4×4. Bullet-proof vests, heavy arms and action stations.

  Michèle, the blonde, insisted on coming. They didn’t let her drive.

  At the top of the track to the camp, one of the motorcyclists was waiting. He was picked out in their headlights through the haze which was dispersing as day dawned. Juliard leaned out of the 4×4.

  “Well?”

  “They’re on their way back up, commandant.”

  The two others were scrambling up, still wearing their crash-helmets and out of breath.

  “There’s a car parked at the bottom of the track, commandant,” said the first. “We didn’t go beyond. No sound, couldn’t hear anything.”

  His colleague, bent double, hands on knees to get his breath, confirmed: “Hired car, Paris plates, sir.”

  Juliard got out and went to the first van, where Verdier, the sergeant with the grey moustache, was at the wheel.

  “We’re going in on foot.”

  The gendarmes got out of the vehicles, and Juliard gave them an emergency briefing.

  “Right. The call came from a lieutenant in the Paris police, C.I.D. We’ve got a fax from the back-up legal authority as well. But we don’t know exactly what’s going on. He said that there should be someone staying at Nichols’ place at the moment, a man called Bunker. About sixty, white hair. The instructions say find him and bring him in. But he may have been taken hostage. We don’t know who could be down there with him, or how many. Paul and Philippe have seen a car parked down there. Bunker came by train. So there’s got to be someone else there. Paris says the suspect or suspects are probably armed and dangerous. So we won’t take any risks, we’re just going to take a look, that’s all. If we find a problem, we put the barriers up and wait for reinforcements from Cahors, understood? This isn’t just some drink-driving offence, so watch out.”

  The first rays of the sun were just reaching the peaks above the valley. The damp night air was condensing into a light layer of dew. The helmeted men started to creep down the track in groups of three, their hands gripped tightly round their guns. They moved silently, sending out steaming breath. Juliard, up in front, crouching in the wet grass on the verge, raised his arm and made a fist. Everyone stopped. He beckoned Verdier, who joined him. Juliard gave orders in a low voice.

  “Verdier, you know the spot. Have a look first with your men. Call us when you can see the camp.”

  Verdier ran his fingers over his moustache.

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Juliard looked at him for a moment, feeling vaguely anxious.

  Two minutes later, Juliard’s radio crackled. He took the receiver from his shoulder. Verdier spoke in a whisper.

  “Nothing here, sir. Can’t see a soul. Not a sound.”

  “Don’t move, we’re coming down. You others, Martinez, Blanchet, stay by the car.”

  Juliard stood up, motioning to the others to join him.

  Two men advanced down the log steps, weapons at the ready. Three others covered them from the top of the incline. There was no-one inside the big tent. The sun’s rays were now reaching the deserted encampment.

  “Shit,” Juliard said. “The car’s still here. And someone seems to have settled in. But where are they?”

  The acned junior gendarme piped up:

  “Sir, when we came to find Nichols the other day, we found him up in the woods, shooting his bow.”

  “Verdier! Take four men and go and look up there.”

  His radio crackled again.

  “Commandant? Martinez here, I’m down the bottom, I think you’d better come and take a look.”

  Juliard told his men to wait and went down, stumbling over the ruts in the path. Martinez pointed towards a hayfield, at the bottom of the track, running down to a watermeadow by the river. The hay was still standing here, it hadn’t been cut. But the grass had been trampled, in a curving track towards the bank. Someone had walked across the field to go to the river. In the distance, the water sparkled golden brown.

  “Anyone got binoculars?” Juliard asked.

  “Back in the truck, sir.”

  “Never mind.”

  Juliard put his hand up to shield his eyes and peered ahead. “There’s someone by the water.”

  They went down in a group of six, each one making a fresh track across the hayfield as they walked in parallel lines. Juliard was in the middle, following the original pathway, Halfway to the river he stopped. At his feet lay the body of a black dog, curled into a ball in the grass. An old dog, its teeth showing in a grimace, its skull shattered. Looking towards the river, he could now see the naked torso of a man with white hair leaning against a tree. Juliard raised one hand and the men stopped. He blew out then took a deep breath, taking his Sig Pro from its holster.

  “This is the gendarmerie! Put your hands up and identify yourself. Stand up slowly.”

  A warm breeze ruffled the tall grass, matching the ripples on the river. The man leaning against the tree didn’t move or reply.

  “This is Commandant Juliard speaking, from the national gendarmerie! Put your hands up! State your name!”

  The white hair blew a little in the wind, like the stalks of grass heavy with seed. Still no response. Juliard stepped over the dead dog, and the men went forward with him, gradually moving closer together. The six paths converged towards Bunker.

  The body of a man in a suit was lying at the old lag’s feet. A man with a blond crewcut, a bent nose and cauliflower ears. The face of a former boxer on the neck of a bull, but strangely out of shape. The gorilla’s throat was crushed and twisted, his top vertebrae out of line. The head lay at an odd angle and was already turning blue; the shoulders and the arms, thrown wide open, were submerged in about ten centimetres of water, and swaying slightly in the current of the Bave. His open mouth was full of water, and a blackened oak leaf was floating in it. At the end of his right arm, lying o
n the sandy river-bed was an automatic handgun with a silencer.

  Bunker was naked, sitting at the foot of the oak tree, his legs stretched out and his head against the trunk. From a black hole in his belly, an impressive quantity of blood had flowed, down across his genitals and on towards the river without quite reaching it.

  Juliard crouched down beside the old man. He considered, with awe, this massive body which had taken hours to die, the strong heart pumping out litres of blood, offered to the earth. The old man’s hair was not wet. Either it had had time to dry or else Bunker hadn’t had time to go swimming. His green eyes were open.

  With two fingers, Juliard touched the old man’s carotid and found no reason for hope. Even worse. The body was almost warm. A matter of minutes. The officer took off his helmet and wiped some sweat from his brow. Bunker’s mouth was fixed in the shadow of a smile.

  Juliard asked himself why this ancient pile of muscles had not tried to drag himself up to the road. The old keeper of the Luxembourg Gardens had stayed there all night, by the river, oozing blood. What was he waiting for?

  He looked at the tattoo on the hand, the fiery cross, then followed the direction of Bunker’s last gaze turned towards the field, the tepee on the side of the hill and the sun, now already high in the sky.

  19

  JOHN P. NICHOLS

  John Nichols had stopped only one of the two bullets. It had gone in through the shoulder, shattering the humerus, and exited through the base of his neck, breaking his left collar-bone. The pain from the wounds had been short-lived at the time. It returned as he emerged from unconsciousness.

  When he woke up, the man with the round pebble head was sitting in a corner of his room. The little lieutenant had brought his possessions for him: a rucksack, the bow, a quiver of arrows and a small black canvas bag. John had turned his head towards the window and looked out at the sky. He had no wish to talk.

  Nichols did his reckoning.

  Two men, each coming to the end of their road, had died on the banks of the same river. A Vietnam vet, Patrick Nichols, and an old ex-convict rebaptised with the name of a writer. Between these two, he would have to try not to go under himself. And between the two of them, there was Alan Mustgrave. John kept his mouth shut, for fear that too many words, or too few, would spill out.

  The little lieutenant came in every morning, bringing news that John listened to without replying. He looked out of the window, waiting to be able to leave Paris. Guérin had accepted the situation from the start, with a nod of his head.

  On the fourth day, a tall blonde woman had come to visit. He had turned towards her and said a few words, the first since the rue de l’Hirondelle. He had apologised, explained, and said he would be convalescent for some time. The woman had held his hand, talked of a former friend, and wished him a speedy recovery. After she left, he turned back to the window.

  A week later, he had used the telephone in his room. He had called an undertaker and an ambulance company. He had left an envelope on the bed, signed his own discharge and was driven out of Paris lying on his back in a white medical transport.

  *

  The concession had been bought in perpetuity with a handful of dollars. Under the big lime tree, facing the morning sun. On top of the coffin was another, smaller box.

  John had thrown a few accessories into the grave to accompany Bunker and Mesrine on their journey. A bow, some arrows, a packet of Gitanes and a few thousand dollars. Enough for Bunker to get by, whether in hell or paradise.

  The other people at the funeral were a gendarmerie commander in civilian clothes, a café proprietor, and three old men in cloth caps who had invited themselves along. A delivery man had put a wreath alongside the grave and given a card to John, who smiled as he read it. The epitaph on the grave would be a sober one:

  Bunker and his dog Mesrine

  2008

  Keepers of the gardens

  Now they could keep an eye on the graveyard and the valley.

  John had watched as the gravediggers threw earth on top of the two coffins. His last memory of Bunker: a suitcase done up with string, a suit from the 1980s, a spruced-up old lag whom he had taken in his arms in the rue de Vaugirard. Bunker was scared, yes, but happy. He had left freely. No need to go back over it and start fretting now.

  John had walked over to his father’s tomb a few yards away to put some wild flowers on it.

  At the cemetery gate, Juliard had waited for him. Three men, groaning discreetly, were unloading a granite slab from a pick-up truck.

  Juliard had offered his condolences, and John smiled again. This time, Juliard had not wriggled out of his duty. He seemed to be moved. The commandant explained to Nichols where they were with the enquiry, its conclusions and consequences. The American embassy had put pressure on for everything to be dealt with discreetly, and as fast as possible. Some diplomats had arrived from Washington the day before, and wanted to get in touch with Nichols. John laughed at this, saying the gendarmerie had become his secretariat.

  John P. Nichols left a message to be passed on.

  “They’ll call again, to make me a proposal. You can tell them to go fuck themselves.”

  The two men said goodbye, and Juliard did not ask where he was going next.

  John had walked as far as the farm where Bertrand and his wife lived. His arm in a sling was aching. He had sat down with them in the farm kitchen.

  Two days later, Bertrand and his wife were finishing loading the tepee, the turbine, the P.V.C. tubes and batteries, hammock, camp bed and books into John’s new small van. Bertrand kissed his wife and sat at the wheel, adjusting the bandana round his forehead.

  “Time was, I’d have suggested dropping some acid. So where are we off to?”

  “Do you mind driving? I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “Which way?”

  “Up the valley to start with, and tell me about the night you pulled his body out of the river.”

  20

  RICHARD GUÉRIN

  The Caveau affair was dismissed as a paragraph in the newspapers, all the principal actors having vanished: Nichols, Lambert, Guérin and Lundquist. A shooting outside a club with a dodgy reputation. The cabaret was closed down by the authorities. Two days later, a private jet took Lundquist out on a stretcher. Guérin had aimed for the legs and succeeded in his risky shot. The diplomat left from Le Bourget airport very early in the morning. Guérin did not go to watch the plane take off.

  He had reported to his superiors, given them all the explanations, with evidence and witness statements. He wasn’t expecting anything from them, just to get a hearing. Kowalski, Mustgrave, Lundquist. None of these affairs had anything to do with each other. Guérin gave up trying to prove they were linked.

  Barnier was asked to take early retirement, a decision communicated to him in a private interview with the Minister: a dignified departure, with noises made about the Légion d’honneur. He had not yet committed suicide. Perhaps he was waiting until he was no longer on the force. Berlion had been transferred to Lyon, Roman to Organised Crime in Paris where he would have new colleagues.

  Kowalski’s memory remained immaculate. The office had not blown up, indeed it had hardly trembled. At least in public. In the cupboards of the prefecture of police, a new skeleton was spreading a filthy and degrading stink, reeking of guilt and unanswered questions. Certain people regretted the truth having come out, because in the end it had not done anyone any good: they rearranged their consciences, waiting for the memory to fade away.

  Nichols had disappeared from his hospital bed, leaving a note for Guérin.

  Thanks for everything. Hope Lambert is recovering O.K. Tell him if I’d had any choice, I’d have done it better. That raincoat did belong to your mother. When you’ve found an explanation of how we met, try to find me, and we’ll see if it makes sense. Till then.

  John

  Guérin had ordered a wreath to be delivered in the Lot for the old park-keeper’s burial. He had put in
a card for John.

  A reassuring quantity of pure coincidence. Bon voyage. Guérin

  He had refused promotion, which had been offered with some embarrassment in exchange for his silence. He wanted to stay in Suicides. His request was accepted. Guérin, though more than ever a thorn in the flesh of headquarters, had become untouchable.

  Churchill had died a few days after Nichols’ departure. Guérin had buried the old parrot in a corner of the courtyard, at four in the morning. The disappearance of the old bird had relieved him. But Churchill had abandoned him to a corrosive solitude, in which his old demons would soon start stirring. Churchill, the featherless macaw, leaving his master an orphan, at the mercy of his nightmares, a prostitute’s son, with no father. The Ministry had no need to worry about whether he would keep quiet: he would cloister himself in silence without any pressure from the outside.

  Weeks passed. Guérin returned to his office. Hundreds of hours among the dusty shelves.

  Lambert’s desk was covered with piles of files, boxes from the archives which were starting to take over the whole room. Guérin went on answering the telephone, taking public transport to report on suicides. He ticked boxes, contemplated the corpses with a pensive gaze, then returned to his real work under the eaves.

  The summer had passed, in a strange atmosphere, without his counting the days or feeling the warmth. Then autumn came. He began to use the service stairs only.

  Winter arrived. Guérin was working weekends, nights and public holidays. He was adding to his prosecution file against the world without letting up. He had become silent in other people’s presence, neglecting his appearance, and eating only when absolutely necessary, when he could stand up no longer. His colleagues came to regard him only with pity. The Kowalski wound was closing up. And Guérin’s very existence was becoming nothing more than a rumour that people did not bother to pass on. His loss of weight made his head look even bigger, and his black coat had become too big for him. He talked to himself at night, in the archive room where he sometimes slept on the floor, curled up in a ball. Guérin’s head was an suppurating wound infected from his constant scratching, and hidden under a greasy cap.