The Curé moved through the crowd. “Don’t help them,” Galtier commanded. The Curé stopped, afraid, physically afraid. “Or what?” Madame Cantagrel’s voice.
“Mind yours, bitch,” snarled the postman, “Or, he will regret it,” he informed the Curé, personally.
“Threaten a priest?!” Madame Cantagrel screeched.
“Don’t!” ordered her husband. When she turned, furious, to him he added, “I’m going.”
“Go, you spineless wimp!” She span back to her target. “Threaten a priest?”
Galtier’s hand was on her throat.
“Threaten you in a minute you tight-arsed sow.”
He pushed hard and she sprawled splay-legged into a table, fell, gathered a knife in her hand and stood. Christoph unholstered his pistol, and fired into the night air, stilling everything.
The square emptied slowly.
Galtier walked Severine home.
The Mayoral party gathered in his flat.
The musicians gathered their instruments. One of them thought of their not being paid and pocketed a bottle. So did the others. Then they thought of the food too...
Arbel was led away down to the Gendarmerie.
“What do I have to do to get arrested, too?”
“Shut up, Ardelle,” said Arbel, warmly.
“Who’s walking me home? Chef?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
There were rising, violently purpling, welts under his eyes and another under his bottom lip. Madame Lacaze bathed his face in warm water whilst his father rocked on his heels, useless.
“I’m all right,” The Mayor said. His head hurt but not as much as his memory.
Celine gathered Jerome upright.
Home for one more night and then get away. From it. From them.
Jacques and the dog went to their bed. He had to help the ageing creature up.
The ruins of celebration were left as people reeled homewards. Elianne turned to Jean-Louis.
“Go home,” she whispered kindly.
“He’ll be…? Yes. And there’s my mother. What about you?”
“I’m a grown up, I’m sure I’ll cope.”
He left.
Care was not his forté she was not surprised to find. Galtier hurried back.
To find Gley. Waiting for him.
“You’re marrying Father?”
His mouth hurt. The words hurt worse.
“Yes,” she said, calmly unpinning the cameo brooch at her throat. The Mayor gulped.
“And..?”
“No need for that talk now.”
She led them to his Mayoral bedroom and closed the door behind her...
Arbel and Ardelle slept like spoons in the same cell.
“There’ll be an investigation,” Gley whispered hard.
“Why?”
“It’s murder!”
“So was what he did to Gaston.” Galtier said.
“Gaston was a pain. Ask her.”
“Go home.”
A naked Elianne Lacaze watched The Mayor’s smile fade towards sleep.
Celine and Jerome stumbled terrified, down the stairs, through the worst of the smoke and flames, coughing hideously and naked but for their desperately gathered bedspreads. In the street they watched, fascinated by the speed the flames rushed through the broken windows, then gathering to a roar so quickly, as it burst through the roof. By the time the rafters fell in there were fifty and the helpless St.Céré Pompiers watching as they drenched Severine’s house to save it from catching.
The Curé said, “Come to my house.” Jerome accepted the offer on their behalf.
“A Good Samaritan’s bound to have some wine. Man needs a drink.”
Elianne dressed. She looked at the sleeping lover, opened the bedroom door and smelt it. Heard it. Was he all right?
She took two steps and her rational brain panicked.
‘It’s two in the morning and if I should be seen coming from here...’ Disaster.
Unanswerable questions.
Her mother’s brain shouted, ‘But is he dead?’ Voices. Footsteps running. She froze.
I dare not be seen. And I have to know.
If I can reach the turn by La Poste without being seen – I can say I came from my house. She ran.
At the turn she saw.
She walked now, gathering herself. People watching.
At the edge of the crowd Severine saw her.
“He’s alright,” she said, comfortingly. Then, cold and disappointed, “So is she.”
“Where are they?”
“Gone with the Curé.”
Madame Lacaze nodded her grateful thanks and walked home.
Terses and Christoph left the Pompiers kicking at the smouldering stone-work.
“This was attempted murder.”
“Sir.”
“Serious.”
“Sir.”
“It wasn’t Arbel.”
Dominique was wakened by the sound of iron wheel-rims smashing crockery and glass. He stood naked at the window to see Vermande, blinkered, walking the cart round broken tables and spatterings of blood.
Jacques turned the beast down the Maurs road. No Sara. And there’s been some fire, then.
Dominique looked at the bed and a smile started at his crotch and spread.
She must have gone home after -
He opened the window. Breathed as deep as only a new Lover should – and smelt it.
He never dressed quicker.
When Sara woke she smelt it, and like his mother, knew.
She threw a coat on and ran, her feet ignoring shards of splintered celebration, ran till she saw the grey embers.
She approached the two Pompiers.
“They’re alright, mademoiselle. Getting pissed with the priest,” one said.
“Decent wine there, I bet you,” said the other. Sara walked away.
Someone had tried to murder them? Him.
Dominique was almost the last to talk with the Pompiers, bored now with their glamour.
He robotically shook their hands and walked away. Where? Where am I going, first? Her house?
Must tell her. This happened as she and I were—
“I know. Does your father?”
“No,” Dominique said, “What’s it got to do with him? Now?”
She pulled the dressing-gown tight around what had been naked. Kissed, naked.
“May I not come in?”
“You have things to do, sir.” Dominique said,
“So do you, Madame.”
She let his hopes hang there for one whole second. “I’ve done enough. Go and do your duty.”
A fire is a bad wound in a community. Especially when so very few cared. They were alive, wouldn’t wish anyone dead, but after that – nothing. Beyond relief. They’d go now.
The first to move to tidy the square was Galtier.
Jauliac appeared. All his wine broken, drunk or stolen. His wife joined them.
“Terrible, terrible,” it was a mantra. “Terrible, terrible.”
Arbel and Ardelle were released. He with a warning. They walked up to the square, helped a little, walked home.
Dominique walked into the kitchen. No Renée, pissed probably, but his father was dressed.
“You didn’t congratulate me. Us.”
“I congratulated her.”
Jean-Louis smelt some tinge of relish. Why?
“Where will you live?” asked his son.
“Here.”
Dominique nodded. “Well – that’s good.” He nodded again.
“Congratulations, father.”
And told his father about the fire.
The Pompiers found the charred keys; the Curé organised them both some clothes and Terses drove them to Lacapelle.
“It was no accident,” insisted Madame Valet. Again. “I agree, Madame.”
On the drive back Terses thought. I ought to call brigade in Cahors.
His car hummed through St. Medard. Was
it one of them from the bar?
Who else? Anyone! They all hated him. Them. Could be an unpopular arrest.
Talk to The Mayor.
He checked his mirrors and concentrated on the road. It was early evening.
Galtier, Dominique, Madame Lacaze, Severine and Chef Terses sat round the table.
“I haven’t yet phoned my superiors,” he began. They could all hear the clock ticking.
“Talk to me, people,” the Chef ordered sharply.
All four straightened. They looked round and responsibility settled on Dominique.
“Chef – you know it could have been almost anyone.” The clock ticked.
Terses nodded.
“I’ll make a start here, then. Have any of you alibis for two in the morning?”
The clock ticked raucous.
Dominique blushed; no subtlety, no reserve – he blushed. Madame Lacaze opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, and snapped it back shut. Terses turned to her. She dabbed at her top lip, looked him square in the face.
Galtier straightened his back against the high wooden chair. “Well – I was puking.” Severine said.
Terses nodded, waited. “Madame?”
“I was in bed.”
Monsieur Le Maire?”
“Likewise.” His ears crimson.
“Monsieur Galtier?”
“Burning Gaston’s house.”
Quiet. So quiet the clock hushed. “Alone?”
“Alone.” Quiet.
“Would you come down to The Gendarmerie with me, please?”
“Yes.”
He stood, his chair scraped their ears. “Give her this.”
He threw Madame Valet’s pension book on the table. “Lead on, Chef.”
Dominique wrote his resignation letter. They watched Severine type it.
Madame Lacaze witnessed it.
He locked the door of the Mairie, gave Severine the key and watched her walk away.
Elianne put a hand on his arm.
“Monsieur Le Maire,” she said, “Let me drive you home.” Dominique looked at her, his head swirling.
“Thank you.”
Jacques walked back up the lane. The beast, gorged on a day at Janatou, slumped in its stall and Jacques slumped onto his bed.
The steps. Cave door lintel. Surrounding stones. Ground level. Foundations.
I’ll have done it. “Iffing.”
He called Tayo and again had to help its old hind onto the bed.
“We’re getting old,” he said. He was twenty seven.
“My dear!” Jean-Louis was unctuous, “How kind of you. Of course, I have to buy my son one of his own.”
“I’ve resigned. Forget the car.”
Jean-Louis aged.
Madame Lacaze watched it happen.
This won’t need the wedding, she thought.
By the time Dominique finished the tale Jean-Louis had recovered. “And so?”
“I’m home.” A silence.
The three of them, and the mother, nodding in her rocker.
Jean-Louis stood, went to a walnut cupboard, took out three glasses and a bottle of good red.
“All for the best,” he said, sounding self-congratulatory. He opened a drawer for the corkscrew.
As Dominique fitted the corkscrew into a third bottle, Jean-Louis led his mother to her bed.
“Who’s she?” she demanded as she passed Elianne.
Jean-Louis resisted the urge to say ‘My bride’. Or ‘your successor’. Or any of the wonderful things she meant to him now.
“Who’s she? She won’t help.”
Left briefly alone with his lover Dominique was tempted to ask how she saw their future. And what last night had been. He didn’t. He did enjoy the silence and the smile at her lips – a smile he longed to share but their eyes didn’t quite meet.
“This is very pleasant,” said Elianne. Of the wine. Jean-Louis sat to join them.
“When is the happy day?” Dominique wondered.
“My dear?”
“Soon. Don’t you think Jean-Louis?”
“Well – that’ll be very pleasant. Too.” The ex-Mayor raised his glass to them both.
“It will,” his father agreed.
“It’s also very pleasant to be drunk. Together,” Dominique said. “Again.”
Jean-Louis’ antennae buzzed. What was that? And, did she smile? ‘Relax’ he told himself. She’s yours. Forget your paranoia.
“What about Lacroix?” he wondered aloud.
“Sack him,” said his son. “Pay him off. I’m here father. No more wages! No more Mayor.”
His father settled his eyes on his prize. “Seems you’ll be taking on more than me, my love.”
“I realise.”
She smiled her warmth at him. This is real.
She turned the beam to Dominique. Really real. And really easy. “Would you care for an evening tour of your new estate?” Dominique asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Well, the house?” said Jean-Louis. Elianne looked him in the eyes.
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“What had you in mind, Jean-Louis?”
Jean-Louis rubbed a hand over the blush racing over his craggy cheeks.
She smiled. “The bedroom?”
“Well – yes,” he managed. Ancient rising lust blatant on his face.
“Oh no, Jean-Louis.”
She ran a metaphorical thumb across the razor edge of her blade. “Tell him, Dominique.”
Silence.
Dominique’s mouth too dry for speech.
“No?” She sounded disappointed.
“What? Tell me what?”
“I sleep with him,” his intended said. “I have since Peace broke out.”
Complete silence.
Only the vibrations of Jean-Louis Duthileul’s world breaking. “Watch, Jean-Louis.”
He watched her stand.
She offered the ex-Mayor her hand. He watched him take her hand.
He watched his son stand.
“Good night, my dear.”
“Stay there, boy.” The words barely grated out of his throat. “Whatever would hurt me least, Jean-Louis.” Elianne smiled. “Recall?”
Dominique led her up the stairs, into his bedroom and closed the door.
Jean-Louis Duthileul died inside.
No-one will know no-one can know no-one can ever know. The insane rhythm of his love-making.
Elianne Lacaze took the thrusts and his hands on her. Prepared to fake the orgasm Jean Louis would definitely hear.
Jean-Louis was sitting there.
Morning sun rising.
He was dressed the same.
Perhaps he’d never moved.
Madame Lacaze gathered her handbag and car keys.
“I’m going home, now.”
Jean-Louis said nothing.
Dominique felt inside for the place where compassion for his father should have been. Empty.
“Goodbye, both.”
The words pierced the smug sensual victorious heat within the son. It began to drain. Drain away.
“You’re not – staying?”
“I most certainly am not.” No shred of doubt.
“But—” Dominique attempted a whisper, “Us?”
“You and I? Done, boy. You and him? I don’t give the tiniest damn.” She went to her car.
She drove home.
Walked into her house.
Well, she thought. And poured a drink.
Well, Revenge is sweet.
She toasted herself.
Sat down by herself at her table.
Mmm.
She poured another...
Arbel and Jacques worked all day. The twelve steps. The lintel. The door. The stones, all loaded.
“Come and eat. You don’t have to talk.” Silence.
Jacques reached for his coat.
“We’ll have those foundations tomorrow” Arbel said. “If you like.”
&nbs
p; 30
The village reeled into peacetime.
Galtier. Gone.
Them. Gone.
The blinker-man gone.
No Wedding banns.
No Duthileul either.
No Dominique.
Just her.
Galtier’s replacement rode up to Puech and found no house to deliver to.
Arbel took the letter to Sara and asked if she’d take it. She and Zoe walked there.
Jacques was digging foundations.
He took the letter, put it in a pocket and dug. “Can we go home, now?”
“Yes Zoe, we can.” He dug.
Sara said, “I’ll come alone next time.”
He said, “Thank you. Both.”
He dug.
He’d read when he’d dug.
THE END
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About the Author
George Costigan has been a motor-parts storeman, a trainee accountant, another trainee accountant (both failed) a steel-worker, an insurance clerk, a wood-cutter, a bookseller, a record salesman, a book-keeper for a wedding-dress business – and then someone asked him to be in a play.
The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama Page 38
