Roland Ladley's Blog, page 28

Plodding along

[image error]Happy father’s day everywhere!

We’re almost there. I’ve updated up the five books, although The Innocence of Trust‘s cover needed a complete revamp as, when I went to republish the paperback, it didn’t fit. That’s working its way through the system as I type. I am 71,000 words into the new book and have a very clear path to finishing it. I reckon we’ll be at 80k by the time I’m done. It is, for those of you reading the chapters as I write, very raw, I reread a chapter yesterday and winced at my brain dump – because that’s what it is. It will get better, but I thought you might like to see a genuine work in progress.

The question is, what do I do when it’s finished? I have two alpha-readers ready – both millenials – whose job it is to make sure that Emily Copeland is behaving like one of their own. That, and the edits beforehand, should take me to the end of July. Should I then tout it? Or just get it proofread and out there? They’re rhetorical questions … unless you have any bright ideas?

The thing is, I know Sam Green books. I know what they look like, what they read like and what they smell like. I know when I written something in the Sam Green genre. This … this semi-romantic, semi-holiday, semi-thriller is anathema to me. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m writing the tense part at the moment and I keep wanting to write a Sam Green finale, with blood and gore and bullets and explosions – and tears and angst and, you know … but I know I can’t use the same level of detail. It just wouldn’t sit well with the rest of the story.

We’ll see.

[image error]A grown woman … picking clover from our lawn. I am clearly very poor company.

Other than that we’ve been keeping ourselves to ourselves. I speak to mum twice a day – she’s remarkably well. We keep in touch with Mary. Oh, and I did some work with a new client on Friday – a headteacher from Wiltshire. It was just and hour, remotely. That went okay, but I have no idea if it’s something he’ll want to continue.

And, I understand we’re in for a heat wave this week. Fab. Mrs Sun and everything …

The next Chapter follows on. Enjoy!

[image error]two handsome chaps … thanks for the reminder Alasdair!

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Chapter 13

Emily told Gbassy everything. Well, nearly everything. She didn’t mention that she slept with Pierre, twice. But, other than that, from bumping into Luis Segal at the lighthouse up until getting purposefully – it was purposefully, surely? – knocked off her bike by a big, white 4×4, she didn’t miss a beat.

Everything.

And she didn’t know why. 

Most of her recent life was sensitive. It was personal. Her mum’s death was still raw; the hidden bank account took a swipe at those memories, bruising them further. Pierre’s very direct instruction to leave the town could not be clearer. 

It’s not safe for you here.

You’re not saying. She reckoned the cut on her knee and the scrape on her arm was the least damage the thug, or thugs, in the white truck were expecting to inflict. It certainly didn’t feel like a safe place to her.

Yet, here she was. Sat by the Petit Rhone pouring her heart out to this seemingly kind and gentle man. A man who could have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six. 

He was a very good listener. He didn’t just crouch there and stare at her. Her offered encouragement, nodded, and smiled and frowned when it was evident that would help.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ he’d asked.

So she had. And then she went on to tell him what little she knew about her dad.

By the time Emily had finished it was getting close to four in the afternoon. Her clothes had dried out completely, she was on her second coke – she had insisted on paying – and she was beginning to feel more normal and less wired. Gbassy had made that happen. He’d offered no advice or appeared to judge her in any way. He just soaked it all up, his eyes hinting at an age well beyond his bones.

Then she was done. And it felt better, almost as though she could get on her bike, head to her Airbnb, repack her things and, head home. She was halfway through this particular novel, but she was prepared to give it up. Change channels. Flip to another series – one less graphic, more melancholic.

But … there was part of her which remained very uncomfortable with abandoning where she was, as though to do so would sully her mum’s memory – prevent her from clearing her mum’s name. The question she faced was, therefore, which of the two opposing arguments – home to safety; stay and face whatever the next horror might be – would win?

‘How long have you been here?’ Emily asked. She hadn’t made a decision. Not then … not sat by the river, the single bull now back by the bank, its tail seeing the flies off its hind, and a shake of its head and a wiggle of its ears, batting away those around its eyes.

‘Not long,’ Gbassy responded.

‘What does that mean?’ She didn’t want to press, but ‘not long’ was an evasive answer.

He stood at that point and stretched his back, his hand clasped together, reaching for the sky. As he did he appeared to flinch and his t-shirt, which had risen above the tops of his jeans, exposed a flat stomach … and she was sure she spotted a nasty bruise.

‘Where did you get the bruise from?’ She wasn’t going to get an answer to her first question. So she tried another tack.

Gbassy dropped his arms quickly and pulled down his shirt.

‘I … I bumped into one of the tables.’ He was an awful liar, she could see that.

She stood now, her eyes chest height to him. He was wide-framed and athletic. She could imagine him limbering up on the start line of an international one hundred metre event.

And he’d been struck. Or fallen badly, but more probably the former.

She come across this before. Children arriving for a lesson with a mark on their face, or red raw skin or a bruise on their arms. Or carrying themselves awkwardly, nursing a hidden wound. When asked, the student would be coy and make some believable excuse, like slipping in the bath, or missing a step and hitting the bannister. What was interesting, and incredibly sad, was that abused children get very good at covering their abuse – protecting their abuser. The children’s words and actions soon reflecting those of a seasoned actor.

Most teachers know; and the more they see of it, the easier it is to spot. And it’s not solely the worse off students, although a good number of abused children come from working class families where employment is either in short supply, or below the law. Many come from moneyed families, where alcohol and drugs, and intolerance and other societal pressures, push adults to take their anger out on their children. 

Teachers get an eye for it. And when they spot it, schools are very adept at sensitively bringing the abuse to the fore and, with the help of the police and local services, supporting the child and the family through the ordeal.

Emily sensed the same thing now. Gbassy had been hit by someone, or had been in a fight. 

‘Who hit you?’ she asked.

He looked confused; embarrassed. 

‘No one.’ His reply was too immediate. And there was a touch of fear in his voice. In that moment she felt the roles were about to be reversed. That she had become the listener, and Gbassy the storyteller.   

‘I must go and prepare for this evening,’ he said a touch nervously, pointing back to the terrace.

She put a hand on his arm.

‘You can tell me.’ She was looking up at him. He had a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, but just then she thought he looked much younger than she previously imagined.  

He didn’t reply. Instead his eyes darted between her and the restaurant, as though he was struggling between the conflict of telling her something and … not.

‘Was it Luis Segal?’ She hadn’t let go of his arm but she had no choice, because he snapped it away from her.

‘Of course not. Luis … Luis is my friend. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ His words were sharp and penetrating.

She thought he would leave then. That she had stepped over a line, and Gbassy, fearful of something and now, almost by mistake admitting he’d been beaten, was too afraid to talk any further.

But he didn’t. Instead he mouthed a few words, but didn’t say anything, as if he were preparing for a shocking admission.

‘It wasn’t Luis.’ He was calmer now. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Who was it then?’ she pressed.

This time Gbassy stared out across the river, his face setting hard, his bottom jaw pushing out adding forcefulness to his expression.

‘I cannot tell you. I do not know much. But what I do know is dangerous. Very dangerous. For me. And for you. The policeman is right. As was Luis. It is not safe for you here. You must go home. To England. The white truck is just the start …’

‘Who was driving the white truck, Gbassy?’ Emily interrupted him.

He turned, looking down at her. His face had lost its intensity. He now looked sad. He put his hands gently on her shoulders.

‘I do not know.’ He shook his head as he spoke. ‘Some of your story makes sense to me. But much of it doesn’t. There are evil men here. And the things they do are so very wrong. I think your story and my story are two ends of something which places us both in danger. I easily cannot escape, miss Emily. But you can. And you must.’

Emily was about to respond when they both noticed a man on a bicycle entering the carpark. It was the chef.

She looked. Luis Segal saw her. He wobbled on his bike and then bore away from them behind the hut. She assumed he was going to park up his bike.

She dithered momentarily.

And then she threw on her backpack, picked up her bike and got in the saddle.

‘Where are you going?’ Gbassy asked.

‘I need to think. And I need a shower.’ She was just about to set off and then stopped. ‘If I don’t see you again, you will always be in my thoughts.’

And, without waiting for an answer, she pedalled towards the car park entrance. As she did she spotted Luis Segal. He had come round the corner of the restaurant and was heading toward Gbassy. He lifted a hand which might have been a request to stop – or it could have been a wave.

It didn’t matter. She ignored it and headed out of the car park, back towards town.

Luis was talking – more like shouting – at him as he strode across the carpark. 

‘What was she doing here?’

Gbassy’s mind raced. 

What do I say?

‘Nothing. She had fallen off her bike just up the track and came in for a can of coke.’ No lies so far.

Luis was next to him now, all arms and consternation. 

‘She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe for her. She shouldn’t be in the town.’ 

Gbassy looked at the man. They were eye to eye.

Luis’s face showed real concern – anguish, almost. 

The chef’s concern was incomprehensible, wasn’t it? Unless he’d been seeing the woman Emily without him knowing, in one or two fleeting moments she had somehow pierced the chef’s heart with an arrow.

Gbassy broke eye contact with Luis; the intensity was too much. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder to the solitary bull in the field. Across the water to another continent. 

Emily had told him everything. That her mother was Monsieur Segal’s lover. That she had died recently in an accident and, months after her death, they had found a bank account which contained a great deal of money –  and that money had been deposited from a bank in Arles. That she had seen Monsieur Segal’s friend, Pierre – Gbassy now knew his name – walking the streets last night, He had accosted Emily and told her to leave the town.

And she had told him that she’d seen a photograph, taken by a colleague of her mother’s, of Luis Segal in Guinea-Bissau, a neighbouring country to his. It was shot maybe a year ago. 

The woman’s story was as fascinating as it was perplexing. And it was immediately endearing. As was she – she had been from the start. There was a warmth about her which hastened attraction. 

So he could see how Luis Segal might fall for her. 

Love at first sight? 

Gbassy liked Luis Segal. He liked him a lot. And he had no reason not to trust him. But … other than as the chef in his father’s restaurant, he had little idea how, or if, he was involved in the people smuggling operation. After this afternoon’s chat with Emily, he now thought he had a better idea.

Like father, like son?

That hurt.

‘Did she say anything else?’ Luis pressed, with a touch of exasperation.

Other than your trip to Guinea-Bissau?

Gbassy waited for Luis’s question to dissipate.

‘What work do you do for your father?’ Gbassy was looking at Luis again now.

The chef shook his head, his face a picture of confusion.

‘What?’ He spluttered. ‘I’m the chef! What else do you think I do?’

Gbassy’s confidence was rising. He was going to leave soon. Almost certainly within the next few weeks. He didn’t need answers, but there was something inside him which pressed anyway.

‘Are you involved with the immigrants?’ He didn’t wait for an answer to that question. ‘What about the boat I came on? We lost three people to the fish. Three!’ His indignation was rising. ‘And, you know your father supplies the cowboys with women. They treat them like dirt … like slaves. And …’ It was Gbassy’s turn to splutter, his head shaking, ‘they rip the children from the women. One goes in one vehicle and the other in another.’ Gbassy was leaning slightly forward. He was remonstrating with his arms. He was angry now. There was spittle on his bottom lip. ‘Your father … he is …’

He couldn’t say it. So he didn’t. He was spent. If there had been a bridge built between him and Luis Segal, he had deconstructed it and burnt the planks. He leant back, shut his mouth tight, for fear he would say something which would further break any bonds between him and the chef.

Luis didn’t respond. Not to begin with. He was a mixture of hurt and pent up frustration. His shoulders had raised a centimetre or so and his hands had formed fists. His eyes were wide and his breathing short.

He then lifted a hand and pointed a finger at Gbassy. It tapped at thin air as he spoke.

‘You don’t know anything about me.’ The words came through gritted teeth.

And then the chef was gone, turning sharply on his heels and striding purposefully towards the restaurant, abandoning Gbassy to his own thoughts.

It was true. He didn’t know anything about Luis Segal.

Nothing.

But he knew what he knew. And he had confidence in his ability to see people for what they were.

Monsieur Marc Segal was a monster. There was no other way of describing him.

Luis Segal was enigmatic. He either gave no emotion, or you got everything. He had shown Gbassy true compassion and, because of that, he trusted him. Emily – he didn’t know her surname – might well have seen Luis in a photo in Africa. And there may well be a connection linking that picture with her mother, who was the monster’s ex-lover. The bank account, with its deposits from Arles, added further intrigue.

Gbassy felt Luis Segal was an innocent in all this. That there was some other explanation for his trip to Africa.

That’s what he felt.

But. Luis Segal had been clear: you don’t know anything about me.

It was true.

All Gbassy hoped was that his intuition held good.

Emily was sitting on the beach, as close to her Airbnb as possible. That put her seventy metres from Chez Ami to her left, and still with plenty of town to her right before it merged with the Camargue and then, as the road bore inland, presented the campsite and the fish restaurant. Her Airbnb would have been ‘safer’ – how did that word even appear in her lexicon? – but she needed to be out in the fresh air, whilst wanting to steer away from trouble. There were maybe thirty other people on the beach with her: a few after-school families, some couples, and five or six singletons either full-on soaking up the sun, or hidden under parasols reading or plugged into their smartphones.

She was doing the latter.

It had taken her an hour to clean herself up, put her clothes in the washing machine and dress her two cuts. Then, armed with a cold bottle of white wine, a bag of peanuts and a beach towel she had walked not completely fearlessly to the sand, and plumped herself in the middle of the inconsiderable crowd.

She was two beakerfuls of wine in and had eaten more roasted peanuts than she had need of the calories for. And she was still none the wiser. 

There are evil men here.

I cannot escape, miss Emily. But you can. And you must.

It had been the same message from all three men: Pierre, Luis Segal and now Gbassy, the young African – who had only ‘not long’ arrived here. Whatever that meant.  

And a white truck … and Luis Segal, a man who, according to Gbassy, would never hit him, but who had appeared in an article in her mum’s local Cathedral’s circular.

She took a sip of her wine and then carefully placed the beaker next to her thigh, twisting its base into the warm sand so that it remained firm against a gentle onshore wind. The wine was no longer cool, but that was fine – it was alcohol.

There were three young children between her and the sea. They were building a castle, sand decorating their young bodies, sticking to liberally applied suntan lotion in blotches, and matting their hair. It made her want to do the same … to be the same. Back on the beach under the ever watchful eye of her mum. No classes of unruly children. No responsibilities to parents and faculty heads. No house to buy. No errant bank account to worry about.

And no fear of what might happen if she stayed in Saint-Marie-de-la-Mare a moment longer.

Beyond the children the dark blue of the sea rippled at its edge and, further out, the wind appeared stronger, a yacht with its spinnaker up was pushing along. The afternoon was as fresh as clean linen and, if she had been able to keep her mind clear, it would have been the perfect time and place to boost everything which was in need of a recharge.

But she couldn’t.

Her mind wouldn’t settle. Why would it?

So, she had got out her phone and was searching for … she wasn’t sure … something to fill the gaps that existed in a plot which was full of holes.

She’d gone back to her mum’s Facebook timeline. There was nothing new there.

She tried Messenger again. It was password protected.

Emily tried her mum’s birthday.

Nope.

She tried … what next?

She tapped in her own birthday. Six numbers Date, month and year.

Bingo.

All of a sudden Emily felt both very conspicuous, as though everyone on the beach knew she’d illicitly broken into her mum’s messages; and very excited, like a CIA agent having smashed the email account of a high ranking member of the Taliban.

She recognised a good few names but opened their strings in any case. What else did she have to do? The threads were standard, middle-aged exchanges. In some ways it made her feel sad that her mum’s life, on the face of it, was so ordinary.

There were some names she didn’t recognise. She opened those with trepidation, now beginning to feel a little uncomfortable – that she was prying into her mum’s private life. Still the chat was benign stuff: coffee and cinema trips; elderly university mates keeping in touch and the odd exchange with, what looked like, the church warden. There was nothing incriminating.

She scrolled down. And checked 

And scrolled down some more, opened messages, and checked again.

Wait.

And there it was. An old exchange – she checked the date – almost two years ago.

The circular avatar was a photo of the neon sign which announced the fish restaurant: Tiki Ill. The name was Marc S. She dabbed at the link to the thread.

The last entry was from the restaurant owner to her mum. It read: It’s probably better if we use a different, more formal method of communication. I have a Hotmail address … the address followed … drop me a line asap and we can continue this discussion. Marc Segal had signed off with a line of five kisses and three red hearts. Emily felt her stomach churn.

The rest of the thread was over a hundred messages long and had been pinging back and forth for over a year – and there were photos.

She scrolled down to the beginning. 

It started with an innocuous message from Segal: Hi. Is that Jo Copeland – who may have visited the Camargue over 40 years ago?

It was, of course, a leading question. All Marc Segal had to do was request permission to join her mum’s page. Emily assumed she would have done some research on the request – unless she got so few requests to be friends, she accepted anyone. And then she would have accepted this handsome man with a name she might have recognised and, hey presto, the door was open. Marc Segal would have then scanned her mum’s timeline and known exactly who she was, whether or not she were married, if she were in a relationship, and so much more.

He would probably have made the connection well before she did.

Then, and this was very clear to Emily, Marc Segal had groomed her mum. 

There was no question about it. Her mum was far from stupid, but she was trusting … and she lived on her own. And … 

Hang on.

Emily looked up from her phone. The scene was unchanging. The yacht had made some progress and the children were digging a moat – dark, wet sand was being deposited in a pile a few feet away.

… it now all became clear. That’s why mum had got out the photos. That’s why they’d had the bottle of wine and the chat about men. Getting the album out on the kitchen table. Her mum was … slowly … introducing Emily to an old flame A flame which might have recently been relit. 

It all made sense.

And it hurt. Because, at that point in her life, her mum had seemed so happy.

Emily’s eyes were damp. Frustration and sadness was a heady combination.

Through a film of forming tears, the yacht still bobbed along; and the children muddier than ever.

Bastard.

What particularly made sense was that Marc Segal was a manipulating pig.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked back down at her phone.

It took her fifteen minutes to read the thread. The early photos were innocuous: this is me – what do you look like now? This is my garden. This is the restaurant and … you must come down to stay? Just like old times. 

Emily was grinding her teeth. And slowly seething. 

The thread built the relationship. And then moved onto Christianity and the church. Marc was, apparently, a Catholic. He ran a charity which had links in Africa. Did her mum’s church do the same? Would they be interested in what his church was planning? It was bold and exciting. Her mum had responded with enthusiasm and, with that new information, Emily was reminded of a different thread to a woman she thought might be a church member. She didn’t remember it word for word, but her mum’s message went along the lines of: I have an opportunity for St Cuthberts. I’ll talk to you about it on Sunday.

And then the thread between Marc Segal and her mum stopped with the final message. The exchange on Messenger was over. It was now to be carried on via email.

Emily shut the App and placed her phone in her lap. The children had finished the sandcastle and were now off to her side tucking into tea which an older woman had brought with them. There was no tide to speak of in the Mediterranean, so the badly drawn Windsor Castle would survive the onslaught of the sea.

Beyond the castle there were now three boats on the water. Two were yachts in the middle distance, both cutting through the sea at a lick and, on the horizon, a tanker – the colour of which she couldn’t make out as the late afternoon sun was bleaching it orange.

She watched it for a while. It was hardly moving, but was probably making good speed, it just didn’t look it from this distance.

As she watched, her face vacant and untelling, her mind span … slowly. She still had no idea what it was that Marc Segal did, other than own a fish restaurant. But she knew what he did do was illegal. Drugs were a possibility; that fitted the set up with its origins in Africa, small pier and large carpark. And she knew that he had purposefully recruited her mother to be part of ‘his gang’., and she had been paid handsomely for it.

Drugs? She couldn’t countenance it.

That’s what was or had happened, wasn’t it?

It was really depressing. 

And enraging.

She finished off her beaker of wine and poured herself another.

It was now time to hack her mum’s email account.

Emily brushed the pine needles from her knees. She then leant back against the tree trunk, checked that she could see what she needed, and settled down for a bit of a wait.

She had not been able to break into her mum’s email address yesterday evening. Nor had she managed to open her WhatsApp account. And, after finishing the bottle of wine and all of the peanuts in the bag, she was caught between feeling a bit woozy – which called for a hot shower and pile into bed – and needing something substantial to eat which was neither salted nor nut-like. Instead she did neither. She had some leftover new potatoes from an earlier market excursion and an emergency tin of beans which, along with some chocolate, biscuits, teabags, sweeteners and UHT milk, she’d stuck together in a bag before she’d left the UK, ‘just in case’.

Potatoes and beans it was, then. And no more alcohol. Ever.

She surprised herself by sleeping well and, as far as she remembered, she hadn’t been disturbed by any demonic dreams. And no headache. Which was a surprise.

It left her with a decision. 

She had already stayed one day beyond her welcome and was planning to stay for longer. That, according to everyone she’d spoken to, put her in danger. Which was more than a worry.

She didn’t consider herself a brave person. Certainly in life she’d avoid physical confrontation rather than encourage it. She’d only ever got into one cat-fight and that had been with a girl named Julie Barnes. It was a stupid ten-year-old spat over – she couldn’t remember. The exchange had involved a lot of thrashing, broken nails, tears and a good deal of hair pulling. By the time the teacher had reached the playground the fraquar was running out of puff and neither girl could say that they’d won. Emily had felt deeply ashamed of herself, especially when her mum had been called in to see the headteacher. She needn’t have worried. Her mum had dismissed the incident as part of growing up, ‘as long as no one is hurt, love’.

No one was and, surprisingly, she and Julie Barnes had become good pals and had even stayed in touch once they’d left school. 

But Emily didn’t do pain. She avoided it wherever she could. And since her fight with Julie Barnes, she’d steered well clear of anything that might put herself in danger: heights; walking over a log above a stream; dodgems; the university ski trip; among many others.

However, moral courage was an altogether different thing. She was genetically wired not to lie. She would cross the road to help anyone if they were in trouble. And, no matter the personal price, she always did the right thing. Integrity was a badge she wore with honour. 

It was no different now. Something was up. Something plain wrong. And, yes, the gendarme, might be all over it, but her mum’s reputation was on the line. Emily was sure she had been abused by Marc Segal. Okay, not physically so. But exploited … certainly. Her mum had been coerced into something she would not, under any ordinary circumstances, be a part of. Emily knew. And she wasn’t going to leave the Camargue until she got to the bottom of it.

Exactly how she was going to unravel the mystery was the task facing her this morning.

She had the four obvious choices: the four men. 

Gbassy had come up all reluctant yesterday afternoon. 

Pierre wanted her out of town – forcibly if necessary, she assumed. 

Luis was … well, she didn’t know. Gbassy trusted him. But she couldn’t be sure. Not with the photo taken in Guinea-Bissau. 

That left the monster: Marc Segal. The man who had entrapped her mum. 

He knew everything. He would know who was driving the white 4×4. He knew about the bank account. He knew what his son was doing in sub-Saharan Africa. 

And he knew why it wasn’t safe for her to stay in Saint-Marie-de-la-Mare.

It was the only choice. 

The horse’s mouth.

That’s why she was sitting in a wood. The same wood she’d been standing in when she’d first met the waiter.

This time she was better armed. She knew what she knew. And she knew what she didn’t know. It was her Donald Rumsfeld moment.

Gbassy had told her that Marc Segal came to the restaurant every morning for a coffee, and to check and collect the previous night’s takings. He didn’t say when, but she assumed it wouldn’t be too early. In any case, the morning was better. It was daylight – not the dark of night. He’d wouldn’t be able to use ‘entertaining the clients’ as an excuse if she had come in the evening.

It was now 9.21 am. She’d arrived just before nine. The car park was empty when she’d got here, and it was empty now. She had, however, seen the waiter. He’d been out on the terrace a few minutes ago, just in his boxers, toothbrush in hand. And then he had disappeared back into the restaurant. A minute later the restaurant’s rear blinds had been pushed back, one after the other. That was Gbassy again.

And then nothing. Just the lazy river, the black bull on the far bank, the chirping of the birds, and the buzz of insects.

She had a decent picnic in her rucksack, a flask of coffee and a bottle of water. She’d worn her blue shorts and a dark green top – hoping that might help her blend in with the undergrowth. And she’d chosen a spot which afforded decent stakeout views, with chest high bracken providing disruptive cover – more hope. 

Who am I kidding? 

Resolve, Emily … resolve.

She could stay here all day.

She could.

… 

Nothing. 

Still nothing.

She flicked an ant from her forearm and thought about helping herself to some coffee but, at the same time, was worried that she might need a wee when she should be on look out.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Wait.

There.

A silver car. It pulled up with a small skid, fine dust lifting from the track it had taken across the carpark.

The engine was switched off and the driver’s door was opened.

It was him.

Emily’s heart jumped a beat and then banged at her rib cage like a jilted lover on their ex’s front door.

This is madness.

She closed her eyes and pictured her mum. 

Then she opened them again. Marc Segal was halfway between his car and the restaurant.

She steeled herself, stood, slung her rucksack over her shoulder, said, ‘Let’s do this Emily,’ to herself, and then picked her way through the ferns.

A funny old life

No politics. Promise.

[image error]dog, walk, wife

It’s a funny old life? I mean the lockdown, which is now pretty much do as you would be done by, to us still means one shop a week, and nothing else. We have had the odd trip to Jen’s – we took Cassie out for a walk along the Gloucester ship canal on Sunday, but we didn’t cross the threshold – and we continue to run and exercise. And that’s the new normal. It looks like the campsites might open on the 4th July, but you just feel that everyone and their wives will be heading for the opportunity to stretch their holiday legs and we don’t feel the desire to get caught up with everyone else. C said this afternoon we should wait until September. It’s a thought.

We need to go and see my mum – and, as her extended support bubble (I’m not sure I understand how that works) we could stay overnight. But even that’s a risk. She has two carers coming in during the week and either one of those could bring the virus into her house – and neither of us fancy the idea of wearing a mask the whole time we’re there.

[image error]and then there were six …

It’s ok for me. I have more writing work than I have energy for at the moment. It’s that dreaded time, when you have a completed manuscript and have to change it into a product. That means typesetting, writing the blurb and the description and producing the covers. I hate doing the single page, wrap round for the paperback. I have never got it right first time and, sure enough, all of Monday was spent trying to sort it out. You can see from the photo that I managed it (although I have yet to get the proof copy back to check), and I learnt some things on the way. Hopefully next time it will be simpler.

[image error]this is what it eventually looked life. People get paid a lot of money to do stuff like this … and typesetting. Me? Not a penny.

Then there’s all of the marketing description which I have to do both as normal text (Word) and then in html, because Amazon don’t accept normal text – well they do, but it looks rubbish. So that was today full. Then all of the final pages of all of the books need updating, because there is now a sixth book in the mix. Let me tell you how much I dislike changing the manuscripts which have been in print for years. Even if you are extra-extra careful, you’re never sure you haven’t messed up something.

And the new book’s not going to write itself. I’m now at 65,000 words – just 15,000 short of the end, although I reckon it will be 85k by the time I’ve finished. Which will be fine. It certainly doesn’t want to be any longer.

Talking of which, Chapter 12, all unedited and unproofread, is below. I’m just kicking off on Chapter 15, so you’re a bit behind. It will come.

Enjoy!

[image error]I’m nowhere near as happy as I look

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Chapter 12

It took Emily ten minutes to unpack. It took her a further ten minutes to walk around the kitchen three times, stare out of the window trying to coalesce some sort of view which didn’t reflect poorly on her mum, and then walk around the kitchen again. 

She had made the decision to stay in Saint-Marie-de-la-Mare. 

For now.

To do what, exactly?

She wasn’t yet sure.

It was too a bizarre set of circumstances to sellotape together to create a picture which didn’t look like … what, exactly? That her mum had knowingly set up an obscure bank account which was regularly receiving big sums of money from a French account that was so close to where an ex-lover was committing some form of crime as to be the same place?

Arles was how far away?

She googled it.

Thirty kilometres, and easily the closest city to Marc Segal. Sure, she’d spotted a couple of banks in town: Crédit Agricole and BNP Paribas, the usual French suspects. What was the vulgar expression? Don’t shit on your own doorstep. If she were an arch-criminal and was sending money abroad, she’d wouldn’t do it from her home town. Marc Segal had lived here for over forty years. He wouldn’t be able to pierce an ear without it appearing in the local paper. 

However. The solicitor hadn’t mentioned which bank.

Job one.

Emily opened up her SMSs. She pinged a text to the solicitor:

Hi Frances. What are the details of the back account in Arles, please. And can you message me with screenshots of whatever back statements you have. Thx. Em.

A bank in Arles sending money to an account in her mum’s name.

Emily felt her bottom lip wobble. She wasn’t sure she was up to this.

Come on, Em … crack on.

Another thought tapped at her forehead.

Surely Emily’s visit here, in part spurred on by their conversation over a cuppa last year, was complete coincidence? It wasn’t some Machiavillian plot by her mum to sew a seed so that when she died the first thing Emily would do was head down to the Camargue and unearth all of this stuff? 

No. That was a stupid thought. 

A better question was … what was her mum involved with?

What was it that Marc Segal did that entrapted her mum? 

Just as key … 

… what service did her mum provide for Marc Segal? 

Eighteen months, the solicitor had said. That’s how long the bank account had been active for. That was eighteen months of Marc Segal and her mum. The notion sent a shiver down her spine.

Eighteen months? 

Had Emily noticed anything different about her mum over that time? She certainly wasn’t splashing any cash. Emily hadn’t spotted any change in her mum’s demeanour. And … she stood up and did her twirl of the kitchen, this time with one hand dramatically plastered to her forehead … the only real change had been her mum’s involvement with the church. 

The church?

She chewed on a knuckle.

Facebook.

Her mum had a Facebook account. Would it still be active? Emily hadn’t closed it down.

Seconds later she was on her mum’s timeline. Unsurprisingly the last entry was eight months ago. Emily scrolled down. 

It was all benign stuff. Posts and photos of flowers and cooking. One or two mildly political entries – left of centre. There was a week’s worth of holiday snaps from when her mum had taken a cruise down the Rhine. She’d gone with a friend from the village.

Nothing there.

There were Christmas photos and a couple of her and Emily making a snowman in her mum’s back garden. Oh, and plenty of photos of half full glasses of wine.

And there were a few posts that looked like they were associated with her church. But they were selfies with likely other congregational members, taken inside of an old building – the church? And one or two in the grounds. Nothing of note. 

Emily was now over two years back along the timeline.

Still nothing. 

She paused.

What groups did she belong to?

Emily opened the appropriate page.

Nothing.

Messenger?

How could she get onto her mother’s messages? And what about her email account? WhatsApp?

The latter may be the easiest. The username would be her mobile’s number; and Emily knew that.

She opened up the App and typed in her mum’s telephone number.

Password?

She had no idea how many chances she’d have before WhatsApp blocked her.

She made three attempts and then the app threw up a red card.

Blast.

What next?

A cup of coffee and then …?

Back onto Facebook.

She made herself a coffee, checked the time – it was 11.23 – and then sat down at the kitchen table and tried again.

Focus.

Emily worked on her mum’s timeline this time starting two and a half years ago, and worked forward. Post by post. Inch by inch.

The first church post was shared with her, rather than posted by her mum. It was of a woman Emily thought she recognised – possibly a church friend of her mum’s from her village. The shot was taken in, what appeared to be, an African village. The photo looked very warm. The colours more browns and reds, reflecting the density of the heat and the reflection from the burnt umber soil of the track the group were standing on. The backdrop was a ramshackle wooden hut with UNHCR, plastic inserts for windows. It was of a white female and two local women, their dresses all beautifully multicoloured and tribal. The caption read: Loving it here in Sonaco with my two new friends.

Emily had no idea why the post interested her.

She googled Sonaco. It was a town in Guinea-Bissau – sub-Saharan Africa.

She scrolled on. 

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then, another shared church post. Another African scene. Another ‘white person does good’ caption. But it wasn’t giving anything away. 

She was getting nowhere. She knew she had a good eye. If there was something in her mum’s timeline, she would have seen it first time round.

Sod it.

Emily was about to give up. The frustration of it all, the anxiety of her mum’s unknown-to-her history, and the memories of last night were coalescing into something which was tying a knot in her stomach.

She needed to eat something before the coffee chewed a hole in the lining of her stomach. She was about to get up and make herself something when she had a final thought.  

What is the name of the church?

She started going through the alphabet and it came to her straight away: Saint Cuthberts.

She googled it …

… and then googled it again, this time with her mum’s village in the search.

That’s better.

There was no website. But there were a couple of articles. One was a harvest festival mention in the local rag, with an accompanying photo of a pile of fruit and vegetables. The second was more interesting. It was an article in the city’s cathedral’s monthly circular. The piece was titled: St Cuthberts lead the way. It was four paragraphs long, and was complemented by three photos. Emily speed-read the article’s first paragraph. It explained that her mum’s church had formed a partnership with a number of dioceses in four West African countries. There were plans for fund-raising, long visits and exchanges. And the church had set up a charitable foundation which aimed to raise money to help renovate schools and provide wells in the dioceses’s villages.

It was all laudable stuff and Emily couldn’t stop herself from making the jump from raising money to a furtive bank account in London. Which seemed criminal to even think about, let alone actually putting something like that together.

She was just about to close the article when she spotted something.

It was the second photo. A mixed group of white and black people stood in front of a West African church. She’d glanced at it to see if her mum had been among those in the image, although she was sure she’d have known if she had taken a trip to Africa in the last couple of years.

Sure enough, she wasn’t in the picture.

Hang on.

But someone else was.

She used a finger and thumb to enlarge the image. It pixelated, so she reduced it slightly.

And there he was. There was no getting away from it.

Luis Segal was in Africa.

In the same place and at the same time as members of her mother’s church. A church that had set up a partnership with dioceses across four West African countries. And a charitable foundation. 

Emily checked the date: just under two years ago.

She didn’t have the details from the solicitor yet, but it looked like the account may have been opened just before the photo was taken.

It was no coincidence? 

Emily’s mum, her church, West Africa, a restaurant in the Camargue that was the front for what?, a manipulative French policeman skulking around the town in the middle of the night, a very healthy bank account – and Luis Segal.

She couldn’t join the dots. 

Not yet, anyway. 

Emily made herself a sandwich, knocked up a flask and put both in her rucksack. She was out of the door, cycle helmeted and on her bike a few minutes after that. She had to get away. Blow the cobwebs from the frailties of her mind. She’d found a reasonably obvious fifteen kilometre cycle in and around the delta, a lot of which was off road. She’d decided to do that. It looked obscure – so she hoped she wouldn’t bump into any of the characters who had recently implanted themselves into her life since.

She needed time to think.

The first bit of the ride did take her through town, skimming past Chez Ami and then following the route she’d taken last night in pursuit of Pierre. There was no sign of him on the cafe’s terrace, which was a relief. Nor did she recognise anyone as she cycled around the roundabout with its half-sized fishing boat, and beyond the electricity junction box where she had been manhandled by Pierre. Soon she was beyond the town and, as much as she could with her brain contorting around all of the permutations which involved her mum, both Segals and an overloaded bank account, she began to feel alive.

She pushed on.

The view was much like anywhere inland: scrub and sand and mud and water, as flat as the Fenland. She thought she made out the large lake she had picked out the other day, with its shimmer of flamingos. But it might have been another body of water and another flamboyance of birds. Up ahead she knew she had to turn left off the main road. That would take her across country and, after a couple of twists and forks, to the road to the far west of town. Then she could head on in.

But she wasn’t completely sure, so she stopped, took out her phone and opened Google Maps.

There.

She looked up. She could see the turning. It was about eight hundred metres away marked by a distant fence. 

On, on.

It was hot. Now well past midday and with the sun looking set to melt the tarmac, she pushed on. She’d layered herself up with suntan lotion, but that was losing its battle against her own sweat; the cooling wind from the speed of the bike in no way compensating for heat she was generating when combined with the strength of the sun’s efforts.

She would reapply when she stopped. And that would be …?

Emily didn’t know, except the temporary answer was ‘not yet’.

Her legs pushed. Her body swayed. She stood up in the saddle. And pushed some more.

The turning was almost on her, but the physical frenzy she had generated, a pressure valve against the angst of where she found herself, refused to abate. She braked late, half-turned and half-skidded into the corner – which she was both surprised and impressed by – and took off again.

It was no longer tarmac. The road had turned to track which was wide enough for a single vehicle with thin, grassy edges that finished abruptly and dropped into the brine of metre-wide drainage ditches. The going was good though. She only had to steer hard a couple of times to avoid furrows and only once to miss a brick which at one point had probably been part of the track, but now, over time, was an ambush to a less observant cyclist.

She rode hard, her breathing short and her thighs beginning to wonder what they’d signed up for. Her helmet now felt as though too tight and her hair, which reacted badly to any environment other than ‘washed, blow dried and the first twenty minutes in the pub’, would be disgusted with her efforts.

But it felt good. And she should keep going. For how long, she wasn’t yet sure, but certainly until …

… she spotted something ahead. It was just off the track. A wooden hut, garage-sized and placed by another of the ubiquitous lakes. And it looked like it might afford some shade.

Lunch.

She stood up again. And pushed on.

Final four hundred metres.

Push.

On.

Come on.

Her mind was still encouraging whilst her body was displaying a strong will of resistance.

Almost … there.

Her lungs and her thighs were easily the most annoyed … her heart banging away like a badly dripping tap.

Stop.

She braked, slowed and pulled over.

Breathe.

The hut was as she hoped it would be. It looked like it might hold a small boat – one end was butt up against the water. And, round to one side, there was a log and enough shade for her and her picnic.

Oh. And a small pack of egrets wading in the water. Egrets were God’s experiment of taking a swan, giving it long, thin legs, and then suggesting it stand around for hours on end looking awkward.  

She threw off her backpack, took out her lunch, made herself comfortable and, as the sweat made her eyes sting, congregated and then dripped down her cheeks, she stared at the scene.

It was, as it always had been, beautiful. And seemingly deserted, apart from the egrets who were clomping about in the water. And peaceful, other than nature’s chatter. 

She felt at ease for the first time … for ages. It was akin to escaping to a desert island. And that notion intrigued her. Emily struggled to see herself as only a people person. Whilst she enjoyed being with others, she was completely at ease in her own company; interaction with others was always accompanied by a degree of effort. 

The thing was, she liked to please everyone. More accurately, she didn’t like upsetting people. She guessed that’s how most people felt. But, for her, self reflection remained a constant drain. So, if you didn’t interact with people, you had nothing to be self conscious about – surely? Here, or on a desert island, she wouldn’t have worry about what she had said, or what she had done. Because there would be no one to judge her.

Just the egrets, maybe?

And that felt good. 

Maybe with her mum’s money she’d buy a croft on a Scottish island, get herself a collie and  a small flock of sheep. Grow cabbages, potatoes and carrots. Shop on the mainland once a month and stock a twenty-year-old chest freezer. 

Her mum’s money.

That brought her back down to earth.

She sighed heavily.

And then, a bit grumpily, helped herself to a sandwich.

Her phone pinged.

She took it out of her pocket and swiped and prodded. It was an email from her mum’s solicitor. The text read:

Hi Em. The bank account in Arles is Société Générale. Attached is the statement HMRC sent to me. I’ve also added the declaration form that you need to fill in and sign. I can then deal with it from there. Frances.

Emily took a swig of coffee and opened the first attachment. It was a bank statement like every other bank statement she’d ever seen. The first credit was twenty-five months ago. It was a June deposit of four thousand seven hundred Euros. They kept coming, at a rate of about two a month, until the third week in October. And then they stopped until the following April. And then they started up again, on average, twice a month until the following October. And then they stopped again.

There was a final credit in April this year. Just the one. And no more. Just like her mum. She’d died three weeks later. 

Emily counted. There were twenty-six entries. The largest of which was seven thousand three hundred pounds.

And there were two withdrawals. Both to the same name: N Dyer. One was for three hundred and sixty pounds. The second was for four hundred and twelve pounds. Both were in December last year. 

N Dyer?

She had no idea.

Lots of money coming in, and very little going out. The credits were from Société Générale; and the payments were to a person(?) she’d never heard of.

She stared at the phone for a few seconds. And then closed it all down and put it away. She was none the wiser.

She sighed again. The croft was shouting at her. 

What next?

There were a number of options, assuming she was going to stay – against the very direct advice from the bully of a Gendarme. All of those required her to have the confidence to face up to one of the men who were currently poking around in her life. 

Luis Segal was the obvious choice. Marc Segal, less so. And she sensed that both of those were inherently dangerous. Pierre was next. Something along the lines of, ‘Look, I know you told me to go home, but you may not be aware that Luis Segal was in Africa with one of my mum’s church’s congregation, and I’ve just found out about this bank account, see, and I thought you might be interested.’ That was an option. He was a policeman. And … she was about to add that they could be trusted, but Luis Segal had made it clear that Pierre wasn’t to be. Well, that’s what he would say, wouldn’t he? After all, Pierre wasn’t wrecking her mum’s life. More likely he was probably investigating why her mum’s life was being wrecked.

Then there was the waiter. The narrator. On the corner of the stage. All watching; all seeing. 

And.

African? Recently African? Like, not necessarily second generation African?

Emily quickly took out her phone and dabbed and swiped. Her phone didn’t initially respond because a bead of sweat had dropped from an eyebrow and splatted her screen, her damp hands hardly helping the cause. 

In the end she had the St Cuthberts lead the way article open and had enlarged the three photos. She looked at each of the black male faces. There were five of them.

Nope.

The waiter wasn’t one of them.  

But, he was still an option. Out of all of them he seemed the most trustworthy. 

Make a decision.

She did. 

And, once she’d finished her lunch and thrown the crusts to some very dismissive egrets, she packed up her things and got on her bike. She’d be back in the town in an hour and a half, shower, smarten herself up and then do this thing.

But it didn’t work out that way. It got a whole lot more complicated.

Emily was three-quarters of the way along the track. In the far distance she could see a heavy line of trees which she assumed followed the meander of the Petit Rhone. She knew the road ran alongside the river, so all she needed to do was hit the trees, turn left and it was about three kilometres into town – past the fish restaurant, the campsite and the motorhome stop.

She wanted to work hard; to pick up where she’d left off just before lunch. And so stuck her bluetooth earphones in, selected her exercise3 playlist, which was a combination of ‘80s hits her mum loved, and stood up in the saddle.

And drove.

She had a wobble after about twenty minutes when the track, which was still just big enough for one vehicle, deteriorated into grooves and dips made up of rock hard, compact mud which instructed her front tyre to go in the opposite direction to where she was heading. But a cool head and some braking stopped her tumbling and she was soon back in the groove.

Wham!’s, Club Tropicana was now the soundtrack to her exertion and she found her rhythm. As soon as the sweat congregated on the end of her nose, she blew it off. And again. And again a minute later. Her pants were soaking, her shorts a different colour from when they’d left the house and her t-shirt was sticking to her like a frightened child.     

And still she pushed on.

Eurythmics’s, There Must Be An Angel now galvanised her. She silently joined in; there was no spare breath to talk, let alone sing.

I walk into an empty room,

And suddenly my heart goes boom,

It’s an orchestra of angels,

And they’re playing with …

Neither Annie Leonox nor her silent backing singer managed to finish the line because Emily’s earphones popped out of their rightful place as she tumbled over the handlebars.

It all happened so quickly.

She momentarily thought there was something behind her, maybe a … and she braked, and pulled to her left to make room for what turned out to be a big white 4×4. But she wasn’t quick enough. And, in any case, there wasn’t enough room.

Emily thought the vehicle’s bumper had caught her back wheel, but she might have hit a rock or something similar in her poor attempt to make it clear of the truck. Whatever, it continued along the path doing, maybe, twenty miles an hour. And she parted company with her bike, flew through the air and landed, somewhat painlessly, into the drainage ditch. Her bike followed her, miraculously missing her floundering limbs by mere inches.

Then it was over. The 4×4 had made the main road, turned away from the town and sped off into the distance. And she was sat with a belly button full of water, in a rather Ealing Comedy stance, with her hands on her knees and her helmet at a jaunty angle.

Except it wasn’t comic.

In any way.

The driver had at least tried to do her some damage. 

At worst … 

It hit her then.

She had a vision of her mother walking along the B road just down from her village. Her morning constitutional. She did the same thing every day, as far as Emily knew. 

A car. No one had any idea what make it was.

‘She died almost instantaneously, Emily. She didn’t suffer.’ The police liaison woman had said.

A car.

Died instantaneously.

Sitting in a ditch, surrounded by putrid water, the enormity of it all washed over her.

No, that doesn’t make any sense.

And then tears came.

Gbassy arranged the glasses on top of the cabinet so they were just so. He stood, turned and looked out to the river. It was another warm afternoon, the ground soaking up the heat and radiating it back. He reckoned it was as hot as any day in Guinea. The difference was, it was drier here. By now at home the rain clouds would be bellowing and soon, maybe in an hour or so’s time, the rain would fall as if the clouds had been slashed with a machete. The metalled roofs of the village huts would protest with the sound of a thousand hammers, the rain would find its way into the houses, dripping into buckets and onto old blankets, and the streets would turn dark brown with sludge.

It was the rainy season at home. The afternoon downpours were heavier in the summer, and more persistent. The rivers and ditches would flood, and the fields, those which weren’t permanently waterlogged, would grow strong and green in the morning, and then flop and swim in the afternoon. The oxen and the cows loved the rain. It was cooling after the heat of the morning. But his father worried about footrot and other water borne diseases and, when he could, he encouraged them inside the open barn, which had a raised, but disintegrating concrete floor. His father said replacing the floor was his first priority once Gbassy had started to send money home.

Here the sun seemed just as powerful, but the rains seldom came. Everything was dry, hard-packed and cracked, the greens becoming more yellow by the day. In Guinea the summer brought vibrancy and depth. In this part of France the canvas was more two-tone and parched. The degradation slow, but sure.

Just as he felt.

When he’d arrived the restaurant, with its job, its money, its interaction with people of all nationalities, it was as if he’d been reborn. He was excited; ebullient. 

Now that excitement was gone. The certainty of the daily routine and the fear and anguish of the regular boat arrivals was a dirge. He felt spent. And dejected. He needed something – some rain – to wash away the heat and the dry, and rejuvenate his soul. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on with this parched existence. 

Gbassy felt his stomach. It was still sore. He’d lost his bowels this morning and had felt sick throughout the lunchtime rush. He’d survive. He would survive. But he also knew that when Monsieur Segal notified him of the next boat, he would take whatever money he had, maybe steal the night’s takings, and run. 

The night before last he had sat on the small knoll by the campsite and, having sent and received an email to and from the village elder, he had checked his location on Google Maps. His geography wasn’t bad, and his sense of direction was better. He had rehearsed a route, which took him along the coast to the west, to a series of seaside towns which looked busy and big enough to get lost in. He’d checked the French tourist season dates and he reckoned her had about a month before the hotels and the restaurants began to empty. He could sleep in the trees and eat meagerly. Even without papers he should be able to find work? It was a question. Not a statement.  

He didn’t know. 

What he did know was he couldn’t stay here for another boat.

‘Hello.’

The greeting came from his right. He knew straight away who it was. The mild, English accent was that of the cute woman.

He turned to face her.

She was standing beside a bicycle, which looked like it could do with some maintenance.        

She appeared damp, as though the much needed rain had found her, but nowhere else. There was blood on one forearm and she had a gash on her knee, the red snaking its way down her calf, the gore not yet fully dry. Her hair, which poked out from under her helmet, was matted. And her clothes weren’t just discoloured due to sweat, everything she wore was tinged with green, as though she had been dipped in a stagnant pond.

She was a good three metres from him, but the smell of rotting vegetation still reached across the gap.

Her expression was a strange mixture of defeat and defiance. He thought she might burst into tears at any moment. Or, alternatively, throw down her bike and come at him with her fingernails. There was a tension within her that was straining to break free.

All of which worried him.

As did the temporary lull that had enveloped the moment.

‘Hello, miss,’ he eventually replied. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded, her mouth firmly shut, her lips pursed like a child doing its best to prevent the onset of tears.

He didn’t know what to say next. So there was another pause.

And still she stared at him.

‘Can I get you a drink. A coke? Have you fallen from your bike? I have some antiseptic in the kitchen.’ Gbassy was trying anything to elicit a reaction.

‘Coke, please,’ through gritted teeth.

It was his turn to nod. He stared at her for a moment longer, just in case she was going to answer any of the other of his questions, and then he turned and darted into the kitchen, where he took a can from the fridge and came back outside.

The woman had moved. She was pushing her bike slowly across the carpark towards the river bank. He jogged until he was level with her.

‘Are you on your own?’ she asked, still staring ahead.

That question caught him. He went for honesty.

‘Yes. Monsieur Segal, that is the chef, will be here later; maybe in an hour or two. And we open at six-thirty. The other Monsieur Segal may come later in the evening. Why do you ask?’ He was genuinely interested.

They were at the river bank, the water eddying its languid way to the sea. Just ahead of them a fish jumped for a fly, the splash of its fall breaking the temporary silence.

The woman put down her bike, took off her backpack and helmet and found a dusty mound to sit on. Any of the elder women in his village would never have sat straight onto bare earth. Cleanliness was next to Godliness with West African women. Their sharply patterned and coloured dresses and matching headscarves were always beautifully presented and worn with pride. Only when in the fields would they dress down in single colour robes. Even then, surrounded by nothing more than the prophet’s earth, they would always find a proper stool, or at the very least a tree trunk to rest on. They would never sit on the ground with the ants and the beetles.

He crouched next to her.

And handed her the can of coke.

She took it, pulled the ring, and sipped. 

She was looking out at the same vista he had just been gazing at. He had been mulling over his own internal conflict, and thinking of escape. As he looked at her he saw a distance, as if she were someplace else. Her eyes were still, but he sensed her mind was far from that. 

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, without looking at him.

‘Gbassy.’

‘Where are you from?’ Her questions were soft, as though not responding wouldn’t cause offence.

‘From Guinea, miss.’

She was sat with her elbows on her knees, with the can in one hand, and still facing the horizon.

‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.

He followed her eye line. In the middle distance was the single bull which seemed a permanent fixture in the field on the other bank. It lifted its head and looked in their direction. Gbassy felt a connection between him and the bull. As though he were staring across a continent.

‘Very much so,’ he replied.

She turned to him then, her face still a sketch of complexity. Her pretty nose marked with a brown smudge of dirt, one cheek smeared green from a distant pool. There was hurt and honesty behind her eyes: a pleading, almost.

‘Can I trust you?’ she asked.

It’s a dead cat

[image error]I’ll start with a lovely photo of C as she tends our huge front garden

Let’s face it, it’s difficult to keep up. The TERF wars, the BLM marches, the right-wing violence in London, upwards of 50,000 dead and still dying at a rate which matches the deaths in all of the other EU countries combined. Then the US, with its marches, another black man shot dead by police yesterday, his Orangeness unable to raise a glass of water to his face with his left hand at the West Point graduating ceremony and then struggling to walk down a ramp, and their covid-19 numbers already rising in half of the states as lockdown is relaxed. Oh, and Brazil and India, both suffering with high deaths, the former’s President further right than Trump, denying the virus’s lethality.

I could write a short essay on all of them, but instead I want to mention just one thing.

There is a drive by MPs to make defacing a war memorial subject to 10 years in prison. It is unclear if this will wrap up other offences, such as pulling down a statue, rolling it down a hill and dropping it into the harbour. So let’s just focus on the first.

Really? A first time rapist often gets less than 10 years in jail. For those of you with children (I almost said daughters, but rape is a cross gender occurrence), do you really subscribe to notion that, however offensive, taking a spray can to something which can be fixed/cleaned/repaired/even remade and replace in days, should attract the same punishment as the violent (rape is always violent), sexual assault – the aftermath of which lives with the victim for ever?

The reason I mention this is not because the issue has particularly messed with my Sunday as it will very likely not make the statute books. What really riles me is that the reason it’s being considered – when there is so much injustice, pain, distress, poor governance in this world – so many other things to key and even life and death things to consider. It’s being considered because it is popular. And if we have learnt nothing from Trump, Johnson, Bolsonaro and Modi is that popularist are good with slogans – they’re good with sound bites – but they’re bloody hopeless at governing and just awful in a crisis.

And that’s not all. The ten year jail sentence is a dead cat. BLM, the failure to get our primary schools open successfully, the debacle on quarantine, the 20% drop in GDP, the two-metre to become one-metre rule, no clear advice on face coverings, the banning of scientists from the daily briefings, care homes and … above all … a no-deal Brexit which is thundering towards us at a rate which seems unavoidable, popularist politicians will throw anything at the media to distract from what really matters. And I think that should worry all of us.

Its. A. Dead. Cat.

Anyhow. We’re off to Jen and James today … a sort of expanded support bubble. And I’ve been writing and reading and typesetting until my fingers hurt. It should, hopefully, be all over by the end of June/first week in July. Then it’s gin and tonics all round.

[image error]I fitted a voltmeter to Doris yesterday. Mmmm

Chapter 11 below. I’m just about to finish Chapter 13. Remember, it needs a whole lot of editing.

++++++++++

Chapter 11

Emily stood, brushed the sand off her bum and, a little furtively, walked across the beach toward the promenade. She could still see Pierre. He was striding purposefully down the road at quite a lick. She’d have to get a move on.

The town was quiet. It wasn’t completely dark, though. There was adequate street lighting and most of the shops and cafes had some form of interior illumination which radiated their colours onto the pavement. Above her the low clouds, which cloaked the whole sky, moved quickly overhead toward the sea she was leaving behind. Ahead of her Pierre was moving faster still. He was in a rush to get somewhere.

She broke into a jog, and then dashed across the road to where there was more shadow. Other than her and her prize, the streets were deserted. Anyone sensible – and their wives – were tucked up in bed.

Shit.

Pierre had glanced behind. Emily slipped into a doorway of a shop where she was engulfed in shadow She pulled herself as close to the glass of the door as she could, her heart doing its best to escape her chest. It wasn’t just the exertion, although she had been working. It was the thrill, if that were an apposite word.

Dread was probably a better one.

What am I doing?

It was a good question.

She popped her head out from the doorway and looked toward where she had last seen Pierre.

He had moved on, maybe thirty metres away now.

Let’s go!

It was like she was cast in a 1950s spy thriller, just further on than black and white, but before they’d managed to bring true fidelity to the screen. They’d be a gun. But it would make a ‘popping’ sound, not a huge bang. Someone would recoil, totter and fall and they’d be fake blood on a shirt seeping from between an actor’s fingers. Death would come, but there’d be no convulsions; no graphic histrionics  – it would be brief and serene. The shooter would be determined, but detached; unruffled and remorseless – there were other people to main. And then they’d be off, the victim lying motionless, eyes and mouth open, maybe with a last line before … well, the final curtain.

Emily made a note not to be the one feeling her chest for blood.

Where’s he gone?

Bugger.

She’d lost him.

She slowed, her jog becoming a walk. Ahead of her was a road junction, the main route cut by a subsidiary. There was a small roundabout, its centre decorated by a half-sized fishing boat which sat on large blue pebbles, surrounded by a thin circle of grass.

Which way did he go?

She had no idea. And, looking around like a lost child in a department store, she was in danger of being very obvious – a lone human wandering the streets of a small French seaside resort, drained of its life by the lateness of the hour.

Screech!

The metallic squawk of a distant walkie-talkie. It had come from the other side of the roundabout. 

She stood on tiptoes.

Nothing.

She crossed the road to her right at a jog, keeping her eyes open.

She found another doorway. This time it wasn’t completely in shadow. It would have to do. 

Emily listened.

Nothing.

No more walkie-talkie sounds.

She made a dash across the next road – she’d end up directly opposite from where she started, but still heading out of town.

Another doorway. She found it, pushed herself in … and listened.

Nothing.

She had a number of choices. The one shouting at her was to head off back to her AirB&B. That was clearly the most sensible thing to do. 

Alternatively she could continue along the main road until she reached the town’s limits. She thought she knew the geography. She should come across the canal. Turn left and she’d be following the edge of the built up area. At some point the canal bore right, away from the sea. If she headed beachwards at that point her AirB&B should be easy to find. It was a small enough town.

Or, she could follow one of the minor roads that led from the roundabout. Pierre could have taken either, although the call from the walkie-talkie – about where she was now – made it more likely he’d have turned right and gone down the road she was standing next to.

Emily took a step back onto the pavement. 

She looked around.

Nothing.

She’d made her choice. The main road and the canal it was.

She followed the pavement right and with the tarmac of the main road now back on her left, she pushed on.

The road, which was bordered by one and two storey buildings, curved gently to the left. Cars were parked where they could. 

She walked on, more tentatively now. 

There was still no sign of Pierre. 

A minute later she passed the last of the shops; a small supermarket. The road then became totally residential. The canal shouldn’t be too far away.

Stop!

She knelt behind the boot of a car.

Ahead of her she’d spotted the taillights of a vehicle. They were on … and then they were off. It was parked on her side of the road; about fifty metres away, beyond where the last of the houses finished. 

She listened.

No engine. But she’d definitely seen a pair of red lights.

Hang on.

She stuck her head out from behind the car – like a soldier searching for the enemy.

This is totally mad. Who do I think I am?

There was a dull cream light now. From the back window of a car. The interior light was on. It silhouetted the busts of two men.

And then …

… a pair of headlights from beyond the stationary car. It was a distant flicker, but it was definitely headlights. She knew the road was pretty straight and, yes … there were its lights, now unmistakable. It was heading this way.

Emily stood. Her calves were aching. She needed to get a better view – her current hiding place wasn’t a good enough vantage point.

Ahead of her there was a large electricity box, just off the pavement. That would give her a better angle and something to hide behind.

She took three steps towards it and then …

… ‘Oi! That hurts!’ Someone from between the cars had grabbed her forearm.

She turned, stepped back, and almost fell.

It was Pierre. He had her arm in one hand and the walkie-talkie in the other.

Emily was about to say something when, off to her right, flashing red and blue lights lit up the sky, reflecting dully in the clouds like cheap disco lights on the ceiling of a youth club.

Police?

‘That. Hurts!’ She half-shouted this time.

She had two things on her mind. The static car, which was now ablaze with gotcha lights. 

And Pierre, holding her with a wrench-like grip. Her eyes darted between the two.

‘Let go of me!’ She struggled as she looked towards the police car. ‘I’ll scream “rape”! The police will come. They’re just …’      

Pierre lifted the walkie-talkie and thrust it at her face. It got so close she almost went boss-eyed. There was a ‘Gendarme’ badge on the radio’s casing. 

‘Go back to your apartment. Pack your things. And go home to England. If I see you in town again after tomorrow I will arrest you. Do you understand?’ This wasn’t the Pierre she’d slept with. This was an altogether different beast. The grip around her arm was enough to make her fingers start to tingle. And the inflection in his voice was that of the devil.

He was very clear.

She was very clear.

‘When I let you go, you are to go straight to your apartment. And you are not to leave it until breakfast. And then you are to pack up your things and go home. Do you understand.’

She processed it. All of it.

What surprised her, was she wasn’t frightened. Yes, he was hurting her. And he clearly meant to hurt her. But he didn’t scare her. And she didn’t understand why.

‘Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’ She struggled again, but it was half-hearted.

She looked to her right. The headlights of the car had reached those of the red and blues. One of the policemen was out on the road now. There was a conversation going on through the driver’s window

Pierre’s radio crackled, but he’d turned it down. She couldn’t hear a word.

And still he hadn’t let go of her arm

She tugged it away from him again, hoping that he might release his grip.

But he didn’t.

Instead he brought his mouth to her ear.

‘Go home. Now. It’s not safe for you here.’ The words may have been said to protect her, but they were laced with menace.

What?

That was enough. She pulled away as hard as she could. And, as she did, she let out a quiet scream, more of effort than fear. 

He let go and she fell back against the electricity box, banging her head and scratching her arm. She ended up as a heap on the floor. Tears came to her eyes, but she fought them.

In the partial dark she saw that he was still looking at her. And then he glanced toward the disco in the distance.

He brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

‘Tout va bien?’ It was the voice of a man in charge.

There was a crackle in return. Emily couldn’t decypher it. Instead, she unwound herself from the floor, stood and brushed at her knees.

‘Go home. I don’t want to see you in the town again.’ Pierre had one eye on the cars and one on her. His spare hand was pointing town-ward.

‘Go!’ It was a growl. ‘Now!’

She looked at him for long enough so that he might sense she wasn’t beaten – only wounded.  

And then she turned away and sulkily took off back into town.

Gbassy counted 52 immigrants off the boat. And counted 52 onto the truck. He’d provided water for all of them and some chocolate for the six children. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped but the smell in the back of the truck had been rancid. Everyone was in a wretched state. Thankfully it didn’t look as though any of the illegals were poorly enough to warrant what little treatment he may have been able offer. He had put together a satchel with some bandages, disinfectant and a whole load of paracetamol. That would all stay untouched. 

Thankfully.

He pushed the tailgate of the old army truck closed and then pulled himself into the back of the vehicle. It was moving a few seconds later.

‘Is everyone OK? Est-ce que tout le monde va bien?’ He raised his voice to the standing mass in the back of the truck.

Nobody responded. Most of the people looked shell shocked; gaunt and numb. He remembered how he had felt. All he had wanted to do was eat and sleep. He didn’t think that would come to them any time soon.

He had one last glance around the truck … and noticed a child at his feet. A little girl. She was holding a woman’s hand; her mother? She must have been no more than five. She was wearing a deeply stained, tatty flowery dress – no shoes. Steadying himself with the top of the tailgate he knelt down so his face was level with that of the girl’s. She was beautiful. Big, round eyes, hamster cheeks and plenty of jet black, frizzy hair.

‘Comment allez-vous?’ he asked kindly, breaking into a smile.

The girl pulled away and clung onto her mother’s leg, but she managed to return his  smile. 

Tears welled up in Gbassy’s eyes. Doubtless the girl’s mother was happy to be on European soil. And doubtless she was hoping that soon her new life might begin. A life which had broken free from persecution and poverty.

Little did she know.

Gbassy stroked the little girl’s cheek and then stood. He couldn’t look at the woman, so he turned and stared out into night, the dark greys and greens of the road and the surrounding countryside heading away from them as the truck picked up speed.

He didn’t know if he could be feeling any more anguished. He knew what was coming – the four cowboys had stayed at the restaurant well after it closed. As he’d boarded the truck to go and meet the boat, they had all been congrating around their 4×4, sharing a bottle of brandy. And the other trucks, the ones to whisk away the immigrants to who knew where, the laundry truck with its up and over louvre door, and the two vehicles with the large, horizontal cylinders – they were there ready, their drivers resting in the cabs.

And now he knew a little more of his history.

Just as Luis was leaving the restaurant he had put a hand on Gbassy’s shoulder.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ the chef had asked.

It was another gentle inquiry. One that meant more to him than Luis Segal could ever know.

Gbassy had nodded in return, but his dropped shoulders spoke of a completely different story.

‘You don’t like the boat days, hmm?’ Luis had asked.

Gbassy had assumed Luis knew about the boats. But he’d never seen him anywhere near the operation. There didn’t seem to be any need for an additional body; there was always enough of Monsieur Segal’s men. Maybe the chef was involved elsewhere?

‘No. It hurts me.’ It was all he could manage.

Luis had still not taken his hand from his shoulder.

‘You have to do it,’ the chef had added.

Gbassy looked into the man’s eyes. There was guilt there. And sadness too.

‘Why? Why should I not leave? I could go now.’ Gbassy asked. He regretted saying it as soon as the words had left his mouth.

The chef’s face was stern.

‘Your predecessor thought the same thing.’

Gbassy flinched – consternation scored across his face.

‘What happened to him?’ he shot back.

The chef dropped his hand. His face was contorted; unhappiness writ large. Gbassy thought he might break down.

‘He’s not with us any more, I’m afraid.’ There was a pause. And then the chef did the most extraordinary thing. He laid a hand on Gbassy face and stared straight into his eyes. ‘That is why you must do everything right. Please.’

‘Where is he?’ Gbassy’s question was more of a plea. Quiet, but determined.

They were standing on the terrace. Just them, the chatter of the insects and an irregular hoot from an owl.

The chef looked to the river. And nodded in that direction.

Gbassy didn’t need any further explanation. His worst fears had been realised. 

The chef took his hand off Gbassy’s face and nodded solemnly.

‘Do as you are asked.It’s the only way.’

Luis Segal didn’t wait for anything supplementary from Gbassy. He turned and walked around the back of the hut in the direction of his bike.

Gbassy had had his instructions. And he knew it would be in his best interests to play his part tonight. Otherwise he’d end up in the river as fish food. Like his predecessor.

But he knew that was going to be extremely difficult. His emotions had already spiked. The deluge of weak and hungry immigrants. The young girl with the coy smile … who would likely be separated from her mother. The cowboys with their perverse minds and contrary hands. And his predecessor. Discarded because life among his kind was cheap.  

He was going to struggle. He knew he was.

The truck lurched and twisted along the track which led to the restaurant car park. It pulled up in a shudder and Gbassy quickly released the metal tailgate which fell with a clang. He jumped down from the truck, turned and then started to help the immigrants manage the metre drop to the hardened sand.

‘Stay in a group! Rester en groupe!’ he called out.

He needn’t have bothered. One of Monsieur Segal’s team was already manhandling the immigrants into place.

Pretty soon there were three groups: able-bodied men; younger women, including the mother with her child – the one Gbassy had spoken to earlier; and a smaller group of older people.

Once they were all off the truck, Gbassy jumped on the back and cleared up the plastic bottles and candy wrappers. As he was about to jump down, he paused. Monsieur Segal was already barking out his instructions.

The young men, Gbassy reckoned there were thirty of them, were herded off to one of the metal cylinder trucks.

Next the children, including the young girl, were hoarded toward the laundry lorry. The woman, or mother, was beside herself. Gbassy had never heard such a noise. And she was scratching and slapping the boss’s man – his shoulders hunched and head bowed in defense against the attack – as he dragged the young girl towards the lorry.

Monsieur Segal and the other two spare men burst into laughter at the plight of one of theirs. And, rather than beat the woman, something Gbassy had seen them do before, they let the mismatched fight ensue. 

By the time the man was at the back of the truck, the little girl was having none of it. She was wriggling and adding her own voice to the screams of her mother. It was quickly descending into a brawl.

He knew he shouldn’t have been bothered, but Gbassy worried that all the noise would wake the campsite and the operation would be blown.

But, in the end, it didn’t last for more than a few seconds. The young girl was propelled into the back of the van and, with a single blow, the mother, her head snapping away from the blow – blood following the trajectory – fell to floor, lifeless.

And that was too much for Gbassy.

He launched himself off the back of the truck and strode towards the man who was standing over the prostrate woman, the daughter bleating harrowingly from the arms of an elderly man.

‘Gbassy!’ The order from Monsieur Segal cut through the night.

It was the first time his boss had ever used his name. And it stopped him dead.

Gbassy was panting, his shoulders leaning forward in the direction of a fight, his fists clenched.

‘Come here.’ Softer this time from his boss.

Gbassy screwed his face up and clenched his fists tighter still. He stared at the man who had hit the woman … and he was sure he saw fear in his eyes. 

‘Here.’ Softer still. Monsieur Segal had complete control.

Gbassy snorted, turned and, with his shoulders back and his head held high, he walked with a touch of arrogance past the remaining group of younger women and stopped short of his boss …

… who hit him in the stomach with a force that completely caught him off guard. The wind was forced from his chest and the pain was instantaneous; he folded and dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

Gbassy saw his boss’s feet side step around him and then stopped just in front of the remaining group of women. He then gave a short, high-pitched whistle. It was the call to the cowboys.

The next five minutes was something from a dystopian scene. He crawled away from where he’d fallen and sat up against one of the wooden pillars of the restaurant. From there he was able to watch the whole sordid scene unfold.

It played out exactly as he thought it might: farm hands at a bull market. The women were touched, fondled and inspected. Hands squeezed breasts. Other hands disappeared up skirts. Buttocks were felt and teeth and ears also checked. As this happened the men made noises of the craved. They were leary and vulgar. It was as degrading as it could be. In fact it got so revolting, Monsieur Segal called the proceedings to a halt and told the cowboys to make their choices and to leave.

They were gone two minutes later, their vehicle blaring out loud rock music as they left, the women sat in the back of the flat bed, completely bewildered.

Ten minutes after that the three trucks had left and all that remained were a couple of 4x4s, Monsieur Segal’s army truck, the boss and three of his men, including the one who had smacked the women.

Monsieur Segal paid scant attention to Gbassy, who was still sitting by the corner of the restaurant, an arm resting across his stomach. But the man who had hit the woman walked over. He stood with his feet apart, looking down at Gbassy. He then spat in his face and kicked him in the thigh. Gbassy didn’t flinch. The spit dribbled down his cheek and the kick, which was weak, wouldn’t leave a bruise. In all it was a pathetic attempt to show dominance. Gbassy didn’t react – he just stared. The man held his gaze, but not for long. 

Then they were all gone.

All that was left was him, the restaurant and the calm of the slow moving Petit Rhone. 

And, oddly, in the distance to the north, the low clouds were displaying a red and blue moving hue.

I wonder what that is? 

Emily pulled the zip closed on her suitcase. All she needed to do now was collect her wash things from the bathroom, put them in her backpack and she would be done. She had her wallet, passport, phone and charger laid out on her bed. She’d stick those in her waistbelt last of all. She checked her watch. It was 9.34 am. She’d be on the road by ten. 

It hadn’t been a difficult decision. When she’d woke she’d headed straight for the shower. Once clean and having washed her hair, she’d got out and dried herself. It was then she noticed the burn mark on her arm where Pierre had held her. 

What the …?

That had been enough. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need the confusion, the anxiety … the intensity. 

God, had it been intense. 

Everything from the sex to the bull run. From both evenings in the restaurant to last night’s brush with the law, the result of which was actual bodily harm. She had got out of the break more than she wanted. She had met her mum’s lover, seen where the family had erected their tent, experienced the ambience of the place … and so much more. She didn’t need the rubbish that came with it. And she certainly wasn’t up for being arrested by a Jekyll and Hyde character whom she knew she couldn’t avoid if she stayed in the town.

She was leaving.

And that was that.

It had taken her twenty or so minutes to dress, stuff some breakfast down her face, clean her teeth and then pack.

She was ready for the off.

Wait.

Her phone buzzed.

She picked it up.

It was a text from Mum’s Solicitor.

How odd.

As a maths teacher, good with figures and a steady hand on the computer, Emily knew she could have competed her mum’s probate herself. It was, as she understood it, a ‘money form’ to HMRC, detailing the estate’s assets. And then, assuming they hadn’t breached the inheritance tax threshold, another form to the Probate Office. 

It seemed straightforward enough.

But she hadn’t had the stomach for it. Her mum’s will was held by a solicitor in the town, so Emily had got in touch with her and passed over the whole business. Four months later probate had been issued – there was no tax to pay. Emily had put the house on the market, tidied up her mum’s other financial affairs and, having paid the solicitor, whose name was Frances, she had been lucky enough to collect the money. That had come through about a month ago.

It had been a wonderful fillup after a rubbish year. The outcome was that now Emily had more than enough cash to buy her own place. It would be smaller than mum’s because Emily lived in a city and her mum in the sticks, but it would be her own.

That would be her next job when she got back from France. It would give her a post-work distraction … and something to see her through her new Year 10 class, which she would have all the way through to their GCSE. The set were notorious for being the least attentive Year 9 in the history of the school, a comprehensive built in the ‘60s. Her head of maths had given her the set list and said, ‘It’s only two years. And you have a younger liver than the rest of the faculty.’

But why was her mum’s solicitor texting her?

Emily picked up her phone and opened the SMS. It read:

Hi Emily. We need to talk. I think you might be away on holiday? Can you give me a ring as soon as practical. Thanks. Frances.

Emily shrugged. And then walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She dialled the solicitor’s number and got straight through.

‘Hi, Emily. I’m so glad you’ve phoned back so quickly,’ the solicitor said.

‘Sure.’ Emily had no idea where this was going. ‘Can I help?’

‘Yes. Maybe. Is it okay to talk now?’ 

That’s why I phoned. Emily was nervous; as a result she was feeling a little irritable.

‘Yes. Go ahead.’

‘Good.’ The solicitor’s accent was very female, middle class. It emanated confidence. ‘I’ve had a letter from HMRC. It’s about your mother’s estate.’ The woman paused.

‘Go on,’ Emily encouraged.

‘Well. I know probate has been issued, but …,’ she stammered, her confidence oddly draining, ‘… they’ve found another bank account.’

A what?

This wasn’t making any sense.

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes. It took me by surprise. It appears your mum had another bank account. It was with an obscure organisation based in London.’ The solicitor named the bank. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

It didn’t take long for Emily to search her mind’s files and come up blank. 

‘No. Not at all.’

Her mum didn’t tell Emily everything. Whose mum does?

‘Mmm. It’s very strange.’ There was another pause from the solicitor. ‘It seems to have quite a lot of money in it.’

What?

‘How much?’ It was the obvious question.

‘One hundred and seventy five thousand pounds … and some change.’ The solicitor concluded.

Emily was pacing around the kitchen. The kettle had boiled a while ago. She wasn’t bothered about that.

‘How?’ It was Emily’s turn to trip over her words. ‘Where … where has the money come from?’

‘Well that’s the strange thing.’ The solicitor paused again. It was as though she was struggling with the embarrassment of it all. ‘The money was paid in over a period of one and a half years, although it stopped abruptly once your poor old mum passed away.’

‘By whom?’ Emily asked.

‘That’s what’s a bit unfathomable. The money was paid in blocks – most of the cash payments were in the order of five thousand pound at a time. Once, sometimes twice a month.’

‘By whom?’ Emily still didn’t have the answer to her question.

‘Well, we don’t know. Except the payments come from overseas,’ the solicitor added.

‘From where.’ The information wasn’t coming quickly enough for Emily.

‘A bank account … in Arles, France.’

Emily found a chair and sat, before she collapsed.

No, that doesn’t make any sense.

‘Are you sure  you don’t know anything about this?’ the solicitor asked.

‘No. I don’t.’ Emily was whispering – her head resting in her free hand.

‘The problem is,’ the solicitor added, ‘it does make your mum’s estate breach the tax threshold. And there, understandable, a little upset by this – not disclosing accounts is a criminal offence, if you knew about them. In any case, you will now owe them some inheritance tax. I’ve worked out …’

‘Stop!’ Emily’s frustration had boiled over. It was all too much. Pierre, Marc and Luis Segal, the black waiter – more disquiet than she was prepared to handle. And now this. My mum. Her mum who had a secret bank account, holding hundreds of thousands of pounds that was being paid to her in big chunks of cash from a bank just up the road from where she was sitting. A place that stank of criminality. Flashing police cars in the middle of the night. An off duty copper telling her she wasn’t safe here. A chef, pretty much saying the same thing.

And a crooked lover. From forty years ago.

It was a coincidence. 

Surely?

She had no idea. 

Should she leave? Could she leave?

Maybe.

‘What do you want me to do now?’ Emily asked.

‘Well. You’ll need to make a statement saying you didn’t know of the account. I can send the appropriate form through. And then, assuming HMRC are happy with our disclosure, I will present you with a bill for the tax. You can then get in touch with the bank, close the account and pay the amount owed. There will be a substantial sum left over. So it’s not all bad news.’

Really?

Emily felt strong enough to stand up. She walked over to the kettle and put it on again.

‘Okay. Do that, please,’ she said.

‘And, if you don’t mind me saying, if you have no idea where the money came from, you may want to think about going to the police, however uncomfortable that is.’

Emily couldn’t stop herself. She laughed out loud.

‘What?’ The solicitor bleated from the other side of the Channel.

‘Never mind,’ Emily replied. ‘Sorry. It’s the absurdity of it all. Thanks for reaching out. Send me the stuff through when you can.’

She hung up, put the phone on the worktop and stared at the kettle.

This is odder than fiction.

She reached across, put the kettle back on and, whilst it boiled again, walked into the bedroom and unzipped her suitcase.  

I’m schtum

Black lives matter. Of course they do. We shouldn’t be venerating slave traders. No we shouldn’t. We should pull their statues down. Well, if decades of debate hasn’t made that happen, then maybe it’s the only way. We shouldn’t be protesting in the middle of a pandemic. Difficult question … quite often ‘moments’ are exactly that. Miss them and they’re gone. Looting and throwing things at the police is illegal and wrong and dilutes the message. True. But every protest in recent history has been accompanied by hard left and right intent on anarchy. It is, unfortunately, the nature of protests … and, in some ways reflects the heavy handedness of the authorities – less so here nowadays, but absolutely so in the US. We’ve all seen the footage.

White privileged males shouldn’t be contributing to the debate. I agree. Whatever I say or write will be both patronising and condescending. What do I know? I have no idea how people of colour feel in this country. How could I ever?

But I do think I know something: twenty five years in the Army with some world travel and eight years in teaching, with a flavour in an inner city school.

This is all about education. Quality education. And I don’t mean what we teach in history, although that is important (and equality should be covered in every subject; as a humanities subject, kids get very little history teaching … and there’s a lot of it). I mean what quality of education we provide for our children. All of them. Poverty is a complicated beast. It’s no one in particular’s fault – and yet it is everyone’s fault. But, and this is not my view although I wholly endorse it, having a decent education is the only way out of poverty. And, whilst much of that responsibility falls to teachers and what happens in schools, it’s, again, all of our responsibility to educate all of our children compassionately and effectively. But it is the government’s and the local council’s responsibility to fund and resource it accordingly. Schools, teachers, social workers, youth clubs, sport facilities, etc … all of which lead to opportunity.

I think I can comment on that. And that’s what this and every government should focus on. Because, until they do, we will continue throw under-educated children – as young adults – at society and ask them and all of us to cope. Poor children of every colour will grow up poor and lacking in ambition, because they haven’t been furnished with the tools and confidence to believe they can do better. They will then bring more children into the world … into the same conditions in which they were raised. And the unvirtuous circle continues to turn. Part of which will be the need for the disadvantaged to protest against their conditions. As a result more statues will be brought down. And more windows broken.

[image error]we went on a picnic

Below is Chapter 10 of my work in progress. Remember it’s unedited and unproofread. I’m working as hard as I can.

[image error]and we have been exercising!

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Chapter 10

Emily had almost chased Luis Segal after he’d told her he was going to follow the ram of bulls from Agon. But she had dithered, missed the opportunity and, once he had left, decided to follow the next one through. She waited until she’d seen the whites of startled horses’ eyes, and then had slipped through the crowded cage. She’d unlocked her bike and was in the process of catching up with the backside of the last horse when she spotted the black waiter from the fish restaurant. He was on top of a dune behind the 4×4 with the trumpeter. He was staring intently in the direction of the next group of horses. She was unsure if he had seen her.

Luis Segal and the waiter. 

Was it so odd to catch them both within minutes of each other? 

Was it as incestuous as she felt it was? Or was she so caught up in the mythical soap opera that she saw Danny Dyer at every turn? 

Luis Segal and the waiter.

All she needed was to catch Pierre or Marc Segal and she’d had a line on her ‘weird seaside adventure’ bingo card. Both, and she would have a full house.

What was she involved with?

She’d followed ‘her’ ram all the way down the track, through the town to the bull ring. She picked out Pierre – who was, apparently, not to be trusted. He was serving the small terrace of Chez Ami. She ignored him. Not so much because of what Luis Segal had told her, but more because she wasn’t yet sure what her next move might be – if any. And she didn’t want to be rushed by an impromptu summit.

 The final foray at the bullring for her ram was quite a spectacle. The guardians rushed the double-door entrance to the large, round stadium and then they forced the bulls through the ring until they reached the far doors – where outside, in somewhat of an anticlimax, the animals were met by a temporary metal paddock and rows of trucks to take them home. She actually didn’t see her ram make their grand entrance nor their not so grand exit. She was too slow and too far behind. But she did see the next. She made her way into the seating of the arena, walked to the top row – which afforded fabulous views out to sea and across the town’s rooftops – and watched the next ram approach along the promenade.

It was just as crazy as the attack on the firecracker and trumpet enhanced funnel.

This time, though, there were no distractions and no additional noise. Just, maybe ten tonnes of half-wild horses, their riders and, probably now, some very perplexed, bulls … charging for a mid-sized archway made from hard and immovable slabs of stone.

Emily breathed in when the lead horses galloped through the gap.

She had closed her eyes when the bulls, all brawling and snorting, had no option but to follow their encirclers. Unsurprisingly, like a cork from a bottle, the horses and the bulls spread out on entrance to the sandy auditorium. The guardians had to use all their skill to pull their horses up short into two lines, forming another tunnel; this time with the hope that the bulls would keep rushing the next archway … out into oblivion.

She watched the remaining three rams finish their journey from her vantage point. Each one approached the task differently. None of the choices looked easy. And yet, in the end, it appeared that no damage was done.

She was exhausted. She needed a pee, some coffee and, at some point, food and a shower.

She found a bistro that met her first three needs and, having had a long lunch which included staring aimlessly out across the Meditteranean, she wandered back to her AirB&B, showered and finished off the day watching a Netflix series on her laptop.

Sleep didn’t come easy. And when she eventually did manage to fall asleep, her dreams were not pleasant ones. 

Pierre, or some form of him, was omnipresent and hardly a paragon of anything. Her mum was there. Emily’s dream caught up with her mum in her church. One moment she was helping people – Emily thought it was maybe some asylum seekers – and then she was gone. Next came a visitation by a plain-clothes, female police officer to let her know her mother had died. Emily had woken in the early hours to an accompanying wet pillow.

Her harrowing night caught her by surprise. It was true to say that since her mum’s death she had managed to sleep well, with little interference from the ghouls of dreams. On reflection that was probably because she had always hit the sack exhausted. There was nothing that drained your energy like a fidgety Year 10 class and a bellyful of trigonometry. Especially when half of the students had failed to remember their calculators, and the other half were completely unwilling to share theirs without more fuss than was necessary. 

The Malbec helped, which she restricted to just two school nights later in the week: Wednesday and Thursday. Five periods of improvised pantomime for three straight days and she was ready for a glass. After four she was ready for a bottle. The weekend belonged to her and her liver and she didn’t keep count. By Monday morning she was fine. And that’s the way she intended to keep it.

After the excitement of the bulls, today was to be a slow day. She’d popped out for a croissant and a baguette, and had spent a couple of hours updating her social media. Her Instagram and Facebook profile photo was of the back of her head – her username was EmPeelsSpuds. That had stuck with her from university where she had clearly been more helpful in her digs than her flatmates. She was always clearing up the kitchen, and she often cooked for them all. It was in her nature to be helpful … and in that she obviously prepared a lot of vegetables. Hence … 

The back of the head thing, and an obscure username was, of course, a disguise. She didn’t want any of her students to find her on the internet. If they did, whilst most of them would be lovely, and a couple probably very funny, it would only take one or two nasty comments to bring the edifice down. And she didn’t want that.

Next was a long walk out into the Camargue, away from the beach.

She wanted to do this because she hadn’t seen delta close to. And because the alternative was the seaside and whichever way she traveled, she might end up bumping into either Pierre or Luis Segal.

She wore her best walking garb. A different pair of shorts, blue this time. A yellow, long-sleeved blouse and her new hat – Jesus sandals, of course. 

The Camargue was absolutely desolate. Within ten minutes there wasn’t another human in sight. She’d spotted a single storey building in the far distance and had headed for it. However, the route she found herself taking was circuitous, because the paths between the bogs and lakes often had no ambition and, every so often, gave up altogether.

There was water everywhere, but it couldn’t have been too deep. She knew that because after about half a mile she hit the corner of a vast lake. In the middle, and a long way away, was a pink ribbon, shimmering above the water level.

Flamingos.

Hundreds of them.

And then some more. This time just in front of her, over a small mound.

She walked slowly towards the bank, thinking that a sudden move might scare them. But it soon became obvious that, unlike the sparrows which hung from her bird feeder attacking the fat balls who were frightened of their own tails, these majestic, pink birds were not worried by a slip of a young English woman. They were happier than Larry, fishing for shrimp with their long, elegant, slinky necks and large, gulping bills.

Emily counted twelve birds in her own private flock. Ten of them were up on one leg, when clearly they had a pair.

Flock?

That wouldn’t do.

She googled it.

Flamboyance.

Now, that was more like it.

She sat on a small rise and watched them for twenty minutes.

It was wonderfully smoothing. Just her, the Camargue and her very own flamboyance of flamingos. Frankly the holiday could end there and she’d be happy. She’d found and, surprisingly, met, her mum’s lover. She’d seen where the family had pitched their tent. She’d had the best sex of her life. She’d come far too close to a bunch of frenzied horses that were just about managing to contain some pretty upset bulls. And now, in fabulous sunshine, with a new floppy boater and its rainbow ribbon, she was at peace with a bunch of prehistoric, up on one leg, beautiful birds that were the wrong colour if they had a half decent predator.  

But it wasn’t as simple as that.

She had a worm in her system. It was wriggling and writhing. And dislodging her quiet.

She had a feast of flamingos – just there. She had a flask of coffee and some of those fabulous rectangular, dark chocolate and rich tea-based biscuits that she only ever bought on special occasions. 

And still her mind wouldn’t settle. Still the worm squirmed.

Pierre and Luis Segal.

She’d seen it at the table in the restaurant. Contempt from Luis. Arrogant indifference from Pierre. And then yesterday amongst the bulls, the chef’s plea: Don’t trust him.

What was that all about?

Did Luis Segal know that Pierre’s off-duty hobby was seducing and then pleasuring women? Was he trying to warn her of something he didn’t know had already happened? That Emily had knowingly … wittingly allowed herself to be enticed by the master. And would he be horrified that she didn’t regret a moment of it?

Or was it deeper, more iniquitous than that?

Was this something to do with Marc Segal, a man who was ‘of interest’ to Pierre and the French government. Pierre – the very same man who, whilst investigating a likely criminal, was more than happy for the villain to share the same table. 

But Pierre was a master. He could sell skis to a snowboarder. He was the perfect undercover agent. Wasn’t he? 

He had seduced her. 

Had he seduced Marc Segal?

And what of the chef? Was the son impervious to the man’s charms? Had Luis Segal spotted something that no one else had? Maybe he wasn’t the gormless type, all limbs and no warmth. She had felt a connection when he had touched her arm? 

Nonsense. That had been the moment. 

The worm wriggled. No, it gnawed … she wasn’t sure worms did that. She’d have to choose a different invertebrate.

There was mystery here. There was.

And, with nothing else better to do, Emily decided that she would spend some of the next few days trying to find out what that was.     

The cowboys were back. Their table was a buzz. After his recent experience with them Gbassy thought he knew why. And it ached like a hornet sting. Tonight the boat arrived. Tonight, poor, ravaged and frightened Africans would blink under the harbour lights, scurry along the mole and struggle into the back of Monsieur Segal’s truck. And tonight, if he had guessed correctly, some of the illegals would be taken by the cowboys. Probably young women. Maybe younger men? For a purpose he could not start to think about.

He hated them. He hated Marc Segal. And, as he cleared the plates from a table of six, he hated himself. It had taken him this long, but now he knew it were true. He was complicit. He took the boss’s money. He followed the boss’s orders. He was instrumental to the journey of the afflicted. A journey he had made himself. But only so far. He had been so lucky. Yes, the trip across the desert was the hardest thing he had ever done. The stay in Tunis was just as uncomfortable, his stomach always empty and his throat always dry. And the boat journey was wretched. A horror that he had squeezed into a cardboard box at the back of his mind and left to fester.

But. 

At least he hadn’t had a child ripped from him at Tiki Ill. At least he hadn’t had to suffer the ignominy of climbing down into one of the metal cylinders. Heading off to a life of uncertainty – of fear and, if the journey set the story, to a life that was never going to be better than the one they had left behind. It was all a deception.

He had a bed, food and money. He was saving to escape, if that were necessary.

And he had a protector, of sorts. Luis Segal had befriended him – bought him lunch, given him ten Euros and taken him to the bull run. He had a life. And he was now in contact with his family. There was a future.

He hardly thought that likely for the rest of them.

He was complicit. If children were ripped from the arms of their mothers this evening. If the cowboys, probably drunk and leary, left this place with some of his fellow Africans. It would be his fault. 

That presented him with the dilemma he thought had been faced by many good people in their lives. Who to protect? Him, or others? Should he say something? Do something?

It must be like those who worked for his corrupt government. They knew what they were doing was wrong – that they were lining their own pockets and those of their acolytes. They knew that they were having people imprisoned, not necessarily because they had done something wrong, but because they had done something which might be seen as reactionary – anti-government. Dislodging the status quo which favoured those in power.   

But they did nothing. They looked out for themselves. 

He despised people like them. And, yet, tonight as with the previous nights he would very likely join them. 

Because … 

… because he would.

What should he say? 

What should I do?

It was the same dilemma. 

If he did nothing he’d be protecting himself, and providing for his family. 

If he did something, or said something, he’d be beaten. Maybe worse.

He hated himself then. He hated that he found himself where he was and that tonight he knew he would save himself. 

He dropped the crockery on the drainer, turned, looked to Luis Segal who was finishing off the last of the plates for the final table of four, and screwed his face up.

He waited for the chef to finish off dripping the garnish on the vegetables.

Then he took the three steps needed to reach the prepared plates.

The chef looked at him, casually.

‘You okay?’ Luis asked. He wasn’t a talkative man, so any conversation was a bonus.

Gbassy desperately wanted to tell the chef of his anguish. That tonight he would facilitate the illegal movement of modern-day slaves from one continent to another. That children might well be stolen from the mothers. And, very likely, some of the miserable souls from tonight’s boat would end up in the hands of four men who would abuse them.

Just like he knew that tonight he would do and say nothing that might endanger his own comfortable position at the restaurant, he did not open up to Luis Segal.

Instead he replied, ‘It’s all fine. Thank you.’

The chef sensed his disquiet. His eyes reached into Gbassy’s tormented soul …

… so the waiter looked away, expertly collected the four plates and headed out of the kitchen before he was interrogated further. 

As he threaded between two tables, tonight’s most interesting client, the cute woman, was finishing her drink. Gbassy had cleared her plate a few minutes previously.

She’d arrived just after eight. This time without Monsieur Segal’s friend. She had come on her bike.

And she was lucky. The small, two-person table was free. She found it without asking, sat and waited patiently to be served. 

She looked lovely; even more cute than the night she’d arrived with the other man. Then her eyes had been puffy and her demeanour was not happy. There was friction between her and the man, heightened further when the boss had sat at their table. She had drunk too much – which lightened her mood as the evening had gone on and had made her even more endearing. Which had amused Gbassy. And then she had handed him a ten Euro tip. He had liked her a whole lot more at that point.

Tonight she was wearing a pastel-coloured summer dress, Her pretty freckles highlighted her small nose and slim arms. She seemed confident, and there was an inquisitiveness about her which he hadn’t seen on her previous dinner visit, and had been completely absent when he met her the first time by the woods.

Yes, she looked lovely … 

… and the first thing Gbassy had done was inform Luis. 

‘The woman is back.’ That is all he had to say. Luis had downed tools and scurried to the kitchen door. Gbassy had followed behind him. When he was close he had touched the chef’s shoulder; Luis hadn’t flinched.

‘What is so special about her?’ Gbassy had asked.

Luis hadn’t turned round. 

‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’ There was resignation in the chef’s voice.

They had both stayed like that for a few seconds, and then Gbassy had walked over to the kitchen sink and started on the recent dishes. The chef had stayed by the door for a few seconds more and then, with a face chiselled to a deep frown, he went back to his cooking.

The cute woman had ordered the dish of the day and, wisely Gbassy thought, had avoided alcohol.

When he returned with her food, she asked him a question.

‘Did you enjoy the bull run?’

Gbassy was initially caught – she had seen him there.

‘Yes, miss. Did you?’

She smiled.

‘Yes, very much so. It was quite a spectacle.’

It was. So was the little drama which was unfolding between her and Luis Segal. He thought of asking her why she was alone tonight. But immediately dismissed the thought as far too forward. 

Instead he nodded, briefly waited to see if there was anything else she wanted and then left.

He kept an eye on her as he served and cleared. Then, just as if he were watching one of the travelling theatres which visited his village every summer, the drama took an unsuspecting turn.

Gbassy was at the far end of the terrace. He’d taken another bottle of wine to the cowboys. They were getting noisier, but no more than an average table of younger male tourists after their third or fourth glass of wine.

Gbassy had placed the bottle in the centre of the table and backed off quickly, but without appearing dismissive. That’s when he’d noticed the drama.

Luis Segal was standing at the cute woman’s table. He had his hands placed disgruntledly on his hips; it wasn’t the stance of a man who might be ingratiating himself to a potential sweetheart. The woman didn’t appear perplexed, but neither was she smiling.

Gbassy moved away from the tables and went about tidying a locker where he kept the clean glasses. From there he watched as the play unfolded.

Initially the chef remained standing. Then, and it seemed without being asked, he took a sat down opposite the woman … who appeared to laugh at him resentfully. Gbassy thought he read her lips … take a seat. She didn’t need to add, ‘why don’t you’.

Ordinarily Gbassy would now be back in the kitchen. Food would be ready to be served. But the chef was front of house, so there was little he could do. He quickly scoured the tables. Everyone was okay. For the moment.

Gbassy reckoned Luis was sat at the table for no more than five minutes. It was a two-way conversation, that was for sure. But it never seemed congenial. It was fascinating … but it was also short lived.

Just as one of the tables had asked for l’addition and Gbassy had turned in their direction, the chef had pushed his chair back, raised both hands in submission, and then, shaking his head, he had walked back to the kitchen.

The woman, who was more red faced than she had been when she arrived, appeared stoic. And, now back to eating her food, seemed less concerned by the encounter than Luis. Gbassy felt for him. If Luis Segal was keen to impress the cute woman he might need to find some inner charm.

He tutted to himself.

It really wasn’t his place. 

In any case, he had the dread of this evening to manage. 

It was getting close to midnight. And it was colder. The sun had been out most of the day and it had been very warm. But, whilst Emily had been sitting at the restaurant a cooler wind had picked up from the north. By the time she had started her cycle back to the village, she realised that she should probably have brought a cardigan. 

Now, sat by one a series of large rocks which fed out to sea and created a swimming break for bathers, she had a thin fleece on she’d picked up from the AirB&B. By finding a small-woman sized gap between two larger-than-her rocks, she was in the lee of the wind. Even that wasn’t quite enough, so she hugged her knees and raised her shoulders to her ears. She’d survive.

What an extraordinary evening.

Her ‘confrontation’ with the chef was the start. But her recent telephone conversation with Pierre was to the right on the bizarre scale.

Sober, confused, and feeling a little sorry for herself, she needed company. So she’d phoned him.

‘Pierre.’

‘Yes, Emily.’

His tone was flat. She almost sensed irritation. 

Whatever.

She ploughed on.

‘Are you free?’ She asked as casually as she could.

‘Tomorrow?’ It was a purposeful deflection. She knew it. And, at ten-thirty at night, he’d have finished in the cafe and be free to do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t sleeping with her. Or someone else.

She’d walked along to the cafe – and, like any decent private investigator, observed it from a distance. The terrace was closed. There was a light on downstairs. And one in his flat. Neither of those meant anything. He could be out at a bar, anywhere. Although, from the lack of background noise on the phone she assumed he was somewhere quiet. He may well be up in his boudoir with a woman. Lucky girl.

That was his prerogative. She surprised herself by not feeling in any way jealous.

She sighed.

‘No, Pierre. Now. I’ve just had dinner and was after a bit of company. For some reason you came to mind.’ Her sarcasm lacked bite. On purpose. Afterall, he might say ‘come on over’. And she didn’t want to have to build any bridges.

There was a pause.

‘No, sorry, Emily. Not tonight. I have things to do.’

It was ten-thirty at night. What were these things he needed to do?

She was more irritated now. 

‘Okay. That’s fine.’

‘Where did you eat?’ He came straight back at her.

‘The fish restaurant. The food was excellent. The company was good.’ She lied, unsure of where this was going.

The line went quiet.

And then Pierre said something. Something that encouraged her to be sat by the rocks at midnight on a cool evening, when a warm duvet and a bedtime cup of mint tea was calling her.

‘You should stay away from there. Trust me. It’s not safe.’ He was very matter of fact. 

Not safe?

That was the second time she’d heard that this evening.

‘But you took me there. Yourself.’ Sounding indignant made her feel better.

‘That was different …’

‘How is it different?’ She was trying her best not to let her indignance turn to anger. A cloud of frustration and confusion was fogging everything. None of this made any sense.

There was silence.

‘I have to go. I have things to do.’

And Pierre terminated the call.

That was about an hour and a half ago. At which point she moved onto the beach, found somewhere out of the wind and vowed to watch the cafe and the flat until the lights went out.

She didn’t know why. It felt the right thing to do.

It’s not safe.

Okay, so her mum’s ex-lover was a crook. But he’s charming enough? And it’s a bloody restaurant, for Chrissake. 

But Luis had said the same. Just an hour early. 

His appearance by her table, as if by magic, all hips and hands. It had started benignly enough, but had quickly deteriorated. 

‘Which herd did you run with?’ There was no introduction from Luis. She was confident he didn’t even know her name. She tried not to shake the muddle from her mind, although that was the obvious reaction.

Was this tiresome, or was it what she wanted? She had no idea why she had come to the restaurant, other than the fact that she needed to eat, the food was good … and the accompanying soap opera was developing nicely. 

‘The one after yours,’ she replied. ‘It’s Emily, by the way.’ She’d put her knife and fork down and was pushing out her best smile.

‘Oh.’ Conversion clearly wasn’t his strongest attribute. ‘Good.’ He dithered. ‘Did you watch them in the bullring?’

Where was this going. Did he fancy her? Could it be that she’d attracted more men in a week than she’d done in the past year? Had her breasts magically got bigger? She checked.

Nope.

Bless him, though. 

He still had his tatty apron on, his fingers probably smelt of fish, his hair could do with a comb and, yet, he still wanted to engage with her. And he had the confidence – she gave him that. And … he wasn’t bad looking. He was gangly and angular. His eyes were set a little too close together and his sprouting beard would need to go, but there was an athleticism about him – and, having now got his attention, there was an intensity about him which permeated trust and commitment. 

What was the question?

‘Yes. I went into the stadium. And watched them all. It was something else.’

That elicited a smile, but only from the corner of his mouth. And then, unannounced and with a clumsiness that was close to endearing, he took the seat opposite her.

She didn’t know what to say. So, instead, she took a mouthful of fish.

‘You cook really, really well,’ she said between mouthfuls.

He smiled that lopsided smile again.

And then the conversation dried up.

‘You shouldn’t trust him.’ His smile was gone. It was replaced with a less flattering, earnest look.

‘You mean, Pierre?’ she asked, trying to remain nonchalant.

‘Yes, of course. He’s not what he seems.’ He had leant forward and lowered his voice. His skin was smooth and taught. His irises the colour of freshly mown grass. 

And yet he was irritating her. 

‘What is he then?’ It was the first thing that came to her mind.

Luis leant back and crossed his arms. He clearly hadn’t thought this through. Just like his cycling, he was casual with where he was going.

‘I can’t say. Anyway. It’s not safe here. You shouldn’t come here. With him, or without him.’

What?

‘Look, your name’s Luis, am I right?’ She went on the attack, whilst trying to retain her femininity.

He nodded.

‘Look, Luis.’ It was her turn to lean forward. ‘What is it with you, Pierre and this place.’ She put out a hand in the direction of the remainder of the terrace. ‘It’s a bloody restaurant.’ She was picking up speed. ‘What? Are you brewing crystal meths in there? Have I stumbled across the biggest drugs den on the south coast?’

She leant back in her chair and looked towards the Petit Rhone. ‘Ridiculous,’ she said, to no one in particular.

‘I can’t look after you if you come here.’

That was enough. She faced him.

‘You’re kidding me?’ She was angry now. ‘Look after me? Who the hell do you think you are? Bloody Batman? You’re wearing an apron, not a cape.’ She turned away again. She didn’t know what to think. Who was this guy? Had he been chasing her around town? Had he followed her to the bull run? 

Was he a stalker?

But … she only sensed compassion – and kindness.

In any case, she may never know. 

He had stood up, his chair almost toppling over.

Then he was gone. Just like that.

She shook her head. Her cheeks felt warm against a cooling breeze. 

He had left her with a dizzy feeling. A combination of fondness – and disgust. That a man she didn’t know had just admitted to wanting to look after her … but without any sense that he knew anything about her, other than to bump into her a couple of times. Oh, and that her mum had slept with his dad. 

Does he know that?

It was the strangest, almost detached feeling. 

And that’s why she needed company. And that’s why she had phoned Pierre.

Who had things to do – which didn’t include seeing her.

The light in the upstairs flat was still on. The one in the restaurant was off.

Emily checked her watch.

It was quarter past midnight.

She should go home and hit the sack.

Hang on.

The light in the flat went out.

I should definitely go to bed.

And then the door to the cafe opened.

It was Pierre. And he was on his own.

He looked up and down the street as if … as if he were checking the coast was clear.

Then he took off towards town, but instead of following one of the smaller streets towards the shops, he carried along the main road which ran away from the beach and would eventually lead out into the Camargue. 

Next stop Arles.

She watched him go, before standing up. And then she noticed something else.

He was carrying something. Like a thin, black brick …

… which he raised to his face.

It was a walkie-talkie.

What on earth are you doing, Pierre?

Two things at once

Grrr. That’s all I’ve got to say about this government and His Orangeness, over The Pond.

I broke down yesterday. It came at like from left field. I was washing up and ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’, by the Hollies, came on the radio. And that was it. Floods of the stuff. I’ve only cried twice since I was a kid. One was telling my mum over the phone that Kevin had died the month before last. And yesterday. Bloody disease. It’s ok, though. This government is on top of it. At least not many more siblings are going to have to mourn for their brothers … or sisters

As for the US – and Trump. What can you say? He’s a monster.

[image error]the Bradley Stoke love snake is getting longer

Us? Well we’ve been having a quiet time. My days are quickly filled. I run first thing, Then I read two chapters of Blood Red Earth (I’m at Chapter 10/21), incorporating my proofreader’s notes. The aim is to get that finished by the middle of the month which will give me three weeks to do all the pre-publication stuff – typesetting, etc – which I hate. Then, in the afternoon, I write at least 1000 words of the new book. I am now at 47/75k words, which is about two-thirds of the way through. From experience, what happens now is that I speed up … alongside the plot. I’d hope to get draft one finished by the end of June. And then spend July sorting, before deciding what to do next.

Am I loving it? Well … let me tell you, as I have said before, writing a book is like running a marathon. It’s not for the faint hearted and requires a considerable degree of dedication and discipline. And when you get to the end you’re so exhausted you vow that you’re never going to do it again. But its is such a fulfilling feeling. Such a high.

About now you can begin to see the end – although, if this were a Sam Green novel I’d only be 47/130k words, and that is a completely different thing … like an ultra-marathon. And then it gets a bit easier. But it’s still tough.

Anyhow, Chapter 9 is below. Remember, please, that it is draft one, unedited and unproofread. You are getting it raw. And, enjoy.

Till mid-week. Please stay safe.

[image error]new olive tree!

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Chapter 9

It was two days later. Emily was out on her bike again, this time with real purpose. Yesterday had been a slow day. She’d wandered around the town without ambition, avoiding Chez Ami and trying to work out what Marc Segal’s business might be. It amused her that her mother had once been out with a fisherman from a small French seaside town – and that Frenchman was now clearly a major crook of some sort, one who had attracted the attention of the French government. What might have happened if her mum had eloped with the gangster? Would Emily be the chef at the restaurant, all miserable and … interesting?

It was a disturbing thought. Although, she had to face it, her mum’s choice of men hadn’t been great. At least – maybe – Marc Segal would have stayed with her and Emily might still have had a dad in her life, albeit a criminal one.

She’d had lunch at a restaurant down from Pierre’s cafe, found herself a piece of shade on the beach and spent the afternoon reading and sleeping. She hadn’t bothered with supper and was in bed by nine.

Today, though, was a special day.

It was the day they ran the bulls. 

She had learnt that, unlike Spain, France had mostly eradicated murdering its bulls for sport. The Camargue’s ‘bullfighting’ involved a raseteur – a matador – stealing rosettes from the horns of the region’s small, but very punchy, black bulls. It’s not without human blood – a raseteur had been gored to death by a bull a couple of years ago – but at least the bull’s made it through the encounter in one piece, even if the odd raseteur wasn’t so lucky.

Today, though, was different. And already Emily felt the buzz.

The town was packed with trucks and horse boxes, and the roads were set up with red and white barriers like a city-based Formula One track. There was a carnival atmosphere and people were pouring into the town.

She was on her bike and heading down the bumpy coast road toward the lighthouse – along with hundreds of other people, and horses, and 4x4s, and all other manner of humanity. It was packed – and slow moving. Leaving aside the guardians, who all looked both fabulous and very warm in their leather and denim gear atop their white horses, everyone else seemed a mixture of creeds and colours. But what made them singular was that they were all tanned, dressed for the countryside and in high spirits. There were dogs and picnic baskets, alcohol and long, thin bags holding numerous baguettes. Emily felt a little conspicuous in white shorts, a yellow singlet and a cycle helmet – helmets were not de rigueur for those on horseback; brimmed hats of every make were.    

Teams of white horses overtook the crowds, the riders a jumble of genders and ages. Other singleton or pairs of horses, often chestnuts and blacks, headed the same way. Emily guessed the riders were just like her, heading down for the spectacle, but had chosen a more pungent and irrational form of transport.

The smell was very stable yard. Even when the horses had moved on through and were just a bum, a swooshing tail and a casual rider above the heads of the crowd..

But that all added to the excitement. It was a completely alien experience to her. It was like she’d been invited to the local hunt – an offer, of course, she’d never accept – and was mixing with its aristocracy. Except, here it was at the working class, farm hand end of the spectrum. There was a dress code: anything you’d muck out a horse out with, and make sure you don’t wash it first. And there was humour – pranks and laughter regurgitated around the drove. Port and Madeira of the hunt had been replaced by bottles without labels. Cucumber sandwiches by chunks of pain and the local, aromatic cheese. 

It was enthralling.

And they hadn’t even started to run the bulls yet.

She sensed that that would raise things to another level. And she couldn’t wait.

The track forked after a couple of miles, the main road leading to the lighthouse bending left. Everyone else was heading right, down through the dunes onto the beach. Emily followed the flow.

The track twisted right then left, through the sandy hummocks and soon opened up onto a huge expanse of beach which floated away into the distance. The crowd spilled into three. The white horses broke into something more than a trot and headed straight down the beach. In the distance Emily could make out tiny groups of … she didn’t know what.

The rest of the crowd, including the more casual horse riders, split left and right. The left, under the dunes, was a set of badly arranged stalls selling quick food, alcohol and hot drinks. To the right, heading towards the sea which was fifty or so metres of pure golden sand away, were crazy, Mad Max cages. It was like the police were expecting a riot and had set mobile jails. The structures were the size of half a shipping container, with the bars wide enough for a normal sized human to squeeze through and, Emily guessed, too narrow for a bull’s head.

She’d found her spot. 

There were ten or so cages. And, she noticed, a few more just beyond the stalls on the left, next to a long row of 4x4s, their occupants sat on the bonnets in party mode. Between the stalls, the vehicles and the cages, and the milling spectators that fanned out into the distance, the stage was set. She was sure of it.

Emily stared into the distance. She was sure the ant-like blots were the bulls and their escorts, the guardians. The stage seemed set so that they would run, whatever that meant, down the beach towards them … towards the funnel created by the 4x4s, the stalls, and the cages. And then up to the track and back to the town.

That was the run?

But how?

When?

Looking at the state of the observers, neither of those questions seemed to matter. It would happen. And they’d know when it did.

Emily looked for somewhere sensible to leave her bike, remembering the words of the campsite owner by Tiki Ill. Someone else had strapped theirs to the back of one of the cages. She did the same.

She looked back down the beach. Nothing had changed. The sun was a quarter of its way through its daily cycle; it was warm, but not yet overly so. Its glance, from over her left shoulder, intensified the swab of main colours. There were four: dark blue, light blue, sand and spiky green. There was lots of it and it was magnificent.

She strolled towards the water, leaving everyone else and their booze and their bread and their burgers behind. As she walked, the sand gently darkened and a new colour appeared. The white ripples of a very sedate sea. To her it was the perfect panorama. The edged-white blues and the now, two-toned sand. The sea went on forever, in both directions. Far left she could make out some industrial towers, a whiff of white smoke from one announcing the arrival of something other than a new pope. To her right the bay swung away from the sun. If she squinted her eyes she could see the high rises of a distant resort. She and her cowboy colleagues were between industry and tourism. The horses and the bulls. Forgotten in time; left to their own devices.

She took off her sandals and waded until her ankles, yet again, were being washed by salt water. It would be an indelible feeling, etched into her history to be relived in an instant.

Barp!

The sound of a handheld fog horn from behind her.

The bulls were on their way.

It took her a couple of minutes to make it back to one of the pens. By then the specks of animals running their way were still too small to make out. But she could see that they weren’t running en masse. There were groups; some appeared to be further ahead than the others.

All of the pens were occupied, but she easily found a slot and squeezed her way to the front, both hands finding a metal upright, her head that of a convict looking at life anew. 

The noise of the crowd rose. There was cheering and chanting. One of the stalls was playing what sounded like folk music at a volume that must have hurt the ears of those standing close. If they didn’t turn it down the horses and bulls would surely bolt …

… and it soon became clear that that was the point.

The funnel – in fact the height of dunes made it more like a tunnel – with its entrance of cages and colours and noises and other unnaturalness was designed to startle anything that got close. Emily knew little about horses. But those she had experienced were spooked by their own shadows. 

This was going to be on an altogether different scale.

Soon the pens were close to full, but there were hundreds of people out amongst the danger, many blocking the route back to the village. 

And still the noise grew.

Whoosh! Bang!

A firework sliced through the sky and then exploded, the sound of twangy guitars and warbling, French lyrical music from the speakers lifted a gear. And the noise from the crowd joined the cacophony as the first team of horses, originally an indistinguishable scratch on the horizon, became form.

Emily squinted her eyes; she could now make them out.

Seven or eight horses with accompanying riders, so close together they might have been conjoined, the surgeons unable to separate them at birth. They were at a trot, not a canter and, disappointedly, the bulls were nowhere to be seen.

That can’t be right?

No!

Yes?

But there were more than seven or eight horses … she could see many more riders in the blob, seemingly in rows behind. 

A minute later, they were proper horses: full size, with nostrils and steam and muscular shoulders and dangerously flicking hooves – and they had reached the far end of the funnel, maybe a hundred metres from her. The crowd, thin at the far edges, surged towards the … she didn’t know what the collective noun for horses was; probably herd, or troop, or stable. ‘Ram’ came to her, because soon that’s what these horses would need to be doing.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Bang! Bang!

Two more fireworks. If they were anywhere else and dogs would be hiding between the sofa and the radiator.

They were even closer now: thirty metres away with members of the crowd still rushing forward, screaming and waving their arms as if they were seeing off a swarm of bees.

And still the ram came. 

There!

She spotted the bulls.

God!

Poor bloody horses!

How are the riders managing?

Emily did a quick count. Fifteen human heads – that meant fifteen horses. In a diamond shape, close to. No gaps.

In the middle of the diamond were the bulls. They were small. Smaller than the horses, but notoriously feisty. 

She couldn’t see much of them, not yet. But soon the ram would be here, heading for a gap that didn’t exist but the guardians knew was there.

And still they came.

And still the locals ran in front of the leading horses, screamed and waved and then turned before they were trampled. The less brave, but just as noisy, were coming in from the sides.

Fifteen metres now.

She saw it. A brief glimpse. 

A horn. Between two of the leading horses. The horns were uncovered – horse muscle and cowboy limbs millimetres from impalement. 

The first ram was on them now. The noise was incessant and destructive. Another firework launched into the air and then, beyond belief, some lad let off a series of firecrackers at the horses’ feet.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack … 

One horse closest to her half-reared, but its rider had complete control and it quickly settled. The ram, a mass of determined, snorting horses, of broad-eyed and desperate bulls managed by deft and agile riders was better than the attack. It held together, and it held strong.

Seconds later the riders were on and above her, and Emily took the closest one in.

It was a woman, her age – but much older. There was experience and confidence about her as though she were born on this particular horse and had been riding it for just as long. She was smiling – and talking to? – the sweaty bull closest to her. As Emily watched, the woman leant into the middle of the ram and patted the animal, which was running along beside her, on its neck. It was an extraordinarily intimate moment. And it made Emily well up … 

… an emotion which was stabbed by the howl of a trumpet; a man on the back of one of the 4x4s, playing out some call to arms from beyond the ram.

More firecrackers and, as the ram pushed on, the crowd parted to let the horses and bulls into the breach … and then closed around them, the ram joined by a magnet of people determined to hustle and jostle the pack all the way to the village.

Emily, who like most of the crowd had been following the first spectacle, was caught by more hollering from where the first ram had come from.

It was the second, with the third just behind it.

These two teams were moving faster than the original and there were just as many mad spectators willing to give the pair of rams a good seeing off.

 The noise grew again. Caught up in the frenzy, Emily mouthed out some loud words, but she couldn’t be sure if any noise came out of her mouth.

The horses of the closest ram were now just twenty metres away. They seemed more determined, less in control … if that combination were possible. It was as though the riders knew of the ordeal to come, were uncomfortable with their own abilities, and the plan was to rush the crowd.

‘This is why you come!’

It was a shout in her left ear from a tall man, his head stooped so his mouth was close enough to be heard.

So enthralled with the oncoming spectacle, she didn’t want to look away to see who it was. But that wasn’t necessary. Even against the noise of the madness, the man’s voice was recognisable. 

It was the chef.

That was too much for her.

The noise and the smells and the fireworks and the heat. The horses and the bulls; and the expertise of the riders – their commitment and compassion.

And against that frenzy, mixed into the heady atmosphere, was Luis Segal. He was at her side.

Has he followed me here?

Was he stalking her?

No. Surely not. 

‘You have an admirer.’ Pierre’s words.

No. Maybe.

She half-turned and looked up. He was there; a half smile. He pointed at the two rams heading their way.

‘You should watch this. It’ll be something.’ His face was no longer expressionless. It was alive. He was excited as the rest of the crowd. And he was pointing in the direction of the horses.

‘This stable is from Agon. They have a reputation.’ He shouted again, his minty breath cut through the smell of the horse sweat and adrenalin.

She followed his lead. And he was right.

It was crazy. Just crazy.

One young lad had to be pulled from under the hooves of one of the side horses; another dived out of the way just before he became a hospital case. The racket and the firecrackers were nothing to the thunder of the two rams. They were cantering by the time they reached the venturi and anything and everything was forced from their paths. Emily could see the bulls much clearer as the speed of their encirclers extended the diamond, creating gaps that really shouldn’t be there.

It was potent. And it was alive. It was as if the animals and the riders and the crowd and the dunes and the sand and the smell was a single being – an holistic behemoth of energy and – and she couldn’t stop herself – sex. It was powerful and dominant … and it was exhausting.

The chef touched her arm. Electricity pulsed through it. In this atmosphere she couldn’t deny it.

‘I’m following the Agon team.’ He shouted. There was no hint that he expected her to follow him.

Emily turned –  his face was animated, his eyes alive. 

She dithered.

My bike? Realism crashed down around her.

She shrugged and half turned, back to the unfolding carnage of horse and bull. She was caught. Lost.

He grabbed her arm again. Gently, but with precision.

Oi?

She didn’t know what to think – to do. So she turned again.

‘Don’t trust him.’ It was a plea from Luis, his face chiselled with concern. He didn’t shout this time. But his lips made the message clear. 

‘Who?’ She thought she knew the answer. No, she did know the answer. And her synapses weren’t working fast enough to make any sense as the beguiling mystery unfolded.

But her question was lost on the back of his long, athletic body as it squeezed through the crowded cage. A second later, like a spy in a crowded street, he was gone. 

It was a full house, but Gbassy was on top of it. The second sitting was in train and, having set the small table up a couple of nights ago for the cute woman and Monsieur Segal’s friend, he’d made some room on the terrace and it was now a permanent feature. Typically his boss had just turned up, looked around, grunted at him – but hadn’t mentioned the new addition to the seating arrangements. Instead he had spread his largesse around the place and was now sat at a table of four locals reminiscing about today’s bull run.

It was something Gbassy could relate to. Because he had seen it. All of it. And he couldn’t have been more thrilled.

He had known this morning that they weren’t opening for lunch because of the pageantry and he’d expected to have a quiet day tidying up here and there. Assuming Monsieur Segal wasn’t coming in for his coffee and collect the takings, Gbassy had thought he might walk into town to see if he could find some Wifi, maybe even look for a Western Union branch or, if he were able, buy a SIM for his phone.

He had been disappointed, therefore, that just as he was finishing his morning ablutions a car pulled into the carpark. It was a small, tatty blue one. He’d never seen it before. But he recognised the driver. It was Luis Segal.

Gbassy was on the terrace in just his boxers, drying his face.

‘Get dressed! You’re coming with me,’ the chef shouted from across the hardened, parched earth.

Gbassy was initially unsure. It was an order from Luis Segal and one he knew he wouldn’t disobey. But, even though there was kindness in his demeanour, he dithered.

‘Come on! We have to get going.’ Luis Segal was waving now.

That was enough. Gbassy darted inside the hut, threw on his jeans and a shirt, slipped on his shoes, grabbed last night’s tip – which was twelve Euros – and his phone, and rushed outside. Halfway across the car park, he skidded to a halt, turned around, ran back to the restaurant, locked it, and ran back towards the car.

Luis Segal was stood by the driver’s door.

‘Where are we going?’ Gbassy asked, tentatively.

‘We’re going to the bull run. Have you got some cash?’

Fifty Euros – one twenty and three tens – flashed through his consciousness. He stammered.

The chef stretched across the roof of the car. He had ten Euros in his hand. He thrust it at Gbassy.

‘Here. This is for some food and drink.’

Involuntarily, Gbassy found himself leaning away from the note, as though it were infected. It was all too much.

‘What? Take it!’ Luis Segal was insistent, bordering on indignant. He pushed the note at Gbassy’s chest.

Gbassy reluctantly took the money between a single finger and his thumb and, with both men staring at each other, he replied, ‘Thank you, Sir.’

Luis Segal, the chef who had cooked him supper, the man who had stood up to his father on Gbassy’s behalf … forced a smile.

‘It’s Luis.’ The chef said. And then he added something which Gbassy did not understand.

‘We’ve more in common than you think.’ 

At that point the chef had lost his smile. His face was earnest now and, as they held the pose across the roof of the car for what seemed like an age, an energy seemed to bind them.

‘Let’s go.’ Luis Segal broke the deadlock. He got in the car. Gbassy followed suit.

The chef drove the car like it was an extension of his soul. At one point Gbassy was sure they were going to crash, but the man had complete control. 

The main road into town was busy, but Luis Segal knew some shortcuts and soon they were driving along a track between a row of houses and a canal, probably not far from where his boat had landed, but inland.

They turned a corner and were met by scores, maybe hundreds, of vehicles, all parked haphazardly. The chef found a spot and brought the car to a halt. Gbassy looked around. There were horse boxes and big trucks – more like mobile stables – with their backs down. There were cars and scooters. There were horses, some with riders, others tethered, nibbling at bails of hay. And there were hundreds and hundreds of people. It was like the Saturday market at Kankan, without the stalls. And they were all heading in one direction: seaward.

‘We’re going to walk to where the bulls start their run,’ They were both out of the car now. Luis Segal was stood by the bonnet. Gbassy was slower, he was closing his door, lost in the carnival. ‘It will take us half an hour. I’ll pick up some bread at the bakers on the way. Okay?’

Okay?

Of course he was okay.

Luis Segal was behaving as if he, a poor, black Guinean illegal, were human. 

He continued to take in the scene.

Amazingly he wasn’t the only black in the crowd; there were a number of faces just like his. It all seemed so normal. All of a sudden he felt as though the issues and torment of the past three months were dissolving; a weight was slowly lifting.

If Luis Segal treats me as if I’m human, maybe there is a chance for me at Tiki Ill ?

‘Yes. Sir … Luis. I’m very fine. Thank you.’ His words were without conviction; it was all so new. He squeezed out a toothy smile.

‘Good. Let’s go and get some food.’ Luis put his hand on Gbassy’s shoulder and led him into the crowd.

Half an hour later they had made it onto the beach. People were milling everywhere. There were strange cages and market stalls and vehicles and a population you couldn’t count. There was noise and music and shouting. There was colour and smells.

Gbassy was mesmerised. He’d never seen anything like it.

And he loved it.

He and Luis were sitting on top of a dune, above the crowd. The chef instinctively knew where to get the best view. It seemed that the bulls and horses were off to their left. The crowd below them formed a v-shape which, he assumed, the bulls would run through. He was very glad they were high up and out of the way of all manner of danger – the least of which might be from the bulls. There were plenty of inebriated men milling around, a number of them very boisterous. 

Luis tore off a piece of bread from a thin loaf and handed it to him. He then pulled out a pack of four small beers from a shopping bag.

Their eyes met as the chef ripped off a can from the plastic ring and held it out for him. 

Gbassy saw depth then. A depth of compassion and understanding that caught him off guard. It was as though there was a bond between them, a bond Gbassy couldn’t describe. Or begin to understand.

Luis  blinked.

And then a smile dissolved the intensity of the moment.

‘You’re a Muslim?’ The chef asked.

‘Yes.’ Gbassy nodded.

‘I have some water.’ Luis was already delving into the bag. He took out a plastic bottle and handed that to Gbassy instead.

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t know what else to say.

‘It’s nothing.’ The chef was now looking towards the bulls and the horses, one group of which was heading their way.

Gbassy chewed at some bread and twisted the cap off the water. He was focused on the middle distance. 

And then he saw her.

The cute woman.

She was walking from the direction of the sea towards one of the cages.

Yes. It was definitely her.

‘Sir!’ It was more than a whisper.

‘What?’ Luis turned back towards him, his face a frown.

‘The girl. She’s there …’ Gbassy pointed in the direction of the woman.

‘Wha …?’ Luis didn’t finish. Instead he’d followed Gbassy’s finger and found the girl straight away.

In a moment he was on his feet.

‘Take everything. Eat it all. Give the beer away.’ He was brushing the sand from his shorts. ‘Do you know how to get back?’ The chef was talking without really paying attention to what he was saying. His eyes were on the English woman.

Getting back to the restaurant would be easy.

‘Yes, sir. Go, sir. I’ll be fine.’

Gbassy was unsure if the chef heard him. He was already halfway down the dune.

Which gave Gbassy two dramas to watch. The horses and the bulls. And the chef and the English woman. One was mad and bold and noisy and dangerous. The other was fleeting and touching … and lasted just a couple of moments. 

And then it was over.

All that was left was the smell of burnt fireworks, a mingling crowd which was heading home, some vehicles and maybe ten metal cages, that looked like they might have once held slaves for the auditorium.

It was an odd vision. And it didn’t last.

Gbassy had followed the final group of horses and bulls back into town. Nothing other than restaurants and cafes had been open, so he had been unable to find a SIM for his phone. But he did find a shop which had a Western Union banner in its window. And, luck of lucks, when he walked past the entrance to the campsite he turned on his phone, just in case.

There it was. An open WiFi network.

Which was such a relief.

He found a comfortable spot on the side of  the track and put together a short email. He  sent it to one of the village elders. It explained that he was in France, safe and would be in touch very soon with much more detail. And would they please pass on his love to his family.

Gbassy got back to the restaurant mid-afternoon, set the tables, showered, prayed and, by then, Luis had turned up. The chef was in an indifferent mood and untalkative, so Gbassy gave him room. He had, however, left the four beer cans on the side by the fridge. It didn’t seem right to hand then over to a complete stranger. The chef hadn’t commented on them.

And now the evening was drawing to a close. Which was good. Because once the crowd had gone and he’d cleared up, he would prepare a much fuller email, walk to the entrance of the campsite and send it. Maybe there’d be a response from Guinea waiting in his inbox?

Maybe.

As he cleared a set of plates, he realised he was smiling to himself.

It had been a good day. No, a great day.

‘Oi.’ Monsieur Segal was at his side by the time he had reached the door to the kitchen.

Gbassy stopped. He couldn’t turn to face the man, because he was carrying too much and the doorframe was only so wide. So instead, he twisted his head.

‘Yessir.’ 

‘There’s a boat tomorrow night.’ His boss spoke in quiet tones. ‘It’s more complicated this time. You’ll need to be on the ball.’

Gbassy’s heart dropped. A balloon of contentment and hope had been pierced with one sentence: there’s a boat tomorrow night. He didn’t say anything.

‘Well?’ The boss almost spat the words.

‘Yessir. I’ll be ready … yessir.’

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

Marc Segal turned on his heel. And was gone.

Gbassy sighed to himself. His day had just got slightly less wonderful. 

Don’t do it! (The Pentagon)

I’m reasonably clear on this. You use your military to engage with your enemies – abroad. You use your police to defend the rights of your people – at home. I think it’s fair to say that deploying soldiers onto the streets of Northern Ireland in 1969 was probably a last resort (although I’ve not done the research). The fact that we didn’t officially end that operation until 38 years later tells you what you’re letting yourself in for.

Because of the Good Friday Agreement, which was forged with a lot of blood on both sides of the divide, we managed to leave the Province in reasonably good order. Not so Afghanistan, Iraq etc. There we helped create the problem, deployed the military and then, with only a few soldiers remaining, we are leaving those countries as failed states. There was no exit strategy. There wasn’t. And we learnt our lesson. That’s why we’ve not put boots on the ground in Libya and Syria.

So, here’s my advice to the Pentagon. Don’t. Do not send soldiers out onto the streets of the US. You know that they’re only equipped to do one thing: kill people. It took us an age to get anywhere near close to conducting riot control properly. It requires a change of mindset, special equipment and huge amounts of training. If you put soldiers on the streets they will have two choices: do nothing – shoot someone. It won’t be a good look. And, once you deploy you will become the target. And then you’ll be building special bases with watchtowers and machine gun posts.

And then you won’t be able to get out.

For 40 years.

Back home I could go on about this government’s manipulation of the testing figures, the quarantine debacle, the test and trace system which is open to fraud, the uptick in cases (over 300 dead yesterday), the lack of masks, the fact that Europe is planning their summer holidays abroad, but we can’t because we locked down too late and our infection rate is too high … etc, etc. For some reason this government has just managed to get most things wrong. And it makes me want to weep.

However. Moving on.

[image error]we said cheerio to Mary

I took Mary home yesterday and, from there I popped up to see my Mum. That was nine hours in the car. I have Focus-bum-seat.

[image error]Jen’s 30th. We tried v hard to socially distance

And the writing/editing goes on. Below is the next (unedited/unproofread) chapter of my new book … which I have really got into. I am two chapters into the final look see at Blood Red Earth. I hope that will be out in early July. Other than we’re fine. Still running – still exercising. Still feeling old.

Stay safe everyone.

[image error]still exercising – both of us

==============

Chapter 8

If pushed the restaurant could seat thirty-six on six tables. They didn’t take reservations, unless Monsieur Segal was feeling generous, or he wanted one for himself. Thankfully, tonight he didn’t. He was nowhere to be seen. However, should things follow the pattern he would turn up at some point and wander among the clients, talking to those he knew – introducing himself to those he didn’t. It was now eight-thirty. Gbassy reckoned he’d be here by nine.

There was no ‘sitting’ routine. In the evening they started serving at six-thirty to anyone who turned up. Their license meant they should stop serving alcohol at eleven, not that the restaurant ever stuck to that rule if there was a party. They were normally full by seven and Gbassy had been instructed to hurry people along by eight-thirty to make room for a second sitting. He was about there now. Four tables had already changed over. The final two were finishing off. One was full of large Germans, both male and female, who clearly liked their fish and their beer. They didn’t look as if they were leaving anytime soon, which was tricky as there were three groups waiting for a table. In his mind he’d already allocated the non-German table to four locals whom he recognised. That handover would start soon. The second four would have to wait until he’d prised the Germans from their chairs.

And the final two customers …

… now, they would get special attention.

Gbassy didn’t know the man’s name, but he recognised him. He was a friend of Monsieur Segal. He’d seen them together four or five times in the past month or so. 

‘The guy in the white shirt?’ It had been a couple of days after Gbassy’s arrival. The boss had pointed across to the handsome man who had taken one of the smaller tables – he was eating on his own.

‘Yessir,’ Gbassy had replied.

‘He gets the best treatment. And he doesn’t pay. Understood?’ The order was very clear.

‘Yessir.’

Tonight, Gbassy assumed, would be no different – even though he was accompanied. He’d check when Monsieur Segal arrived.  

The complication was there wasn’t a free table. The restaurant was getting busier and busier as they headed into the height of the summer; over the past couple of days he had turned a number away. 

He could give the two diners the German table, but that would mean them waiting for … he didn’t know how long. And, if he did that, they’d lose four clients. Which was four customers who might tip him. He had fifty Euros to find and Monsieur Segal’s friend didn’t pay for his food. And, so far, he hadn’t left a tip.

But … he also sensed that keeping the boss’s friend waiting wasn’t a good idea.

And there was a further issue.

He recognised the woman who had come with the man.

It was a small thing. But it was in danger of polluting his judgement.

It was the same woman who had emerged from the woods a couple of days ago. Gbassy had recommended she return and eat at the restaurant.

And now she was guest of honour.

It was an unsettling twist. 

He made up his mind. He walked over to the couple who were off to one side, together but far enough apart to be separate. They were looking across the river. The man was pointing at the horizon.

‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ He half-bowed; they both turned. ‘Bonsoir, madame.’ He gave nothing away to the woman of their previous meeting.

‘Bonsoir. Tu es très occupé.’ The man always had a gentle tone. And a comforting smile.

They continued in French.

‘There is a wait, I’m afraid.’ Gbassy glanced over his shoulder at the full tables.

‘That’s fine. We are more than happy to sit on the grass if you have a blanket. Or perhaps you have a picnic table, if there is room?’ The man pointed in the vague direction of the terrace.

Gbassy thought for a second.

I could use the small table by my bed.

And they had two chairs in the kitchen.

‘I will set up a table for you. It will be a bit tight, but I am sure you will be fine.’ Gbassy smiled and nodded. The man, who always exuded confidence, nodded his head in return.

The woman’s expression was blank; her eyes were heavy as though she had or was just about to cry. That made him sad. But there was nothing he could do about it, although it dragged at him. So, he nodded again, turned and walked quickly back to the kitchen. On the way he picked up all of the empty beer bottles from the Germans’ table.

Luis was hard at work over the griddle. Pans were bubbling away on the stove. And the kitchen table was littered with half-cut vegetables.

‘The woman is here.’ 

Gbassy wanted to tell the chef, but he was keen to use as few words as possible. He was still not sure whether or not it was his position to start a conversation.

‘What woman?’ Luis replied as he stuck a sharp knife into one of the boiling pans to test some baby carrots.

‘The woman from the woods. The one you met at the lighthouse.’ Gbassy replied.

It took the chef no time at all to turn down all of the burners on the hob. He then slid deftly past Gbassy and was by the door a second later. All Gbassy could see was the chef’s lanky frame, hands on hips, head to one side, screenshotted by the door surround.

What is it with this woman?

Luis held the pose for a couple of seconds. He then turned and headed back to the hob. His face etched with hostility.

‘Putain d’homme.’  The chef spat the words out.

Gbassy let him pass and then walked through the small corridor to his bed. He cleared the table contents onto his mattress and carried it outside.

Emily saw it straight away. The control, laced with charm. She recognised it for what it was 

A weapon.

The waiter, who she had met the other day in the carpark, knew it too.

He was all fawning expression and very helpful actions. 

They would have a table. As sir wishes. 

The journey to the restaurant had been enlightening, but not explanatory. She’d pressed Pierre as soon as they’d got in the car.

‘Aigues-Mortes was lovely, Pierre. Really beautiful.’ She meant it. ‘Thank you.’

He’d glanced across at her and, typically, smiled. It was becoming a little dull now.

‘You were going to tell me why you went through my bag. And something about Marc Segal. I’m ready.’ She stared at him impassively,

He didn’t reply – initially. 

Instead he pulled the car over. 

They were beyond the town’s limits. On their left was the motorhome park, beyond which was the sea. To their right – pure Camargue. Nothing but grass, mud, water, old fences and, in the distance, the odd ranch. The bulls and the horses were hiding

The sun was heading off in the direction of the restaurant, but it had plenty of life in it. It was lovely and warm and she’d dressed accordingly – a floral patterned empire dress, no bra; nobody would notice. She wore her Jesus sandals. She wasn’t great with shoes and she knew that most other women would judge her for it. But, for her, it was comfort over style, everytime.

Pierre turned off the car.

‘Don’t say it’s complicated.’ She helped him.

He had both hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

‘It is.’ He didn’t let her interrupt and carried on. ‘I work for “the government”. I can’t say anymore than that. And Monsieur Segal is of interest to us.’ He paused looking perplexed. ‘I have told you too much already.’

He turned to her.

She saw honesty.

But she always did. He had a way.

‘What, and you saw me looking over the photo of the man who is “of interest” to you,’ she made quotation marks with her fingers, ‘and made some sort of obscure connection?’

‘That’s pretty much it.’ He added.

‘Am I now of interest to you?’ As soon as she said it she knew her remark could be worked whichever way he wanted.

‘No. Of course not.’ He shook his head earnestly. ‘But I would be interested to know your mother’s story. Just for the record.’ He replied. No sexual connotation made. 

At least he’s taking this seriously.

‘It’s simple.’ She started. ‘Marc Segal appears to have been my mother’s lover. We were looking through some photographs about a year ago, and she showed me the ones which you have now sifted through. My mum …’ She choked. She was losing it again – she couldn’t stop herself. 

She sniffed. And took a breath. 

… 

Composure regained.

‘… she died last year. And I was just revisiting the place where she met her first lover. And, taking a holiday.’ 

She’d got over that hurdle. She took another breath.  

‘And meeting new people.’ She added as she strained a half smile.

He looked solemn.

‘Sorry about your mother.’ He didn’t attempt a physical apology. No hugs were offered. No arm touched.

‘Me too. She was only 57.’

‘How did she die?’ He’d taken his hands off the steering wheel and had rested them on his lap.

‘Hit and run.’ She bit her bottom lip and turned her head so she was staring at the expanse that was the Camrague. She was wobbling again.

‘Wow. Sorry. Again.’

‘Me too.’ She added unnecessarily.

‘Do they know who did it?’

Emily shook her head. She didn’t want to think about it. These things happen … 

… but normally to other people.

‘Is the police investigation still ongoing?’

She thought it was an odd question.

But he does work for the government.

Whatever that meant.

‘I don’t think so.’

There was silence for a few seconds. A car shot past them heading away from town. A couple of gulls flew overhead. The car was starting to heat nicely, the previously cool air from the air conditioning losing its battle to a still warm sun.

‘Can we go now?’ She asked.

‘Sure.’ He replied. He turned the car over.

‘Sorry about your mother. I am.’ This time it was followed by a gentle touch to her forearm. He then put both hands back on the wheel.

They didn’t speak to each other until Pierre pulled the car into the restaurant’s carpark. A light cloud of fine sand followed the vehicle’s tyre tracks to its parking space.

Before they got out Emily asked one more question.

‘Why have you brought me here? Am I an alibi? Does this make me your partner?’ It was her turn to tease. And she wanted to dilute her solemnity. ‘Mulder and Scully.’ She gave an American accent a go. She was hopeless.

He smiled, but didn’t laugh. 

That was one more reason why there’d be no more sex. She wanted her men to laugh at her rubbish jokes, not just be able to make her climax twice in a row. 

‘Something along those lines.’

But it didn’t turn out like that.

They weren’t in it together.

It was much more bizarre. 

And the next two hours threw up so many more questions than it answered.

Emily was back at her favourite spot on the beach. Feet immersed in sand; ankles bathed in the ‘swosh’ of the waves. She was a little lightheaded. Probably because of the three large glasses of white wine. In reasonably quick succession. 

It had been her only way coping.

What a night.

She wiggled her toes. It felt good. She let the blue-blackness of the Mediterranean and its partner sky envelop her. That felt good too.

She closed her eyes …

… and let the gentle on shore wind bathe her exposed skin.

And opened them again.

Things were as they were a few moments earlier.

What to do?

She really didn’t know.

It was as though she’d been caught up in some film-noir. She was the damsel. The pastel foil for the furtive, dark characters around her. Everyone else had ulterior, subversive motives. The soundtrack was French accordion with a heavy cello base; it ran throughout the evening, the same theme, getting louder with every glass of wine.

It was a B movie. It would go straight to DVD. 

And it had a cast of five.

Marc Segal. Her mother’s lover. He was heavy-set, with intelligent eyes and quick hands. He had a substantial head with handfuls of sweptback, black hair, his nose red-veiny after years of too much wine. He wore smart jeans, a light blue tailored shirt with carefully upturned cuffs and a leather belt that sported a gold, mustang buckle. He was mutedly flamboyant; lots of arm gestures that were highlighted by four, heavy gold rings – that was matched by a bulky gold linked necklace which Emily adored.

Marc Segal was a villain. Pierre had made that clear en route to the restaurant. She was convinced of it now. He was a Camargian-French gangster. Untouchable. The master … of his own car park. 

She laughed to herself, the aftermath of the wine making her flippancy funnier than it was.

Marc Segal was much more than that. She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t run the town; or at least extort everyone in it. Marc Segal was the man. He knew most of the clientele in the restaurant. He approached the tables as though those sitting would be honoured to speak to him. He positioned himself between two chairs, his hands on the opposite shoulders of two of the clients. Cigar in mouth he would open the conversation with some largessed quip and the table would erupt. The men in awe. The woman, probably a little bit tingly. Even at fifty-odd he was a good looking man; his charisma multiplied that, and some.

Those he didn’t know, immediately felt at ease.

She should know. She’d been subject to his allure. 

‘Qui est-ce?’ Marc Segal’s expression had been paternal, but maybe just a little seductive. 

Pierre had introduced her and let on that her French wasn’t perfect. Marc Segal had half-bowed, reached out for her hand and, when she offered it he took her finger tips … and kissed her knuckles. He held her hand for slightly longer than she’d have liked, but there was no getting away from it – he was immensely charming. Their initial conversation, in English, had been brief, but the warmth the man left behind was palpable.

Pierre had raised his eyebrows when Marc Segal had left.

‘How did I do, Mulder?’ She was a glass and a half of wine down by then.

‘You were perfect.’ He gently patronised her.

Sod you Pierre.

What had the screenwriter penned for him?

Was he the hero? Or one of the villains?

Pierre was without doubt the coolest and most persuasive man she’d ever met. He was clearly intelligent, and emotionally so. He was central to everything, but as protective of his persona as a dog with a bone full of marrow.

 And she’d got nothing more from him over supper. Not until Marc Segal had sat back down with them later in the evening.

‘How are you, Pierre?’ Segal had asked in reasonable English.

‘Fine, Marc. The restaurant is looking good.’ Pierre had replied.

Segal had wafted his cigar in the direction of the main part of the terrace.

‘It’s does well. Especially at this time of year. We have a good chef, which helps.’ 

Pierre nodded.

The plates had just been cleared by the waiter. They had been left with their glasses and a second bottle of wine. Pierre took a sip.

‘It keeps you in gold.’ Pierre raised his eyebrows and nodded at the restaurant owner.

Segal roared with laughter. 

‘You and I both know the restaurant pays enough to keep the taxman at bay. No more. Oh, maybe some left over for a pot of gold dip for the old girl to keep the rings clean.’ He was still laughing.

What?

Had Pierre managed to befriend Marc Segal to the point he was giving away his own secrets?

Pierre smiled in reply.

And then he used a hand to gently point to Emily.

‘My friend has a secret she may wish to share with you.’ Pierre opened his face in Emily’s direction.

She dithered. Marc Segal took a drag of his cigar. The smell was intoxifying, she had to admit.

‘Go on.’ Segal said gently, accompanied by a broad smile.

There was an understanding in his eyes. It was as though he knew what was coming. 

‘I think …,’ she was going to struggle with this, ‘… you may have known my mother.’

He was leaning back in a chair that he had carried around with him from table to table. His head was on one side, cigar in the corner of his mouth, two fingers holding it in place.

Like Churchill but, she sensed, without any of the great leader’s integrity.

He didn’t say anything. Instead he took the cigar out of his mouth and chewed on a lip. He then put it back in.

He drew …

… and waited.

Emily took a swig of wine.

‘I think you and she were lovers. Forty-odd years ago. Her name was …’

‘Vivian.’ Segal finished her sentence, the corners of his mouth turning up and then flattening again. His eyes flickered, youthfully.

‘Yes, how …’ She shot a look at Pierre. His face was one of consternation. As though he was as confused as she was. 

Or was it something else?

‘You have her eyes.’ He said.

Emily’s bottom lip wobbled. She blinked away dampness. She wasn’t expecting this.

‘Vivien Browning. That was your mother’s maiden name?’ He was still leaning back in his chair. He was enjoying the moment.

Something pinged in her brain … it pierced her surfacing grief. But it ran away with itself into the distance, and disappeared. It was gone.

‘Yes.’

‘We had some fun, you mum and me.’ He stared up to the sky as if looking for a star. He removed his cigar and slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. He stayed like that for a few seconds, Emily watching him intently.

As he dropped his head he let out a, ‘Hmm,’ as if he’d just finished a very satisfying recollection. He then looked her in the eye, smiled and nodded. She sensed affection …

… and then his demeanour shifted. 

He became uncomfortable; he moved in his chair.

‘Where is your mother now?’ He asked, lifting and dropping his nose as he did

‘She’s dead.’ Pierre interjected before Emily had chance to stumble through an answer.

‘How so?’ Segal asked, his cigar still in his mouth. His face was expressionless. As though his previous love was no longer of any particular interest to him.

‘She died in an accident.’ Pierre was earning his keep.

‘Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that.’ Segal replied, almost disinterestedly now. ‘People should be more careful.’

Emily’s hackles raised and she was about to say something when Pierre touched her leg. She mouthed … nothing. And then helped herself to more wine as Segal stood and grabbed hold of his chair.

‘It was nice to meet you, Emily.’ He didn’t reach for her hand this time. ‘Very sorry to hear about your mother.’ He had some of his charm back now. 

Then he looked at Pierre.

‘We should talk before you go – d’homme à homme.’ And then he left their table.

All told the conversation had been odd – disquieting, almost.

Pierre had purposefully helped her out. He was, therefore, central. He was the player around which the cast performed.

And it was really irritating that she couldn’t yet place him.

Hero? It certainly looked that way. Villain? It was possible.

Other than her, there were two other actors in the scene.

First was the black waiter. She didn’t know his name. Nobody used it. In fact everybody, other than perhaps Pierre, treated him as if he were a serf. That wasn’t Pierre’s way. He was too fixated on his James Bond like persona to treat anyone poorly. But, and this surprised her, he didn’t leave a tip. In fact, they didn’t actually get presented with a bill.

‘We haven’t paid.’ Emily was initially a little uneasy on her feet as they left the table.

‘I have, how do you British say, a tab?’ 

Yes, that was very Pierre.

‘No tip?’ She asked. She felt herself slurring her words a little.

Damn.

The question caught him off guard.

‘It’s … there’s ten percent on the bill,’ he added, regaining his composure.

She wasn’t having any of that. As Pierre glided over to Marc Segal, where they engaged each other in quiet tones, she found the waiter and, after struggling a bit with her purse, dug out a ten Euro note and thrust it into his hand.

And at that point she placed him in the saga. He was the observer; a narrator. There was no malice in him. He was kind and thoughtful –  but there was sharpness and strength behind his eyes.

‘Thank you, miss.’ he replied with a huge smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘Emily.’ She gently reprimanded him.

‘Thank you, Miss Emily.’ He was still smiling.

No, the waiter was not central to the show. But he saw and knew everything. 

And then there was the chef, Luis Segal. He was another furtive character. All legs and arms and gloom and, she sensed, loathing.

Had his dad dropped him on his head as a child?

Something was getting at him.

He kept himself in the kitchen, although she was sure she spotted him at one point looking through the kitchen door in their direction. And then, halfway through their meal, he appeared by their table. She looked him up and down. He was, on reflection, athletic. He was probably a surfer and an ageing skateboarder. He had a long face, and half a beard. He was wearing empire-building shorts and a t-shirt, with a stained apron strapped around his waist. Like her, he was wearing sandals.

‘Is everything ok?’ He spoke in perfect English and asked the question as though he didn’t care about the answer.

And he stared at her throughout the exchange.

Pierre looked up from his fish.

‘C’est délicieux, merci,’ Pierre replied.

It was obvious that the chef wasn’t bothered what Pierre thought about the meal. On one hand Emily found that both dismissive and rude. On the other, the chef was the first person she’d met who seemed oblivious to Pierre’s magnetism.

And he was waiting for her to answer.

The fish was beautifully cooked, the white chunks of meat falling delicately from the bone. The sauce was indescribable … and gorgeous. The vegetables, just so.

‘It’s … absolutely lovely.’ She replied.

She tried to work out what story his intense eyes were telling her. But she couldn’t. At least this time he was looking at her, rather than through her.

The intensity caught her off guard. She looked away.

‘Good. Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ He offered. And was gone.

Emily put her cutlery down and let her eyes follow the strangely earnest chef to the kitchen door.

‘You have an admirer.’ Pierre said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Emily scoffed, her eyes refocusing on her food. She quickly helped herself to another chunk of the ‘melt-in-your-mouth’ fish meat.

So, Luis. 

If his father were a French gangster, was his son, the chef, a willing participant in whatever nefarious activity his dad was engaged in?

He had the attitude for it.

But she wasn’t sure.

‘Is your government interested in the chef?’ She’d asked of Pierre a little later.

‘Possibly.’ Pierre had replied. He wasn’t going to commit.

And the conversation had moved on. 

Which is what she needed to do, before the skin on her feet shrivelled and warped.

Marc Segal, Pierre – whatever his name is, Luis the chef, the lovely waiter, and her.

Gangster, undercover policeman – she could only guess, the gangster’s son and the unwitting waiter. 

And her.

What a scream.

It wasn’t late. She hadn’t accepted Pierre’s offer of some more shampoo and baby lotion, a decision she complimented herself for making. But it was getting late and she needed to sleep off a burgeoning hangover.

Go home. That was the answer.

And then she’d work out what to do tomorrow, tomorrow.

Stay safe

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You just know we’re not through this yet, don’t you? I was one of only three people in big Tesco yesterday wearing a mask. And whilst nearly everyone when we’re out walking or running is doing their best to stay away from people, you can just feel the virus lurking about … laughing at us. Please be safe everyone. Please.

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And the US? Well, that’s a mess, bless them. His Orangeness is tweeting like the weedy bloke standing behind his muscly friends – encouraging the cops and the National Guard to take no prisoners. If you add institutionalised racism, 100,000 dead from an unrelenting virus, two months of lock down, white supremacists, antifa, one black man murdered by the police and a second lynched by white guys in a pickup, a political landscape separated by a chasm, a child in the White House … and add some sunshine, you get what’s happening over there.

I just hope we don’t go all copycat. Although, to be fair, if I could march against BJ and his cronies, I would. I have had enough.

[image error]someone’s been baking – yum

Us? Well it’s been business as usual. Mostly, for me, it’s been about books. I’ve done the blurb for Blood Red Earth and had a go at the cover. The manuscript is back from the proofreader and all is set for a July launch. In parallel my other novel is now closing on 40,000 words … which is a lot of words. And I am still loving it. Chapter 7 is below (unedited; unproofread – don’t bite me). I understand a few of you are reading it. Thank you. I hope you’re enjoying it.

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Today we’re off to Jen’s. It’s her 30th birthday. One day ahead of the government’s ‘meet 6 people in their back garden’s’ schedule, five of us are gathering in Jen and James’ backgarden. We will socially distance. And be very careful.

Tomorrow I’m taking Mary back – she’s been up and down – and then I’m driving on to Essex to see my mum. Again … from a social distance.

Keep safe, everyone. It’s not over yet.

+++++++++++++++++

Chapter 7

Emily shifted her toes through the wet sand. As she did, they created a deeper hole. Soon she wouldn’t be able to see her feet at all and the sand would be up to her ankles. She wondered if she stayed like this until the morning, wiggling her feet and letting the muted, dark waves of a cooling Mediterranean wash over them, whether she would be fully submerged by dawn.

 She ignored her feet for a second and looked out to sea. It was a solitary blue/black canvas. There was cloud cover tonight and, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make out the horizon.The distance was a swab of one colour, painted by an unimaginative hand. However there was the light of a distant craft bobbing away and, off to her right, the sky lightened as the cloud reflected the night time essence of the larger towns to the west.

It was peaceful – the cool water slapping against her legs and the softness between her toes adding to the calm.

Which is what she needed.

Some peace.

Because she’d left Pierre’s on less of a high than she had the previous night. It had, to all intents and purposes, been another lovely date. It was a heady combination of Pierre’s attention at the bar, his quick wit and disarming smile, followed by sex that most hetrosexual women could only dream of. The man had so many tricks, clearly acquired from a lot of practice, and they all seemed to be designed to give her the maximum amount of pleasure. They started in the shower this time and finished off with a bottle of baby lotion. 

At the time she had been totally lost in it. 

On reflection, it felt ever so slightly pornographic. 

Which was a stupid reaction.

Stupid.

But she couldn’t reconcile it. 

It just didn’t seem right. She’d not been brought up a prude – at all. But, somehow, this affair felt as though she were dismantling some social norms. Doing a disservice to feminists across the world, as though she were letting the side down by having too much of a good thing.  

Emily recognised the absurdity of that statement, but couldn’t dismiss it. 

She hadn’t been seduced. She was a willing participant – in every act. And it was she who was being pleasured. 

Wasn’t that the perfect entry into the feminist’s handbook?

I dunno.

She didn’t.

As she wiggled her toes some more, she recognised that that wasn’t the only issue. Sure, she wasn’t wholly comfortable with the relationship. And she wasn’t sure how long this infatuation should go on for. 

It was more about the other Pierre. The fully clothed one. The one where he used his tongue to speak, rather than as something to make her back arch.

He was more inquisitive tonight. No that was wrong. He was more specifically inquisitive tonight. And it was very subtle. They continued the ‘getting to know you’ discourse. They talked about sport and films, siblings and perfect holiday destinations. The brother and sister bit of the conversation was easy for her. She didn’t have any. Interestingly, he was more than happy to talk about his brother – in detail: his marriage, his kids, his job, his second wife – everything. In fact before they made it to the flat above the cafe, Emily knew much more about Pierre’s brother, than she did about him.

Which added to her growing unease.

‘Where did you go to university, Pierre?’ She’d asked.

‘Paris. You?’ He’d come straight back, armed with that smile.

And that’s pretty much how it had gone.

She knew that he was thirty-two, he lived in northern Paris, he was unmarried, he worked in an office, in La Defense, the city’s banking area. Apparently he was on a sabbatical after a particularly tough year, and he’d come to the Camargue because it was where his family had taken their holidays when he was younger.

‘How many lovers have you had?’ She’d asked him as they laid in each others’ arms about an hour ago.

‘A few. You?’ 

Her head had been on his chest. His answer resonated through his rib cage.

She had gently untangled herself from his arms, sat on the edge of the bed and replied honestly.

‘Four. You’re the fifth.’

He reached over and put his hand on her shoulder.

‘I really am enjoying my time with you.’ He said, in a tone that seemed soaked in honesty. 

She turned to him. 

She didn’t see any arrogance – there was no sign of victory. 

‘I have to go.’ She said.

‘You can stay.’ He replied without commitment.

She smiled.

‘I’m going to have a shower and then I’m going home. It’s for the best, I think.’

‘Would you like me to wash your back?’ It was a playful retort but she sensed he wasn’t expecting her to say yes.

She threw a pillow at him.

And then the whole affair took on a more unsettling feel.

She showered, wiped herself down and, very naked, she came back into the main room. Pierre was up making a coffee. He was also nude.

‘Would you like one?’ He jiggled a demitasse in her direction.

‘No, thank you.’ 

She walked over to where she’d discarded her clothes. They were in a loose pile between the main door and the bed. She collected them and started to get dressed.

‘Have you been to the fish restaurant down by the Petit Rhone?’ He asked. His bum was perched against the small kitchen worktop.

He had made the connection from this afternoon. 

The picture from her album – and the image on her phone. 

Emily was briefly flummoxed. So she gained a bit of time by clipping her bra closed and throwing on her unbuttoned blouse.

‘No,’ she said, as her head emerged from between the elbows of the shirt. ‘Why there in particular?’ She tried not to sound distracted.

‘It’s nice. We should go. My treat.’ He added.

She wasn’t at all sure. On so many levels.

‘Maybe.’ She replied, pulling up her shorts. ‘Maybe.’ 

She was looking directly at him now, trying to gauge where they were and where this might be going. She was more enlightened. 

Then she looked for her rucksack. It was … no it wasn’t.

Ah, there it is.

She was sure she’d left it by the door. Now it was at the end of the bed.

She reached for it.

‘It’s been fun, Pierre. And that’s an understatement.’ 

He raised his coffee cup as a salute.

‘We should go to the fish restaurant.’ He nodded as he made the same suggestion again.

She paused – suddenly Pierre’s confidence in his own naked body made her feel uneasy.

She had to get out.

‘Sure. Why not?’ She turned and in three steps was turning the handle on the door. ‘A bientôt.’ She glanced at him, made a little wave and was out of the door. She closed it and then with her back pressed against the wooden frame, paused for breath.

But she didn’t wait for long. A couple of minutes later she was on the beach, shoes in hand and her feet slowly sinking in the cooling water.

Something’s not right.

Emily plopped her feet out of the sandy graves she had made for them and walked back to the road. She found a bench which was lit by the amber light of a street lamp, sat and opened her rucksack.

She took out her mum’s photos – and looked through them.

They were all there.

But …

… she checked again.

They were not in the same order they usually were.

Emily wasn’t OCD. She wasn’t. But neither was she casual with her things. And, as a maths teacher, logic and order had its place in the world. It certainly had its place in the handful of precious but ageing photos she had taken from her mum’s album, slipped into a plastic leaf with its end folder over, and placed into her bag.

She kept them in the same order that they were presented in the album.

That’s what she would do. That’s what she did. 

Now, one photo was not in its place. In fact it was badly in the wrong place.

She had twelve images. The one of her mum and ‘Marc’ was fourth out of twelve. The first three were campsite photos, the following eight were sightseeing snaps, four of which featured her mum and one of them had ‘Marc S’ in the middle distance. Although, looking at the pictire it was difficult to be sure. The Frenchman was probably the man looking as if he was walking backwards along a beach. The photo was in focus, but that didn’t help with identification. What did, however, was the biro on the back: Marc looking fab.

No, the best one was number four. Her Mum and her French fisherman sat with their backs to the upturned boat.

The fourth in the series of photos.

Which was now number twelve.

There was no way she would have put it in the wrong place.

Come to think of it, there was no way her rucksack could have moved from the main door to by the bed by itself … 

… whilst she was in the shower.

What on earth was going on?  

Gbassy was not happy. Lunch was only half way through, the tables were full, a couple were sitting on the bank of the river waiting for a space and he was rushed off his feet. Thankfully the menu choices, as usual, were easy – two types of fish and four vegetables, and they only served one of three bottles of white wine and a choice of sodas – but a large turnover of customers meant that he had to wash dishes as he went along and it was a particularly hot day.

But he could cope with all that. He could even cope with the fact that tonight it might be even busier. That was all within his gift.

What he was struggling with was what happened last night. 

It was towards the end of the evening. As per previous-but-one night all of the guests had gone, apart from one table. It was the same four men: Monsieur Segal and the three cowboys. They had eaten well and were on their fifth bottle of wine. Up until now, as before, their conversations had been muted. The boss had held forth and the three outsiders, still dressed like they’d just come from a cattle ranch, and smelling like it too. There were plenty of behind-their-hands conversations and, at one point, Gbassy noticed, Monsieur Segal had taken out a notebook and scribbled some comments in it.

However, as soon as the last guest had left, the four men’s demeanour had turned much more baleful, their language crowded with expletives. Gbassy had picked out the words, ‘sex’ and ‘women’, to which were assigned unpleasant and demeaning hand gestures. One of the men, short of a front tooth and with words which were accompanied by spittle, had stood, put his hand on his crotch and stroked it. The other cowboys had laughed. Monsieur Segal had leant further back in his chair and drawn on a thick cigar, a contented smile on his face.

When it came to clearing the plates, Gbassy approached the table with caution. The conversation was still intense and they appeared to be talking about money. As he approached they quietened, his boss gesticulating at the dishes dismissively.

And then the toothless cowboy stood. He was on the far side of the table to Gbassy, but he darted around with a speed that caught Gbassy off guard.

The waiter had yet to collect any dishes – which was a good thing – as the next he knew the man was behind him, one arm around his stomach, the other pushing his torso forward; Gbassy had to twist his head so it didn’t hit the cowboy closest to him; he had turned to see what his friend was up to.

Gbassy initially resisted; the man slapped him on the back of the head.

‘Get over, nigger!’ The man slurred.

Gbassy, who probably could have escaped the man’s clutches but knew that to resist would bring more hurt than he needed, tentatively did as he was told.

‘I want mine to be young and strong,’ the cowboy hollered in French.

And then, to the whoops and chants of his friends and, glancing sideward to his boss, a rye smile from Monsieur Segal, the man simulated having sex with him.

Smack … smack … smack. The man’s groin slapped against his own backside.

He closed his eyes. Clenched his teeth. And …

… waited for it to be over.

There were more hollers and then uproar as the standing cowboy teetered, stepped back and almost fell over.

Gbassy stayed where he was, semi-prostrate to the four men. 

Smack!

The cowboy’s hand found Gabssy’s backside with such force he toppled, his face hitting the table, the plates and cutlery rattled, the men reaching for their glasses so as not to lose any precious wine.

Gbassy was initially unsure what was going to happen next and then he noticed that Monsieur Segal had lifted a hand. It was clearly time to stop. The men, who were still snorting, knew who was in charge and they began to settle.

‘Clear the table.’ His boss ordered.

Gbassy, who had already started to stand upright, nodded quickly. Even with shaking hands, he then expertly collected the plates.

‘And bring the brandy. Now.’ 

‘Yessir.’ Gbassy replied, as he stepped backwards towards the open door.

He then turned … and was surprised to see Luis stood in the doorframe. His face told no story. It never did. But as Gbassy reached the door, the chef stood to one side and let him in. 

Gbassy deftly squeezed past the chef; the man followed him into the kitchen.

‘There’s a fish supper. It’s in the oven. Eat it when my father has gone.’ Luis said.

Gbassy had momentum toward the sink, so he didn’t stop. He didn’t turn. And he didn’t look at the only man he’d met since he’d started his journey from his village who had treated him like a human being.

Instead, he mumbled, ‘Thank you’, deferentially. Loud enough to be heard, but not so loud the chef might think Gbassy thought him to be a friend.

‘I’m going home. See you tomorrow.’ And then Luis was gone.

And Gbassy was alone.

The next forty minutes passed without incident. All four men were drunk and none of them paid any further interest in him. Eventually Monsieur Segal weaved his car out of the car park and the three cowboys got into a pickup. He had no idea which of them drove but, like his boss, they made it out into the night without straying from the road.

It took him twenty minutes to clear up, a further ten to sort the cash which, thankfully, was correct – all told he had gathered twelve Euros in tips for the day – and then he went and found his metal box under his pillow.

He opened it.

And counted the money … 

… and counted it again.

No!

It was fifty Euros short. 

He scrambled around his bed space, picking things up and putting them down again. But found nothing.

And then he counted the money again.

He was still fifty Euros short.

Tears formed in his eyes. He sat resignedly on his bed, the box on his lap.

Fifty Euros. It was only four days wages plus tips.

But it was still fifty Euros.

Who might have taken the money?

Gbassy reran the day through his mind. 

There were just a couple of possibilities. Luis, the chef, was the obvious choice. Gbassy was in and out of the hut all day and Luis stayed in the kitchen. But, no. It wasn’t him, surely? Not the man who had just cooked him supper?

And Marc Segal. Mid-afternoon Gbassy had gone and sat in the shade of a pine by the river; he had drifted in and out of sleep. Having checked the money first thing, Monsieur Segal had left the restaurant by 11 am, only to return later in the afternoon. 

When Gbassy had been snoozing by the river, the man could easily have found the box and taken the money.

Why would he? Marc Segal would just brazenly take the money. He’d wave it about in Gbassy’s face. And, in any case, his son would have noticed?

Gbassy chewed on his bottom lip, the first of his tears making it past the summit of his cheeks.

Is that why the chef had prepared his supper?

It was all too much to bear.

He shook his head. As he did, the tears were hastened and fell, their drops staining his blue jeans the colour of midnight.      

What an evening.

It had been. And it haunted him now as he cut between tables, taking lunch orders and collecting dishes.

Fifty Euros – and a degrading act.

He hated this place. He hated it with every stud in his shoes.

But at least now his money was safe. After he’d cried far too many tears for a grown man, he had wiped his face and taken the box to the forest. And that’s where it lay now. A place where only he could find it.

His next job was to fill it. 

To fill it so much, he couldn’t close it.

And then he’d be rid of Monsieur Segal and his filthy cowboys. 

Emily sipped at her beer. The small town square was crowded and the three terraced restaurants were close to full. It was idyllic. 

Almost. 

The scenery was among the best she’d ever seen. Aigues-Mortes was beautiful. It seemed that from whichever direction you approached the town, and they’d come in from the east, the view was the same. The same flatness of Camargue – created by the dawdling Rhone whose silt was slowly laying claim to a flaccid Mediterranean – was interrupted by the huge walls and turrets of a medieval town. You could see the place from miles away. Left to right: miles of countryside; huge expanse of castellated walls and towers; miles of countryside. If was ‘kids do castles’ on a show-me-board.

And it was fab.

They parked outside of the town and walked in through an ancient gate at the bottom of a double tower. It was so ancient she was expecting a drawbridge, but there wasn’t one, which was mildly disappointing. Inside was a maze of narrow cobbled streets and tasteful shops, all old and ‘look at me’. It didn’t take them long to find the main square and bag one of the few remaining tables at Casa Toro Luna.

‘It means, The House of the Bull Moon.’ Pierre confirmed, absently.

‘What’s a bull moon?’ Emily replied as she got comfortable, the sun chancing its arm through the leafy branches of a large, indeterminate tree.

‘Have you studied the moon?’ He shot back, a stern face unable to hide his tease.

‘It’s made of cheese. We all know that.’ She stuck her tongue out.

Before he could reply, the waiter arrived with a pair of menus. He laid them on their places and stood by the table, a hip pushed to one side, pad and pencil in hand.

‘Ah, but what sort of cheese?’ Pierre added.

‘You know that bulls are male cows. Certainly in my country.’ Emily added as she flipped through the menu.

Pierre was doing the same.

‘But we have special bulls in France.’ He didn’t look up from choices.

‘Course you do.’ She was using her finger and trying her best to translate the menu. She really didn’t want to ask for help. 

The waiter changed hips.

She found what she wanted: une assiette de fromage. A plate of cheese. It would come with some bread – everything in France comes with bread. And a beer. That would be enough for now.

‘Are you ready?’ She closed her menu as she pressed Pierre, purposefully getting one up on him. ‘I’ve chosen mine.’ 

He was still looking at the menu. He put a single finger in the air, asking for more time.

She looked around the almost car-free square. The centre was taken up by a greeny-bronze statue on a stone plinth. It stood as tall as the roof of a bungalow. The outside of the square was all shops and eateries, the latter disgorging themselves onto the pavement. There were six, big trees around and about which provided ample shade. The hues were all sandstone walls, light grey roadstones underfoot and primary-coloured awnings providing shade for shop windows. The palette was complemented with as many restaurant tables as you could possibly fit into the space, its occupants completing the picture in a rainbow of colours. 

But it wasn’t uncomfortably busy – the crowds added to the ambience.

She found the statue interesting. Not because it displayed a notable dignitary, which it probably did. But more because it was covered in children.

Emily loved children. She loved interacting with them. She loved talking to them, watching them grow, encouraging them and, when necessary, pulling them up. As a result, teaching flowed through her veins. 

And, naturally, she hoped she did what she did in as safe an environment as possible.

Which is why the sight of a bunch of school children, probably no more than Year 8s who were being allowed to clamber over the statue as if it were a properly constructed climbing frame, unnerved her.

It was a wonder.

There were three children actually on the statue, seemingly holding on for dear life.

Where were the teachers?

There.

Two of them, identifiable by name badges hung from bright blue lanyards. They were perched on a railing which appeared to be placed to stop pedestrians from the square wandering onto a road which looked like it was only open for the butcher’s Renault 4 to make its weekly delivery.

One of the teachers was smoking a cigarette. The other was sipping at a can of coke.

Neither were looking at the statue. 

A child was going to die at any moment. Emily could sense it.

‘You seem distracted?’ Pierre asked.

‘Mmm?’ She replied, still staring at a prospective police incident scene.

She looked at him. And smiled.

Why have I come here?

‘We didn’t finish our conversation about the moon being made of bull’s cheese.’ He added.

‘That’s because it’s fatuous.’ She smiled again, turned to the waiter and ordered her plate of cheese and a beer. Pierre, unshaken by Emily’s small display of firstery, ordered a pizza and a beer.

Over lunch they talked about this and that. Emily was no longer interested in swapping life histories or any other intimate details, so the conversation was light, but not unpleasant. He was as Pierre was. Generous with her; less so with himself. He didn’t treat her like a date – there was no touching or holding of hands, and he never looked at her in a way that made her feel as though he was entertaining her with one thought in mind. There was no sexual tension – certainly none created by him. She, on the other hand, had to give herself a talking to a couple of times. He had one too many buttons undone on his brilliant-white, collared shirt, which was distracting. And she found herself infatuated by the wispy dark hairs on his forearm.

If this were a continuous seduction, he was an absolute master at it. And she only had herself to blame.

Which it probably was. 

And she accepted responsibility.

Emily had agreed Pierre’s suggestion to visit one of the local sites because he had a car. And she didn’t. And it was a lovely day. And she knew he would be charming.

And … she was determined to try and unpick some of her concerns from last night.

He had SMSd her at around 9 am: do u want 2 go 2 Aigues-Mortes? She had been flat out but the buzz of the phone broke through her sleep. She’d read the message fifteen minutes later whilst sitting on the loo. She’d replied after she’d cleaned her teeth. And Pierre was outside her front door thirty minutes later.

Now, a plate of cheese for the better, on her second beer and with no police circling the statue to investigate the death of a small child, she was ready to press Pierre on why he’d delved into her rucksack and looked at her mum’s photos.

She put her beer down, took a deep breath and went on the attack.

‘Do you make it a habit of going into woman’s bags and looking through their things?’ She asked. She picked up her beer, took a swig and watched Pierre’s face for a reaction.

‘No,’ he replied. His face remained kind … and unhurt.

God, he’s bloody good at this.

‘Why did you go through mine?’ She pushed.

Not a hint of recognition.

He lifted his glass to his mouth, took a swig and put the glass back down.

‘Sorry.’ He said.

‘So you did go into my bag?’ She was more angry than she thought she would be. She knew the answer, after all.

’Yes.’

Three one word answers. This was getting her nowhere.

‘Why?’ She asked, hoping to get more.

He fiddled with his nose. This time Emily could sense he was looking for the right, no, most appropriate thing to say.

‘It’s complicated,’ he added.

‘Uncomplicate it.’ She said firmly.

‘Who is the photo of? The one with Marc Segal?’

Bloody hell.

She was right. Her mum’s lover was now the owner of the fish restaurant.

‘My mum.’ Honesty was all she could do. She had no idea where this was going, or who Pierre, whatever his surname was, wanted. ‘Forty-odd years ago,’ she added.

‘Mmm.’ He took another swig of beer. ‘We should go to the restaurant for supper. As I said.’ He finished the sentence with a finality that frustrated her.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ The words came out at a speed and in a tone which should have made it clear that she was not at all happy.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘No it fu…’ She was about to swear, but Pierre had swiftly leant forward and raised a hand. That stopped her, mid-expletive.

‘It’s complicated.’ He said again. ‘Let’s go there for supper tonight and I will try and tell you what I can on the way.’ It was lightly patronising. 

He sat back.

‘Let’s enjoy the town.’ He smiled, raising his hands in an open gesture and glancing from side-to-side.

His display of authority was as effective as his previous, invisible seduction. In an instant he had managed to emanate a power which had stopped her like a juggernaut hitting an escape lane.

She studied him, looking for clues.

Mmm.

It was clear to her now. Pierre got his way. He either did that like a snake charmer toying with a cobra. Or, he used a different charisma. One of command and control. Not in a brutish way; it was much softer than that. But it was clear who was in charge.

Emily had initially succumbed to that charm. And, just now, she had been blunted by his silent power. And that was distracting in its own way.

But she was no idiot. Not when pressed. Not when someone had rifled through her belongings and looked through her mum’s photos

And, just now, she was fascinated by both where she found herself and the man sat opposite her, Pierre … whatever his name was.

There would be no more sex. That attraction had vanished when he raised his hand and then encouraged her to enjoy the town. The charmer had lost his knack. And she was no child – and she wouldn’t be treated like one. 

However, she would go along with this. 

Because, well, it was fun. 

Wasn’t it? 

Advice, please …

Question. If Dominic Cummings is a super-forecaster and so clever he can’t be sacked, then why have we got the highest number of deaths in Europe and the worst death rate per 100,000 population in the world? It just makes you wonder what other rubbish decisions this government is making.

[image error]the face of someone who has just finished his brother’s probate (no will). If anyone would like support/advice on this please DM me, or comment, I’d be delighted to help. It’s not too frightening

We’re OK. Mary’s been in the wars a bit, so that’s been on all of our minds. But we think we’re getting there. The weather has been so kind with Mrs Sun unable to pull herself away. I can’t begin to imagine what it would have been like if it had been raining (sorry Scotland). It’s allowed us to get our back garden into gold medal at RHS Chelsea contention – if they’d bothered to run it this year. It couldn’t be any neater.

And I’ve been writing. I’m now at 30,000 words (out of somewhere between 70 and 80k). All being well I should have the first draft complete by the end of June. In that time I’ve also got to provide a cover and blurb for Blood Red Earth, which is due back from the proofreader soon. Then I have the rigmarole of typesetting for the paperback – which I hate. But, this is book six, so I should be up for it.

Then comes the crunch. I have still not done any marketing, except reduce the cost of all five books to 99p/99c for the duration of the pandemic. And I’ve had an upturn in sales. I reckon I’ll sell close to 50 books this month, which will beat my sales totals since I launched On The Back Foot To Hell last summer. I have, however, been in touch with a professional publicist. They will market book 6, including radio interviews, blogs, blah … for four weeks for £2500 (+ another £500 of free books). It’s a lot of money and it may not repay itself.

But do you know what my problem is? Would marketing the Sam Green series be a vanity project? Like any artist, do I really think my work is good enough to spend money to attract people who may not like it? And if it fails, am I a vain failure?

Does that matter? And, if I don’t do something, am I missing a huge opportunity to reach out to a much wider bunch of readers? It’s a huge uncertainty for me; which is odd, because I am normally pretty certain about most things.

Add to that that I will have the new book ready at about the same time, and I’ve written to two well known agents (on the back of my almost publishing contract with Bookouture – their recommendation) … and they take some time to respond.

What should I do?

Comments welcome.

Anyhow, the unedited, unproofread Chapter 6 is below. I hope you’re keeping up…

[image error]proud father – Bex getting ready for her Korean students to arrive back into class

+++++++++++++++++

Chapter 6

Thirty minutes later Emily was on her bike, with a rapidly constructed picnic and flask of coffee. She did think about popping down to Chez Ami, but dismissed it. Then she considered texting Pierre. But dismissed that as well. She was going to have a Pierre-free day. Today, as previously planned, she was heading west, along the coast to Camping Le Clos Du Rhône. It was just over a mile away. She’d be there in no time.

There was no cycle path until she reached the end of the marina, and then a mixed pedestrian/bike path materialised on her left, set higher than the road. She took it hoping  to see the Mediterranean in all its glory, but it was hidden by mid-height trees. 

Soon the town ran out of steam and what she could see of the sea bent further left, away from her, making room for beach carparks and a large motorhome stopover. The latter was half-full of affluent white boxes on wheels, their owners sat outside on picnic chairs sipping hot drinks and cold beers, admiring the views of the tall white sides of similar vans. On her right was pure Camargue: scrubby wetland with the odd, far-off ranch interrupting an otherwise desolate expanse. 

The cycle track started to curve right, inland, as it followed the main road. Forward left was an expanse of pine trees and a couple of decent signs which probably announced the arrival of the campsite. A smaller road branched in that direction … which she followed.

She was at the entrance to Camping Le Clos Du Rhône less than a minute later. It was more rustic than the site she visited yesterday, it’s chalets, campervans, caravans and tents all snuck beneath the canopies of the pines. It was relaxed and homely and it made her think that, should she come next time, she’d bring a tent.

There was no entrance barrier; just a small wooden reception building off to the right. She parked up her bike and entered the building through a door which was held open by a small, blue gas bottle. She was met by a wooden counter, an exchange one-for-one bookshelf, a glass-fronted fridge selling sodas, a table full of holiday leaflets and a late middle-aged man wearing half-rim glasses who was tapping away at a laptop.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ was accompanied by a welcoming smile.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Parlez-vous Anglais?’ She asked.

‘A little. How can I help?’ The man replied.

Emily was already fishing out the two photos.

She handed them to the man.

‘Do you recognise this … sorry, not the tent or the family, but the position?’ She asked.

The man looked attentively at both photos over the top of his glasses.

‘They were taken a long time ago?’ He held a photo in each hand by their corners.

‘Almost forty years ago.’ Emily added.

He smiled and put the images on the counter and slid them in Emily’s direction.

‘Would you like me to take you to the pitch?’ The man pushed his glasses firmly up his nose.

‘You recognise it?’ Emily had no idea why she was excited, but she was.

‘Yes, of course. My father owned the site – and now my wife and I run it. This pitch is the last one on the far corner of the site.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the sea. ‘There’s a chalet there now, but the owners are not in at the moment. You’re are more than welcome to go and have a look. Is that your family?’

Emily nodded.

‘My mum. She died earlier this year. I’m revisiting some of her old haunts.’ Emily nodded as she replied.

‘I’m sorry.’ The man genuinely looked like he was. And then he added, ‘What year were these taken?’   

‘1982. In the summer.’ She replied.

‘Ahh, that was a hot one.’ He nodded and smiled again. It was a genuinely warm smile. ‘Is your mother the younger lady in the pictures?’

Emily froze temporarily, but then continued placing the photos back in her rucksack.

‘Yes.’ Her reply came across more suspicious than she wanted it to. ‘Do you recognise her?’

Surely not.

‘Possibly.’ He smiled again. ‘ I would definitely have met her. My job was to lead newcomers to their pitches and make sure they settled in. I met everyone.’

It was a long shot, but Emily tried. ‘Did you fish then?’

He snorted. ‘No. I was too busy helping my father look after the campsite.’ He paused. Emily thought she saw some cogs spinning behind his eyes. And then, ‘The fishermen all worked from the wharf just beyond the campsite at Tiki Ill. It’s on the Petit Rhone. You used to be able to see the boats from the bottom of the campsite. Now the small wood has grown and the view is obscured. But if you head onto the beach and turn right, you can walk around to the boats.’

He smiled again.

She nodded and said, ‘Thanks,’ at the same time.

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ He added as she threw her backpack over her shoulder.  

‘Merci, Monsieur,’ She said.

As she stepped back out into the dappled sunshine, the man called one more time. ‘Lock up your bike if you leave it anywhere. Even on the site.’

Emily turned her head. She could just make out the man’s face in the shadow of the wooden hut.

‘Gypsies.’ He added, with a resigned look.

She nodded, put a hand and wiggled her fingers as a wave.

It took her a couple of attempts to negotiate the maze that was the campsite. It was bigger than she was expecting. And it took her a little longer to be sure of the pitch. There were a couple which might be considered to be ‘on the far corner’ of the campsite. In the end she was convinced she’d got the right one. But it was full of white and sick-yellow coloured holiday chalet. She managed to walk the perimeter of the pitch but with the oversized caravan in its middle she struggled to imagine her mum and her family sitting around a flimsy camping table whilst grandma cooked up a feast on a single primus stove. Her mum, all desperate to eat and then rush the washing up so she could slip away to the beach to meet her fisherman lover, waiting patiently.

 Instead Emily secured her bike to a tree, attached her helmet to her rucksack and then cut through a gap in some fairly heavy bushes that appeared to lead to the beach. A few seconds later she was met by a dune, which she climbed and, as she crested, there was the Mediterranean. It was different from the beach at the centre of the town. To her right the water was browner, she guessed a result of the river mixing with the sea. In front of her humans had constructed semicircular breakwaters, which protected small, curving beaches now purposefully washed by very docile waves. The sand was busy with holiday makers here, but not crowded – similar to the campsite. She wondered what it might be like in ten days time?

She dropped off the dune, hopped over a metre-wide stretch of large pebbles until she was on fine, damp sand.

She took off her Jesus sandals, took them in one hand, and then headed off towards the river which she could see in the middle distance.

As she strolled the crowds lost their intensity and by the time she reached a raised concrete wall which, she guessed, was holding back the river, she was on her own. 

She had to use three points of contact and perspire a little harder to scale the wall but, once her short arms and short legs were on the top of the wall, there was the Petit Rhone. It wasn’t a huge river, hence the title. But it was stately and, across from her, the green, hairy bank looked as if it were home to all sorts of Wind in the Willows type creatures. She made a note to come back with a pair of binoculars. Beyond the bank was a stringy fence and, a few metres in, a black bull. It was grazing disinterestedly, lifting its head only to shake away some bothersome flies.

To her right, no more than fifty metres away, was a pier. It was the parking place for a white yacht and a couple of smaller boats. Nothing else. Set back from the pier was a wooden lodge of some description, an almost empty carpark and a few tables protected from the warming sun by beer-logo’d parasols.

A restaurant?

A fish restaurant?

The river wall was a metre wide. It led off in the direction of the lodge, although it seemed to lose interest in the middle distance – concrete looking like it might give way to a grassy bank, which had worn away in places.

She’d give it a go – after she’d put her sandals back on.

In the end the river wall stopped abruptly after a few minutes and it gave way to a small, muddy cove. The gap was far too big for her to navigate and so she headed inland and was soon among the trees. Underfoot was undulating and a bed of pine needles gave a little like an old thin mattress. The sun only managed a glimpse through the trees and that meant it was cooler, but not unpleasantly so. 

She turned parallel to the river as soon as she could and, in the distance, could pick out vertical shafts of daylight where the trees succumbed to man’s need for space. She’d be there in a couple of minutes.

Looking down to make sure she didn’t trip, she spotted the now ubiquitous small glossy metallic canisters which fed e-cigarettes. If they’d been abandoned here, Emily was sure that these would be mixed with some drug or other, probably maruanja, and puffed at by teenagers. A few feet away was a used condom. The sight of it made her flinch. It was a brief, regretful moment. A reminder that last night had bordered on elicit, maybe even sordid. Was she no better than the young people who had got high and stolen sex in the forest?

She could lie to herself that her affair with Pierre was okay. But, for some reason, some unnecessary moral reason, she wasn’t. 

It had been fabulously intense. But hadn’t it also been …? She was about to use the word ‘dirty’, but that wasn’t right. Everything they had done was normal – even natural. But she still wasn’t sure it was her. 

She shook the thought away – and strode off towards the edge of the forest.

She made it into the light, the sun immediately warming her bare shoulders …

… and then she stopped.

Dead still.      

River. Terrace. Tables and parasols. Wooden lodge, more like a large hut. A wrap around carpark with a single car.

And a bicycle.

Resting against the back end of the lodge.

She recognised it immediately.

It was the bazooka bike. Ridden by the man with the expressionless face.

What do I do now?  

Gbassy had thrown the last of a pile of stones into the river. He had been trying to hit a slow moving log and had managed to clip it once out of ten attempts. It was a childhood game. When toys were in short supply, gathering together a stash of small rocks and then competing with your friends as to who could knock over a can, or throw a pebble to see who could get closest to fold in the ground, filled an hour or so. It also provided an element of competition many boys searched for as they meandered the confusing path to manhood.

He stood, brushed the back of his thin jeans and turned to make his way across the carpark back to the restaurant. Monsieur Segal would be here in fifteen minutes and he needed to prepare the espresso machine and collect the money box from the safe. It wouldn’t do to be late.

When he was halfway across the carpark, the mid-morning sun casting a human-sized shadow on the sandy carpark which followed him as he walked, he spotted a woman in the tree line. She was stood still, her mouth slightly open and one hand hesitantly pointing toward the hut as though she’d spotted something that made her very wary.

‘Bonjour Mademoiselle,’ he half-shouted across to the trees. ‘Puis-je vous aider?’

There was no reply. It was as though the woman was in a trance.

He changed direction and headed towards her.

‘Puis-je vous aider?’ He tried again. The woman smarted, dropped her hand and looked at him as though he was an alien. Which, to all intents and purposes, he was.

Let’s not go there. Please. He didn’t want a racial encounter with a woman.

‘Noh … eh … merci.’ She paused, then glanced around as though she was calculating distances and escape routes, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ She was nodding now. It was all very peculiar. 

An Englishwoman? He’d never met one of those before.

‘Are you sure? You look a little startled.’ It was a very odd conversation. He was at least ten years younger than she was and yet, he was acting as the tribe elder.

Gbassy was no more than a couple of metres away from the woman now. She looked at him and then, in an instant, seemed to regain all of her faculties. The dizziness was gone.

‘Sorry.’ The woman took a deep breath. And forced a smile. ‘You speak English.’ It was neither a question nor a statement. He took it as the former.

‘Yes. A little. Can I help?’ He replied. He tried to look as non-threatening as possible. He’d regained the weight he’d lost on the journey – and some. And, at one-ninety tall he knew he could look imposing.

‘Sure.’ She tilted her head to one side as if looking past him. ‘Who owns the red bike?’

Gbassy was stuck. He knew who owned the bike. It was the chef’s, Monsieur Segal’s son. But he didn’t really think it was his place to say. And why did the woman want to know?

To find some time he unnecessarily looked behind him, and then turned back to face the woman.

‘Why do you ask?’ He replied.

The woman appeared to be thinking. She looked around him again as if expecting to see someone.

‘It’s … well … I met a man riding this bike, briefly, at the lighthouse the other day. And we almost had an accident. And … I wanted to say sorry.’ 

Gbassy chewed over the explanation for a second. The woman’s description lacked commitment. But, she was cute – not like the north Guinean women where size was wealth and wealth had its attraction.

‘He’s in, if you’d like to meet him.’ Gbassy answered the question without actually  answering.

‘In?’ The woman faced was etched with curiosity.

‘Yes. He’s the chef. It’s a restaurant.’

‘Oh.’ The woman replied. 

There was a pause. Gbassy had absolutely no idea where this was going.

‘Is he any good?’ She asked.

He paused before replying. The answer was, ‘yes’, but he still didn’t understand the intent behind the questioning.

‘Yes. Very. You should come here and eat. The fish is excellent.’ He was in salesman mode now and, he thought, doing rather a good job of it.

‘Oh. Yes, sure. I might do that.’

Her reply was half-interrupted by the sound of a car entering the carpark. Gbassy turned quickly.

It was Monsieur Segal.

Bother.

‘I have to go now.’ He did. 

He turned and jogged towards the restaurant. 

‘What’s the chef’s name?’ The woman cried out as he approached the hut. 

‘Luis Segal!’ He shouted over his shoulder as he weaved in and out of the tables to get to the door into the building. 

That couldn’t do any harm, could it?

He was in the kitchen in no time. Luis, who’d arrived half an hour ago, was chopping onions on the kitchen table with accuracy and speed that made his motion almost a blur. A couple of seconds later Gbassy was filling the espresso machine with water.

‘What was that all about?’ The chef asked lazily in French as another onion was diced without mercy..

That caught Gbassy – Luis rarely spoke to him. 

Had he done something wrong?

He reached for the large coffee tin which was on a shelf, took off the lid and started to heap ground coffee into the machine.

‘Nothing.’ He tried to sound nonchalant. ‘It was a woman, that’s all.’

Luis stopped slicing.

‘What – where?’ There was no threat to Luis’s tone. Just intrigue.

Gbassy paused just as he was about to start the machine.

‘On the edge of the pines. She asked who owns the bike.’ He half shrugged his shoulders, expecting a reply. There was something a little unnerving about having a conversation with someone you didn’t wholly trust who was gripping a very sharp knife.

There wasn’t one. So he continued.

‘She recognised the bike. Said she’d met you at the lighthouse. She wanted to know your name.’ Gbassy screwed his face up in defence, not knowing how the chef with a knife would react.

Like father …

But he didn’t. Instead Luis moved to the shuttered window and, as he opened it he asked, ‘Is she still there?’

It was a rhetorical question. Luis would have a good view of the pines from the open window, and must have been able to see by now. So Gbassy didn’t answer. Instead he moved to the man’s side and, without making physical contact, looked over the chef’s shoulder.

The woman was gone.

The chef shot a glance back at him, but his expression didn’t shout, ‘you’re in my personal space’, instead he asked another question.

‘What did the woman look like?’

Gbassy gave as best a description as he could of the cute woman.

Luis stuck his head forward in order to get a better view. He stayed like that for a short time and then turned; Gbassy gave him some space.

The chef snorted to himself.

‘You better get the box out and his majesty’s coffee sorted. Otherwise there’ll be violence.’

Gbassy had no idea whether or not the last clause of Luis’s sentence was a joke, or not. But it warmed him that the chef was now engaging him in non-food order conversation, making a joke at his father’s expense and, in his own way, protecting him.

Money box and coffee.

Yes, he should do that now.

‘And, if you see the woman again, let me know.’ Luis added as he took half a peeled onion in hand.

‘Sure. I will.’

And that was that. 

Emily was getting good at breaking her own promises. But, hey, they were only little ones, so it didn’t matter. 

She was back at Chez Ami, iced coffee in hand with the sun streaming down – and sitting on a barrelful of spent will power. In fairness she had made one good decision. Her head was now protected by a straw hat she’d bought at a market just along from where she was now.

Out of school she was mildly hopeless. But she lived with that. Pierre’s draw had become more and more irresistible as the day had worn on. And, after her semi-confrontation at the fish restaurant, she was in need of something. She didn’t know what exactly, but she suspected that Pierre was currently the answer to most of the questions she might pose.

Emily had moved into the woods once the very nice and very young black man, who spoke English with a gangster-French twang, had disappeared into the chalet. She’d stopped once she was in cover and turned. It was another one of those unfathomable decisions. But it turned out to be an inspired one.

She had positioned herself half behind a tree, and knelt down as if she were a sniper. It was most odd. 

She waited. Just for a bit.

Seconds later a shutter opened in the wall closest to her. Emily pulled back so that she was better hidden … and snuck a look.

There he was. Bazooka-bike man. Or, that is, the man’s head. And then the young black man. It was all a bit comical, really.

The two men must have had a chat about her’s and the black man’s exchange, moments ago in the carpark.

Was bazooka-bike man looking for her?

Yes. Of course he was.

But why?

Was he worried that she might slash his tyres? Or steal his bike?

She didn’t know.

She was lost. Confounded. 

And that line of thought had stayed with her as she picked her way back to the beach and then, with her Jesus sandals back in her hands, had walked for twenty minutes towards town, turned round and walked back again. By then it was close enough to lunch to be good enough, and she found a shady spot in the dunes, consumed her picnic and fell asleep.

She had woken an hour later, the sun burning a melanoma onto her right calf which had failed to remain in the shade. With the breaking strain of ripe brie, it didn’t take her long to decide that it was Pierre time. Because …. well, why not?

That was an hour ago. She’d dropped her bike off at the AirB&B, walked into town and stumbled across a small market in a car park just down from the church. It was mostly cheap clothes, tacky kitchenware and some tourist tat. But there was a hat stall, with more sun hats than she had the energy to try on. It took her less than a minute to pick out a floppy boater with a rainbow ribbon.

There was a small mirror hanging from a metal upright. She had to stand on tiptoes to check her pending purchase … and it was fine. The bowl of the hat was big enough to consume all her hair, and the brim wide enough to both shield her from the sun and also make her look a little bit coy.

Pierre had noticed.

He had been lovely. He could have made it awkward, but instead he had smiled, touched her shoulder and taken her order. 

‘Le chapeau te va,’ he had said. And to make sure she understood, which she thought she did, he had raised a finger and tapped his forehead. And smiled again. Which had made her midriff go a little bit dizzy.

But she knew this thing between her and Pierre wasn’t anything other than a thing. She knew that innately – with every cell of her body. It was a combination of the fact that he was only down for the summer, she was only down for part of the summer and … and, no matter how charming he was and no matter how good the sex had been, and maybe would continue to be, there was a detachment. Emily couldn’t put her finger on it, but this thing was transactional. However ridiculous that sounded.

Anyhow, he was working now and she had to fill the time with something. The view from the cafe was interesting, but hardly St Moritz. There was a road between the cafe and a raised, concrete, boardwalk. However, if she straightened her back she could see the sea, the very top of which was a strong, straight mid-blue that was made deeper still by the soft-white of distant, high cloud which might well have been a hundred miles of haze. 

There were a couple of yachts in the middle distance, both in full sail. It was an activity she really wanted to experience. Not the small, one-woman affairs full of ropes and knots and a dangerously swinging boom. No, Emily wanted to be on something big enough for cabins, a kitchen, a drinks cabinet and a fridge full of tonic – and ice. But it had to have sails. She couldn’t be doing with a pointy gin palace, captained by a millionaire, sporting a blazer with a fake,  gold breast badge.

It was a distant dream and, in its way, sullied what she was doing now. Her teaching was so important to her. She loved making a difference for disadvantaged children, winning small battles, learning from her losses, getting kids to be ‘bovvered’ with their maths and coming home bereft of every ounce of energy that she’d left home with earlier in the day. It was central to who she was. And it would stay so for a long time to come.

However. In some distant future, once she’d found someone to share her classroom comedy with and maybe produced a couple of maths students of her own, there’d be room for wider ambition. A yacht. With cabins, a kitchen, a drinks cabinet and a fridge full of tonic – and ice. And sails. It would definitely have sails.

Sometime in the future. 

Her phone buzzed and her wistfulness was interrupted.

She checked it. It was a text from an old university friend. It was a casual, ‘How’s it going?’. She was just about to reply when a thought came to her.

Instead of responding to the text, Emily opened up Google and typed in, ‘Luis Segal’. She checked the Facebook entries. Nothing. Then Twitter. Nothing. It didn’t surprise her that the expressionless man didn’t have a social media presence. She scrolled down. There was nothing else of note.

She then added ‘chef’ to the search. And got nothing.

Then, Tiki Ill.

Nothing.

Finally, Tiki Ill and restaurant.

She had something. There was a link to the restaurant. She clicked on it.

And there he was, one of three photographs on a first generation and very clunky website. 

Chef – Luis Segal.

Gotcha. He looked just as gormless as he did in real life.

What a nerd.

And then something else caught. As well as an unflattering photo of the terrace, with its  plastic covered tables, mismatched chairs and fake flowers, there was a photo of another man. Another Segal. 

Owner – Marc Segal.

Emily expanded the image so it took up the whole of her screen.

She paused and twisted her head from side to side.

Surely not?

She put the phone face up on the table and reached into her rucksack and took out the see-through plastic insert in which she kept a handful of her mum’s photos. She took them out and shuffled them until she found the one she was looking for. It was an early day selfie, the type when you placed your camera on a steady spot, set the inbuilt timer, pressed the shutter, rushed back to your proposed place in the picture and waited, often without the desired result.

But, for her mum, that time it had worked.

And it was a lovely photo. The two of them sat on the beach, their backs up against the hull of a small, upturned wooden boat. They both looked very happy.

Her mum was wearing a pair of hot yellow pants and a skimpy red bikini top. She had eighties hair and a little too much makeup. The man was topless, more hair than flesh – not Emily’s preference. And he was tanned and fit – an image of Pierre lying naked on the bed in the flat trotted through her consciousness, which she instantly deleted.

And his face was rugged; chiselled almost. It was all Roman nose and high, dark eyebrows, small ears, thin lips and a dimple on his chin. In his way he was a young, French Kirk Douglas – but more tanned. He was very attractive. But Emily knew all that. She’d looked at the photo many times before.

Which is why the photo on her phone had caught her attention.

The man, summoned by a million pixels had a dimple on his chin. The same man who owned the restaurant with its one-dimensional website that desperately needed updating.  

Marc Segal. 

She now had the phone in one hand and the photo in the other.

She turned the picture over. Her mum had scrawled a note on the back in biro.

It read: me and Marc.

‘Would you like another coffee?’

It was Pierre. He had crept up on her like a mounting credit card bill.

He was smiling again. It was beautiful.

But he also had an eye on her phone. And the picture. There was an intensity there, but she might have misunderstood his expression.

Emily swiped at her phone, turned the photo over and smiled back.

‘No, thanks.’ She replied.

He nodded.

‘D’accord. In that case, would you like to meet up for a drink tonight?’

There was that tingle again.

‘Sure.’

Why not?

My dad wrote a porno

I’ll come to the title in a moment. First, Dominic Cummings, hey? Let’s ignore everything, the trip to Durham, his and his wife’s reasons for that, his wife’s articles and radio interviews that refer to the time in question, his position in government and, therefore, its associated responsibility. And that he hasn’t immediately resigned … or been sacked. Leave that to one side. My continuous gripe is that we are leaderless. Those in charge are bereft of integrity. There is no trust. There is plenty of lies and plenty of spin. But no obvious truth. It really makes me want to weep. What have we become?

[image error]coffee time

So … my dad wrote a porno. Many of you will not know that this is now a world famous podcast which has been available for years. It’s so successful that recently it went on tour. I’ve only listened to one episode, and it does what it says on the tin. It’s three younger folk reciting and reviewing a porno book written by one of their dads. It’s millennial stuff.

The title is now me. You may all know that there is no sex in any of the Sam Green novels. Nor will there ever be. However, in chapter 5 of my new book there is a sex scene. Yes there is. Although, to be fair, it’s not Jilly Cooper-esque. But Emily, my new character, has sex with Pierre. And I write about it. The good news for you (or not) is you can read it if you like. That’s because, as I’ve reported in the last couple of posts, I am sticking up the book in Chapters as I pen it. So, read for yourself. And, of course, let me know what you think. In this case I need all the help I can get.

[image error]lovely weather we’ve been having

It’s been business as usual here. Sam old, same old. Mary’s been under the weather a bit, so we’ve slowed things down even further. And we have made the provisional decision that she will go home in a week or so’s time. She has a nephew living in her house and we know she will be well looked after there.

Other than that, I’ve got a bee in my bonnet at the moment about the writing. Which has surprised and excited me. I hope you are enjoying it.

[image error]a love train just down from us

Hurrah!

[And remember that what’s below is first draft. There is an awful lot of work to do yet …]

++++++++

Chapter 5

Emily sipped her iced-coffee as she stared absently towards the horizon. The wind had strengthened and was now blowing inland, picking up a little fine sand, but not so it was uncomfortable. She was back at Chez Ami having scoffed her sandwiches, drank all of her half-litre flask of coffee and still found room for an ice-lolly whilst sat at a table in the lighthouse’s picnic area. She had thought about cycling further along the coastal path, but it was past two by the time she saddled up and she didn’t really have the energy for an extended ride. 

Something had taken the wind out of her sails. It was probably the delayed reaction to talking to the two girls at the campsite, a conversation which was firmly in ‘mum’ territory. Or it could have been the brush with, and then the semi-stand-off with, the bazooka cyclist. His ‘don’t mind me’ as he pushed past her on the track and then that connection by the display boards – that wasn’t. Emily hardly considered herself eye-candy and it might be that the man has no interest in women whatsoever – which was absolutely fine. But in the information centre he had looked directly at her. There had been something, briefly. But, like an adept cinematographer, the camera lens on her had unfocused leaving a blur, and something else, beyond her – no, through her – had come into sharp relief. It was the oddest put down she’d ever experienced.

Yes,  I see you, but there’s something more important …

Just there. Beyond you.

And that encounter had, for some bizarre reason, played on her mind.

So much so, half way along the route back she had pulled off the track, scrambled up and through the dunes, and sat just on the other side looking out across acres of off-white sand, which was interrupted by the odd snake of damp created by a hardly moving stream. Then the sea, as wide as her neck could turn and a deep blue, which shouted at her: ‘Come to me.’

The beach was deserted, anathema to her. If this had been anywhere in the UK the expanse would have been filled with beach towels, wind breaks, cool bags and hampers, and young children getting sand in places where it would stay for weeks, eventually demagnetising and messing with the back seat carpets of dad’s car. There’d be mums and dads, mums and mums, and dads and dads. There’d be strutting young lads, shirtless, kicking a football about which, every so often, would land amongst a gaggle of giggling girls who were surreptitiously smoking e-cigarettes, laced with hash. And dogs, chasing, barking, rushing at the sea, biting the surf and then backpedalling, panicking as they found themselves in unfamiliar territory with wet paws and salty teeth.

And in amongst that miasma, she imagined her and her mum, a couple of years ago, just after she’d finished uni. Just the two of them: sunhats, fake Ray Bans, a Co-op inspired picnic, a book of puzzles and a bottle of prosecco served in a red and a blue plastic mug. They’d talk about almost anything. Her mum’s inability to find a decent man, or at least one who actually looked similar to the avatar on the internet dating sight. Her mum’s church which had, more and more, become central to who she was. Emily wasn’t religious, but she loved that her mum had found something to which she could devote her spare energy. Work – she was a middle-ranking civil servant – had always filled the days. The church now, much of what was left.

When it was Emily’s turn, she deflected a little. She grabbed the puzzle book and, between them, they rattled through a number word searches. It was banal stuff, especially as both of them had good brains. But, it filled the time … and kept them together. And, whilst she was happy to talk about her plans, her friends and pretty much everything else, Emily knew at some point she’d be quizzed on men.

It was never the typical mother/daughter man-chat. Her mum would never press her on ‘finding a man’. And there was no hint of grandmotherly desires, or a worry that Emily might end up on the shelf – a spinster headmistress, all Miss Jean Brodie with huge wisdom … but unused ovaries.

Her mum would never press like that.

Because she had form.

She had chosen a man to marry. His name was Ian. He was an accountant – a good one. Money wasn’t a problem. They lived in a good house, in a good neighbourhood. They had a good car and, her mum tells her – because Emily was too young to remember – they had some good holidays. 

But good became less good. And soon it became rubbish.

Ian – dad, Emily supposed – had a wandering eye, which was accompanied by wandering hands. Her mum’s expression was, ‘He couldn’t keep it in his trousers’. Sadly things got much worse after Emily was born and there was only so much her mum could take. It all came to a head when ‘Ian’ found a younger version of her mum. Within weeks he’d moved out.

‘It wasn’t a mistake,’ her mum had told her as soon as she was old enough to understand.. ‘Because, without your dad, I wouldn’t have had you.’ Emily remembered her mum smiling at that point. ‘But, as soon as you popped out it became clear to me that he would have to go. It’s sad, but garbage happens.’ 

Emily had never seen her dad since he’d moved out and could hardly remember what he looked like. There’d been no contact, no birthday cards, no nothing. She didn’t mind. 

That is, she didn’t think she minded.

And so, armed with one of the hardest lessons in life, her mum never pressed her on relationships because, ‘What do I know, love?’ 

As Emily sat looking out at the great expanse of the Mediterranean – knees to chest, her arms holding them close – images of her mum, her middle-aged quips, her laugh, her smile and her hugs, they all came back. Emily hadn’t cried at the funeral – she couldn’t find any. And she’d been stoic and polite at the wake. Her eyes had dampened when she’d dropped off her mum’s clothes at the charity shop, but there was no flood. And she had bitten her lip as she’d handed over the keys to her mum’s flat to the excited new owners.

But no tears.

Until now.

They poured off her cheeks, dropped onto her bare thighs, tracked along and down her legs until gravity suggested they fall to the sand below. 

Her shoulders gently rocked. The back of her throat ached. And her eyes began to sting.

And still the tears came. The sharp and beautiful, empty vista merging to a blue and beige impressionist canvas, the detail lost in the damp of her sorror.

She sat and cried for … how long? Maybe ten minutes. Possibly much longer. And she could have stayed there all day. In fact, the way she felt, she could have headed seaward, stripping off layers and disappearing into the azure depths – a modern day, female, Reggie Perrin.

Thankfully that thought didn’t last long. She wasn’t there. Not then. Hopefully never.   

So … she stood, grunted at the wet patch of sand she was leaving behind, and found her bike.

Life went on.

Now, a hour and a bit later, she was back in familiar territory, out front of Chez Ami. Back with ‘Pierre’, who was waltzing in and out of the very small cafe, administering drinks and pastries, teasing a group of teenage girls, who clearly thought Christmas had come very early, and generally being gorgeous.

Of course, he had paid no attention to her. Why should he? She was a mess. Leaving aside her sweat stained t-shirt, her advancing battalion of freckles, a wet patch around her groin that was probably a combination of tears and perspiration, but could easily be mistaken for a woman who had lost control of her pelvic floor, her face doubtless needed remedial work. Any woman knows that tears and makeup, no matter how sparingly applied, do not mix. Add to that her eyes which she was sure were framed a heavy pink, the whites probably a blotchy red and white crazy paving, and she knew she was hardly mating material.

But that didn’t matter. It didn’t.

Because she had finally opened up – after five months. And, whilst it had hardly made her feel better, it had, at least, started some form of process. And she welcomed that.

And the coffee was fab.

And Pierre was a darling. Okay, so he wasn’t her darling, but she could dream. 

Couldn’t she? 

There was no offer of any fish from the chef tonight. In fact he and Luis had hardly communicated other than passing the details of food orders. As always Gbassy pushed the slops on a plate to one side and, by the time he’d cleared the eighteen covers, there was more than enough leftovers for a substantial meal. The good news was that Monsieur Segal wasn’t in tonight. Nor were the three, dirty cowboys. Instead Gbassy had served two tables of regulars, a table of six who were staying at the campsite and were in for their second meal of the week, and a couple of German tourists who turned up in a beautiful, blue car that looked like it cost a million Euros. Nobody was any trouble and, so far, his tally was nine Euros in tips. 

That took the stash in his metal box to over six hundred Euros, a year’s salary for a teacher in Guinea. He knew that because his eldest sister worked at the local primary school. She had ambitions to be a headteacher one day …

… and that thought made him pause in the frame of the door that led to the terrace. He stood still with his feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Upright, but at ease, like a soldier. There was one final table of four chatting away, but looking as if they would pack up and leave at any moment. Luis had finished cooking and he would be gone in ten minutes.  And then Gbassy would be alone. 

Alone with thoughts of his sister, the teacher. And, as he stared absently at the slow moving river, the three quarter moon’s reflection broken into segments by casual ripples from an indeterminate wind, the rest of his family. One of them, he was certain, would be looking up at the same moon. His mother would be saying a prayer for all of them. And his father, having toiled hard in the damp, equatorial heat, would be sat in his tatty chair watching the news on either Al Jazeera or France 24. 

He was sure, just as he was thinking of them, one of them would be thinking of him. 

The same moon. 

It inspired him. And he needed that. After last night and his musings throughout the day he was beginning to feel a little down.

The table of four locals had risen noisily, and were gathering their things. Other than four empty wine glasses and a brown beer bottle, that provided a vase for a red, plastic flower, all that was left on the table was the bill which Gbassy had scribed. It was accompanied by a handful of notes. They were held in place by a large pebble.

It would have been impolite for him to reach the table before the guests had left, so he gave them space … but only a few seconds. He then stepped to the table, picked up the bill and counted the notes.

He counted them again.

The pile was just under ten Euros short; and there was no tip.

What do I do?

The obvious thing was to chase after them. He knew their faces well and they had never short-changed before, so it was obviously a mistake?

But what if they argued with him? What if they say they had left the correct amount?

Wouldn’t that upset them? 

And, if they thought they had left the correct money, might they accuse him of taking from the table and accusing them. After a number of glasses of wine, they were easy prey. After all, he was just a black waiter. And they were not to be fully trusted.

He went through the notes again, laying them out on the table – slowly. It was an unnecessary action. He knew he had counted correctly the first time. He had that sort of eye for detail. It was a subliminal process of delay. Preventing the opportunity to confront the locals. Hoping that, by the time he was sure the notes were wrong, they’d have taken to their car, which was round the other side of the hut, and left. And then he’d be too late; too late for any confrontation.

He counted.

Slowly. 

Eighty Euros. Two twenties and four tens. It was simple maths. The flimsy papers stared up at him. 

Eighty Euros for a bill that came to eighty-seven fifty.

He checked the bill – again, an unnecessary action – checking the numbers in his head were correct.

Yes.

The four locals had either underpaid on purpose. Or by mistake.

And the noise of rubber and gravel which cut through the near silence of the night, meant that they had left and that he would probably never know.

He was seven Euros and fifty centimes short.

‘Merde.’ He swore under his breath, the notes laid out in front of him, his bunched fists on the table, straight arms holding his torso steady. He shook his head slowly.

‘Je pars.’ It was Luis Segal from behind him. He was leaving.

Gbassy was caught unawares. He gathered the notes quickly, stood upright and turned –  the notes in one hand, the other outstretched as if begging a question.

Luis stopped, and asked, ‘Que se passe-t-il?’

Gbassy opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

The boss’s son responded with a quizzical look, but it was temporary. He then shook his head, half raised a hand and then disappeared around the back of the hut to where he left his bike.

Gbassy watched him go.

Seven Euros fifty cents. 

It was almost a day’s wage. It was all of tonight’s tips. 

Seven Euros fifty. Two beers to any of the customers. 

But, to him, it was thousands of Guinean Francs. It was close to a week’s worth of food for his whole family. 

It was a fortune.

And now he’d have to find the money. There was no way to disguise it. Monsieur Segal had a straightforward accounts system which consisted of three things: the order slips; the bills; and the money. All three were kept in a small safe under the sink. And every morning, as sure as the river ran into the sea, his boss’s first job over a cup of coffee was to check the balance. Gbassy hadn’t missed a day. It had been perfect every time, And tomorrow would be no different. The seven Euros fifty would come from his metal box. He knew that as soon as he identified the shortfall. He was never going to confront the customers; not the locals, in any case.

He missed his family so much at that point. He felt as if he had let them down. He had lost them thousands of Francs – a week’s worth of food. And it was his fault.

Anger wasn’t an emotion he was particularly familiar with, and soon the spike melted away. It was replaced by resignation … and then resolve. He had the makings of a plan. It relied on figures, time and intuition. It was about money – having enough to survive on his own. And that would take time. How long? He wasn’t sure. Not yet. And, in any case, the exact length of time would depend upon his intuition. 

He had to leave before his usefulness was spent. 

Money and time. Figures and intuition.

It was a plan.

First, though, he had to balance the books.

And then he had to find somewhere safer for his metal box. Somewhere more secure than under his pillow.

He headed inside and ten minutes later he was back on the terrace of the restaurant. He had washed up, balanced the books and deposited the correct money in the safe, and had collected his metal box from under his pillow, as well as a knife from the kitchen.

Where?

The pines – above the high water mark, which was laid out by a meandering line of plastic, wood and rubber flotsam from a previous storm. 

He walked cautiously into the trees, in the direction of the campsite. Other than to meet the boats, it was the furthest he’d stepped away from the restaurant since he’d arrived at Tiki Ill. He needed to find somewhere which he’d recognise time and again. An obvious tree would be good, one which he could also mark with a cut from the kitchen knife, just to be on the safe side.

But not too obvious. Not somewhere another person might become curious.

He was ten metres into the wood now.

Crack, followed by laughter. The noise came from in front of him, closer to the campsite.

More laughter.

And then the smell. The same smell he’d experienced once in Tunis, drifting from a room where a group of Nigerian immigrants had holed up. 

It was a heavy, skunky smell.

Hashish!   

A moan. And more laughter. 

He stopped dead still. He could see the red end of a cigarette. It burnt brightly and then dimmed, and then danced through the night a short distance to where it stopped. And then it burnt brightly again.

At least two people.

Another moan. A noise of pleasure.

He was instantly embarrassed. 

And instantly aroused. 

He hated himself for the latter.

More laughter. And a deeper moan.

Something physical stirred in him. Something irreligious. Something despicable.

Liusaeidni allah.

God help me.

With his metal box held tightly with both hands, he turned quietly and picked his way slowly through the undergrowth back to the hut.

He would need to find a less compromising hiding place. And that would wait for another night.

Emily stared at her orange juice. She twisted the glass through ninety degrees and then let it settle. It was mildly mollifying. She reached for the half eaten croissant, which was on the same plate as the half eaten pain au chocolat. She picked it up, chumpfed to herself, wiggled in her chair in a way that would never give her a serious indication as to what state her hips were in, and then put it back. 

No. That wouldn’t do.

She picked up the plate, strode three steps across the very small kitchen, put her foot on the pedal bin lever, and dropped the half-eaten pastries into the black void.

She put the plate on the drainer and stared briefly out of the window. Beyond a row of houses she could pick out the sea, a darker blue in the morning as the sun woke, stretched and dressed for the day.

She chumpfed again, turned, looked across at the kitchen table and recognised she was short of a coffee. 

That might help.

She actually thought her earlier dash to the boulangerie might make a difference. But it hadn’t. She’d felt relaxed until she got onto the promenade, and then she felt very conspicuous. As though people knew. She walked quickly past a bar, with its terraced wicker chairs and similar tables with glass tops. There were two customers even at this hour. Two ageing men, nursing small beers in delicate flutes. They stopped talking as she trotted past, the smell of Gauloises cigarettes a fog through which she had to battle.

One of the men, all trenched, leathery skin with sprouting nose hair, whispered to his friend.

They’re talking about me. She was sure of it.

The boulangerie was just around the corner. She’d have to come back a different way.

It was the strangest feeling. It didn’t make any sense and yet, it made every sense.

Coffee. That’s what she needed.

Thick and dark. 

Like my men.

It was her teacher friend, Sarah’s, retort every time they popped into Costa on the way home from school. Emily always laughed, even though the cliche’s humour had mutinied an age ago. 

Emily put the kettle on and prepared the cafetier. Three heaped spoons of ground coffee.

She’d be back on form in no time.

The kettle boiled, she filled up the cafetier and took it and her mug to the kitchen table. 

She sat. 

And lined up the mug, half glass of orange juice and the jug of coffee. One next to next to one next to one. 

She stared at the three and then lost focus.

A moving image dashed through her mind which tingled the nerve endings between her thighs. And she smiled to herself, nodded and then closed her eyes, her expression a mixture of pleasure … and pain.

What a night.

It had all started when she’d asked to pay at Chez Ami. Pierre had glided across the yellow-tiled floor and left the bill, which was rolled and held in a small white jug on the table. 

She took the paper out and then glanced at the entrance to the innards of the cafe.

The waiter was gone.

How strange.

She studied the bill. It was exactly as she’d expected. Except … there was a hand-written note on the bottom. It read: dinner? 7.30. The time was followed by a mobile number.

Emily glanced to the other three outside tables – they were all full of older tourists who she didn’t think were Pierre’s type.

No, the note was for her.

Emily Copeland. Sweaty t-shirt, hair in need of a mechanic, a damp patch lower down, and legs, she now noticed, which were short of a shave.

The note was for her. 

Left, rather surreptitiously, by the gorgeous Pierre.

What?

The next four hours were a blur. Initially she ummed and ahhed. Should she, shouldn’t she? And then her mum came to mind. The seventeen year old girl and the young fisherman lover.

What would she do?

Emily knew damn well what he mum would have done. And she had the photographic evidence in an album to prove it.

She’d phoned Pierre at around five-ish – he was charming – and they agreed to meet at a local restaurant for dinner.

The following couple of hours was more frantic, in terms of getting ready for a night out, than she ever remembered. She was four boyfriends down, only one of which – a nice, local lad with ambitions of marriage – had lasted more than a couple of months. The other three were more interesting, but they were less reliable. One wanted Emily to do things between the sheets she wasn’t prepared to do, so that ended abruptly. The other two were clearly keeping score and Emily was on the middle of their lists, rather than towards the end of it. 

‘Men, love. They’re all bastards.’ Her mum’s words of wisdom.

If Emily could have cherrypicked the best bits from each of them, she might have ended up with a model that she could live with. Alas, that version of loveliness had yet to present itself. If she were honest, it probably never would.

She already knew Pierre would be different. For a start, he certainly wasn’t anywhere close to the model Emily thought she had in mind. Not even on the spectrum.

Over dinner, for which they went Dutch, he was inordinately adorable; graceful but still masculine. And they spent most of the time talking about her. His English was excellent and he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. When she tried to divert the conversation back onto him, his answers had been … was ‘superficial’ the right answer? Or was casual better? He was, apparently, down on the Camargue for a break and had taken a summer job in the cafe. 

‘What is the job you’ve taken a break from?’ She’d pressed, applying her best knowing smile.

‘Office.’ Had been his response. And then they were back talking about teaching and England and Bristol and her plans and …

It was, in many ways, the perfect date. He was very attractive, his six o’clock shadow sharpening his already tanned, Gallic looks. And he was easy company. They laughed at the stupidity of politics and he pulled her leg over the madness of the centuries-old French/British spat. They discussed music. He was an 80s fan with a penchant for a few of French bands she’d never heard of; she was only a little wiser when he’d shared a couple of YouTube links. She was a Millennial and loved Chris Brown and Lady Gaga, which didn’t really register with Pierre. They could both, however, agree that Ed Sheeran was a superstar.

And, with the smoothness of a loose-fitting silk blouse, within a few seconds of them entering the room above the Chez Ami – which, apparently, had been gifted to Pierre for the duration of his employment – Ed Sheeran’s Divide was powering from a hidden speaker.  

Emily hadn’t drunk much at the restaurant – it was a first date precaution. But she happily accepted a glass of fizz which Pierre had summoned from a fridge the size of a bedside locker. She recognised where this was going, she thought she was comfortable with the likely outcome and, frankly, needed a little bit of liquid courage. 

The flat was as small as the fridge: a kitchen-cum-sitting room, a bedroom just big enough for a double bed, and a shower room. But there were plenty of windows, two of which overlooked the beach and out into the blackness of the cooling Mediterranean. Pierre opened them all.

And then he kissed her.

The next two hours were as vivid to her now as they were sensuous then. 

To begin with it was all about her. He was all caress and touch: light tongue and finger. 

And he was gentle, and slow. To which she responded, openly and willingly, their limbs caressed by soft light which glanced in from a fullish moon, sensuously reflecting the sweat of their exertions. It was like nothing she had experienced before. There were no grunts, and no fumbling. There was no embarrassment – and no closed eyes. There was no spare flesh … and no imagination required.

Once she was spent, she tried to make it about him. She did things she’d never done before. She used her mouth and her lips, and she put a finger in places it probably wasn’t designed to go. It was unreal, and yet so natural. 

He cried out, as she had minutes earlier, and that aroused her again.

He knew. He had a sense. And the next time it was deeper and stronger. And even more confounding.

And then it was over.

They both laughed, which seemed the most unnaturally natural thing to do.

And then he held her … and she him.

Until …

Until it was time to go. It was way beyond midnight and emotionally she was on the canvas. Her mum. The tears. And now this.

She needed space. And whilst it was clear that she was welcome to stay, she had to go.

She pushed herself off the bed and stood, her body still in the room but her mind elsewhere. She bent over and rested her bare arms on the windowsill. The view was of a small path between two houses. The town was as quiet as the Scottish moors. And the only thing which stirred was a strutting cat, arrogantly making its way to the centre of town.

‘You have a nice arse.’ Pierre said, his French accent as delicious as crème brûlée.

She didn’t look at him.

‘The second best after Mark Peterson, according to the Lower Sixth.’

‘Who’s Mark Peterson?’ He asked.

‘A PE teacher at school. He’s very attractive. And thankfully, for the discipline of the sixth form girls, very gay.’

‘What about the sixth form boys?’ He quipped.

She turned.

And there he was, lying on the bed. Naked as Michaelangelo’s David.

Her loins twitched. With the resolve of a bulldozer, she ignored them.

‘I’m going.’ She said with a finality she meant. ‘It’s been quite a day.’

He didn’t object. And she sensed it wasn’t because that’s what he hoped his one-night stands would do – or that he was offended that she was leaving. It was as though he respected her for the choices she made.

And that felt good.

Ten minutes later, after pecking him on the cheek, she was out in the salty air, her mind completely at odds with itself.

That mood, one of vexed emotions and multiple choices, had remained.

The same quandary was harassing her this morning as she struggled with an easier, more immediate decision: orange juice or coffee?

She plumped for the latter.

What is bothering me?

Last night had been fabulous. But had it been sordid? Was she a notch on Pierre’s – what was his surname? – belt? It was a small town. Would the residents know? The two men outside the bar. Were they talking about her? Really? One part of her wanted to pack everything in its bags and leave the town before her reputation was sullied further.

On the other … 

Did that matter?

Yes … didn’t it?

No … ?

She was a grown woman. She was allowed to have fun. Sex was sex. And, bloody hell, it was good sex. No, great sex.

She had nothing to hide. She should be proud.

Emily sipped her coffee, clasping the mug in both hands as if it were her greatest friend.

And her mum?

She released a hand and bit on a nail.

Had it been the same with the fisherman? Had her mum been given the time of her life by a Frenchman who knew what that looked like?

She stared at a small stain on one of the kitchen cupboard doors.

And then she smiled.

Her mum had had sex in an open boat on the beach. She had had fabulous sex in an open boat om the beach. She hadn’t said as much, but it was implied. The look on her face across the kitchen table. And the photos. The glow of a young woman having the time of her life. 

Her mum hadn’t been embarrassed. She had soaked it up, squeezed it out and hung it out to dry. She could imagine her grabbing every opportunity without a care for the consequences. The photos told that story. 

Emily was her mother’s daughter.

She was. 

And that was the end of the discussion.

Tighten your belts

Thank goodness for Mrs Sun, who has been omnipresent. It is lovely and warm today. Could you imagine what it would be like if this were winter, or it was constantly raining?

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there’s life out there ..

I did get a bit low last night having heard the latest unemployment figures. When we get back to some sort of normality, and I think we are all being understandably optimistic talking about summer breaks etc, I think we are going to be facing a whole new world. Unemployment is going to continue to rise as the government, probably rightly, drops the support to the furlough scheme. It can’t continue to pay people’s wages especially as many firms, even with support, are very likely to either close or reduce numbers. More unemployment means less tax revenue and less money circulating in the system. As a result more firms will shed jobs – and what follows is a downward spiral, I feel. I darn’t think about inflation, a stalking, unpleasant effect of any crash. If you add that together, all of us are going to be worse off in a couple of months time; certainly by Christmas.

Oh, and don’t forget a no deal Brexit …

I’m working on a 25% reduction in our income. We’ve already lost 25% of one of our properties having cut the rent bill to a key worker (child care) who is struggling. And I have no consultancy work at the moment as budgets have been cut. On top of that I think we’ll either get a sharp rise in VAT, a chunk more in Income Tax and our pensions will all be frozen (certainly removed from triple lock). And that’s all understandable – provided we see that reflected across Europe and we’re not paying back more than others because our government came at this late. Having lost Kevin – who might well be alive if we’d locked down earlier – it would be salt in the wounds if we’re paying financially more than necessary because His Borisness was too busy spending half term in some rich geezer’s pad rather than attending Cobra and locking us down when he should.

We’re luckier than most. Worst comes to worst, we’ll move out of our current house, decamp back into Doris and rent the house out to pull in a little bit more income. There are millions of others who do not have that flexibility – and I already feel for them.

Enough …

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we’re over the fence

Apart from that we’re OK here – it’s pretty much business as usual. We’ve been out for a couple of walks in the car, which is a nice change. And we’ve been doing some garden stuff and I’m always tinkering with Doris.

And, of course, I’m still writing. Below is Chapter 4 of the work-in-progress (WIP). Note that it is unedited and unproofread. If you want the first three chapters, just scroll down to the weekend’s blog and you can find it there. I hope you enjoy it.

I’m loving it, by the way. Which has surprised the hell out of me!

Till the weekend.

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our neighbour still entertaining us with a roof full of not-socially distancing toys

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Chapter 4

 

Emily was halfway to La Garochelle lighthouse, which itself was halfway between the two Rhône tributaries and their associated towns: Saint-Marie-de-la-Mare and Port Saint-Loius-de-Rhône. The cycle route was more cross country than tarmac, with sections of the rough track swamped in fine beach sand which made progress on two wheels become more of a push than a ride.

In  many ways the scenery was unremarkable. In others, it was extraordinary.

To her right, due south, was a strip of tufty-grass-topped dunes, beyond which was a wide stretch of sand and then the sea. Next stop Corsica. To her left, the belly of the Camargue. More mud than sand, crisscrossed with ditches, ponds, lakes and watery islands. All as flat as laminate flooring. There was no horizon. Just a haze of scrubby land meets watery, blue sky. 

But it didn’t have it all its own way. There were posts and fences. There were beautiful flamingos, all ‘look at me’ in pink and black suits. In the far distance she was sure she spotted some cattle.  And, every so often and more closer to the path than in the distance, a school of riders picking their way through the delta – tourists enjoying the Camargue from the mount of a white horse.

I’m sticking to two wheels, thank you very much.

She’d rented the bike from a shop in town. She could have brought her own by putting a bike carrier on Mildred, but in the end she opted not to. And the bike she’d been given was more than adequate.

Ahead the track was pretty straight, curving only in a grand arc as it followed the bend of the coastline. Other than the patches sand, where no amount of pedalling was going to see her through, it was manageable enough and she was able to enjoy the vista as she pedalled away.

And she wasn’t alone. 

There were a number of hikers and a dozen or so cyclists making the most of the weather and the light winds. The paper paraphernalia on the coffee table in the AirB&B mentioned the mistral, a merciless wind that, later in the year, blows straight down the Rhône valley from the north. It can be very cold – and unrelenting. For her visit it was probably too early in the season for that to be a bother.

She lifted her head and pushed a wayward strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind the strap of her cycle helmet. In the distance she spotted the lighthouse. It was maybe four or five kilometres away and the only structure that broke the carpet of spiky grass and marsh. Set well back from the sea, and at under twenty metres in height, hardly ‘very tall’, you would be forgiven from thinking that it was just a folly. But, no. According to her paperwork it was a proper, automatic lighthouse – a sister among a number of similar siblings along this desolate section of coast.

She reckoned she’d be there in half an hour. Apparently there was a small information centre which sold ice creams. She had a picnic of baguette and brie in her rucksack, and had knocked up a flask of coffee. She’d need the sustenance by the time she got there.    

Just before she’d hit the single track which followed the shoreline across the bottom of the delta, she’d stopped off at a campsite which was set at the east edge of the town. It was a modern affair, with a large reception, a clubhouse and a couple of swimming pools. She wanted to find out if it was where her mum had stayed all those years ago. There were two photos in the album which showed off the family tent. They were both marked on the back: ‘campsite – yuck!’ And that was it. No other clues. From the pictures there was little to pick out from the background other than a couple of yacht masts which rose above the pine trees, their little coloured flags giving away their position.

As Emily cycled into the front entrance, snaking past a couple of barriers, she looked around for any tell-tale masts. There were none. The sea was a cricket ball throw from where she was now, but it was all beach and no marina. So she thought it unlikely that this was the place.

Anyhow, she’d give it a try.

She’d parked up her bike and popped into the reception.

She was met by a long welcome desk, behind which were two identically dressed – in white shorts and campsite-emblazoned red polo shirts –  and very smiley, late teenage girls. They were named, by way of a plastic badge, Sophia and Kristal.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ Sophia made a high-pitched introduction.

‘Bonjour.’ Emily replied. She had a basketful of French and had every intention of improving on that this holiday. 

She took out the two photos from her backpack and showed them to Sophia.

‘Reconnaissez-vous cela?’ Her translation may have been technically correct, but it lacked grace or conviction. She knew the conversation might well degenerate quickly into English.   

‘Are you English?’ Sophia responded with no hint of a French accent.

Emily smiled a tight-lipped smile.

‘Yes.’ Thought so. She held out the photos from her mum’s album. ‘Do you recognise these? Do you think this might be this campsite?’

Kristal had shuffled along to join the enquiry.

They both shook their heads.

‘It was taken about forty years ago.’ Emily added.

‘They still both shook their heads.

‘Sorry. It could be. But, these are boats?’ Sophia pointed at the little nautical flags.

Yachts, actually.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Emily clarified.

‘Mmm.’ Kristal was making noises now. ‘Monsieur Laurent may know. He’s the campsite owner. He has lived in the area forever. I shall ask him.’ She picked up both photos and continued, ‘May I take these to him?’ Kristal’s accent was very French. And she was also very pretty – so much so it made Emily wish she’d removed her cycle helmet and pulled her hair into a tighter bun.

‘Sure …’ Emily paused. All of a sudden she wasn’t so sure she was happy for the photos to be taken from her. ‘No … sure.’ A further mixed answer, which matched the way she felt. The beautiful Kristal, who had a smile full of teeth, did need any encouragement. She was off through a door in no time, photos in hand.

There was a brief and slightly awkward silence.

Emily was a teacher and, thus, was ingrained with confidence, and found filling silences easy.

‘It’s my mum.’ She said, nodding aimlessly.

Sophia looked mildly interested.

‘She came here a long time ago. She died earlier this year.’ Why am I telling this stranger my life story? ‘I’m just, well, reminiscing. If that makes sense.’ It did to her.

Sophia nodded solemnly. And then added, ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’

The problem with opening up to people was that you assumed the other party had the energy or the emotional intelligence to listen and react empathetically. Or, preferably, both. Sophia could have been no more than eighteen – Emily might have been teaching her maths just a couple of weeks ago. Actually … probably not. Sophia had the air of a linguist – all wavy hands and open faced; none of your mathematical intensity and precise hand movements. And she clearly spoke like one. On reflection, Emily’s best mate and French teacher, Sue Tapner, would have likely had her in her class. 

Whatever, Sophia was probably too young and too caught up in other social media vortexes to be bothered with some strange Englishwoman’s emotional history.

‘Thanks.’ Emily smiled in a way that she hoped stopped a conversation that was going nowhere. All of a sudden she was feeling a little tearful.

Kristal floated back into the room. 

Saved by the bell.

Thankfully she still had two photos with her. She handed them back across the counter.

‘Monsieur Laurent thinks it may be Camping Lu Clos Du Rhône. It’s at the other end of the village. Where the Petit Rhône meets the sea. They have yachts there. It’s …’ Kristal offered.

‘Thanks.’ Emily gently interrupted. ‘I’ve seen it on a tourist map. I’ll take the photos there.’ She was already putting the pictures back into the small folder she had in her rucksack. ‘You couldn’t have been more helpful.’ She had no idea why she was rushing to get away. These two young women were a delight. But the short conversation about her mum had pricked an emotion in her which she didn’t wish to display in public.

‘Have a good season,’ was the last thing she said as she left the building and jogged across to where she’d left her bike.

And that would be tomorrow’s trip. Lighthouse today – due east. The Petit Rhône tomorrow – due west. And then … she had no idea.

‘Oi!’ Some vandal had just overtaken her on a narrow bit of track, a dune on one side and a thicket of bastard bushes on the other. He’d got so close he’d forced her off the road. Thankfully she stopped herself before she fell sideward into the thorny branches. 

‘Oi!’ She shouted again at the masculine, black Lycra backside and yellow-nylon t-shirted hooligan who was now ten metres from her and moving fast. She wanted to raise a fist in indignation, but she was struggling to remain upright and, in any case, the moment had already passed.

So instead, she whispered, ‘Bloody idiot,’ to herself and immediately felt better.

And then the cyclist was gone, slipping around one of the few bends in the track.

Hopefully she’d never see him again.

 

Which didn’t happen.

Twenty minutes later Emily arrived at the lighthouse and was immediately struck by how odd it was. It was a square white tower, tapering upwards to a glass and metal pinnacle which wore a flat, pointy white hat. The cylindrical glass light housing was surrounded by a square, metal balcony. Either side of the tower, one and a half storeys high and running parallel with the track, were two rendered wings. From the front she guessed the tower might look a little phallic-esque.

How French.

The information centre was at the back of the lighthouse and to get to it Emily had to park her bike up and make her way down a narrow path which was squeezed between the left wing of the lighthouse and a barbed wire fence. Around the back was a courtyard and two other buildings, one of which had a number of displays and, thankfully, an ice cream stand. The courtyard had six picnic tables, four of which were taken with hot and hungry tourists.

It was hot. She reckoned it was in the high twenties; round the back of the lighthouse it may well be in the thirties. And she loved it. 

The ice cream was tempting, but her internal  nagging school-ma’am pushed her to the display boards. 

She felt like one of her Year 7 class. They were the year’s bright kids and easy to teach … once you had their confidence. That required plenty of energy, and plenty of patience. Earlier in the year she’d taken them on a trip to Bristol’s ‘We Are Curious’ centre; all twenty-nine of the darlings. She’d not gone alone, but the trip was her responsibility and – of course – the class’s behaviour was a direct reflection on her. 

The thing people didn’t get about teaching is that once you’re in the classroom, it’s like a continuous round of fifty-minute, one-woman shows. It’s theatre – writ large – with every member of the audience as cynical as a tabloid editor. The kids, certainly the brighter ones, are merciless. They find every mistake, every slip, every tired and emotional moment … and they exploit it. Sure, you can raise your voice. You can sanction them, put them in detention, dispatch them to a member of the senior team and, finally, phone their parents. And there is clearly some deference associated with being the adult in the room – provided you behave like one. But, metaphorically turn your back, and one of the blighters will seize the moment. And if a teacher doesn’t respond in the right manner, with the right words, given in the correct tone and with a face which disguises the anguish within, then you lose that one child.

Next time, you lose a couple more. 

And then the class is gone, and there is little you can do to regain their respect and you find yourself desperately trying to get to the end of the year without having a nervous breakdown.

Over time it should get easier. You learn tricks like, ‘not smiling before half term’, and you get to know your subject better and discover what helps brings clarity to a topic – and what doesn’t. You discover that difficult balance between instruction and activity. You work out whether or not you work best with tables in clusters, or in straight lines. 

And you just get older, and your skin gets thicker. 

Emily was only twenty-seven and only at the end of her third year of teaching. But she had completed her apprenticeship with her mental health intact.

What was her trick? 

Time. She gave a lot of it. Every second of every class she was fully committed. Helping here; firefighting there – encouraging, directing and, when necessary, gently chastising. Out of formal classes she was always helping one child or another. It might be maths related; or it might be to help with a relationship, where one girl had fallen out with another. 

Emily stayed behind after school and helped kids who hadn’t quite got it in class. And she always went to detention to help those children who had been sanctioned. She handed out maths sheets and sat with them to help them through …

… because poorly behaved children are that way mostly because they’re frustrated. They don’t get it. They’re embarrassed. Poor behaviour stems from poor understanding. And her job was to correct the latter, so the former didn’t bubble up in her classes.

It was exhausting, because it took all of her time. And because it was theatre. 

But it was also magical … because it was theatre.

How many other occupations throw a twenty-year-old into a fiery pit with a truck load of adolescents armed only with a whiteboard marker and their wits? And … and to her it was a huge ‘and’ … hold the employee accountable by way of a rigorous testing programme at the end of the year. If Johnny gets a D, it’s the teacher’s fault.

It was exhausting.

And so exhilarating.

But maybe not so much, the Year 7 trip to ‘We Are Curious’ centre. 

It was the first time Emily had been wholly responsible for a trip and all was going well until Masie Brown decided that she would take herself to the loo without telling any of the staff. Emily knew she should have been counting the kids – biblically. But she’d been distracted by two boys who had fallen out over the rubber that had come off the top of a pencil, and Masie made a dash for it.

It was only twenty minutes. It may have been less. But those were the longest twenty minutes of her life. Masie, of course, was oblivious to the chaos she had caused and, thankfully, Emily had managed to appear very calm whilst inside she tearing herself apart, working out what she’d have to say to Maisie’s parents … and the headmistress. Tears were never far from the surface, but she prevented a flood. That was until she’d got home. Then they came, as she sat on the floor in the shower – fully clothed – letting the hot water cleanse the day from her.

Doubtless something like it would happen again.

But hopefully not for a good while.

Anyhow, the boards were calling, this time without the aching strain of a temporarily missing child.

The first board –  half of the explanation was in English – introduced the reader to the Camargue. The second had more detail on the lighthouse. The third … hang on.

Black Lycra shorts. She let her eyes head north, following a long pair of legs, through a tight midriff to a yellow nylon t-shirt. 

Him.

He was looking at the third board. And, as result, he was in her way. 

Again.

She waited, her head cocked to one side, her rucksack hanging from one hand.

Crikey.

He looked towards her.

Perfect complexion. An attractive face, probably early thirties, but not one of an Adonis – the nose was on the big side and it may well have been broken at some point. A short beard that could be a face in need of a shave. A forehead, patchy-white, with dried sweat. And a full head of black hair.

She blinked.

Those eyes.

Those deep blue eyes. 

Penetrating. 

Knowing?

Possibly.

No. 

Because he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring through her, so much so she almost glanced behind to see what she might be missing.

There was no connection. Just a blank stare. She might as well not have been there. 

And then it was over.

He turned away from the board and took his intense, but expressionless face out of the information centre, into the courtyard … and Emily found herself following him with her eyes to the gap to the right of the lighthouse which led back to the path.

Back to his deviant bike.

On the road to knocking over some other hapless cyclist.

That’s it. He was gone. She would never see him again.

And that was a good thing …

… wasn’t it?

 

Gbassy had kept his head down all morning. He had no idea what to make of yesterday evening. The random act of kindness from Luis Segal, left standing, arm outstretched, an empty hand where a plate of succulent fish used to be. And his father, Gbassy’s boss, all slurs and snorts, his anger seemingly directed at his son for being generous for offering a ‘slave’ some food. 

The words came back to him. 

Ne jamais nourrir un esclave!

Never feed a slave.

If Gbassy hadn’t been clear on what Monsieur Segal thought of him, he was now. 

He was a slave. That was all. Nothing else.

And that nagged at him as he cleaned his teeth first thing. It nagged at him as he brushed down the terrace and laid the tables for lunch. And it nagged at him now as two of Monsieur Segal’s team unloaded the catch of the day and lugged it into the restaurant. 

He was the only black man he’d seen who worked for the boss. 

And now he was very clear of his place.

Which nagged him. 

He was paid. He had no real context to gauge what a sensible wage was, but ten Euros a day, plus tips, was a lot of money to him. He’d brought an ageing smartphone with him from home which should allow him to connect to the internet, if there had been open WiFi at the restaurant. But there wasn’t. And he hadn’t found the courage to ask Monsieur Segal if he might  head into town to buy a French SIM. 

After last night, he wasn’t going to chance that question. Not now. Not yet. 

So he couldn’t Google, ‘What should a waiter get paid’. As such he had no idea if what he was being paid was paltry – or the norm. He’d spent a week in Tunis and had found a WiFi hotspot. There, he had searched for the exchange rate between the Guinean Franc and the Euro: one Euro was worth around ten thousand Francs. In downtown Conakry, ten thousand Francs could buy you a decent meal with some change.

Ten Euros a day, or three hundred Euros a month, made him a very well paid man.

And, after last night’s fracas, that nagged him.

At the moment he could do nothing with the money other than save it in his metal box and hide it under his pillow. He ate leftovers and drank water. As a Muslim he had no need for the alcohol, and he had the strength to avoid the calling from the sodas. It would have been easy to drink the dregs from the bottles, but he didn’t do that. It didn’t seem right.

So he had money. And he knew that soon he’d be wanting to send money home. In his bag he had details of a Western Union account to where he was to dispatch whatever he could spare. One of the village elders had sat him down on the night before he was due to travel. They had spoken of purpose, of safety and of the calendar. The elder reckoned it would take Gbassy at least two months to make the journey, and then another two months to settle and establish himself. During that time he should keep in contact via text message – and the man had given him a number to use. Then, once he was set up, he could then think about sending money home. 

‘Four months from now, my son. Inshallah.’

It had taken Gbassy just over half that time to establish himself. Being selected by Monsieur Segal as soon as he’d touched French soil had cut his journey time in half. And he was already making money. Plenty. All he needed to do know was to find a Western Union office. 

First, ideally, he’d get into town and buy a French SIM … and whilst he was there, he could log onto an open WiFi source. And then he’d be ready.

But not yet. 

Not after last night.

And especially now a spectre had risen to his shoulder and warned him of something which, when he thought about it, was a question that should have been obvious from the beginning; but was only nagging him now.

Who was my predecessor? And where did he go?

At the moment the ships came every three weeks. As the days grew shorter, he reckoned that interval would widen and eventually, with the weather conditions worsening, the crossings would stop.

Monsieur Segal’s restaurant was al fresco. Dining outside was perfect at the moment. But as the nights grew longer the temperature would drop. And the restaurant would close?

What would Monsieur Segal do with him then?

And who was the man – it must have been a man after the manner his boss spoke to the poor women who had her child ripped from her arms – who was doing Gbassy’s job before him? Had he been moved on? He had fallen ill … maybe?

Or, had he become truculent and, as a result, experienced the very worst side of Monsieur Segal?

Whatever that outcome … had his predecessor kept his money in a box under his pillow?

Was that the point? 

Was the amount of money he was paid, bait? Was he working until he was no longer needed, kept within arm’s reach of Monsieur Segal, and prevented from venturing into town so that when the time came, the money was just taken back?

The thought had nagged him since he’d woken up.

And it nagged him now as he polished the glasses on the tables.

He had no one to ask except, maybe, the chef. The expressionless man, seemingly cold and distant, but capable of cooking food for a slave and then standing his ground against his furious father.

No. 

That wouldn’t do.

He might have been offered food by the man. But he was still his father’s son. And if Gbassy asked the wrong question – made a fuss – it might quicken his demise, whatever that was. 

But, he was a resourceful young man, chosen by the village elders above all of the brothers and sisters in the village. He was not a prisoner here, not in the sense of being locked up. He could run away at any point. And now he had money, which was growing every day. 

Perhaps that’s what his predecessor had done? The thought had only just come to him.

Of course!

He stopped polishing and looked out across the Petit Rhone to the horizon. He squinted, as if there was an escapee dashing across a field, clutching a handful of Euros, to freedom.  

No. There was no such man.

Because, if the man before him had run, Monsieur Segal would have been much stricter on Gbassy’s freedom. 

Something had happened to the man who went before him. Something cruel, Gbassy reckoned. That was Monsieur Segal’s way. 

And his money had been taken from him. Offered as an incentive to a naive and wide-eyed African; snatched away at the last, before the horror – whatever that was.

He was sure of it.

That was what was planned for him. 

‘Boy!’

It was Marc Segal’s bark. It cut through Gbassy’s thoughts and sent his anxiety spiralling.

He turned, half bowing, glass in one hand, cloth in the other.

‘Get me some coffee. Now.’ Marc Segal dismissed Gbassy with a flapping hand in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Yes, sir.’ He replied quietly, turning sharply to the door.

His time was limited. He knew that now. 

I need a plan.

His brain was already working on some options.