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

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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.