Almost, almost there
When you’re writing there is little room for anything else. Sure we went to Currys on Monday (masks and handwash) to start the search for a new oven as ours is on its way out. And we had a lovely day yesterday with Annie and Al for a socially distanced lunch in their beautiful garden accompanied by Mrs Sun. Today we’re off for a walk along the River Severn, picking up Cassie afterwards (it will be too hot for her for the walk we’re hoping to do), bringing her back here so she can go to Jen’s preferred groomer tomorrow.
Other than that … oh, I know. Here’s a thing. I ordered a new bike battery six weeks ago. It came from China, but it was underwritten by a German tech company. It’s the same make as the new one I bought for C a year ago. At £300 they’re not cheap, but the new battery is bigger than the old and, at the end of the day, you can’t easily work an electric bike without one.
Anyhow, the new one didn’t work, no matter what I did. So I got in touch with the company (German), they came straight back to me and said send it to them and they would refund the money. Which they did, including postage. They said they couldn’t return it because it was one of a bad batch and they wouldn’t be producing anymore for a while.
OK. That’s fine. And then yesterday the battery turned up again. It was still broken (that is, it registers on its own, but doesn’t register on the bike). I emailed them, they came back and said please try and get it to work – the emailer is German so the English isn’t always clear.
What to do? Well I’m not sending it back. But, what I can do is take the battery management system out of C’s old one and put it in the new one (I’ve taken them apart before, so this should be easy enough). If that works I have a £300 battery for free. Simples? I don’t think that’s dishonest, is it?
[image error]mmmmm
Okay – but it’s mostly been about writing. I have the proof copies of Blood Red Earth here and, to all intents and purposes, I’m ready to publish. I’m looking at July 4th … and I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t make that?
The other book is about 5,000 words from completion. It needs a lot of work. But, as per … , please see the next chapter below. Enjoy the sun and stay safe everyone.
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Chapter 14
Gbassy had no idea what to do with himself. He was just through the door of the hut, cash box in one hand and Monsieur Segal’s coffee in the other, when he brought himself to an abrupt halt – the coffee spilling into the saucer.
What …?
The boss was halfway through pulling out his usual chair, the one caught in the shade of a parasol but with the best views of the river. He’d also stopped as if freeze-framed, his mouth slightly ajar.
Coming from the opposite direction was Miss Emily. She looked purposeful, full of energy – arms swinging like those of her soldier – but her face held a grimace as if braced for an accident.
Monsieur Segal quickly regained his composure, pulled out the chair and sat down. He ignored Emily, crossed his legs, looked to Gbassy and waved him to the table.
Gbassy was now in a race – who would get to the table first? He didn’t know why it was important, but he felt it would be better to get the coffee to the table before the fighting started. Emily was heading for a confrontation. That was very clear. And Gbassy was both anxious and fascinated. What would Emily say to the boss? What would the boss’s reaction be? And why was she putting herself in danger like this?
He didn’t win the race. It was a tie. She got to the table just as Gbassy was placing the cup with the spilled coffee and the money box in front of Monsieur Segal. He quickly stepped back but, as always, waited for any further instructions from the boss. Emilly now had both hands on the back of the chair opposite. Close too she looked even more determined – and just as anxious as he felt.
Monsieur Segal, who looked like he’d bitten on something very sour, stared at her and then glanced at Gbassy. The boss waved his hand in a dismissive movement. Gbassy’s presence at the table was no longer required.
And then, before he could stop himself, Gbassy opened his mouth in a small defiance.
‘Puis-je vous prendre un café, mademoiselle?’ He decided not to be familiar and didn’t use Emily’s name.
She looked at him and blinked. And blinked again. Gbassy didn’t know if he had helped, but he wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.
‘Ehh … qui …, yes … please.’ She nodded at him.
Gbassy looked to Monsieur Segal. His expression hadn’t changed but, surprisingly, he didn’t admonish Gbassy. Instead, he dismissively waved his hand again.
Gbassy moved slowly back to the restaurant doing his best to pick up every word. He thought he knew what Emily was trying to do and he had no idea how his boss would react. He also knew if there were an explosion between them he would come to the young woman’s defence. He knew he would. In the same way he couldn’t stop himself trying to reconnect the latest immigrant lady with her daughter. This time, though, it would be one against one and he’d be prepared. And, whilst he felt he would have no chance against the older, seasoned man, he was pretty confident he would create enough room for Emily to escape.
‘What do you want.’ Gbassy heard Monsieur Segal loud and clear.
‘May I sit down?’ Emily replied. Her voice was higher pitched than he remembered, but it was unwavering.
Gbassy couldn’t stand still and the entrance to the kitchen was just there … as a result he lost the next two minutes preparing Emily’s coffee – which he’d made as quickly as he could. When he emerged from the kitchen, it was clear that the situation was still tense, but it hadn’t broken down irrecoverably. Emily was leant forward, her elbows on the table. Monsieur Segal was sitting on his chair at an angle, his shoulders facing the river, but with one elbow resting on next to his coffee. He looked stern and uncommunicative.
‘… you’re not helping me, Mr Segal,’ was the first thing Gbassy picked up.
The man chumpfed. And continued to stare out across the river.
‘Why were you in touch with my mother?’ Emily asked. The frustration in the question made Gbassy feel it wasn’t the first time she’d asked it.
Gbassy slowed to allow time for Monsieur Segal to reply, if he were going to.
His boss eventually did so without looking at Emily.
‘We were …’ he paused for a second, brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose and pinched it. ‘We were getting to know each other again.’ His hand was gesticulating now. ‘We had a good time all those years ago.’ He paused and turned to face her. He wore a weak smile. ‘I’m single, she was single. What’s the harm in that?’
Gbassy was beside them now. He slowly put Emily’s coffee next to her. She looked up at him – it was a moment – he nodded, the briefest of nods. She did the same in response.
Gbassy stayed a little longer than was necessary but, with the conversation paused, probably waiting for him to leave, he turned and shuffled his way back to the restaurant.
Very slowly.
‘Why was a bank account in Arles paying my mum large sums of money until she died?’ Emily had clearly moved on from romance.
Gbassy was still walking away, so he couldn’t see Monsieur Segal’s face, but he picked up every word. It came after quite a long pause.
‘I have no idea? Why should I?’ There was a further pause. ‘Are you suggesting …?’ And then the boss broke into raucous laughter, something Gbassy had not heard from him before. As he reached the doorframe to the kitchen he couldn’t stop himself. He turned to see what would happen next.
Emily’s pose was unchanged.
Monsieur Segal was still sitting sideways to the table. He was now sniggering to himself, his body rocking, as though a joke he’d just been told had afterburn.
Gbassy sensed that Emily was waiting for the commotion to die down before she asked a further question. As that happened, he backed into the shadow of the kitchen and watched the scene unfold.
‘Why was your son in Guinea-Bissau two years ago? At a church?’
That was enough. Monsieur Segal spun round in his chair and reached across the table for Emily’s arm. She pulled away, but the man was as quick as a gymnast …
‘Oi! That …’
As Gbassy strained himself against the doorframe, Monsieur Segal didn’t let Emily finish her remonstration.
‘Do not bring my family into this, Emily Copeland.’ There was poison mixed in with his staccato words. ‘You have already been warned. The Camargue is a notoriously lawless place. People ride wild horses and manhandle dangerous beasts. And family is an unbreakable bond here …’
As the boss spat out his words, Emily whimpered, ‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’
His boss continued. ‘I strongly suggest you go back to your apartment and stay out of my business.’ He let go of her theatrically.
Emily was rubbing her arm, her face a picture of angst and some fear. But she didn’t leave her seat. Not straight away.
‘You …’ she paused, looking for the right words, ‘… you groomed my mother. And you used her. She was a good woman and …. and … and, she was my family. The only family I had. And you almost certainly made the last years of her life a misery.’ She stood then, still nursing her arm.
Monsieur Segal had lost interest now. He had arrogantly turned away from her and was staring across the river.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said quietly, as if to himself.
‘What?’ she shot back a reply.
‘Don’t be so sure that your mother was a good woman,’ his boss’s remarks were snide.
Emily blustered, but couldn’t form a sentence.
Monsieur Segal was still looking across the water.
‘Go, Emily Copeland. And be careful on the roads. The drivers here are reckless.’ It was a whisper, but it was meant to be heard.
Emily was shaking her head, her mouth forming words which didn’t come out. She pushed the chair back further so that it toppled and almost fell. She shook her head … paused, as if waiting for something more, and then she headed back the way she came.
Gbassy kept an eye on her, and on the boss. Once he was sure there would be no further incident, he snuck back into the kitchen.
Emily pedalled like the wind. She wanted to get off the road and onto the cycle track. It was only a kilometre or so away, but until she did, she wouldn’t feel safe.
Marc Segal had just admitted that he, or someone he’d instructed, had driven the white 4×4 which had propelled her into the ditch. He had. She was absolutely convinced of it. Whilst she suspected it may well be the case, knowing for sure was horrifying.
If he could summon up a vehicle on a ropey cross-country track out in the middle of nowhere, he sure as hell could find someone to take her out as she cycled home along one of the two main roads into town.
It was terrifying.
But what else had she learnt?
Nothing, other than he’d confirmed that he was the Marcus Segal who had engaged with her mum on Facebook and then, almost certainly, by email. And that he was very protective of his family.
I wish I could get access to those emails!
She pedalled faster … and breathed in and then flinched and wobbled as a car sped towards her. And again, when one had overtaken, pulling in front of her a little too sharply for her liking. Everything was a threat – all cars were a deadly weapon.
The cycle path!
She steered right, went up a small ramp – and was now out of harm’s way. But still she pedalled hard, sweat now soaking all her hidden places, rubbing where she wished it wouldn’t … and dripping down her forehead.
She’d be in town in ten minutes – into her Airbnb, pack and …
No. Her mind couldn’t process what her next step should be. Not yet. Not as she was flying along on her bike.
She could, though, revisit recent history; chastising herself as only she could.
Had she asked too pointed a question, too early? Should she have been more general and built up the opportunities over time? Maybe she should have gently flirted with the man – clearly that was the sort of bloke he was?
Maybe.
She had to face it, she had made a mess of it …
… and it didn’t matter. Not now. It was too late. She had closed that door. Slammed it shut. What she needed to do was open a few more. And, without rehearsing the arguments as her brain was too busy punishing her body as well as managing the squeaks and sores from the wet bits at the edges of her limbs, she still had the three obvious options: Pierre, Luis and Gbassy.
No time to think more …
There was a family straddling the cycle path walking towards town. She slowed, but didn’t stop. Instead she rang her bell.
Nothing. No movement,
She rang it again.
This time a woman turned, was immediately flustered and pushed and pulled her family, which included, by the looks of it, some grandparents. It was like splitting a herd of sheep. One or two didn’t quite know which way to turn and, without warning, changed their decision and scuttled across the path.
Emily wasn’t in the mood. But there was little she could do. She slowed to almost a stop and then, as a clear gap eventually emerged, she stood in her pedals, mouthed, ‘Merci, merci,’ with as much disdain as she could muster, and set off again.
She was outside her apartment five minutes later, she dumped and chained her bike, had a glance around – for a reason she couldn’t fathom – and hastened inside.
Shower?
Coffee.
Open the windows. But lock the door.
Close the windows. Keep the door locked.
Pack? That is … finish the job. She hadn’t taken everything out of her case since she’d almost left yesterday morning.
Get out of these clothes.
Pee.
Coffee? The same option as before.
It was hopeless. She was hopeless; her instinct no longer a trusty weapon. She was caught between leaving and not. Doing something … and doing nothing. Protecting herself, or pursuing her mother’s legacy.
Coffee. Definitely. It was the answer to nearly everything.
She put the kettle on, prepared the cafetiere with two heapfuls of decaf and collected a mug from the drainer.
She stood, still breathing deeply and with both hands on the kitchen worktop, her arms straight. She looked at the kettle, which wasn’t boiling anywhere near quickly enough and then to her mug. And back again. She tried to calm herself by breathing in and out through her nose. She then pushed her head back into her neck and, with a scrunched up face, let out a soundless, ‘Argghh!’
Knock, knock.
What?!
Someone was at the door.
She turned her head.
Who the bloody hell …?
Nobody knew where she was. Pierre had never been to her place and she’d never mentioned the address. But, who else would know?
Her mind did flips and her heart made sure she knew it was beating.
And the kettle boiled. There were too many things going on at once.
Knock. Knock, knock.
Whoever it was, they were persistent.
Bugger.
Her pelvic floor weakened. She needed that wee.
It was okay to admit it. She was a little scared.
Coffee? It didn’t sound so promising now.
Answer the door?
The muscles in her legs seemed to involuntarily relax. Thankfully a sturdy grip on the kitchen worktop prevented an unnecessary visit to the floor.
Knock, knock, knock. This time accompanied by, ‘Let me in, Emily. I know you’re there. Your bike’s out here.’
It was Pierre.
Pierre the policeman. The one with the gendarme walkie-talkie, and the message to the police car by the edge of the village … everything ok?
What choice did she have? She could hide. Pretend not to be there. But, maybe he’d knock down the door? Or wait until she eventually emerged and then arrest her – escort her out of town?
Her imagination was running riot.
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Come on Emily. I know you’re there. I told you it’s not safe here …’ The voice paused, and then, pleading, ‘Let me in. I’m here to protect you.’
She hadn’t taken her eyes off the front door, which was beyond the edge of the kitchen and before the start of the small sitting room. A shape now materialised through the opaque glass which filled the top half of the door. Pierre’s head was resting against it.
What choice do I have?
The kettle had finished its frantic boiling and its spout was now puffing steam like a pre-war locomotive; her coffee was unmade. She knew she looked a mess – all red-faced, the rest of her discoloured in places which shouldn’t be attracting attention to themselves. She was also exhausted, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning.
And she could do with a stiff drink.
Emily closed her eyes, opened them and still Pierre’s head was resting against the glass pane.
She sighed, stood upright and walked tentatively to the door. She unlocked it and pulled it open.
Pierre was standing exactly as she expected him to be: his head forward, one arm on the doorframe, the other with a fist poised to knock again. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He was looking slouchy – and fabulous: tight black jeans, a Gucci belt and a light blue, motifed polo shirt with a dark blue collar. He had a pair of tasteful sunglasses perched on his head. And he was managing to look efficient, concerned and good looking all at the same time. He had a knack, there was no doubt about that.
She stood there. He lifted his head, but didn’t change his stance. There was no threat – no tension.
Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. Then, ‘I’m making coffee. Would you like one?’ she said.
He smiled that outrageously disarming smile. The one he used to win everyone’s hearts – apart from, maybe, Luis Segal’s.
And her. She was determined to have none of it. It would not work. Not now. Yes, she would feign interest and fawn when appropriate, if that’s what she needed to do. But, she was definitely in Luis’s camp. She’d fallen for Pierre’s charm once, but she’d seen the other side of the policeman; felt his strong grip on her wrist, like Marc Segal this morning. And she hadn’t liked what she’d seen.
She was used to starring in a one-woman pantomime. She could do unyielding, she could display warmth and she could be the joker. She could defer to parents but, when necessary, be politely firm with the same people.
She’d have to watch her tongue, though, which could run away with itself. But, overall, she reckoned she was ready for the gendarme.
Offering a coffee was a good start (apart from still needing a pee). And Emily didn’t wait for an answer; she turned and walked back to the kettle.
A small triumph. It felt good.
‘I think it’s safer if you came back to my apartment. For now.’ There was no hint of seduction in Pierre’s voice. Just pragmatism.
She ignored him and went about making her drink.
‘I told you two days ago this place was dangerous. And now I hear you’ve been knocked off your bike. It’s no coincidence. Can’t you see that?’ He was in the room now. She glanced at him and caught him looking round the place. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught.
‘Sorry. It’s habit.’ He shook his head in his defence.
‘What …’ she tried to sound as casual as she could, ‘looking for signs that there might be other men in my life?’
‘No! No.’ He sounded affronted. ‘It’s a police thing. You know …’
She was now resting her bum against the worktop and nursing a mug of coffee, its steam providing a mystical sheen between her and Pierre.
‘How did you know where I lived?’ She felt as though things were going her way. She kept it up.
He shook his head, clearly not used to being on the back foot.
‘I’m a policeman. It’s a small town.’ He shrugged.
Emily didn’t say anything. She had so much she could have said, so much she could have shared – some of which might allow Pierre to fill some of the gaps in her story. But she was neither sure, nor ready.
‘Anyway, it’s not safe for you here. Not at the moment.’ He looked down at his shoes, which were two-tone leather lace ups. They were expensive.
‘Why am I not safe?’
He lifted his head and raised a hand to his chin. He stroked it.
‘Look. You and I both know Marc Segal is up to no good.’ She tried to say something, but he raised his hand and continued. That annoyed her. ‘I’m close to getting the evidence I need. And it may be you can help. You may have something … or have seen something. In any case, you have, by your own actions, put yourself in danger. You were knocked off your bike, eh?’
She nodded, now feeling a little more confident in Pierre. He was making sense. But, he always made sense, she reminded herself.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘if that doesn’t tell you something?’ He paused again – and she realised she hadn’t drunk any of her coffee. She lifted the mug to her lips, thought about it, but couldn’t manage it.
‘Come with me. You’ll be safe in my apartment. I am a policeman. Nobody in France messes with the gendarme. I have a shift in the cafe …’ he looked at his watch, ‘soon, and some stuff to do later. And then, this evening you can tell me everything? And maybe I can help you?’ His face was open, his hands apart.
Emily worked the options. Again.
Pierre had always been one of them. And everything he said made sense. And he was, well, a policeman. But …
‘What happens if I don’t come with you?’ she asked.
He sighed as if he were persuading a child to do their homework. That irked her.
‘You are not safe here. Nor anywhere in town. Not at the moment. And, I guess, you can’t stay locked up in here forever. You could leave – get away. But you could have left yesterday. And you didn’t.’ He smiled a, ‘I rest my case’, smile.
She took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled the same way. The coffee in her mug rippled as a result.
‘Shall I leave everything here?’ She had made a decision.
He looked towards the door leading to the bathroom.
‘Maybe bring something to change into. You can use my towel.’ After which he immediately put both hands up to signify that his intentions were honourable.
This time she took a swig of her coffee. Any more might have been fatal.
‘Okay. Give me ten minutes,’ she replied with some reluctance. And then dashed to the loo.
Gbassy had fretted all through lunch and most of the afternoon. He’d fretted a lot. Of course it was the woman, Miss Emily. She and her confrontation with Monsieur Segal laid heavily with him. His boss’s responses had been dismissive and threatening. He had known about the white 4×4 that had meant to do more than throw Miss Emily into a ditch? And now she was … who knew where?
She was in danger, that was for sure. As soon as she was out of sight, Monsieur Segal had got up and walked to the bank of the river. He had taken out his mobile and made a call. Gbassy had tried his best to listen to the conversation, but to no avail. He sensed the call was linked to Emily’s visit. There was an urgency about it. Was his boss creating more danger for Miss Emily? Had she crossed a line and now there was definitely no going back?
If she had, what could he do? He had no idea where she lived and, even if he did, what difference could he make? Should he try and find her and plead with her to leave town whilst she could? If the answer to that question was ‘yes’, when should he do that? He’d tidied up after lunch and had an hour or so before he’d have to set the tables for supper. Could he make it into town and back again and still have the restaurant ready?
Of course he couldn’t. It was a half hour’s walk there, and the same back. And where would he start to look? He still had no SIM in his phone and, even if he did, he didn’t know her number. And it would be the same again once he’d cleared after the evening session. He’d have plenty of time then, but it was a big town. She’d go out to eat, no? He could try the restaurants and bars … but, at that time of night she would almost certainly be in bed.
It was despairing.
And that had made him fret. That was … until he opted for a different approach. One that wasn’t without danger. But what choices did he have?
Luis had been quiet at lunchtime. They hadn’t really said much to each other, not since their conversation about whether the chef was involved with the boats and the immigrants.
You don’t know anything about me.
That was true. But Gbassy knew a little more now. He knew that Luis Segal had had his picture taken in Guinea-Bissau. A country which neighboured his own. A country from which Africans fled for a better life – as they did from most West African countries.
He was Gbassy’s only option to help Miss Emily. The man felt something for her; the chef had admitted it. All Gbassy had to do was mention she and his father had had a conversation this morning. And that his father had, almost certainly, arranged for a 4×4 to run her off the road – and then, this morning, had threatened her again. Gbassy could offer his help and …
He didn’t get round to it at lunchtime. He was still weighing all of the options, the tables had been overflowing and, in any case, the chef was still uncommunicative – an opportunity hadn’t arisen.
He would find an opening tonight; if not, he would create one. He would. Even if that blew apart what little relationship they had left. He owed it Miss Emily.
And he owed it to the children ripped from the arms of their mothers.
All of the tables were full. It was a mixture of locals, some of whom he recognised, and tourists. There was a particularly loud group of English women – six of them. They were young and vivacious. One woman was wearing a big badge making it clear that she was, ‘The Bride’. The woman was a little worse for wear even before she’d turned up. Her friends seemed keen to catch up. It wasn’t long before they were singing loudly to the annoyance of the rest of the terrace.
He was going to have to say something, and was just about to walk across to the table when Monsieur Segal beat him to it.
The boss had just arrived – and he went straight for their table.
‘Bonsoir, mesdames.’ He spread his arms wide, his barreled chest filling his crisp white shirt. ‘You are English, no?’
The women quietened; drunken giggles were the loudest sound.
‘And you, lovely lady, are the bride to be. Noh?’ Monsieur Segal was looking at the woman with the big badge, his head on one side and his face was full of smiles.
The bride to be put a hand on her chest, returned his smile and let out a tiny burp.
‘’Scuse me,’ she said.
The giggling got louder, but didn’t erupt. It was clear that Monsieur Segal had the group under control. Like a charismatic teacher with an entranced class.
‘The wine is good?’ He put a hand to the side of his mouth. ‘It makes me burp all the time.’ He was speaking directly to the bride. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell slightly ajar.
‘I am Marc Segal. This is my restaurant.’ He gesticulated to the crowd. ‘Let me welcome you by ordering a bottle of wine. For free’ He looked across at Gbassy, nodded, and then, flamboyantly added, ‘The best we have!’
Gbassy knew what that meant. And it didn’t mean serving an expensive bottle. They’d rehearsed it a number of times before.
Gbassy did as he was asked. As he uncorked the bottle by the table, two of the women opposite him made eyes, one nodding approvingly at the other.
‘There. Have a lovely party and may your marriage be full of pleasures.’ The boss’s smile was mischievous – he knew exactly what he was implying, and the bride to be was caught between laughing and blushing. She did neither. Instead her eyes glazed as she raised her glass to her lips.
‘One thing …’ Monsieur Segal hadn’t quite finished; he raised a finger as he leant forward, his head between the two women closest to him. He had their attention. ‘No more singing, please.’ Another smile. ‘Not at the table. The fish in the river don’t like it, mmm?’
As he stood back to his full height, the women all nodded in agreement. They had been told. By the very attractive, older man.
Since then, they had behaved. Yes, they had continued to drink, and their jokes were just as raunchy and, whenever Gbassy went to the table, their lears just as penetrating. But Monsieur Segal had quietened a table of drunken women. With just his charm. It was remarkable.
That had been a diversion which had taken his mind off Miss Emily for a while.
But his determination to speak with Luis, when the opportunity arose, hadn’t diminished.
He would do it.
In fact, now that nearly all of the second sitting’s meals had been served, he would do it now.
He was almost at the door to the kitchen when a weighty hand caught his shoulder. He knew who it was straight away.
Gbassy turned. His boss was there, his hand still resting on Gbassy’s shoulder.
‘There is another boat, tomorrow night …’
Gbassy missed the rest. It was lost against the backdrop of his mind churning with anguish and fear.
‘Are you listening?’ His boss shook his shoulder.
That brought him to.
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
‘It’s the last boat until the end of the summer. The tourists arrive next week. And then it is not safe.’ Monsieur Segal had him fixed with his eyes. ‘One more boat. You understand. No more funny business, huh?’
Gbassy nodded his head as his heart ripped at his nerves.
‘Good.’ Monsieur Segal nodded as he slowly let go of Gbassy’s shoulder, still with his eyes fixed on his.
And then there was a pause. It seemed to Gbassy like a mini-deadlock. Whoever turned first had lost. That should be him. Of course it should be. But his feet were firmly planted to the floor. His brain wanted them to move, but they wouldn’t. Not to begin with.
The boss didn’t move either – but his mouth twitched.
And then it became too much. The pause seemed to last an age; although it was probably only a second. But a point had been made. For better or for worse.
Gbassy turned and walked into the kitchen. He had, briefly, stood up to the senior Segal. Now he was going to have to have a difficult conversation with the junior.
The two men who could make his life a misery.
What was he thinking?
