The Marks of Cain. Tom Knox

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СКАЧАТЬ so sorry, Amy.’

      ‘Don’t be. It wasn’t rape. It was just disgusting. I did love him once and I can never forgive myself for that. But he was going to kill you. He was probably going to torture you. And so.’

      ‘Is he…’ David didn’t know how to phrase it. ‘Is he ill? I mean he’s obviously a bastard but it feels like more than that.’

      ‘Who knows. Psychotic maybe. The facial tic always made me wonder. And the sleep and the inexorable libido…He used to want sex five or six times a day. Anywhere. With lots of…’ She grimaced, and continued: ‘Like I said. Tying up. Biting. Cutting. And worse. You know.’

      ‘OK…’

      He reached out for her hand; he touched it, blindly, his eyes on the curving hilly road. He said nothing for a few kilometres.

      Then he gave voice to obvious question, the same question as before.

      ‘Can we go to the police now?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I knew you’d say that.’

      Her smile was polite.

      ‘Sure. But it’s true. No police. That’s one thing José taught me. When the Basques are involved, don’t trust the police anywhere, on either side.’ She gave him another bleak and tight–lipped smile. ‘You know there are five police forces in the Basque Country? All dangerous. Some are killers for Spain. Some are infiltrated by ETA…We might walk straight back into danger.’

      ‘Yes, but we’re in France.’

      ‘Same difference. Let’s just…get away. Think about it.’

      He subsided. She was maybe right; he suspected she was wrong; but after the last few hours, he didn’t want to question her or press her any further than he needed to.

      They drove, the sun was warm, they drove.

      David and Amy swapped seats, Amy taking his directions. He had a firm idea where they should go: further north and east, into Gascony, away from Spain. Towards the next towns marked on the map. Savin. Campan. Luz Saint Sauveur.

      He knew where they were going, because he was more determined than ever to discover the truth about the churches and the map and his grandfather. The savagery and horror of the last days had only made him more purposeful. And he was, to his own surprise, excited by this velocity, this targeting, this rationale for everything. His life, at last, had a satisfying if difficult goal, his existence was speedy and directed, after a decade of anomie and apathy; it was like being on a very fast train after driving aimlessly on a beach.

      Did Amy know where they were going? Probably, possibly, who could say. She seemed to fool him and beguile him at the same time. She was like a deep blue rockpool, full of deceptively clear water. When she spoke she was honest and candid and he thought he could see everything: see to the bottom, the rock. But when he dived in, he realized the truth. He could drown in the cold plunging blues, her depths were unsounded.

      So they drove.

      But this was big empty country, and the little French roads were slow and full of tractors and farmers’ trucks. For several hours they trundled through yawning little villages and forgotten Basque hamlets, past farmyards advertising Fromage d’Iraty on homemade placards. In the hypnotic, mid-afternoon sunshine, David found himself wearily dreaming, again, this time remembering his childhood. Playing touch rugby in the summer with his father – he remembered his father’s bright happy smile; the pungent aroma of the leather rugby ball, rough against David’s hand. A big family dog cantering across the lawn. Happiness. And then the sadness.

      At length they stopped at a vast Carrefour hypermarket on the main Mauleon road where they ate a lonely croque monsieur and salade verte in the sterile cafe; where they bought clothes and toothpaste, staring silently at each other across the supermarket aisle as they did so. They were refugees, hiding out. And they couldn’t even trust the police?

      At last they ascended to the little town of Mauleon Lecharre, lying alongside a pretty river and surrounded by the green Pyrenean hills.

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