Peter May - Extraordinary People

Light flooded the room suddenly. Bright, yellow, electric light, and both men froze, mid-struggle.

‘Papa!’ a girl’s voice screamed in distress. They both looked around to see Nicole standing in the doorway. She was wearing a short, almost see-through nightie, the line of her breasts and hips clearly visible beneath it.

The man on top of Enzo issued an almost feral howl of anguish. ‘ Putain !’ he screamed, spittle gathering all around his lips, and he took a swing at the face immediately beneath him. Enzo turned his head to try to avoid it, but the fist caught him a glancing blow on the cheekbone, high up, just below the left eye. Lights flashed in his head.

‘Papa!’

The man looked round again. This time Sophie stood next to Nicole, naked beneath the towelling robe she held closed across herself. The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

‘Two of them! You filthy salaud !’ And he swung again, this time with his left hand, catching Enzo just below the ear. Sound, as well as light, exploded inside Enzo’s head.

But it wasn’t enough to drown out Sophie’s scream as she struck her father’s attacker full in the eye with a tightly clenched fist, following up with a left hook which caught him squarely on the nose. The man bellowed and blood spurted from his face. Enzo took the chance to heave him off, and he scrambled to his knees. The room was spinning, and he was unable to stand up.

‘Papa, what in God’s name are you doing?’ Nicole screamed at the man.

‘I knew he was up to no good!’ He was clutching his nose, blood trickling through his fingers, tears streaming from both eyes.

‘You’re Nicole’s father?’ Enzo was slower than he might have been in other circumstances. But still incredulous. ‘And you thought….’ He waved a hand wildly at Sophie, who was standing breathing hard, and ready to inflict more damage if necessary. ‘Jesus Christ, man! This is my daughter. Do you really think I’d be setting up some kind of love nest with Nicole right under the nose of my own daughter?’

Nicole’s father blinked at him in confusion, sitting on the floor amongst Enzo’s books, bleeding and gasping for breath.

‘You can check the sleeping arrangements if you want. Christ Almighty! What kind of pervert do you think I am?’

Nicole strode across the room, her face beetroot red with humiliation. She took her hand hard across the side of her father’s face. Enzo could see the force in it, and winced. He would not like to be on the receiving end of Nicole’s ire. ‘How dare you!’ she screamed at her father. ‘How dare you humiliate me like this! I hate you!’ And she turned and fled back to her room, deep sobs catching in her throat as she went.

Sophie knelt in front of Enzo and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Are you okay, Papa?’

Enzo put his hands over hers and gazed into her face. ‘I’m fine, Sophie.’ And he squeezed her wrists. ‘Thank you.’ Beyond her he saw, in the hall, Bertrand’s metal detector. It’s what had tripped him in the dark and sent him careening into the intruder. Bertrand! That stab of anger again. But he couldn’t be angry with Sophie. Without her intervention, God knows what damage Nicole’s father might have done him. ‘Go to bed, pet. I’ll deal with this.’

‘Are you sure?’

Enzo nodded. ‘On you go.’

Reluctantly, Sophie stood up. She glowered at the man whose nose she had very probably broken, and marched back through the hall to her bedroom.

Enzo leaned on a pile of books and pulled himself to his feet. He was giddy, and his face felt swollen and bruised. His shoulder-length hair was a tousled mess. He ran his hands through it, drawing it back from his face. With an effort, the farmer, too, heaved himself off the floor. The two men stood unsteadily glaring at each other.

Nicole’s father wiped his bloody hand on his trousers and held it out for Enzo to shake. ‘Pierre Lafeuille.’

Enzo hesitated a moment, then shook the proffered hand. What else was there to do? ‘Enzo Macleod.’

Lafeuille nodded, his eyes darting aimlessly around the room, anxious to avoid Enzo’s. ‘I thought….’

‘I know what you thought,’ Enzo interrupted him. ‘You were wrong.’ And he felt a momentary pang of guilt, recalling the fleeting temptation of the cantaloupe breasts. He looked at the farmer’s bloody face. ‘You’re still bleeding. We’d better clean you up.’

Lafeuille followed him across the séjour , through an archway and into the dining room. A breakfast bar separated the dining room from the kitchen area, and Enzo put a large bowl on it and boiled a kettle. When it had come to the boil he poured water and disinfectant into the bowl and handed Nicole’s father a wad of gauze dressing. The farmer dipped the gauze into the water with filthy hands and smeared the blood all over his face. Enzo threw him a towel. ‘Whisky?’ he asked.

‘Never tried it,’ Lafeuille said.

‘What?’ Enzo couldn’t believe it.

‘We make our own vieille prune on the farm. And poire . No need to go buying the commercial stuff.’

‘Well, now seems as good a time as any to have a go. I could certainly do with a drink.’ Lafeuille nodded, dried his face and watched as Enzo poured two generous measures of amber Glenlivet into short, chunky glasses, and added a splash of water. Enzo took the bottle and lifted his glass and picked his way back through the séjour to his recliner. Lafeuille followed, clutching his glass in one hand, and his nose in the other. ‘Push those books off that chair and take a seat,’ Enzo said. Both men sat and Enzo raised his glass. ‘To daughters.’ And for the first time, Lafeuille cracked a smile.

‘To daughters.’

And they drank deeply from their whisky glasses, so that Enzo very quickly had to refill them. ‘You like it?’

Lafeuille nodded. Then, ‘I’m sorry. She’s my little girl. She’s very precious.’

Enzo was touched. It seemed incongruous that a big bull of a man like Lafeuille should express such tender emotions. ‘They all are.’

‘I’ve never been to Cahors before.’ Lafeuille lived no more than a hundred kilometers away. ‘Never been anywhere. Missed my national service, because my father died and there was no one else to run the farm. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.’ Enzo looked at him with fresh eyes. He wore thick, blue paysan trousers and a crumpled cotton jacket over an open-necked checked shirt. His flat cap was folded into one of the pockets of his jacket. His hands were huge, scarred shovels, and he looked strong enough to pull a plough on his own.

‘I was scared when Nicole went to Toulouse,’ he said. ‘Her mother went with her to look for accommodation. I didn’t want to, because I was afraid if I saw what kind of a place it was I wouldn’t let her go.’ He seemed compelled to unburden himself. Perhaps, Enzo thought, he felt he owed an explanation to the man he had just tried to throttle. ‘When she told me she was moving in with you for the summer because you wanted her to work for you, I knew she believed that to be true. But I didn’t.’

Enzo ran a hand ruefully down the side of his face. He could feel a swelling on his left cheek, and it was painful to the touch. ‘No, I probably wouldn’t have either. To be honest, Monsieur Lafeuille, I only offered her the work because I’d promised to get her a job at the hospital and forgot. And I knew she needed the money.’

Lafeuille flushed deeply and got immediately to his feet. ‘Then I’ll take her home with me right now.’

‘No, no,’ Enzo said quickly. ‘She’s doing a great job. I really do need someone with her kind of skills. She’s a smart kid.’