Peter May - The Critic

‘Then you know why I’m against him poking around my vineyard.’ He paused to gather his cool. ‘And he suspects me of some involvement in all this. I can see it in his face.’

Nicole stared at her hands in her lap for a long time, frightened to meet his eyes, before finally she said, ‘What happened to your father’s old costume?’

She heard his deep sigh of frustration, and turned to see him grasping the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension. ‘So you think so, too?’

‘No, I don’t. But it’s a reasonable question.’

He turned and glared at her. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes it is, Fabien. And if you’ve nothing to hide, then you’ve no reason not to answer it.’

He looked away again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘What happened to my father’s outfit. My mother probably cannibalised it for her rag bag. Spending money on clothes has never been a big priority in our family. My mother’s handy with a needle and thread. She makes things last.’

They sat for several more minutes without saying anything. Then Fabien made a decision and slipped the vehicle into first gear and pulled out of the square into the street.

They drove up through the town in silence. The Place de la Liberation was deserted, benches empty beneath the gloom of the chestnut trees. A bunch of teenagers stood smoking and laughing outside the DVD shop, the brightly lit interior of the pizza restaurant next door revealing that all its tables were empty. A bored chef leaned on the countertop in front of his oven reading a newspaper.

The outskirts of town, heading west, had a seedy, neglected air before they reached the commercial park with its gaudily lit stores and hypermarket. And then they were out amongst the vines, heading towards the hills that rose to the north, the dark shapes of pins parasols outlined against a sky awash with moonlight.

In the yard at La Croix Blanche, Fabien pulled up outside the house and cut the motor. Neither of them had spoken during the drive back, and now neither of them made any attempt to get out of the car.

Fabien said, ‘Why were you saying a prayer for your mother?’

‘Because she’s dying.’ She heard him turn to look at her.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I never prayed for her before. All this time I should have been praying for a miracle. That she wouldn’t die. And then when, finally, I do say a prayer it’s for an end to it. For death to come quickly and without any more pain.’ She turned to look at Fabien, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘What’s scary is, I’m not sure if I was saying the prayer for her or for me.’

He leaned over and put an arm around her, and she let her head fall against his shoulder, and they sat like that for a long time. Only now, the silence between them was easier, without tension. A gentle hand brushed the hair from her face, and she tilted her head to look at him.

‘Take me to the source,’ she said. ‘I know we’re not lovers or anything. But, well, maybe it would change our luck. Maybe it would be better than praying.’

He seemed embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, Nicole.’ He dipped his head to peer out of the passenger window towards the house. ‘She’ll know we’re back.’

Nicole looked, too. All the ground floor windows were shuttered, but she was certain that she saw a curtain twitch at an upstairs bedroom. She looked back at Fabien. ‘Are you scared of her?’

‘No!’ His denial was fierce.

‘Then don’t use her as an excuse. If you don’t want to take me to the source just say so.’

He responded by taking his arm from around her shoulders and leaning forward to start the car. The engine seemed very loud in the still of the night, and there was no doubting now the movement of curtains at the upstairs window.

Fabien accelerated out of the yard, and turned up towards the foothills of the Plateau Cordais, headlights raking across acres of silent vines.

Enzo emerged unsteadily onto the steeply sloping cobbles of La Barbacane. He saw moonlight glistening on a surface slick with dew and felt his feet sliding from under him. Strong hands stopped him from falling. He turned to look into Bertrand’s smiling face, pointless pieces of metal glinting absurdly in the moonshine.

‘You’ve had too much to drink, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘No more than you.’ Enzo heard his words slurring, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.

‘Bertrand was spitting, Papa. You were drinking.’

‘You can’t spit out wine of that quality. That Cheval Blanc was probably about ten euros a sip.’

‘Some of us have to drive, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘And some of us can hold our wine better than you, Papa.’

Enzo shook himself free of Bertrand’s grasp. ‘I can manage perfectly well, thank you.’ And he promptly sat down heavily on the wet cobbles. ‘ Merde!’

Bertrand helped him to his feet again and looked down the two hundred feet of incline they would have to negotiate to get to the van. The streets were narrow and dark and treacherous. He made a face at Sophie and shrugged.

‘Look, Papa, why don’t you stay here with Braucol. I’ll go with Bertrand to get the van.’

Enzo glared at her. ‘If you can get the van up here, why didn’t we bring it up in the first place?’

‘Because we didn’t know,’ Bertrand said. ‘Monsieur Domenech says there’s a back road up that’s easier.’

They helped Enzo up over the crest of the hill to the fortified battlements of the original thirteenth century enclosure at the Porte du Vainqueur. From here, there was a clear view out south over the dew-glistening layers of surrounding countryside. The autumn mist that old Domenech had spoken of earlier, was already gathering in the river valley, luminous and ghostly. Enzo sat on the stone retaining wall and shivered. ‘Be quick, then. It’s getting cold.’

When they had gone, he looked down at Braucol looking up at him and smiled at the absence of disapproval. Certainly, he had drunk too much, but Braucol wasn’t making any judgments. The wines had been wonderful. And now he had in his pocket the annotated outcome of old Domenech’s tasting. He was certain they had managed to marry three or four flavours to Petty’s lettered codes, so he was anxious to start looking for ways of deciphering the rest. But he was not so drunk that he didn’t realise he was in no condition to do it tonight. He closed his eyes and felt the earth move beneath him. When Braucol sighed he opened them again to find the puppy still staring at him. ‘It’s alright for you, Braucol. You don’t have a daughter who disapproves of your drinking. Or a lover who won’t commit to a relationship. Or a woman half your age who wants to take you to bed.’ He snorted. ‘ Putain! I should be so lucky.’

He closed his eyes again and drifted off into an alcohol-induced torpor. He felt himself swaying, then heard the dangerous, throaty rumble of Braucol’s growl. A bark startled him awake. He opened his eyes in time to see Braucol disappearing into the shadows. Then nothing. Not a movement. Absolute silence.

He called out. ‘Braucol?’ But there was no response. To his right, the cobbles meandered unevenly between houses shuttered and dark. Clumps of grass and weed grew all along the stone gutter. The walls of the battlement rose steeply into the sky. Every gateway and alley was mired in the deepest shadow. To his left, the narrow road fell away to the west. Ahead of him, a tall archway opened into a tunnel devoured by darkness. Something moved. A fragment of something shiny catching the light. A sound, like the scuff of a leather heel on stone.

Enzo felt the perspiration gathered across his forehead turn cold. It was only three nights ago that someone had tried to kill him. But who would even know he was here? He stood up. ‘Who’s there?’