Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

4.30 p.m. The farrier picks up the beer cans, walks over to the van and opens the front door on the passenger side. Puts down the cans. Picks up a rag, a napkin? Mops his forehead and neck, and puts it back.

4.35 p.m. He goes back to work. His assistant also goes back to work.

4.45 p.m. Senanche comes back. He walks round the van. The front door is still open. He leans inside. I can’t see what he’s doing inside the vehicle. He straightens up and leaves. He’s holding the empty beer cans, that’s all. The farrier’s still working.

‘Right. The stuff’s been delivered.’ Le Dem is sceptical. ‘Let’s carry on, that’s what we’re here for. But I’m telling you, we’ve just witnessed the delivery being made. And it’s not the first. The farrier’s a real pro at this too.’

Le Dem continues to watch the horses coming and going, and Romero goes on making occasional notes, without much conviction.

5.20 p.m. An unidentified youth aged about twenty arrives at the forge.

Romero looks up from his notepad.

‘Weird-looking kid. Pass me the binoculars. And take notes. The farrier carries on forging a shoe. They talk. Look, the farrier’s on his feet. He’s grabbing the kid by the shirt, he’s lifting him off the ground with one hand. I don’t believe it… he’s grabbed his tongs… Shit!’

A howl in the stable yard.

‘The farrier’s just branded the kid’s thigh with a red hot horse shoe. The kid’s on the ground. The farrier gives him a kick to get him on his feet.’

‘Come on Romero.’

‘Don’t panic. The kid crawls away, gets up, leaves. Are you still writing this down?’ He glances at his watch. ‘It’s 5.24.’ Picks up the binoculars again. ‘Nobody’s moving. This guy’s scary.’

‘Let’s go and…’

‘Wait a bit. The kid’s limping off towards the road that goes to Chantilly. Now we can go. But not to the stables. Go and get the car, don’t let anybody see you, and pick me up on the road.’

And Romero races into the trees to catch up with the kid. He walks on the opposite side of the road, waiting for Le Dem to arrive. When the car comes into view, he crosses over, goes up to the kid who’s hobbling along sobbing and grabs his arm, opens the rear door of the car, shoves him inside and climbs in next to him.

‘Drive, Le Dem, wherever you like, but drive. And wind your window up.’

‘What do you want? Let me go, you’ve no right… Stop, I want to get out.’ Interspersed with sobs.

Romero looks at him, and sniffs him. The kid, in shock, gives off the sour odour of needing a fix. Now’s the time.

‘Police. Tell me what you were talking to the farrier about.’

‘That’s my business. Let me go.’

Romero puts his hand on the boy’s thigh which is streaked with a yellow and brown burn that’s beginning to blister, shreds of burnt fabric clinging to his flesh. But seemingly not very deep. The farrier knew how to control his violence.

‘I repeat. What were you talking to the farrier about?’

And he squeezes the thigh. The kid yells. Le Dem swerves. Romero glares at him in the mirror and goes back to the kid.

‘I know you’re a user, and I don’t give a shit. It’s the farrier I’m interested in.’ He puts his hand back on the boy’s thigh. ‘Shall I do that again?’

‘No!’ he yelps.

‘Come on,’ hand still on the thigh, ‘spit it out.’

‘I wanted him to give me some stuff to deal.’

‘And why did he refuse?’

‘I owe him money.’ The kid hiccups. ‘I wanted to make some cash…’

‘He burnt you when you told him you didn’t have the dough.’

Almost inaudible. ‘Yes’.

‘You spent the money on smack, and now you’re suffering cold turkey. You tell me who you wanted to sell to, and I’ll give you your hit, right now, in the car.’

Slight pressure on the boy’s thigh. Groan. The kid’s in a sweat.

‘There’s a party here in Chantilly, tomorrow night, at Massillon the jockey’s place, and you can always sell stuff at these parties.’

Romero takes out a square of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket.

‘Slow down a bit,’ he says to Le Dem, who’s staring at the road.

The boy slips down between the seats and takes out his kit. He’s trembling all over. Romero opens out the paper, holds the spoon. The kid prepares the stuff, heats it up, filters it, shoots it into his arm, inhales deeply, slowly, and lolls backwards, his eyes closed, onto the seat.

Romero taps Le Dem on the shoulder.

‘Now head for the hospital, but not too fast. Give him time to digest. We have to get that burn taken care of.’

‘I don’t want to go to hospital.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m known as Blascos.’

Well you’re going to hospital, Blascos. We’ve got to get that burn seen to, otherwise it can get infected. You won’t have any trouble, I’ll take care of it.’

When they reach A amp;E, Romero helps the boy out of the car. Holds him by the arm for a moment and whispers:

‘I’ll be at the party tomorrow night at ten. You’ll be there too and you’ll introduce me to your friends. And I’ll make sure you’ve got something to sell. OK?’

He nods.

‘I want to hear you say it.’

‘All right.’

‘If you let me down, you know what’ll happen to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now get in there.’

Le Dem hadn’t wanted to come. Romero didn’t press him, so it’s Lavorel who’s waiting with him outside Massillon’s villa. They’re both wearing miniature tape recorders concealed under their belts. Romero’s wearing a short-sleeved, floral summer shirt, and Lavorel a light blazer over a white shirt. A few cars crawl through the open iron gates and park in the garden. Two Porsches, a yellow Ferrari. And a lot of ordinary cars. Lavorel slips into the garden and makes a note of the registration numbers.

Blascos arrives on foot, at around 10 p.m., clean and neatly dressed. He’s still limping but he looks in much better shape. Romero gives him an envelope, which he holds in a Kleenex.

‘There’s some coke in there. Top quality. You can sell it for a good price or cut it a little. Now get to work.’

Romero whistles. Lavorel comes over to join them and the three men enter the vast nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens. There’s a flight of steps covered by an awning leading up to the front door which stands wide open. Entrance hall, to the left a drawing room which is empty for the time being, to the right the dining room where forty or so young men and women are gathered, chatting over drinks against a background of deafening house music. At the back of the room is a lavish buffet. Blascos greets everyone. Lavorel has his eye on six men, short, wiry, energetic, very well turned out, bespoke suits, luxury shoes, gold bracelets and chains. The jockeys, without a doubt. Very different from the others, young men of means, like Deluc, or others with more modest incomes, like Blascos. A dozen utterly beautiful girls. Romero feels a little tremor of excitement. And then a few others, nondescript.

Blascos steers Romero by the arm. Lavorel follows.

‘Massillon, I’ve brought you two good friends of mine…’

‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll squeeze them in.’

He shakes their hands. Then everyone goes back to the bowl of punch on the buffet. Things are already hotting up, although it’s still early. Lavorel wanders among the clusters of people, his ears pricked. The talk is of races, trainers, bonuses, bets or sex. Lavorel isn’t able to follow it all, and fears he’s wasting his time in this place which isn’t his scene. From time to time he glances at Romero. He watches him down one drink, then another, and starts to worry. People are attacking the food. Romero, glass in hand, is sitting on a radiator, in front of a window, beside a bottle blonde with pneumatic breasts and lips. She slips her arm around his neck. When she moves off towards the buffet, Lavorel goes up to Romero and whispers: