Tom Knox - The Marks of Cain

And maybe that was it — what drove them together with such passion. They were alone and they were survivors. They were like starving people falling on the first food in many weeks: they craved each other's bodies, feasted on each other, grabbed at each other, sometimes she bit his shoulder until he almost bled, sometimes he pulled her hair very hard, and often she swore when he turned her over, fighting him, then yielding, then fighting, her sweet brown legs kicking at the sheets. Screaming into the pillow, clawing the bedboard.

Harder, she said, do it harder.

And all of it, everything, was haunted by Miguel. The memory of Miguel ravishing her in the witch's cave. David wanted to deny it but he couldn't. Miguel was always there. He was there even when they had sex. Maybe especially when they had sex.

Eusak Presoak! Eusak Herrira! Otsoko.

And now they had been here five days and he knew he was falling in love with her and he was wondering what to do next.

David turned from the balcony, and went back into the hotel room. He heard a key in the lock; it was Amy. He glanced her way — quizzically — she'd been to the internet cafe: she had been going there several times a day — they reckoned her fluent French and Spanish made her less conspicuous than David. So she went there more than him.

He could tell from Amy's face that she had news.

'An email?'

'Yes.' She sat down on the bed and slipped off her sandals. She was wearing slender jeans and a grey cashmere jumper; the autumn weather in Biarritz was sunny but cool. Gazing at her bare ankles, David repressed his desires, they had already had sex twice this morning: it was too much. It was all too much. It was wonderful. He was hungry. He wanted an enormous breakfast with brioche and baguette with sweet Bayonne confit de cerise. He wanted to see her naked, touch her there, the wounded pelt; the she-wolf shot by hunters, bleeding in the snow. Too much.

'Eloise emailed.'

She lay back on the bed. Staring up. Blue eyes staring at the ceiling like the blue sea laid out beneath the sun.

'You were right. She's in Namibia. She says she is OK. We mustn't worry about her…She says if we want to come, she can tell us where. She gave me…instructions.'

'What?'

'Namibia. She won't say exactly where but she promises we can be safe there. We have to meet someone in a hotel when we get there. He will tell us more.'

'She's with that guy. Angus Nairn.'

'Just like you guessed. Nairn gave her the money. Apparently — ' Amy reached out as David came over and held his hand '- Nairn has been trying to persuade her to come to Namibia for a while.'

'Yeah?'

Amy held David's hand, tighter. And said: 'He wanted to do blood tests on her, and her family.'

'Because they are Cagots.'

'Of course. He'd been pestering her for months — but her mum and dad always said no, even though he offered money.'

Her hair smelt of citrus shampoo. David kissed her neck. She pushed him away, gently.

'And then after the murders, she got scared. And then, apparently, Angus Nairn offered her safety again — when she was with us in Campan, she sneaked off, read an email from him. And he offered to fly her straight out, to somewhere a long way away. Where no one can reach her.' Amy shrugged. 'Can't really blame her. The last known Cagot in the world…Of breeding age.'

'Apart from Miguel.'

She shivered. He touched her face.

'Maybe we should go there too,' he said. 'The beaches of Namibia. It might be safer…Gotta be safer.' He caressed her hair, cupped her cheek; he devoutly wished he wasn't falling in love with her. He knew it was dangerous. If he dived in the pool he could break his neck, because he still didn't know the depths. He kissed her again even though he didn't want to, he kissed her because he had to.

She pushed him away again.

'And she said something else. It reminded me…'

'What?'

'Of what Jose said to you.'

'You mean?'

Amy's expression was stern. 'She said this. She said the mystery, the Nairn stuff, the whole thing, it's bigger than we could imagine, bigger than anything. It's something to do with the Holocaust, the Nazis, the Jews…I don't know.'

'That's what she said?'

Amy exhaled. 'Sort of.'

Then she suddenly, and unexpectedly smiled.

'So we go there. So we don't. Come here!'

She was reaching for his shirt buttons.

But their lovemaking was halted by a brusque knock on the bedroom door.

'Monsieur! Mademoiselle!'

David immediately tensed. Rigid and wordless, he gazed at Amy, asking, with his eyes: what shall we do; she shrugged in return — a helpless, despairing shrug.

He got up, and swallowed his fears, and padded across.

'Who is it?'

'S'il vous plait. La porte.'

They were cornered. They had no escape. They could hardly jump from the balcony. The next knock was louder and aggressive.

'Open the door!'

Behind the door was a policeman. He flashed a badge and told David in accented but otherwise perfect English that his name was Officer Sarria. The cop was in a smart kepi and dark uniform, and he had a colleague right behind him. The second man was in a black single-breasted suit, a very white shirt. Unsmiling. Wearing sunglasses.

Sarria pushed inside the room, past David; the policeman looked at Amy, sitting at the edge of the bed.

'Miss Myerson.'

'You know my name…?'

'I have been following you both across France. We need to speak. Now. This is my colleague — ' He gestured behind. 'He is another policeman. I am going to talk with you. Now.'

David bridled at the idea of being interrogated, here. He felt cornered. Skewered. Something terrible would happen, hidden away up here. In the privacy of their room, on the top floor. He envisioned blood — flayed across the bathroom wall.

He glanced Amy's way; she half-shrugged as if to say what else can we do? Then he turned back.

'OK. But…downstairs. On the terrace. At the back. Please…?'

Sarria sighed, impatiently. 'OK, yes, downstairs.'

The four of them took the clanging hotel lift to the ground floor. In the lobby, David noticed another policeman, standing at the hotel door, in the sun: radio buzzing. The hotel was being defended.

They walked the other way, onto the al fresco terrace, towards an isolated table — almost nearer the sea than the bar. It was discreet, sheltered by potted fir trees. No one could see them.

Amy held David's hand, she was perspiring. The two policemen sat either side of the couple. David could feel himself sweating, as well. He wondered briefly if he was ill. What if they had caught an infection? From the bodies, in the vault, turned to liquor? Why had the corpses been stored so carefully?

The words smallpox and plague ripped apart what equanimity he had left. He tried to focus on the matter at hand. The policeman was talking.

'I was born…just up there in Bayonne,' said Sarria, apropos of nothing at all. He looked back at Amy, then David. 'Yes, I am Basque. Which is one reason why I know you need help.'

'So…what is it?' said Amy, bluntly. 'Why are you here, Detective?'

'We have been tracing Miss Bentayou. She is possibly a material witness to the criminal slaughter of her family.' His nod was sombre. 'Oui. And we know she flew out of Biarritz, to Frankfurt.'

'So she's in Germany — ' David replied, hastily.

'And from there, she flew straight to Namibia, according to the airline records.' His face showed irritation. 'Do not try to deceive me, Monsieur Martinez. We have been following this whole mystery for some time. The trail of chaos and blood…from the murders in Gurs…to that house in Campan, where someone heard two gunshots.' His words were terse. 'And the old priest in Navvarenx church told us your name. After that, it was easy to find out more. The news story about you, and so on.' The officer glanced at a tiny cup brought by a waiter: a delicate cafe noir. He didn't touch it. 'You may like to know the priest is quite well. He saved your life, I think. Shut the door just in time.'