Tom Knox - The Marks of Cain

'My God, Angus, what happened to you all? You look terrible.'

'We're fine. Just need sleep. Fine.'

'And Alphonse, where is Alphonse? Everyone else? What the hell happened?'

Angus shrugged; a painful silence enveloped them.

Nathan Kellerman lifted a manicured hand. His tone sharpened. His accent was faintly American.

'Do you have the blood samples? The last blood samples, Angus!'

'Yes.'

'Then — ' David could see Kellerman's relieved smile, his perfect white teeth. 'Then all is well. Let's go inside. Robbie, Anton. Help the good people.'

Slowly they shuffled through the bright modern building: offices, corridors, bedrooms. The cleanliness and modernity made an intense contrast to the privations of the desert. Expensively thin TVs, gleaming white kitchens. Cold steel fridges with glittering test tubes. It was another stunning dislocation, like stumbling on a Venetian palazzo in the jungle.

David and Amy were led to a bedroom. He tried to look calm and normal as they undressed, but some uncrystallized thought was troubling him. Something. Something. What was it?

He looked at his hands. Were they twitching? Maybe there had been some infection. From the body liquor.

He thought of Miguel sniffing the meat. He thought of Amy's eyes as she looked at him; would she still look at Miguel the same way, sometime? David was bewildered by the absence of Eloise. Amy came close and kissed him.

'Hey — '

'Eloise,' he said. 'Where is Eloise…?'

'I know,' said Amy. 'I know. But…I am so tired. I can't even think…Let's just…Tomorrow…'

Amy was nuzzling close. Scared and close and exhausted. The bedroom looked out onto the sea; a sharp salty breeze was lifting the curtains through the open window. The moon was high. It looked like a white screaming face, the face of someone being tormented.

They lay together in the moonlit bedroom, quite still, for a few moments.

Then they quickly fell asleep.

And he dreamed.

He was eating some meat, chewing on some gristly biltong; the dried meat was really gristly and bony. He was in his grandfather's hospital room, the desert was blinding outside. Then Granddad reached from his bed and pointed. David turned, with a mouthful of biltong, and he saw a naked girl, standing outside in the desert. And then he saw: she had no hands. And the reason she had no hands was because David was eating her hands. He realized he was eating her hands.

David woke with a jolt of terror; it was the middle of the night, he was staring at the still-screaming silent desert moon, through the square windows, with Amy snoring courteously beside him.

At last he had the truth. David now realized the truth: why he had been thinking about his grandfather. His grandfather's shame and guilt. The inability to explain, the terrible furtiveness.

He was in the Forbidden Zone in his mind, he had crossed into the Forbidden Land.

Granddad was a Cagot. It was the only explanation that made any sense; that explained it all. Granddad was a Cagot. An untouchable. A pariah. A cannibal of Gascony. The Cagots were indeed cannibals. And David was descended from a Cagot: he was one of them.

Amy snored and turned over; her bare young shoulder was soft in the moonlight. Soft like a succulent peach.

Simon was standing at a payphone, by a bunch of exiled smokers just outside Gate A of Lyon Saint Exupery airport. A watery October sun was rising over the terminals. The first planes were rumbling and ascending into the grey morning air.

The journalist weighed the shining euros in his hand. He'd tried calling Suzie through the night but got no reply. Were they safe? Where was Tim? His heart confessed his guilt — with a nasty stab of pain. He'd got some information out of the monk at Tourette, but was it worth it? What if something had happened? Where was Suzie? She could just be at work. But it was so early. And Conor. What about Conor? Where was his mother-in-law? And Tim?

The questions raked his soul.

There was no one left to call. But he'd also tried his parents, and they too were out -

So he had no choice. He had to try the police. Simon stared down at his euro coins. One, two, three…?

Fumbling with the change, he fed the phone. It rang. And it was answered.

'DCI Sanderson.'

Simon paused — took a breath of diesely air — and then he gabbled his questions. Tim. Conor. Suzie. Conor. Tim.

The policeman interrupted:

'OK, Quinn, OK. I'm with you. Calm down. Are you on a payphone?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

The doubt crept into Simon's thoughts.

'Somewhere in France. I chucked my new mobile. Don't trust it. Don't know…who to trust…Tell me what is happening.'

Sanderson said, very gently: 'They're fine. Your wife and son…are fine. But…there's been…developments. Last night. I'm heading into my chief super's office now. We'll call you, I promise, in a few seconds. What's your number?'

'Developments? Is Conor OK? Have they found Tim?'

'Conor's totally fine. Suzie too. Safe as houses. What's your number?'

Simon swallowed his anxieties; his anxieties had the horrible savour of bile, as if he had recently thrown up. He pressed a finger against his other ear, to drown out the sound of the airplanes. And he spelled out the digits.

'Wait there,' said the DCI. 'I'm talking to the CS right now. Wait there and…trust me?'

Simon nodded and chunked the receiver. He looked at the dull steel payphone.

'Bonjour…'

He swivelled. An affable-looking French chap, in neat jeans, and a light turquoise cashmere jumper — thrown suavely over his shoulders — was standing behind; the man was gesturing at the phone and smiling.

'Je voudrais utiliser?'

Simon growled.

'Go away.'

The man stared at Simon. Perplexed.

Simon growled again.

'Go away! Merci fucking beaucoup!'

The Frenchman backed away, then actually ran into the terminal.

The phone trilled. Simon picked up.

'OK — ' Sanderson's tone was clipped, yet sympathetic. 'I just wanted to get the latest from CS Boateng.'

'What are these…developments?'

'I've got extra men looking after your wife and son. And your mum and dad. That's why they are safe. No one can get to them — these religious geezers, no one. No one can touch them. We haven't rung you because we are being very careful, after what's happened…'

The journalist had a cruel sense, at last, where this conversation was going.

The policeman confirmed it.

'It's Tim. Simon. Yer brother Tim. Why didn't you tell us anything about Tim?'

'I…don't know…I just don't know why.'

Simon shuddered with remorse. Tim. Of course. Why hadn't he mentioned Tim? When Sanderson had asked about family members who could require protection, he had not cited Tim. Why? Was it because he was ashamed of Tim? Or because he just didn't want to think about Tim? Or because he really thought Tim was safe so it was irrelevant?

Maybe it was all three explanations. Tied into a knot of denial.

'What's happened to him? Jesus. Is he…'

'Not dead. But we know he's been taken. Kidnapped.'

'How do you know? Are you sure he hasn't just run away?'

Sanderson's voice was dry and cool. 'Sorry. No. We have proof. They took him.'

'Proof?'

'A video. In an email. The captors sent it to everyone late last night. It went to your wife, your parents, and you, I'm guessing. If you get a chance to look at your email. You'll find it. I suggest you delete first.'

'Sorry?' 'Don't watch it, Simon. Really. Don't watch it!'

'Why?'

'It's…bloody distressing.'

A plane was landing, with a malign roar. Simon pressed the phone closer: 'Are they torturing him?'

'No. But they are…using him. Manipulating emotions. And they do it well. They want to use your feelings, your guilt, to get at you. He's their purchase on you. They clearly know you are in touch with Martinez, and Myerson. They will want all this, they want everything you know. Tim is in a lot of danger.'