Mario Reading - The Nostradamus prophecies

Then the python turned and its face was his face, even down to his newly damaged ear. The face tried to talk to him but Sabir could no longer make out the sound of his own voice. It was as if he was both inside and outside the snake’s body at one and the same time. Somehow, though, Sabir sensed that his incapacity to hear came from the internal head, which was being drawn like forcemeat through the lozenge of the snake’s body.

It’s like a birth, Sabir decided. It’s like coming down through the birth canal. That’s why I’m claustrophobic. It’s my birth. Something to do with my birth.

Now Sabir could see through the snake’s eyes, feel through the snake’s skin. He was the snake and it was him.

His hand burst out of the sump near to his face. He felt the hand reach for his neck, as though it were still not part of him.

He was still the snake. He had no hands.

The hand reached for the necklet the shaman had given him.

Snake. There was snake in the necklet.

Poison. There was poison in the necklet.

He must take it. Kill himself. Surely that was what the dream had been telling him?

Suddenly he was back in the reality of the cesspit. There was a scraping sound above him. In a moment Bale would be opening the hatch.

With his free hand Sabir tore a wad of fabric off the front of his shirt and rammed it into his mouth. He thrust it down his throat, blocking off all access to his windpipe.

He felt the gag reflex trigger, but ignored it.

Bale was sliding the hatch open.

Sabir broke the vial of poison into his mouth. He was breathing only through his nose now. He could feel the poison lying on his tongue. Dispersing against the roof of his mouth. Filtering up his nasal passages and through his sinuses.

When the hatch slid back, Sabir played dead. In the split second before the light struck him, he allowed his head to drop forward and rest on the surface of the scum, so that Bale would imagine he had drowned himself.

Bale grunted in irritation. He reached down to raise Sabir’s head.

Sabir grabbed the collar of Bale’s shirt with his free hand. Temporarily unbalanced, Bale started to topple.

Using the impetus of the downward movement, Sabir steered Bale’s head through the hatch. His eyes fixed themselves on the open wound on Bale’s neck.

As Bale’s head came briefly parallel with his own, Sabir sank his teeth into the wound, forcing his tongue inside the bullet hole, dispersing the poison deep into Bale’s veins.

Then he spat what remained of the poison into the cesspool surrounding him and prepared to die.

Joris Calque’s interview with the Countess had proved to be the equivalent of a coitus reservatus – in other words, he had delayed completion for so long that the final effect had been little more satisfying than a wet dream.

He had convinced himself before the interview that it was he who held the upper hand. The Countess, surely, must be on the defensive? She was an old woman – why didn’t she simply open up and have done with it? There was no capital punishment in France any more. In fact the Count would most probably be carted off to an asylum, where he could play dynastic games to his heart’s content in the sure and certain knowledge that after fifteen or twenty years he would be ejected back into the system with a ‘harmless’ label tagged around his neck.

Instead, Calque had found himself facing the human equivalent of a brick wall. Rarely in his career had he encountered a person so sure of the moral justifi cations of their actions. Calque knew that the Countess was the driving force behind her son’s behaviour – he simply knew it. But he couldn’t remotely prove it.

‘Is that you, Spola?’ Calque held the cellphone six inches in front of his mouth, as one would hold a microphone. ‘Where are Sabir and Dufontaine now?’

‘Sleeping, Sir. It is two o’clock in the morning.’

‘Have you checked on them recently? Within the last hour, say?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well, do so now.’

‘Shall I call you back?’

‘No. Take the telephone with you. That’s what these things are for, isn’t it?’

Sergeant Spola eased himself up from the back seat of his police meat-wagon. He had made himself a comfortable nest out of a few borrowed blankets and a chair cushion which Yola had purloined for him. What was Calque thinking of? This was the middle of the night. Why would Sabir or the gypsy want to go anywhere? They weren’t being accused of anything. If Calque asked his opinion, he would tell him that there was no sense at all in wasting police manpower trailing non-suspects around in the enjoyment of their lawful rights. Spola had a lovely warm wife waiting for him at home. And a lovely warm bed. Those constituted his lawful rights. And, typically, they were in the process of being violated.

‘I’m looking at the gypsy now. He’s fast asleep.’

‘Check on Sabir.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Spola eased the internal door of the caravan open. Such bloody nonsense. ‘He’s lying in his bed. He’s…’ Spola stopped. He took a further step inside the room and switched on the light. ‘He’s gone, Sir. They packed his bed full of cushions to make it look as if he was asleep. I’m sorry, Sir.’

‘Where’s the girl?’

‘Sleeping with the women, Sir. Across the way.’

‘Get her.’

‘But I can’t, Sir. You know what these gypsy women are like. If I go blundering in there…’

‘Get her. Then put her on the phone.’

Spola squinted through the windscreen at the passing trees. It had started to rain and the police car’s headlights were reflecting back off the road, making it difficult to judge distances.

Yola fidgeted anxiously beside him, her face taut in the reflected glare.

Spola flicked on the rear wipers. ‘That was a rotten trick to play on me, you know. I could lose my job over this.’

‘You shouldn’t have been told to watch us in the first place. It’s only because we’re gypsies. You people treat us like dirt.’

Spola sat up straighter in his seat. ‘That’s not true. I’ve tried to be reasonable with you – cut you some slack. I even let you visit the curandero with Sabir. That’s what’s got me into all this trouble.’

Yola fl ashed a glance at him. ‘You’re all right. It’s the others that make me sick.’

‘Well. Yes. There are some people who have unjustifiable prejudices. I don’t deny it. But I’m not one of them.’ He reached forwards and scrubbed at the inside of the windscreen with his sleeve. ‘If only they’d give us cars with air conditioning, we might see where we are going. Are we nearly there?’

‘It’s here. Turn left. And go on up the drive. The house will appear in a few moments.’

Spola eased the car up the rutted track. He glanced down at the clock. It would take Calque at least another hour to get here – unless he hijacked a police helicopter. Another night’s sleep lost.

He pulled the car up in front of the Maset. ‘So this is where it all happened?’

Yola got out and ran towards the front door. There was no firm basis to her anxiety but Calque’s call, warning them that the eye-man was still after Sabir, had upset her equanimity. She had thought that the eye-man was out of their lives forever. And now here she was, in the middle of the night, aiding and abetting the police.

‘Damo?’ She looked around the room. The fire was almost out. One of the candles was guttering and another was only ten minutes away from extinction. There was hardly enough light to see by, let alone transcribe detailed text. She turned to Sergeant Spola. ‘Have you a torch?’

He clicked it on. ‘Perhaps he’s in the kitchen?’