Scott Mariani - The Martyr’s Curse

All of which was about as useful as having no tools at all.

The other thing Ben didn’t have was a phone. The only items in his pockets were his wallet and the little bottle of Père Antoine’s tonic that he was currently working his way through. However liberating the joyful technology-free monastic lifestyle might feel up there on the mountain, it had its practical shortcomings down here in the big, bad world.

Remembering the garage he’d passed a little way back down the road, he began walking.

Within five minutes, he was standing on the forecourt talking to a jovial guy in a grease-stained overall, explaining his situation. Within ten, he was riding back in a tow-truck to where he’d left the stricken Belphégor. The mechanic hooked it up and they towed it the short distance to the garage where more guys in overalls came to stare and grin as if they’d never seen anything like it before. Which, Ben realised, they probably hadn’t. After a quick inspection, the mechanic in charge gave Ben the prognosis on the electrical system. The word he used was ‘ foutu ’. Not exactly a technical term. Not a very encouraging one, either, until the mechanic pointed to a rusted heap in the corner of the yard and told Ben that he should be able to cannibalise some parts from it.

Four hours, he assured Ben. Four hours tops, and the old Belphégor would be back in action.

Until then, there wasn’t a lot Ben could do. Even if he’d had a phone, he couldn’t call the monastery to tell them he’d be late coming back and not to worry. Not that they worried unduly about much, generally. They would have said it was in God’s hands. For all practical purposes that was the only way Ben could see it, too.

So, there it was. Four hours to kill. It wasn’t the end of the world.

He took a note of the garage’s number and set out on foot towards town. The walk took him thirty minutes, by the end of which lunchtime had been and gone and he was hungry and thirsty. A few sips of Père Antoine’s tonic did a little to quell the thirst. Ben still didn’t know what it contained. He put the bottle back in his pocket and checked the contents of his wallet for the first time in months. In all that time he’d spent not a single penny, so there was still plenty of cash inside. Now to find a place to eat.

Briançon was a pretty place. Parts of the old town had once been heavily fortified, to defend the region from an attacking Austrian army. However many centuries ago that had been, Ben didn’t know for sure – but when you lived in a medieval monastery, everything seemed recent and modern by comparison. He walked through narrow, winding grey-stone streets and up steep paths and steps, looking for a bistro or a sandwich bar. The streets were busy. Lots of colour, lots of noise and life. He wasn’t used to it any more. It was a rhythm you had to get readjusted to, in the same way he’d often had to get back in synch with normal life after spending long periods away on military operations in jungles or deserts, back in the day.

Rounding a corner, Ben saw parasols and tables out on the street. This was the kind of bistro he’d been looking for, where he could get a snack like a croque-monsieur and a Perrier water. It looked like a welcoming place. A waiter with a tray was weaving efficiently among the tables. One table was occupied by an animated white-haired group who looked like a tourist party. At another was a middle-aged professional guy in suit and tie, maybe a local businessman or a bank manager, reading a newspaper. At another sat a couple, not old, not young, in their thirties. They were clasping hands across the table and obviously in love. The guy was heavily built, in jeans and a polo shirt. The woman was wearing a light sleeveless top and shorts and sandals, and had her back to Ben.

There was another table nearby that was empty. He walked towards it. His plan was to stay a while, watch the world go by, bide his time while the mechanics were doing their bit and then slowly wander back to the garage to pick up the truck. There was no hurry. No pressure. He felt relaxed and easy about the whole thing. The monastery had taught him to feel that way.

As Ben approached the café terrace, he did a double-take at the woman sitting with her back to him and suddenly halted dead in his tracks as if he’d been shot. He felt himself go very cold. He stood there, staring.

Her auburn hair was thick and loose, falling down in curls between her shoulder blades and moving nicely when she did. Her shoulders were slightly burned, a touch too much sun on her fair redhead’s skin. Everything about her was stunningly familiar. He was certain he recognised the curve of her slim back. Her elegant posture, the way she had her ankles crossed under the chair as she leaned forward talking about something and gesticulating with her free hand. The fingers were tapered and delicate. She wore no rings.

A million emotions suddenly flooded through Ben’s mind, stinging him like electric shocks. His hands began to shake. He blinked. It was her. He couldn’t believe it.

She was oblivious of his presence, but as Ben went on staring, the guy she was with began to take notice of him.

Ben walked a few steps closer. His legs felt wobbly. He reached out to touch her shoulder. The guy she was with narrowed his eyes and looked to be about to say something, but Ben spoke first.

‘ Brooke? ’

Ben couldn’t help himself. He put his hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm and soft and dry against his fingers. She flinched a little in surprise and let go of her companion’s hand, breaking off from whatever she’d been saying to him in mid-sentence.

‘Brooke?’ Ben said again. He was positively amazed, amazed , to see his ex-fiancée here. It was like something out of a dream, the dream he’d had so many times.

She turned. Her mouth opened. Her eyes locked on to his, as blue as a summer sky.

Blue. Not green. Brooke had eyes the colour of emeralds.

It wasn’t her. This woman was a couple of years younger than Brooke. Her mouth was thinner, her cheekbones higher, her features sharper. Especially with the hostile look she was giving him.

The millisecond that Ben realised his mistake, he withdrew his hand and stepped back. ‘Please forgive me, Madame. I mistook you for someone else.’

Her blue eyes flared. ‘It’s Mademoiselle ,’ she snapped, as though calling her ‘Madame’ was a far worse crime than laying your hands in a familiar way on a total stranger. So much for the neo-post-feminist political-correctness movement in France.

Ben went on apologising, but it was too late. Now the guy with her was getting involved, standing up abruptly and scraping his chair across the terrace with the backs of his legs. He had to step away from the table to avoid butting the parasol, because he was a big guy. At least three inches taller than Ben and about a foot broader across the chest. The mild irritation in the woman’s eyes was eclipsed by the fury in his. Ben couldn’t entirely blame him. It was a normal thing. A male thing. Like a rutting stag wanting to win his mate by scoring over the potential competition, this guy obviously felt he had to put on a show. Naturally, he was going to make a big thing of wanting to protect her.

Too big a thing. Right away, Ben could see the signs of a situation about to turn ugly. He wasn’t the only one. The businessman was watching over the top of his newspaper. The white-haired group had stopped talking and were throwing anxious glances at them.

‘Hey, I said I was sorry,’ Ben said, keeping his tone light and his body language unthreatening. ‘Let me buy you a drink, okay? No hard feelings.’

‘Get your fucking hands off her,’ the guy raged.