The Marks Of Cain Part 12

Did Amy know where they were going? Probably, possibly, who could say. She seemed to fool him and beguile him at the same time. She was like a deep blue rockpool, full of deceptively clear water. When she spoke she was honest and candid and he thought he could see everything: see to the bottom, the rock. But when he dived in, he realized the truth. He could drown in the cold plunging blues, her depths were unsounded.

So they drove.

But this was big empty country, and the little French roads were slow and full of tractors and farmers' trucks. For several hours they trundled through yawning little villages and forgotten Basque hamlets, past farmyards advertising Fromage d'Iraty Fromage d'Iraty on homemade placards. In the hypnotic, mid-afternoon suns.h.i.+ne, David found himself wearily dreaming, again, this time remembering his childhood. Playing touch rugby in the summer with his father he remembered his father's bright happy smile; the pungent aroma of the leather rugby ball, rough against David's hand. A big family dog cantering across the lawn. on homemade placards. In the hypnotic, mid-afternoon suns.h.i.+ne, David found himself wearily dreaming, again, this time remembering his childhood. Playing touch rugby in the summer with his father he remembered his father's bright happy smile; the pungent aroma of the leather rugby ball, rough against David's hand. A big family dog cantering across the lawn. Happiness. Happiness. And then the sadness And then the sadness.

At length they stopped at a vast Carrefour hypermarket on the main Mauleon road where they ate a lonely croque monsieur croque monsieur and and salade verte salade verte in the sterile cafe; where they bought clothes and toothpaste, staring silently at each other across the supermarket aisle as they did so. They were refugees, hiding out. And they couldn't even trust the police? in the sterile cafe; where they bought clothes and toothpaste, staring silently at each other across the supermarket aisle as they did so. They were refugees, hiding out. And they couldn't even trust the police?

At last they ascended to the little town of Mauleon Lecharre, lying alongside a pretty river and surrounded by the green Pyrenean hills.

David steered them straight to the medieval core of the town, and parked. He stretched himself, aching horribly after the long drive, after the terrors of the cave and the forest. The town was quiet and couples were wandering the twilit, cobbled streets. Amy and David joined the promenade: they walked to the riverside, and stared at the waters from the bridge. Swallows were curling about in the softening dusk of early autumn. David yawned.

'I'm exhausted.'

'Me too.'

They left the car where it was and walked to the nearest hotel, a pretty but modest two star near the main town square, with a fifty-something French manageress. The woman's fingernails were so long and over-varnished they looked like purple talons.

'Bonsoir! J'ai deux chambres...mais tres pet.i.tes...'

'That's fine,' said David. Trying not to look at her claws.

The elevator was the smallest in Gascony. David slept, but fitfully. He dreamed all the way through the night.

He dreamed the house was burning.

Voices were calling from inside the fire, asking David to help but he couldn't do anything. He was standing in the garden staring at the fiercely burning house, at the flames licking up the walls, and then he saw a charred and blackened face at the window. It was his mother. She was inside the burning house and she was tapping the gla.s.s, trying to touch her son, and she was saying it's not your fault, David, it's not your fault it's not your fault, David, it's not your fault and suddenly church bells were ringing out wildly and David and suddenly church bells were ringing out wildly and David Woke up.

Sweating.

It wasn't church bells.

Sweating.

It was the hotel phone. Coughing away the phlegm of the bad dream, he groggily reached for the phone.

'David? h.e.l.lo?'

It was nine a.m. It was Amy.

Showered and dressed, he went downstairs. When Amy came down to join him for breakfast, on the al fresco hotel terrace perched above the river, she looked at him inquiringly.

He immediately confessed.

'Bad dreams. I keep thinking about my parents' death. Baffling dreams.'

'Not surprising, maybe...'

'It seems relevant, but I don't know why.'

'Perhaps you should tell me. Explain. It might help.'

'But...what?' He shrugged, feeling helpless, a victim of his endless incoherent memories. 'What shall I tell you?'

'I don't know. You could tell me how it happened?' She smiled, and her smile had a yearning empathy. He had a desire to hug her; he ignored this. She said, 'Tell me...how you found out about the crash.'

'OK...Well...' Then he stopped, because it was vastly difficult. He had never really talked about it before. David stared at his half-eaten croissant, his pot of Xapata cherry jam. Amy a.s.sisted him.

'How old were you at this point?'

'Fifteen.'

Amy said slowly, and with a gentle incredulity.

'Fifteen...?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'And they just went away on holiday, one summer, my mum and dad.'

'That's very young, for...your mother and father to leave you alone?'

'Yep,' said David. 'And it was unusual. They were very good parents, we'd always had nice holidays together together. Then suddenly my mum said she and Dad were going away for a month on their own on their own. Abroad.'

'They left you totally alone in England?'

David stared about. Just two other guests were on the terrace, a German man and wife silently b.u.t.tering their sliced open baguettes. The holiday season was over. He tried not to think about Miguel. He looked back at Amy.

'They left me with friends in Norwich. Friends of my mum's, the Andersons. We were all very close, their kids and me. In fact it was them, the Andersons, who took me in when...when Mum and Dad...when they had the...the thing, you know, the crash. When they were killed.'

'OK.'

'But this is what's strange!' said David, his voice unexpectedly loud. He flushed, then continued more quietly. 'This is the odd thing: I remember I asked my mum, before they went, why they were going without me and she said: we're going to find out the truth we're going to find out the truth and then my dad sort of laughed but it was kind of different, embarra.s.sed.' and then my dad sort of laughed but it was kind of different, embarra.s.sed.'

Amy leaned a little nearer.

'To find out the truth. Why should she say that that?'

'I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it before. Never really wanted to think about it before.'

David sighed and shook his head. He sipped his coffee and stared across the river, at the ancient bridge. He wondered if Miguel had pursued them; he also wondered how Miguel had known they were in the witch's cave. Somehow he felt the terrorist would discover them, wherever wherever they were hiding, wherever they fled. they were hiding, wherever they fled.

And no wonder. With a cold shock of surprise, David realized that Miguel was looking at them right this minute. right this minute. From the bridge. From the bridge.

The medieval parapets of the bridge were sprayed with ETA graffiti. The coa.r.s.ely daubed words said Viva Otsoko! Viva Otsoko!

And next to the word Otsoko Otsoko was a crude, huge and very effective stencil of a black wolf's head. was a crude, huge and very effective stencil of a black wolf's head.

The Wolf.

So he was here, and watching, always watching. He was watching them finish their croissants with apricot confiture. confiture.

David swallowed away the bitter taste of the image, with a slug of milky coffee. He lifted his gaze, determinedly, beyond the bridge and the disturbing graffiti, across the river, to the grey mansard roofs of Mauleon.

Over the rus.h.i.+ng mountain water he could see a church spire, a row of parked Renaults and Citroens, and a pretty woman in her thirties coming out of the neighbourhood boulangerie, a baguette sticking out of her bag. The bakers' window advertised a baguette sticking out of her bag. The bakers' window advertised gateaux basque gateaux basque, the big fat cakes with lauburus lauburus of white icing sugar on the soft orange sponge, and thick cherry jam inside. of white icing sugar on the soft orange sponge, and thick cherry jam inside.

He watched the pretty blonde woman, a woman like his mother.

And now, at last, the deep wound re-opened, in real-time. A gateau basque gateau basque sliced in two, to show the red cherry jam. sliced in two, to show the red cherry jam.

Vividly, he remembered the scene: the friend of his mother, Mrs Anderson edging red-eyed into his bedroom to tell him; the way she faltered, then sobbed, then apologized. Then at last she had told him what had happened to his mum and dad. A car crash in France.

At the time David had tried to be tough: a boy trying to be a man, but only fifteen years old. He'd refused to cry in front of Mrs Anderson, but when she had softly closed the door behind her then then he had yielded, at that moment something had unlinked inside him, something had snapped, something had forever broken the silver necklace of life, and he had turned and buried his hot boyish face in the pillow and cried, alone, trying to m.u.f.fle the noise of his shameful weak sobs. he had yielded, at that moment something had unlinked inside him, something had snapped, something had forever broken the silver necklace of life, and he had turned and buried his hot boyish face in the pillow and cried, alone, trying to m.u.f.fle the noise of his shameful weak sobs.

Since then he had determinedly never come here, never visited France, never wanted to know what had happened, how exactly they had crashed, how his mum and dad had died together. Instead he had taken the feelings, the memories, these mournful thoughts and considerations, and put them in a black iron box in the saltmine of his soul, like art treasures stored by a nation when the n.a.z.is invade; and then he had turned to work and worry and study and keeping his life on track despite it all, to protect himself but now here he was, in Gascony. Near Navvarenx. Near Navvarenx. Near Navvarenx.

'Are you alright?'

Amy's smile was sympathetic, anxious and incoherent and affectionate and sympathetic. And yet maybe it was none of these things. Was he even reading her smiles correctly?

'I'm OK.' His throat felt a little thick. 'It's just that...I realized something. It's been staring at me all along.'

'What?'

Muted by his own surprise, he reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out the map.

Amy watched as he spread it on the table; the soft, sun-weary map, with the little blue stars.

David was scrutinizing the little markings, the little towns marked with the blue asterisks. The map suddenly possessed a terrible poignancy; he swallowed the upwelling emotion.

'Look. Here. See the way these stars are filled out, so carefully. I recognize the style.'

'Sorry?'

'It's my father's father's handwriting. This must have been his map. And he's marked on it...This place.' He pointed at one of the towns marked on the French part of the road map; Amy half rose from her chair and gazed down. handwriting. This must have been his map. And he's marked on it...This place.' He pointed at one of the towns marked on the French part of the road map; Amy half rose from her chair and gazed down.

'Navvar...enx,' she said. 'Not far from here...and it's marked, so it's one of the places with churches. OK...'

'But next to that, here...' His finger moved a fraction and pointed at a smaller town right next to Navvarenx.

Amy looked at him.

'Gurs? Right by it.'

He nodded. His mouth was dry.

'Gurs.'

'That means...?'

'I've heard the name before. A long long time ago. I remember Mrs Anderson whispering it. You know, the way adults do when they're discussing something they don't want the child to hear.'

'So Gurs...'

'Is, I think, where my parents had the crash. This map must have been in my father's possession when it happened. When my mother and father were killed...They were following this map.'

13.

In his study, overlooking the small lawn of his little house in the North London suburbs, Simon was trying to work. But his four-year-old son Conor kept running in, to show his dad a spider, and ask him what sheep liked to eat, and insist the world watch his Thomas the Tank Engine DVD.

The father found it hard to resist his son's demands; he knew he was an indulgent parent, perhaps because he had come to parenthood late: thirty-six. But he was also indulgent simply because he adored his son: the lad's trusting eyes of distant blue, the way he upbraided a recalcitrant football with a stick. Conor was a force of nature. And he could make his parents laugh at anything.

But Simon had to work. His first two Telegraph Telegraph articles, on the linked and bizarre murders, had caused a mild stir, and his editor wanted more. Much more. Consequently he'd had to do some research, all this week, and more today. articles, on the linked and bizarre murders, had caused a mild stir, and his editor wanted more. Much more. Consequently he'd had to do some research, all this week, and more today.

Placating Conor with an organic raspberry drink s.n.a.t.c.hed from the kitchen cupboard, he returned to his study, shut the door firmly, and let the au-pair-they-could-barely-afford deal with Thomas the Tank Engine. Sitting once more at his computer he glanced for a second out of the window at the endless suburbia, at a fat housewife hanging up her was.h.i.+ng.

Then he started Googling.

Syndactyly.

The problem was there wasn't that much to learn. Half an hour's searching told him what his doctor wife had already explained: the deformation was moderately common, it was linked to various genetic syndromes: ensembles of ailments and afflictions, in turn linked to specific chromosomal abnormalities. The syndromes had quite resonant names: Aarskog Syndrome, Lemli Opitz Syndrome, Cornelia de Lange Syndrome.

Simon blinked at the glaring computer screen. He read the names twice. He picked up a pen and wrote the names on a pad.

Something chimed. Many of the names were French: Bardet-Biedl Syndrome. Apert Syndrome.

French?

Twenty minutes of more encouraging computer time told him why. Many of the syndromes were caused by inbreeding: 'consanguineous unions', as one website quaintly phrased it. And this inbreeding was very common in isolated mountain communities.

Such as the Alps and the Pyrenees.

That's why so many French doctors had been the first to notice the disorders, and to vaingloriously label these disorders with their own surnames. The syndromes were common in the mountains of France.

Simon stared at the pulsing words onscreen. The Pyrenees. The Pyrenees. The South of France. The Basque Pyrenees. Picking up his pen again, he wrote the word The South of France. The Basque Pyrenees. Picking up his pen again, he wrote the word Pyrenees Pyrenees, fairly pointlessly, on his pad. Then he stared at the pad. He could hear his son's happy giggle in the background somewhere, but it was very much in the background. Simon was focussed. Clear headed.

Back to the screen. He quickly typed in 'Pyrenees' and 'deformity'. He scanned a few sites. Goitres were mentioned. Psychotic illnesses. Congenital ailments caused by incest, or lack of iodine, or other dietary deficiencies. And then something else flashed up, something which he wasn't expecting at all.

Up until the eighteenth century, in the Pyrenees as elsewhere, deformity was often seen as a sign of d.a.m.nation, or of witchcraft.

As one flamboyant website put it: 'During the great witch craze of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, hundreds of innocent victims were tortured, mutilated or burned at the stake merely for the misfortune of being born with an extra finger, or a third nipple; people were literally crushed under stones because of their congenital cretinism.'

Tortured. Crushed and burned. His mind flashed back to the vile photos of the Primrose Hill victim. She was knotted. Was that witch torture?

It took four seconds. There There. He wondered if his heartbeat was audible.