One black eye, nose caked with blood, both cheeks bruised and a graze on his chin. Burst lip beginning to heal, trousers torn at the knees, one shoe missing.
And a smell, as if he'd wet himself, maybe even worse.
`What the hell is this?’ Rebus asked.
`This,' the Weasel said, `is the little bastard who stole the car. This is the little bastard who lost his nerve at a red light and gunned through it, losing control of the pedals because he could barely reach them. This…’
The Weasel stepped forward, planted a hand on the kid's shoulder. `This is the culprit.’
Rebus looked at the faces around him. `Is this your idea of a joke?’
`No joke, Rebus.’
He looked at the boy. Dried tear-tracks. Eyes bloodshot from crying. Shoulders trembling. They'd tied his arms behind him. Tied his ankles to the chair-legs.
`Puh-please, mister…’
Dry, cracked voice. `I… please…’
`Nicked the car,' the Weasel recited, `then did the hit and run, got scared, and dumped the car near where he lives. Took the cassette and the tapes. He wanted the car for a race. That's what they do, race cars around the schemes. This little runt can start an engine in ten seconds flat.’
He rubbed his hands together. `So… here we all are.’
`Help me…’
Rebus recalling the city's graffiti: Won't Anyone Help? The Weasel nodding towards one of his men, the man producing a pickaxe-handle.
`Or the screwdriver,' the Weasel said. `Or whatever you like, really. We are at your command.’
And he gave a little bow.
Rebus could hardly speak. `Cut the ropes.’
Silence in the warehouse.
`Cut those fucking ropes!' A sniff from the Weasel. `You heard the man, Tony.’
Ca-chink of a flick-knife opening. Ropes severed like through butter. Rebus walked to within inches of the boy.
`What's your name?’
`J Jordan.’
`Is that your first name or your second?’
The boy looked at him. `First.’
`Okay, Jordan.’
Rebus leaned down. The boy flinched, but did not help me, puh cutting resist as Rebus picked him up. He weighed almost nothing. Rebus started walking with him.
`What now, Rebus?’ the Weasel asked. But Rebus didn't answer. He carried the boy to the threshold, kicked open the door, stepped out into sunshine.
`I'm… I'm really sorry.’
The boy had a hand across his eyes, unused to the light. He was starting to cry.
`You know what you did?’
Jordan nodded. `I've been… ever since that night. I knew it was bad…’
Now the tears came.
`Did they say who I was?’
`Please don't kill me.’
`I'm not going to kill you, Jordan.’
The boy blinked, trying to clear tears from his eyes, the better to know whether he was being lied to.
`I think you've been through enough, pal,' Rebus said. Then added: `I think we both have.’
So after everything, it had come to this. Bob Dylan: `Simple Twist of Fate'. Segue to Leonard Cohen: `Is This What You Wanted?’
Rebus didn't know the answer to that.
38
Clean and sober, he went to the hospital. An open ward this time, set hours for visitors. No more darkened vigils. No return visit by Candice, though nurses spoke of regular phone calls by someone foreign-sounding. No way of knowing where she was. Maybe out there searching for her son. It didn't matter, so long as she was safe. So long as she was in control.
When he reached the ward's far end, two women rose from their chairs so he could kiss them: Rhona and Patience. He had a carrierbag with him, magazines and grapes. Sammy was sitting up, supported by three pillows, Pa Broon propped beside her. Her hair had been washed and brushed, and she was smiling at him.
`Women's magazines,' he said, shaking his head. `They should be on the top-shelf.’
`I need a few fantasies to sustain me in here,' Sammy said. Rebus beamed at her, said hello, then bent down and kissed his daughter.
The sun was shining as they walked through The Meadows – a rare day off for both. They held hands and matched people sunbathing and playing football. He knew Rhona was excited, and thought he knew why. But he wasn't going to spoil things with speculation.
`If you had a daughter, what mould you call her?’ she asked.
He shrugged. `Haven't really thought about it.’
`What about a son?’
`I quite like Sam.’
`Sam?’
`When I was a kid, I had a bear called Sam. My mum knitted it for me. '
`Sam… ' She tried the name out. `It mould work both ways, wouldn't it?’
He stopped, circled his arms around her waist. `How do you mean?’
`Well, it could be Samuel or Samantha. You don't get many of those – names that work both ways.’
`I suppose not. Rhona, is there…?’
She put a finger to his lips, then kissed him. They walked on. There didn't seem to be a cloud in the whole damned sky.
Afterword
My fictional French village of Villefranche d'Albarede owes its existence to the real village of Oradour-sur-Glane, which was the subject of an attack by the 3rd Company of the SS 'Der Fuhrer' regiment.
On the afternoon of Saturday 10 June 1944, 3rd Company known as `Das Reich' – entered the village and rounded up everyone. The women and children were herded into the church, while the men were split into groups and marched to various barns and other buildings around the village. Then the slaughter began.
Some 642 victims have been accounted for, but the estimate is that up to a thousand people may have perished that day. Only fiftythree corpses were ever identified. One boy from Lorraine, having first-hand knowledge of S S atrocities, managed to flee when the troops entered the village. Five men escaped the massacre in Laudy's barn. Wounded, they were able to crawl from the burning building and hide until the next day. One woman escaped from the church, climbing out of a window after playing dead beside the corpse of her child.
Soldiers went from house to house, finding villagers too sick or elderly to leave their beds. These people were shot and their houses set alight. Some of the bodies were hidden in mass graves, or dumped down wells and in bread ovens.
General Lammerding was the commanding officer. On 9 June he'd ordered the deaths of ninety-nine hostages in
