Bale approached Gavril and took the horse from him. He tethered it at the hitching post outside the cabane. Then he unknotted the lariat from around the pommel of the saddle. ‘Lie down.’
‘What do you want? What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to tie you up. Lie down.’
Gavril lay on his back, looking up at the sky.
‘No. Turn over.’
‘You’re not going to knife me again?’
‘No. Not that.’ Bale stretched both of Gavril’s arms out beyond his head and guided them through the loop of the lariat. Then he fastened the other end in a temporary slip knot to the hitching post. He walked across to the gelding and unknotted the lariat from around the gelding’s pommel. Then he walked back and knotted Gavril’s feet together, leaving the trailing rope-end on the ground. ‘We’re alone here. You’ve probably realised that by now. Nothing but horses, bulls and bloody pink flamingos in any direction.’
‘I’m no threat to you. I just now decided to head north. To steer clear of you and Sabir and Yola for good.’
‘Ah. She’s called Yola, is she? I did wonder. What’s the other gypsy called? The one whose horse I shot?’
‘Alexi. Alexi Dufontaine.’
‘And your name?’
‘Gavril. La Roupie.’ Gavril cleared his throat. He was having difficulty in concentrating. His mind kept moving on to irrelevant details. Like the time of day. Or the consistency of the scrubgrass a few inches in front of his eyes. ‘What did you do to him? To Alexi?’
Bale was walking the gelding around to where Gavril was lying. ‘Do to him? I didn’t do anything to him. He fell off his horse. Managed to scramble into the river and hitch a lift on a ferry. It’s a misfortune for you that he got away.’
Gavril started to weep. He hadn’t consciously wept since childhood and now it was as if all the misery and hurt that he had stored up in himself since that time had finally overflowed its borders. ‘Please let me go. Please.’
Bale hitched the gelding to the rope-end tied around Gavril’s feet. ‘I can’t do that. You’ve seen me. You’ve had a chance to mark me down. And you’ve got a grudge. I never let men go who hold grudges against me.’
‘But I don’t have any grudge.’
‘Your leg. I gouged your leg with my knife. Back in Gourdon.’
‘I’ve already forgotten that.’
‘So you forgive me? That’s kind. Why did you come after me then?’ Bale had untied Gavril’s horse from the hitching post and was leading it around in front of him. Now he unhitched the lose rope-end attaching Gavril’s hands and knotted it to the pommel of Gavril’s saddle.
‘What are you doing?’
Bale tested both knots. Gavril was arching his neck backwards to see what was happening behind him. Bale walked to the edge of the nearby marsh and cut himself a handful of dried reeds, about three feet in length. He cut another, single reed and looped it into a noose. Then he knotted the ends of the reeds together, until they took on the shape of a besom head. One of the horses began to snort.
‘Did you say something just then?’
‘I asked what you are doing?’ The words came out as a sob.
‘I’m making myself a whip. Out of these reeds. Do-it-yourself.’
‘My God. Are you going to whip me?’
‘Whip you? No. I’m going to whip the horses.’
Gavril started to howl. It was not a noise he had ever made before in his life. But it was a noise Bale was familiar with. He had heard it time and again when people felt themselves to be in extremis . It was as if they were trying to block off reality with sound.
‘An ancestor of mine was hung, drawn and quartered once. Way back in medieval times. Do you know what that involves, Gavril?’
Gavril was shrieking now.
‘It involves being put on a gibbet and having a noose placed around your neck. Then you are pulled up, sometimes as high as fifty feet and displayed to the crowd. Surprisingly, this rarely kills you.’
Gavril was hammering his head against the earth. The horses were becoming restless with the unexpected noise and one of them even walked a few paces, tightening the tension on Gavril’s rope.
‘Then you are let down and the noose is loosened. You are revived. The executioner now takes a hooked implement – a little like a corkscrew – and makes an incision in your stomach. Here.’ He bent down, turned Gavril partially over and prodded him just above the appendix. ‘By this time you are half strangled, but still able to appreciate what is happening. The hooked implement is then inserted in your stomach sack and your intestines are pulled out like a steaming string of sausages. The crowd is cheering by this time, grateful, no doubt, that it is not all happening to them.’
Gavril had fallen silent. His breath was coming in tubercular gulps, as if he had the whooping cough.
‘Then, just before you are dead, they attach you to four horses, placed in each quarter of the square like compass points. North, south, east and west. This is a symbolical punishment, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’
‘What do you want?’ Gavril’s voice came out unexpectedly clearly, as if he had come to a formal decision and intended to fulfil its contractual requirements in as serious a manner as possible.
‘Excellent. I knew you’d see reason. I’ll tell you what. I won’t hang you. And I won’t draw out your intestines. I’ve got nothing against you personally. You’ve doubtless led a hard life. A bit of a struggle. I don’t want to make your death an unnecessarily painful or a lingering one. And I won’t quarter you. I’m two horses short for that sort of flourish.’ Bale patted Gavril on the head. ‘So I shall halve you instead. Unless you talk, of course. I should tell you that these horses are tired. The halving may prove a bit of a strain for them. But it’s extraordinary what a little whipping can do to galvanise a weary animal.’
‘What is it? What do you want to know?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. I want to know where Sabir and… Yola was it? Was that the name you said? I want to know where they are hiding.’
‘But I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do. They’ll be in a place Yola knows. A place she and her family may have used before, while they were visiting here. A place known to you gypsies but which no one else will think of. To encourage your creative juices, I am going to stir these horses up a little. Give them a taste of the lash.’
‘No. No. I do know of such a place.’
‘Really? That was quick.’
‘Yes. Yes it was. Yola’s father won it in a card game. They always used to stay there. But I forgot about it. I didn’t need to think about it.’
‘Where is this place?’
‘Will you let me go if I tell you?’
Bale gave the gelding a taste of the switch. The gelding jerked forward, tightening the rope. The second horse was tempted to follow in the same direction but Bale shushed it away.
‘Aiee. Stop it! Stop it!’
‘Where is this place?
‘It’s called the Maset de la Marais.’
‘What Marais?’
‘The Marais de la Sigoulette.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Please. Make them stop.’
Bale gentled the horses. ‘You were saying?’
‘Just off the D85. The one that runs beside the Departmental Park. I can’t remember what it’s called. It’s the small park, though. Before you get to the salt workings.’
‘Can you read a map?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
