David came back on.
'Here's the star. What do you want to know?'
The moment of tension dilated.
'Tell me,' Simon said. 'Where exactly it is. What, ah, village, what town…'
The journalist could almost hear David peering closely at the map.
David came back on.
'It's quite distinct. It's next to a tiny village called Eveux.'
'Eveux?'
A pause.
'Yes, Eveux…that's near L'Arbresle…northwest of Lyon.' David's voice was now sharpened. 'Why do you want to know this?'
Simon didn't answer, because he was stooping to look at his computer screen, at the entry on La Tourette. The website gave the monastery its full and sonorous French title. Le Priore de Sainte Marie de La Tourette.
De Eveux-sur-L'Arbresle.
30
The hire car was slotted in row 3B of the airport car park at Lyon Saint Exupery. Bags stowed, Simon pulled out into the midday traffic, and made for the autoroute that took him away from Lyon.
North along the Rhone valley.
He considered his moody impulsiveness. Was this all a mistake? He had asked Suzie what she thought of this journey, this sombre adventure; and she'd told him, with a certain languish in her eyes, that she'd agree to him going because she loved him. And because they were safe with the policeman anyway. And because he was going mad in the house doing nothing, he might end up drinking again, and she was worried about that.
Simon stared at the cars ahead. The autoroute was busy.
He knew almost everything Suzie had said had been a lie. She didn't want him to go. She thought it was irresponsible of him to go. The only reason she agreed to his going was indeed because she loved him. He was lucky to have her.
And he was an idiot.
But he was here now. And, whatever his motives, the excitement of the chase was stimulating, energizing. What would this place be like? The monastery that sent people mad? Would he find the infamous archives? Simon glanced at the autoroute signs as he slowed the car: Ecully, Dardilly, Charbonnieres-les-Bains.
There. He slowed to check a road sign: this was it. The N7 to L'Arbresle.
Simon spun the wheel and headed left. He was motoring through the verdant depths of the Beaujolais. His thoughts wandered as he reached for the big road atlas of France, to check his route. A few hundred miles southwest from here, in Biarritz, David and Amy were hiding, hoping, waiting, flying out to Namibia.
What could he do to help them? Maybe nothing, maybe something, maybe what he was doing right now. His mind was a turmoil of confusion — and curiosity.
The last of the route took him past more vineyards, and yellowing copses of oak. Then the lane gave out, onto a wide sweeping meadow. And in the middle was the monastery of La Tourette.
Alone in the car, he said:
'Wow.'
He'd done a few hours' research on this modernist building, quizzed his architect father about the designer, Le Corbusier, but the reality was still pretty startling.
In the middle of the greenery was this…thing. It looked like the offspring of a multi-storey car park mated with a sour medieval castle. The building was almost uniformly grey. The only colour came from the various big windows, adorned with bright red and orange curtains.
Slowly he rolled the car towards the priory complex. More unusual aspects came into view. A surreal concrete pyramid jutted primly from the centre. Several grey corridors seemed to be angled, haphazardly. The whole edifice was supported on one side by a bank of grass, and on the other by spindly, irregular concrete legs.
Simon parked, and sought the entrance: it was a kind of concrete gantry that led to the core of the building.
The exterior may have been shocking, but his induction into Sainte Marie de La Tourette was simple, almost flippant. The monastery and the monks were obviously used to visitors and pilgrims, especially people interested in architecture. Simon was greeted by a monk in blue jeans and grey T-shirt, in a concrete side room.
As Simon confirmed his bogus, telephone-booked identity — Edgar Harrison, a visiting British architect — he twitched with apprehension, and searched the monk's face for a hint of curiosity, or scepticism, or suspicion.
But the monk just nodded.
'Monsieur Harrison. Un moment.'
The monk jotted down the name and details, on a computer. Simon scanned this side room as he waited to be processed. The space was humdrum, an average office, with files and paperwork, cordless phones and a fax machine, and a big glass case with keys for various rooms, hanging from hooks with neat little labels. Le Refectoire, Le Libraire, La Cuisine.
Le Libraire? At least there was a library. But if its contents were so secret why was it just casually mentioned here? Le Libraire?
The monk had done his work; he stood and took a key from another case, then escorted Simon to the concrete upper floors to show him his allotted room, the monastic cell where he would spend his three days on 'retreat'. The stairs were steep. They didn't speak. They reached their upper-level corridor.
The doors were lined up and down the concrete corridors like tall soldiers on parade. It really was like a prison.
The monk handed over the key, then left the pilgrim to his own devices. Simon entered the room, chucked his bag on his narrow bed, and gazed around — in dismay. The cell was homicidally oppressive: little wider than a coffin, with a low, damp concrete ceiling. The room terminated in a glass door and window with rusted surrounds. And there were sullen noises everywhere. Rattles of water in the pipes. A cough.
Then a phone call: on his new mobile. When Simon pressed Accept, the worry in his chest was like an incipient heart attack. Only his wife had this new number. What had happened?
But it was David.
'Simon…Where are you? Suzie gave me the new number.'
The journalist looked around. At the grey concrete walls. Patched with ugly dampness. He stepped outside into the corridor, to get a better signal.
'I'm in that monastery.'
'With the archives?'
'Well I hope so, David. I hope so.'
A monk came striding down the corridor. A wooden cross hung around his neck, contrasting with the surfing T-shirt underneath. He smiled, vacantly, at Simon. Who smiled keenly in return.
David was whispering into the phone. 'We're going to Namibia. Now.'
'Eloise is already there? Correct?'
'Yes.'
'OK. Well…' The journalist sighed. 'Please be careful. It's, ah, clearly ludicrous. You're being pursued by a bloody madman. But…Be careful!'
A silence. Then David said: 'Same for you, Simon. I know I never met you, but…y'know…take care of yourself?'
'Thank you.'
The journalist closed the call. And began his exploration of the building. Le Priore de Sainte Marie de La Tourette.
Two hours of wandering told him that the rest of La Tourette was as bizarre, and intimidating, as the cells. Odd doors opened into misshapen rooms. Occasional skylights showed the grey clouds from startling angles.
