Caravan to Vaccares by Alistair MacLean Page B

bandage was at last jerked free to the accompaniment of a final yelp of pain, a pain that had the effect of restoring Ferenc to something pretty close to complete consciousness, Bowman could see that he had a very nasty cut indeed across his forehead, but a cut that faded into insignificance compared to the massive bruising of forehead and face: if he had sustained other bodily bruises of comparable magnitude Ferenc had to be suffering very considerably and feeling in a very low state indeed. It was not a consideration that moved Bowman: if Ferenc had had his way he, Bowman, would be in a state in which he’d never feel anything again.
    Ferenc sat shakily up on the bunk while his father secured a fresh bandage, then sat forward, put his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands and moaned.
    â€˜In God’s name, what happened? My head – ’
    â€˜You’ll be all right,’ Czerda said soothingly. ‘A cut and a bruise. That’s all.’
    â€˜But what happened ? Why is my head – ’
    â€˜The car. Remember?’
    â€˜The car. Of course. That devil Bowman!’ Coming from Ferenc, Bowman thought, that was rather good. ‘Did he – did he – ’
    â€˜Damn his soul, yes. He got clear away – and he wrecked our jeep. See this?’ Czerda pointed to his hand and forehead. Ferenc looked without interest and looked away. He had other things on his mind.
    â€˜My gun, Father! Where’s my gun?’
    â€˜Here,’ Bowman said. He pointed the gun at Ferenc and walked into the caravan: the bloodstained chain and crucifix dangled from his left hand. Ferenc stared at him: he looked as a man might look with his head on the block and the executioner starting the back swing on his axe, for executioner Ferenc would have been in Bowman’s position. Czerda, whose back had been to the door, swung round and remained as immobile as his son. He didn’t seem any more pleased to see Bowman than Ferenc did. Bowman walked forward, two paces, and placed the bloody crucifix on a small table.
    â€˜His mother might like to have that,’ he said. ‘I should wipe the blood off first, though.’ He waited for some reaction but there was none so he went on: ‘I’m going to kill you, Czerda. I’ll have to, won’t I, for no one can ever prove you killed young Alexandre. But I don’t require proof, all I need is certainty. But not yet. I can’t do it yet, can I? I mustn’t cause innocent people to die, must I? But later. Later I kill you. Then I kill Gaiuse Strome. Tell him I said so, will you?’
    â€˜What do you know of Gaiuse Strome?’ he whispered.
    â€˜Enough to hang him. And you.’
    Czerda suddenly smiled but when he spoke it was still in the same whisper.
    â€˜You’ve just said you can’t kill me yet.’ He took a step forward.
    Bowman said nothing. He altered the pistol fractionally until it was lined up on a spot between Ferenc’s eyes. Czerda made no move to take a second step. Bowman looked at him and pointed to a stool close to the small table.
    â€˜Sit down,’ he said, ‘and face your son.’
    Czerda did as he was told. Bowman took one step forward and it was apparent that Ferenc’s reactions weren’t yet back in working order for his suddenly horrified expression in what little was left of his face that was still capable of registering expressions and his mouth opening to shout a warning came far too late to be of any aid to Czerda who crashed heavily to the floor as the barrel of Bowman’s gun caught him behind the ear.
    Ferenc bared his teeth and swore viciously at him. At least that was what Bowman assumed he was doing for Ferenc had reverted to his native Romany but he hadn’t even started in on his descriptions when Bowman stepped forward wordlessly, his gun swinging again. Ferenc’s reactions were even slower than Bowman had imagined: he toppled headlong