to have them work automatically. I’m not always in this room.’
Trent gazed up at the corners of the confined space and at the wall that pressed in on him from behind. He didn’t blame the guy. If it was up to him, he’d spend as little time in this room as he could.
‘OK,’ Trent said. ‘Let’s see what you have.’
Alain leaned towards the control panel and flicked a couple of switches. He reached for a dial and twisted it to the left.
The footage on the screens began to rewind. The digital clocks counted backwards. Alain went slowly to begin with and Trent concentrated on the monitors showing the swimming pool and the pool house. He watched footage of himself and Alain walking backwards around the pool to enter the timber hut. Their movements had a clockwork jerkiness, like stop-motion animation. A few seconds of stillness and the two of them emerged from the pool house and jolted backwards through the garden towards the house. Trent’s eyes switched to an adjoining monitor. He watched their arms and legs twitch as they reversed along the gravel pathway.
The screens rewound further, a flurry of static and broken horizontal lines. Alain increased the speed. The clocks whizzed backwards in unison.
03.22.
03.10.
Trent caught movement in a screen on the top row. A vehicle had driven by the external gate, its there-and-gone movement repeated in a further three screens.
02.50.
02.20.
Trent saw the blur of a cat or a fox passing the fountain out front. The sightless dazzle of the creature’s eyes as it turned its head. Then the stillness of the swimming pool. The mysterious green-lit shack, unmoving, undisturbed, alone among the tangled pines.
01.30.
01.00.
00.27. A number of monitors displayed Philippe’s low-slung sports car appearing to reverse from outside the house and along the driveway in a cloud of dust before sweeping out of the gate.
00.00
23.57
A middle screen showed Trent and Alain circling the fountain and following the same route. They bolted back along the moonlit drive. Trent walked out through the gate.
Alain glanced at him. Trent didn’t say a word.
He was focused on the uppermost screens, watching himself marching backwards along the fence, eyes bright and lidless in the night-vision glow, finally disappearing from view at 23.29.
A fast scan through another twenty minutes and Trent saw the battered Mercedes reverse along the driveway and out through the gate, its single headlamp twinkling in the dark.
Then stillness. Calm. A flickering, blurred repeat of shot after shot, camera switch after camera switch. The time counted down. The footage shifted even faster.
‘Wait,’ Trent said. ‘There.’
Alain punched a switch. The monitors froze.
21.47.
Trent pointed at the second screen from the left, top row. It showed a colour still of the lighted entrance gate. The gate was swung back a short way. A young black guy was passing through. He was staring up at the camera lens. Eyes fearful and wide, mouth gaping and jammed full of stark white teeth.
‘That’s him,’ Alain said. ‘That’s Serge.’
He hit PLAY on the control panel. The screens buzzed, then advanced in real time, the counters clicking upwards, second by second.
The chauffeur had sleek, very dark skin. He was slim and boyish, with long limbs and a compact torso, as if he hadn’t fully grown into his body just yet. His head looked too big for his trim shoulders, perched on a lean neck, and his jet-black hair was tightly curled. He had on a chequered shirt over faded jeans. A blue holdall was slung over his shoulder.
Trent watched the gate swing closed behind Serge and then the cameras picked him up on the other side, flattening himself against the bars. The holdall was down by his feet and his face was angled to one side, eyes downcast. He looked nervous. His whole body was tensed. Every muscle. Every tendon.
He held the pose for a long time. It seemed to take a lot out of him. Pretty soon he was
Trent gazed up at the corners of the confined space and at the wall that pressed in on him from behind. He didn’t blame the guy. If it was up to him, he’d spend as little time in this room as he could.
‘OK,’ Trent said. ‘Let’s see what you have.’
Alain leaned towards the control panel and flicked a couple of switches. He reached for a dial and twisted it to the left.
The footage on the screens began to rewind. The digital clocks counted backwards. Alain went slowly to begin with and Trent concentrated on the monitors showing the swimming pool and the pool house. He watched footage of himself and Alain walking backwards around the pool to enter the timber hut. Their movements had a clockwork jerkiness, like stop-motion animation. A few seconds of stillness and the two of them emerged from the pool house and jolted backwards through the garden towards the house. Trent’s eyes switched to an adjoining monitor. He watched their arms and legs twitch as they reversed along the gravel pathway.
The screens rewound further, a flurry of static and broken horizontal lines. Alain increased the speed. The clocks whizzed backwards in unison.
03.22.
03.10.
Trent caught movement in a screen on the top row. A vehicle had driven by the external gate, its there-and-gone movement repeated in a further three screens.
02.50.
02.20.
Trent saw the blur of a cat or a fox passing the fountain out front. The sightless dazzle of the creature’s eyes as it turned its head. Then the stillness of the swimming pool. The mysterious green-lit shack, unmoving, undisturbed, alone among the tangled pines.
01.30.
01.00.
00.27. A number of monitors displayed Philippe’s low-slung sports car appearing to reverse from outside the house and along the driveway in a cloud of dust before sweeping out of the gate.
00.00
23.57
A middle screen showed Trent and Alain circling the fountain and following the same route. They bolted back along the moonlit drive. Trent walked out through the gate.
Alain glanced at him. Trent didn’t say a word.
He was focused on the uppermost screens, watching himself marching backwards along the fence, eyes bright and lidless in the night-vision glow, finally disappearing from view at 23.29.
A fast scan through another twenty minutes and Trent saw the battered Mercedes reverse along the driveway and out through the gate, its single headlamp twinkling in the dark.
Then stillness. Calm. A flickering, blurred repeat of shot after shot, camera switch after camera switch. The time counted down. The footage shifted even faster.
‘Wait,’ Trent said. ‘There.’
Alain punched a switch. The monitors froze.
21.47.
Trent pointed at the second screen from the left, top row. It showed a colour still of the lighted entrance gate. The gate was swung back a short way. A young black guy was passing through. He was staring up at the camera lens. Eyes fearful and wide, mouth gaping and jammed full of stark white teeth.
‘That’s him,’ Alain said. ‘That’s Serge.’
He hit PLAY on the control panel. The screens buzzed, then advanced in real time, the counters clicking upwards, second by second.
The chauffeur had sleek, very dark skin. He was slim and boyish, with long limbs and a compact torso, as if he hadn’t fully grown into his body just yet. His head looked too big for his trim shoulders, perched on a lean neck, and his jet-black hair was tightly curled. He had on a chequered shirt over faded jeans. A blue holdall was slung over his shoulder.
Trent watched the gate swing closed behind Serge and then the cameras picked him up on the other side, flattening himself against the bars. The holdall was down by his feet and his face was angled to one side, eyes downcast. He looked nervous. His whole body was tensed. Every muscle. Every tendon.
He held the pose for a long time. It seemed to take a lot out of him. Pretty soon he was
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