every word and in Spanish you put an “o”. Also Spain’s really close and I’ve got friends in Barcelona.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, acquaintances, but that’ll do, right? We deserveanother shot at life. You have to take your chances where you find them.’
‘I suppose …’
Fiona was sitting in the back, with Violette sprawled across her lap. Looking at her in the rear-view mirror, Bernard saw the face of a stubborn little girl, closed like a fist. How could people change so quickly? Last night, in the half-light of the caravan, she had seemed so gentle, or at least so calm, like Violette after a feed. They had made love with the lightness of two butterflies, simply, without haste or hunger. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just closed her eyes. She was breathing in time with the child asleep in the Moses basket, following the rhythm of the night. The beauty spot on her left breast was the centre of a world in which pain, fear and sadness were no more. Bernard held his breath, for fear of bursting the fragile bubble in which they were floating. Never before had he felt so complete, a man in perfect harmony with his life. He was exactly where he should be. Then she had opened her eyes so suddenly, he was startled.
‘Let’s get out of here, Bernard!’
‘Uh, where to?’
‘Spain.’
‘Spain? When?’
‘Straight away, right now, this minute.’
Even the sky looked different today. Milky clouds trailed across a sun as ill-disposed as Bernard to starting the new day. The landscape seemed dull and flat, patches of land blistered with characterless houses.
‘I’ll have to stop and get petrol.’
‘OK, I’ll sort Violette out.’
They stopped at a service station selling any old rubbish at any price to anyone who would buy it. As he paid for his tank of petrol, Bernard noted bitterly that they were getting through money like there was no tomorrow. They were running low already and by the time they got to Barcelona there would be nothing left. Spain, for goodness’ sake! The petrol station was already trying to flog plastic bulls, castanets and models of gleaming toreadors and flouncy flamenco dancers. They had not yet crossed the border and already he felt homesick. But what was troubling him most was the dirty trick they had played on Monsieur Marechall. OK, he was a hit man, a criminal, but he was much more than that. Monsieur Marechall had always been straight down the line with him and had put his trust in Bernard. He had taught him things like … that the Red Sea isn’t red, for one. He had treated him like a man, like a son almost, and he, eight-fingered Bernard, had behaved like the lowest of the low, nothing but a common thief. His reflection in the window disgusted him. He would never be able to look himself in the eye again. He was worth less than a cigarette butt in an ashtray.
Fiona reappeared, spruced up. She had caught the sun on her nose and cheeks, which made her look like a shiny little toffee apple.
‘They’re selling car seats for babies in there – what do you think? It would make things a lot easier. I’ve had enough of sitting there with Violette plonked in my lap. What’s the matter? What’s that face for?’
‘Listen, I’m not going any further, Fiona. Here, take what’s left of the money and you go to Barcelona, but I’m taking the car back to Monsieur Marechall.’
‘Are you out of your mind? We’re almost at the border – we’ll be in Barcelona by this evening!’
‘I couldn’t care less about Spain. I’ve never cheated anybody and I can’t do it, I just can’t do it.’
One big, tight ball of words was stuck in Fiona’s throat, which she could not spit out or swallow. She was choking and looking helplessly about her. All around people were getting into their cars, munching snack bars and holding paper cups. Others were getting out, stretching their legs with hands on hips, walking their dogs or scolding snivelling kids … Normal
‘Really?’
‘Well, acquaintances, but that’ll do, right? We deserveanother shot at life. You have to take your chances where you find them.’
‘I suppose …’
Fiona was sitting in the back, with Violette sprawled across her lap. Looking at her in the rear-view mirror, Bernard saw the face of a stubborn little girl, closed like a fist. How could people change so quickly? Last night, in the half-light of the caravan, she had seemed so gentle, or at least so calm, like Violette after a feed. They had made love with the lightness of two butterflies, simply, without haste or hunger. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just closed her eyes. She was breathing in time with the child asleep in the Moses basket, following the rhythm of the night. The beauty spot on her left breast was the centre of a world in which pain, fear and sadness were no more. Bernard held his breath, for fear of bursting the fragile bubble in which they were floating. Never before had he felt so complete, a man in perfect harmony with his life. He was exactly where he should be. Then she had opened her eyes so suddenly, he was startled.
‘Let’s get out of here, Bernard!’
‘Uh, where to?’
‘Spain.’
‘Spain? When?’
‘Straight away, right now, this minute.’
Even the sky looked different today. Milky clouds trailed across a sun as ill-disposed as Bernard to starting the new day. The landscape seemed dull and flat, patches of land blistered with characterless houses.
‘I’ll have to stop and get petrol.’
‘OK, I’ll sort Violette out.’
They stopped at a service station selling any old rubbish at any price to anyone who would buy it. As he paid for his tank of petrol, Bernard noted bitterly that they were getting through money like there was no tomorrow. They were running low already and by the time they got to Barcelona there would be nothing left. Spain, for goodness’ sake! The petrol station was already trying to flog plastic bulls, castanets and models of gleaming toreadors and flouncy flamenco dancers. They had not yet crossed the border and already he felt homesick. But what was troubling him most was the dirty trick they had played on Monsieur Marechall. OK, he was a hit man, a criminal, but he was much more than that. Monsieur Marechall had always been straight down the line with him and had put his trust in Bernard. He had taught him things like … that the Red Sea isn’t red, for one. He had treated him like a man, like a son almost, and he, eight-fingered Bernard, had behaved like the lowest of the low, nothing but a common thief. His reflection in the window disgusted him. He would never be able to look himself in the eye again. He was worth less than a cigarette butt in an ashtray.
Fiona reappeared, spruced up. She had caught the sun on her nose and cheeks, which made her look like a shiny little toffee apple.
‘They’re selling car seats for babies in there – what do you think? It would make things a lot easier. I’ve had enough of sitting there with Violette plonked in my lap. What’s the matter? What’s that face for?’
‘Listen, I’m not going any further, Fiona. Here, take what’s left of the money and you go to Barcelona, but I’m taking the car back to Monsieur Marechall.’
‘Are you out of your mind? We’re almost at the border – we’ll be in Barcelona by this evening!’
‘I couldn’t care less about Spain. I’ve never cheated anybody and I can’t do it, I just can’t do it.’
One big, tight ball of words was stuck in Fiona’s throat, which she could not spit out or swallow. She was choking and looking helplessly about her. All around people were getting into their cars, munching snack bars and holding paper cups. Others were getting out, stretching their legs with hands on hips, walking their dogs or scolding snivelling kids … Normal
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