The Retreat Read online

  There was a surge to cross the road before the traffic recirculated. She got onto the pedestrian promenade and looked down on the procession from there. Before it reached the old town, it wheeled to the left to cross into the plaza, picking up a waiting group of gay activists. She ran down amongst them. A transvestite smiled at her and gave her a balloon.

  Then came the sound of gunshot. A bullet pierced an inflatable penis which fell to the floor. The drums and whistles stopped and many people ran off in different directions. Most of the tourists went with them, except a few determined men with camcorders. Mackie pointed the phone at a squad of shaven-headed tattooed men, their faces contorted with anger. They chased the paraders into the plaza. The Pride anthem roared out of the speakers: Sing if you’re glad to be gay, Sing if you’re happy that way. The people beside her joined in, but not for long. On the other side of the plaza, a crowd of dark skinned men with sticks were running into the mêlée. When they clashed with the tattooed stormtroopers, things started to get ugly. Mackie pushed her way to a spot under the speakers snapped away. The riot police arrived with shields, batons and water canons. They advanced into the plaza and started beating the rioters. A bare-chested cowboy was dragged away, his head bleeding. She found a way out of the square behind the stage. The streets were deserted. On the walk back to the hotel, she passed a number of smashed up shop fronts. She walked faster, head down, dodging the looters. She’d lost the rainbow flag.

  9

  The breakfast papers had pictures of the battle in the plaza. There were none of the Euro Pride parade. The news reported a riot caused by a clash of immigrants and legitimate protesters. There were several mugshots of arrested moslems, including women in burkas. There was one of a white man with dreadlocks. He had thrown a can.

  Mackie went to survey the aftermath. The streets were full of broken glass. A section of the Promenade des Anglais had been closed with incident tape. There were few people on the pedestrian promenade, apart from joggers. She decided to cut her losses and return to Pont du Calvaire on the lunchtime train. She felt the need to get back. She was taking this very seriously now. She hoped Niall was OK in London.

  Roman sounded harassed when she called his mobile number.

  ‘No one can pick you up today, I’m afraid. The accountants are here. I’m tied up and so is Scout. You could get a bus from Quimper and a taxi up from town. Or you could stay overnight in Paris. Why don’t you do that?’

  ‘I don’t mind getting the bus. ‘I won’t see you at dinner then?

  ‘Yes, you will. They’ll be gone by then. It was just an interim audit for the funders. Are you alright? I saw the news.’

  ‘I’m fine. By the way, I saw the villa.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk now.’

  The journey back to Paris held no more fascination for Mackie. Her head was full of shocking images: Moslems being herded into a police truck. Broken glass. Looting. The loss of joy after the extravagance and bravura of the parade haunted her throughout the journey. By the time she reached Quimper, she was wrung out. The bus to Pont du Calvaire was waiting to connect with the train. She climbed aboard and called Joe le Taxi. All she needed to say was château. He knew what time the bus arrived.

  The community were half way through dinner when she got back. She couldn’t take her usual place next to Roman because they had a guest. She crept into Gerald’s empty chair, Herbert on her left and Scout on her right. There was a fillet of sole in the covered dish, a scraping of sauteed spinach, and a handful of lettuce in the salad bowl. She ate it up, although the cod was tepid and the spinach cold. She was hungry.

  ‘Who’s that next to Roman?’ she asked Herbert.

  ‘The Examining Magistrate. He’s come to take a look at us.’

  Duroc was slightly built, with thinning hair and a pigeon chest. He looked like a man who spent too long behind a desk. The flattering picture she saw in the paper must have been photoshopped. His English was fluent. She heard him telling Iris about the medieval catacombs in Paris, close to the old Sorbonne.

  Roman caught Mackie’s eye. ‘JP,’ he said, interrupting. ‘Here’s someone you must meet. Inspector Immaculata Divine from the Metropolitan Police. She’s been staying with us for a while but wanted to see Nice. Was the journey OK?’

  Mackie inclined her head. Her mouth was stuffed with bread and cheese. There was a sly exchange of glances between members of the community.

  ‘She’s been keeping us on our toes,’ Herbert said loudly. Iris sniffed. Duroc got up from his chair and walked down the table to shake Mackie’s hand.

  ‘Duroc. Please call me JP.’

  ‘I’m Mackie.’

  ‘We must exchange contacts,’ he said. ‘We are in the same line.’

  ‘You’re a judge.’

  ‘A sort of judge. I’m an examining magistrate. I lead criminal investigations. In France we have an inquisitorial tradition, not adversarial like your Crown Courts. Come to my office sometime and I’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to hearing about it.’

  The rest of the diners were silent, taking in this exchange. Roman looked pleased. Sofka and Joanna were peeved about something. Herbert was his usual waspish self.

  ‘I can see love in the air,’ he said, nudging her.

  The coffee arrived. She made her excuses. Duroc gave her his card as she passed by him. Roman seized her gently by the arm.

  ‘I’m very pleased you came back to us,’ said. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t return.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  No one else bade her goodnight.

  10

  She heard Iris close the bathroom door and shuffle away in her slippers. The community women lived down the other end of the corridor. There was a bathroom there but Iris seemed to have some objection to sharing with Sofka and Joanna. She preferred to walked twenty yards to use the bathroom opposite Mackie’s room. Mackie had left her sponge bag in there initially, but since she surprised Iris rifling through the contents one afternoon, she had kept it in her room. She hoped the nosey old bag wouldn’t have taken all the hot water. The château had what you called eccentric plumbing.

  The water was just warm enough to soak her feet and flannel her body. God, how she longed for a hot shower, but there was only a foreshortened tub, one end built up as a seat. No room to stretch out for a full length wallow. The bathroom in Nice was the same. She earned her pay just having to use these facilities.

  She towelled herself and rubbed a handful of warming dry blackthorn oil over her arms and legs. Wrapped in the towel, she went back into her room. Roman was sitting on her bed. She gasped.

  ‘I’m sorry to startle you, Immaculata. I wanted to warn you that the community are unlikely to accept you as a long term member. I don’t want to lose you, and after a brief discussion with them because I’ve been busy at the conference centre while you’ve been away, I’ve got you two weeks grace to give you the chance to redeem yourself with Sofka and Joanna.’

  ‘Would you mind turning round while I put my dressing gown on?’ She tied the cord tight, and sat next to him on the hard single bed. ‘I don’t know what you mean by redeem myself. I can’t think I’ve done anything to offend them. You know, I never intended to stay here long term anyway. Thanks though for telling me and saving my face.’

  ‘It’s doubtful that any of them will be staying on long term. The funders are pulling out at the end of the year.’

  ‘Babel isn’t coming here anymore?’

  ‘Perhaps one more time. I don’t know yet. I could sell the conference centre as a going concern but I won’t cry in my soup at the prospect of it closing. It has run its course.’

  ‘What about the château?’

  ‘If the community want to stay on here, they’ll have to buy me out. If not, I’ll sell it to the hotel chain that made a bid for it the other week when they held a conference here. I don’t actually like any of them. In fact, I rather despise them. With one exception.’ H
e put his arm round her waist and drew her to him.

  ‘Whoah! Wait a minute.’

  ‘What’s that scent you’re wearing?’

  She pushed him away: ‘You can’t just walk in here and start pawing me.’

  ‘You want me as much as I want you. Do you think I don’t know? I don’t see why we can’t get it out of our systems. We’re both grown up.’

  ‘Sure, and maybe I wouldn’t kick you out of bed. But it’s not appropriate.’

  ‘Don’t use that word. We could arrange a tryst at the conference centre. There’s no one coming in next week. I’ve given Jacqueline time off. The rooms are en suite.’

  ‘Are there baths you can stretch out in?’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve seen the size of some of the delegates. It’s standard four star accommodation.’

  ‘Look, it’s been a long day for me.’ She clutched the towel and got up. He remained seated on the bed.

  ‘Did you see anything of the riots?’

  ‘I saw tattooed men setting fire to market stalls. They had the same tattoos as Scout.’

  ‘It’s a popular design. They’re a sub culture.’

  ‘Some of them like getting in character. Scout’s mates look as though they’re after a fight. They’re combat trained.’

  ‘What are you implying? I told you I’d have a word with Scout, but you didn’t want me to.’

  ‘How can I redeem myself with Joanna and Sofka? Tell me, then go, please.’

  ‘You can start by running the market stall this week so they can have a break. You’ll have Scout with you. He’ll cart all the produce.’

  ‘That sounds like a penance. There doesn’t seem any point in running a market stall if you’re planning to sell this place.’

  ‘They don’t know that.’

  ‘I won’t say anything. I’ll prove to them I’ve not come here for a holiday. I’ve been taking it seriously.’

  He reached up and drew her damp hair round her face: ‘You should wear it down like this. It makes you look younger and less formidable. You’re a beautiful woman, Immaculata. You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel.’

  ‘I’ve asked you not to call me Immaculata. You’re the only one who does it. I’m sick of telling you: It’s Mackie.’

  ‘Immaculate one. That’s so nice. Let me kiss you goodnight.’

  ‘Will you go, please, before I scream for Iris? That would really put the cat amongst the pigeons.’

  The service phone rang. Saved by the bell.

  ‘I’ve got to take this. It’ll be my son. It’s private.’

  He got up. ‘You know, you’re not nearly as cold and uncaring as you pretend to be. À tout à l’heure.’

  Rudyard told her she must definitely stay on: ‘Have you seen the news? Fires and riots in Berlin, Milan and Marseilles.’

  ‘You’ve seen my holiday snaps from Nice.’

  ‘It looks like something big is kicking off. We have to stop it before it gets serious.’

  ‘I’m taking it seriously now. Do you think it’s Einstein?’

  ‘Try to get the names and locations of the Babel group. Do whatever it takes.’

  Part 3: The Examining Magistrate

  1

  The stall was open on Saturday and Wednesday mornings. On Tuesday afternoon, Sofka showed Mackie where the produce was kept. It consisted of jars of marmalade and honey, and a crate for eggs, which would be filled in the morning by L’Oiseau, who looked after the hens. He would also box up the beans and tomatoes that he picked at dawn. There was a supply of paper bags fastened together with string. No egg boxes.

  ‘I hope you enjoy your time off,’ Mackie said. ‘Will you be going away?’

  ‘Joanna and I are going to Brest for the day. We can’t afford a holiday in Nice. Scout will drop us at the station before you set up the stall.’

  At six thirty am, he loaded up the minibus and drove them into town. Sofka didn’t look round when Mackie called through the window to wish them a nice day. Joanna mumbled something,

  Scout put the minibus in gear and turned back into the town. She asked him if he liked working as a driver. As usual, he didn’t respond. He drove right into the market place, and pulled up behind an empty stall. He swore when he saw a three wheeled van about to block him in. After he’d unloaded the produce he went off on a frolic of his own, leaving Mackie to set it all up. She unrolled the banner which advertised Produits du Château. It looked like it had been painted by Sofka. There were alternating letters in blue and red, surrounded by a pattern of shields emblazoned in gold with the lilies of France and the lions of England. The effect was fussy but eye-catching. It was a struggle to pin the banner up but she was helped by a North African who held the stall next door. He sold leather goods and scarves, similar to the ones at the market in Nice. Mackie bought a leather pouffe from him. She would stuff it when she returned to London.

  By eight am, the market was full of customers: Women in the traditional dirndl and shawl, their tall white coiffes held by ribbons tied under the chin, began haggling with the stallholders, insisting on the best price. Non traditional housewives wore cotton shifts that ended at the knee and exposed their varicose veins. It was already hot. Mackie hoped the beans and tomatoes wouldn’t shrivel up before the market finished at midday.

  She stood there for over an hour, but no one bought anything. The North African was calling out to customers in French, but no one visited his stall either. Mackie didn’t call, but she held up samples of the produce, a jar of marmalade in one hand, a pot of honey in the other. At half past ten, she had a taker – Duroc, the examining magistrate. He greeted her warmly and bought eggs, marmalade, honey and a handful of beans and tomatoes. She asked the North African to watch her stall while she helped Duroc carry the produce to his car. His office was on the other side of the square in a building next to the town hall. He told her he was preparing a dossier on the fire at the Vietnamese restaurant which had been started deliberately. It was a serious crime, and he had persuaded the procureur to lead a police investigation. She told him she’d witnessed the fires on the market in Nice and wondered it they could be related.

  ‘Come and see me on Sunday afternoon at my house.’ He wrote the address on another one of his cards ‘We can talk freely there.’ He stowed the purchases in a cool box in the back of his Citroen estate.

  There were no more customers. She chatted with the North African, who fetched them both cans of lemonade while she watched his stall. He came from a small town near Tunis, and was thinking of returning home. She wondered what he was hoping to achieve in a place like Pont du Calvaire. At quarter to twelve, he started packing up his goods. She took the banner down. The takings amounted to less than ten euros. They all came from Duroc.

  She walked down to the quayside to look for Scout. Chez la Marse was full of the usual suspects, boosted by men who had been to the market. La Marse’s sleazy son called out to her as she walked in: ‘Ah, c’est Jane Birkin.’

  Scout was sitting with his cohort, eyeballing Lucie as she potted balls. The Dutch trio sniggered when Mackie marched up to their table and told him to fetch the minibus. He glared at her and indicated that his glass was half full.

  ‘Drink up. Let’s be having you.’

  He didn’t see she that was joking with him. He was sullen all the way back to the château. She wanted to wash the market out of her hair, but of course there would be no hot water. She let herself into her room and found a note from Roman pushed under the door: Meet me outside the conference centre tonight at 11.15.

  2

  There were a lot of eggs at dinner that evening: egg mayonnaise for starters, quiche, asparagus with hollandaise sauce. The atmosphere was clouded with resentment. Mackie took the vacant chair next to Roman again. It gave her a certain advantage, and she hoped he would fend off any brickbats.

  ‘OK?` he asked her when she sat down. She took his meaning and nodded.

  ‘Have you seen the takings on the stall today?’ So
fka asked him. ‘I’m sorry to question your judgement, but it was a mistake to send someone who doesn’t speak French.’

  ‘I did my best.’ Mackie countered. ‘I can’t help it if they don’t like English goods. Did you have a good day out?’

  ‘The goods, as you call them, are all produced here. There’s not an English ingredient in any of them. The townspeople know that. We have always done a good trade in marmalade, thanks to Iris’s wonderful recipe. And we have always sold most of the eggs and vegetables.’

  ‘I sold some eggs to the examining magistrate. He also bought beans and tomatoes, honey and marmalade. He’s going to be a good customer.’

  ‘The takings were pathetic.’

  ‘I’ll try and do better on Saturday.’

  ‘No!’ Iris exclaimed. ‘Sofka and Herbert must go, and Joanna.’

  ‘I was planning to go to Aigues Mortes,’ Joanna said. A day in Brest must have given her the travel bug.

  Mackie looked to Sofka: ‘I could come and watch how you do it. Im sure Herbert will give me some tips on how to sell.’

  ‘You got one customer, ‘ Herbert sneered. ‘That was only because you’re in the police. You lot stick together. I saw you eyeing up the magistrate the other night.’