The Marks of Cain Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  A new and chilly wind was raking the poplars that guarded the edge of the camp; their branches roiled, in a worried fashion, as if perturbed by the unexpected breeze.

  The woman went on, ‘This was a surprise for your father. He did not know your family’s history, that is why he came here, to find out the truth of his background.’ Her eyes were half closed. ‘He did not know that your grandfather was a Basque and had been in a camp in the war. So I told him. And, David, when your father and mother learned all this, they stayed here. For two weeks. Asking more questions…your father Eduardo would come into the brasserie in Gurs, with your maman. I think my husband told him many thing, many things about the camp, and other people too.’ She quietly sighed. ‘I have been a widow for a decade.’

  ‘And then? My parents were in France for a month.’

  ‘Yes…Your father went to Provence, and maybe somewhere else, for a week or more. I do not know why. But…when he came back with your mother he was asking even more question. Difficult questions. About the camp and the Basques and the Cagots. About Eugen Fischer. About many thing. A man here, a traitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I cannot remember the name. I will try and remember. Later. These are terrible memories for me, for any Cagot, for anybody.’

  David had to confront the final query, the necessary query. He felt he was on the disused railway track, and it had suddenly come to life, and the train was bearing down on him. Carrying the terrible truth in its rusted brown trucks.

  ‘So where were they killed? My mum and dad?’

  Madame Bentayou pointed to the main road at the edge of the camp. Beyond it was a sunflower field; the withered plants of autumn looked like tiny dead trees, made of charred and ragged paper.

  ‘Right there. In the car. An explosion. Someone blew up the car…or at least that is what everyone in Gurs and Navvarenx believed. The police did not investigate properly. Just like they did not investigate…my son’s murder, his wife’s murder, weeks ago.’ Madame Bentayou’s voice was tremulous. ‘I wonder if this is the same people killing. I wonder if I saw someone in the town, the same man, tall, both times. But I am sorry, I am talking too much, I am crazy, is that what you say? My granddaughter thinks I am losing my head. I am going now. I want some time alone. We can talk more later.’

  Madame Bentayou got up wearily. She stepped close to David, and pressed his hand between her two cold small hands, gazing into his eyes. Then she turned, taking a wooded footpath back to her bungalow.

  David watched her go. He also felt a need to be alone: a fierce need. He walked to the edge of the road.

  Looking down at the tarmac he wondered, ludicrously, if there would still be skidmarks. Evidence of the explosion. Fifteen years later. Little quartzite nuggets of windscreen glass still sprinkled in the gutter. Patches of his mother’s blood. A grass stalk smeared red.

  And a car, black and gutted, with two bodies inside.

  There was nothing. He stood there for ten minutes in the chilly breeze, wondering, remembering. His mother in a blue dress. Smiling and alive. He felt as if he was trying to reach out to her – here – hoping to see her ghost, here where she died. He was a small boy running along a path to the waiting arms of his smiling mother. The sadness of it was palpable, like the wind from the mountains.

  The sun was gone and the air was cold.

  He made his way back to the girls. Eloise was taking a phone call. Her expression was very engaged. She turned to David.

  ‘It is my grandmother again. She remembers the name, Monsieur David. The name of the traitor. It was José. José –’

  ‘Garovillo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  David flashed a glance at Amy: what?

  But Eloise was now shouting down the phone. ‘Grandmère? Grandmère!’

  Amy called over: ‘What! Eloise! What!’

  The young Cagot girl shoved her phone in a pocket.

  ‘She says there are men coming up the drive. She says she recognizes him – it is him – the man she saw before –’

  Eloise was already running across the camp.

  Running to her grandmother.

  Before Miguel got to her.

  They all ran. The sweat dripped in David’s eyes as he sprinted after Eloise – she was fast, young, seventeen. Soon they were over the old railtrack, and sprinting past the peeling wooden doorway of the brasserie. Eloise was running to save her grandmother; David was trying to save Eloise, and maybe to save them all. As he ran, the logic of it all exploded in his mind like a speeded up film of some natural organic process: a blossoming dark rose.

  It was obviously Miguel: Miguel was doing all the killing. It was always Miguel, the Wolf, slaughtering the Cagots, slaughtering everyone. A fox that kills all the chickens: for fun.

  They came in sight of the bungalow beyond the woodlands, and David stared.

  Were they too late? The twilit road looked quiet, and deserted. There was no red car. The bungalow seemed undisturbed. But then David saw – for a moment – a dark face at a window. A tall man. The head vanished. Eloise yelled – and then David grabbed her, pulling her back into the trees. He clamped a hand around her mouth.

  He hissed, ‘Eloise, the man in there is a psychopath. Brutal. He tried to kill us. He is killing everyone. Your mum and dad. He will kill you too –’

  Eloise was half fighting, half sobbing, struggling against his restraint. What to do? What to do? David realized he couldn’t keep hold of her – it was somehow wrong. If she wanted to save her grandmother, if she wanted to die doing that, then he had to let her do it. With a gasp of exhaustion, he released her – and fell back onto the soggy ground.

  Amy hissed a warning but Eloise did not respond, she moved a few yards, waiting, watching – there were lights on in the bungalow– and then she ran across the road, in and out of the gloomy shadows, running to her grandmother. David stood there, lurking and shameful, paralyzed – for half a minute. He whispered hoarsely to Amy: ‘What do we do? What do we fucking do?’

  Amy raised a hand, and mouthed the word silently: ‘Eloise.’

  The teenage girl was running back, her face was stricken with terror, her young lips trembling.

  ‘El –’

  The girl shook her head. The silver cross on her dark skin glittered in the lonely streetlight.

  ‘I see I saw I see I see –’ she stammered, fighting tears, or screams ‘– through the window.’

  ‘What?’

  Another shake of the head. No words. Eloise stood there shivering, like a terrified gazelle, aware of a nearby predator. Amy put a hand on Eloise’s shoulders; David reached in his pocket and gave her the phone. He whispered, fiercely, ‘Call the police. Call them. Even if you don’t trust them…’

  Eloise accepted the phone, and dialled. Amy and David whispered together, trying to work out where to go, where to hide next. Everywhere they went, they got hunted down, maybe it was hopeless. Eloise was talking urgently on the mobile.

  The door to the bungalow opened. David grabbed Eloise once again and they ducked into the woods.

  ‘Come on!’

  At last, Eloise spoke, ‘I know…I know where we can go. We have to hide. Yes? He will kill us too!’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘Give me your car keys!’

  David handed them over; they skulked down the line of trees to David’s car. Eloise hissed: ‘Now!’

  They jumped in. David took the back seat, Amy the front, Eloise revved the engine fiercely, squealed into reverse; and they were away: headlights dipped and racing out of Gurs, taking a narrow, rustic route, racing for the mountains. David looked behind – the road was empty; he turned and saw. Eloise’s face was streaked with fierce, silent tears.

  He didn’t want to guess what she had glimpsed through the window. Her grandmother killed – or worse – being killed. She was obviously in some kind of shock. And yet her driving was good. She was crying but she was coping. Doing it. He gazed at h
er dark profile. There was something proud in her teenage grace; and something purely sad. Again he noticed the cross on her dark Cagot neck. It was glittering in the oncoming carlights.

  Amy opened a window and the cold night air gushed in; David flopped back, quite shattered. He was covered in noisome mud, yet again, from the crawl into the trees.

  But at least they were alive; Amy and Eloise were alive.

  But they’d left her grandmother to die.

  Eloise had stopped crying. Her face was now devoid of expression. She was driving, fast – with a bleak efficiency – through the back roads, the black mountains looming ahead; the clouds had cleared, so the tallest summit wore a saintly halo of stars against the deep dark blue.

  They were alive. But Eloise’s grandmother was surely dead.

  Amy turned and looked at David, and then at his hand. He stared down: he had a vivid and bloody cut along the palm, from when they’d fallen back, so violently, into the trees.

  ‘Ouch,’ she said.

  He exhaled.

  ‘Doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘We need a bandage.’

  Amy grabbed at a T-shirt, tore it vigorously in two, and wrapped the cloth tightly around his wound. ‘It will have to do for now,’ she said. ‘Until we get to…wherever…’

  The question had been broached. David nodded.

  ‘Eloise. Where are we going?’

  The girl did not reply. David and Amy swapped a knowing, worried glance.

  ‘Eloise?’

  The car burned down the road, the girl said nothing. Then at last she replied, quietly yet precisely: ‘Campan.’

  More silence. Amy filled the painful stasis: ‘Eloise, look, I…’

  ‘No! Non! Not talk about it. Please do not talk about it or I will turn the car and go back…I cannot tell you what I saw! Non non non. Please do not ever ask me.’

  David glanced Amy’s way. She silently nodded. They needed to distract the poor girl some other way. He spoke: ‘Campan, Eloise? What’s there?’

  ‘The cagoteries.’ Eloise turned the wheel to take a curve. ‘No one goes there to the ruins. The ruins are stretching, down to the ravine…There is a house!’

  ‘Campan…’ David whispered to himself. The village of the dolls. Amy asked, ‘You think we will be safe?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Eloise, with a bitter tinge to her voice. ‘The cursed side of the river? Everyone avoids it and everyone never goes there. Totally safe. Totalement.’

  David sat back, assenting, as Amy wrapped the bandage tighter around his bleeding palm. The blood looked like black squid-ink in the moonlight.

  It was indeed obvious now. Who was doing it all: who had killed his parents. Who was killing the Cagots. It had to be.

  He said, ‘Miguel. He’s doing all of it. Or most of it.’

  Amy frowned, severely.

  ‘But why? And how?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know. Miguel killed my mum and dad. The…’ His voice dropped to the lowest cadence. A dark whisper. ‘The grandmother saw someone. A tall man? Remember? So it was him. She sensed. And she suspected the same man of killing my family and hers. This is it, Amy. This has to be it. He is killing for a reason. He is chasing us for a reason. Trying to kill us for a reason.’

  ‘But what?’ Her question was hushed – yet fierce. ‘What’s it got to do with you, with you and…with José? And the Cagots?’

  ‘He saw the map in José’s house.’ David was working it out even as he spoke. ‘Maybe he realized we were on the same trail. Following the same route that got my mum and dad killed. So he has to kill us too.’

  Amy was looking out of the window at the stars. ‘I suppose…And José knew – he knew that if we pursued the same puzzle, Miguel would come for us too. He was trying to save us from his son. My God.’

  David nodded, feeling almost foolish. It was as if he had been marvelling at some little corner of a painting, not realizing that the actual painting was ten times the size. Now the full horror was revealed: a grotesque and Biblical tableau of the cruel and invincible son: killing mothers and fathers.

  ‘But why?’ Amy said. ‘What mystery could be so bad that Miguel has to kill for it? To keep it quiet?’

  ‘It must be something to do with his father. And the war,’ said David. ‘He was in Gurs. The traitor in Gurs…?’

  The sign from Campan flashed past, momentarily red and white in their headlights. Then the car slowed.

  Eloise talked, for the first time in half an hour.

  ‘It gets difficult…from here.’

  They were driving over a bridge. In the half-light David recognized the mournful spire of Campan church across the slated roofs; he glimpsed one of the rag dolls lying next to the bridge, smiling happily in the headlights; but now the car was headed deep into the bad side of the river, into the cagoterie. Ruined cottages with empty black windows stood on either side, tumbledown barns, derelict allotments. Thick woods approached, slowly reclaiming the ancient ghetto of the untouchables.

  The road worsened, stones and branches littered the way. In the chilly darkness David got the sense they were driving underground – a ravine was rising on either side. The humble cottages were more scattered now, low grey shapes through the trees; a ghostly white owl flapped across the headlights’ dazzle.

  ‘Voila.’

  It was a very large, very old stone house. Possibly medieval. And yet, despite its size, it was concealed with great efficiency: massive bushes hid the turning, thick trees formed a perimeter wall, the maze of the cursed cagoterie lay all about – and they were halfway down the black ravine.

  ‘My grandparents brought me here only once,’ said Eloise. ‘To show me the house where the Cagots used to hide during the worst persecutions. This is the refuge of the Cagots. There are caves and passages beyond…under the house. Les chemins des Cagots. So the Cagots could escape here.’

  They got out of the car. The night air was almost frosty, tangy with the savoury scent of the woods.

  David tensed.

  There was a light inside the house. A flickering light, a lantern, or a candle, inside the house. Someone was in there.

  Fear fought with curiosity. David motioned to Amy and Eloise, his finger vertical to his lips, shhh. He approached the window and peered inside.

  He started back. Two people were huddled inside the humbly illuminated room.

  It was José Garovillo and his wife.

  20

  ‘I was hoping you would…explain the Serpent Seed.’

  Emma Winyard smiled; they were sitting in a restaurant near Smithfield meat market. Then she turned to an approaching waiter, and asked for some more water, giving Simon a chance to appraise Ms Emma Winyard, the Walden Professor of Church History at King’s College London.

  She was pretty, elegant – and personable: in her early forties, she evidently favoured discreet jewellery, very smart shoes – and fashionable restaurants. It had been her idea to meet here at St John’s, because, as she said on the phone, ‘It’s rather nice to lunch there when I’m doing research at the Guildhall.’

  ‘Serpent Seed, yes…’ She smiled again. ‘This is a highly controversial teaching. It says that the snake in the Garden of Eden had intercourse – ah, here’s my starter. That was quick.’ She leaned back and accepted the plate.

  Simon couldn’t help staring at her food. It looked like a small bobbly rubber inner tube of meat, with a nosegay of parsley at the side.

  Emma picked up her fork, and continued, ‘The doctrine says that the snake in Eden had intercourse with Eve, and that Cain was the progeny from this bestial copulation.’

  ‘The snake and Eve had sex ?’

  ‘Yes. That is to say, Satan in the form of the serpent had sex with Eve. And therefore Cain was the son of the Devil, and all who descend from him are tainted.’

  ‘Rrright…’ The journalist didn’t know quite what to say. His embarrassed silence was interrupted by a phone call; he glanced at the screen. It said Fazackerly. What
did the old professor want? Nothing that important, surely. The journalist leaned to the phone, and refused the call, forwarding it to voicemail; then he switched his attention back to his lunch partner. ‘Sorry about that…’ He wondered how to get the dialogue going again; he gazed down at her plate. ‘What is that you are eating?’

  ‘Chitterlings,’ said Emma. ‘Fried intestines. Very salty, but quite delicious.’

  ‘Intestine?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She smiled. ‘The chef here, Fergus Henderson, is famous for reviving old English meat dishes. World famous. Smithfield meat market is just down the road, of course. Been there since the thirteenth century. Do you mind if I eat my starter? It’s not so good cold. Yours has yet to arrive.’

  ‘By all means. Please.’

  Simon looked on as she downed a mouthful of rubbery-looking intestine, then he pressed the question.

  ‘Who believes in Serpent Seed?’

  ‘A small selection of cranks, minor sects, splintered cults.’ She chewed thoughtfully, and added: ‘That said, the doctrine has some…Biblical authority.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The idea that Eve mated with Satan, and gave birth to Cain, is hinted at in various places in the Bible. For instance, in the New Testament Epistle of John 1, Chapter 3, it states, “Not as Cain, who was of that wicked one, and slew his brother”. The idea of the Serpent Seed can also be found in some early Gnostic writings.’ She took another forkful of intestine and chewed. Then added: ‘Things like the Gospel of Philip. However, the teaching was rejected as heresy by the church father Irenaeus, and later by mainstream Christian theologians.’

  Simon absorbed this. Cain who was of that wicked one. He thought of the two brothers, the sons of Adam and Eve: Cain and Abel. Like him and Tim. And which one of them was Cain?

  He felt the gulf of sadness, and a piercing desire for a drink. So he fixed his eyes on Emma Winyard. Concentrating.

  ‘It’s a load of rubbish then? Serious Christians don’t believe it?’

  The waiter arrived once more, this time presenting a plate with a bone on it. Just a bone. Like a roasted kneebone.

  As he was new to this strange restaurant, Simon had allowed Professor Emma Winyard to order his lunch. But he hadn’t expected a bone.