The Marks Of Cain Part 14

David sat back with a curt sigh of frustration. They had got as far as they could with Jose, yet Jose surely knew more. Sipping the last of his coffee, David winced at the taste of the dregs, and then he winced again, staring at Amy's phone.

The mobile.

The revelation was a mild electric shock. He reached out, grabbed Amy's cellphone, and looked at her.

'This is it!'

'What?'

'He must be using this. I think Miguel's using mobiles. I think Miguel's using mobiles. To find us.' To find us.'

'What?'

'You can trace mobiles, right? Triangulation. It's easy.'

'How...'

'This is the French Basque Country, you told me yourself. ETA have sympathizers everywhere around here, even in the police force. Maybe in mobile phone companies, too. Telecoms?'

Her gaze was intense.

'I made that phone call outside the witch's cave.'

'Exactly. He knows your number. And now you've called Jose he'll be after us in Mauleon. Probably coming here right now.'

A fresh wind swept over the terrace. David stood up and opened the phone, and took out the sim card. Then he leaned, and took aim, and span the little card into the river. Amy stared. He snapped the phone shut, and handed it back. 'OK. Let's go. Your bags are packed?'

'They're already in the car, with yours, but why '

'We can get another sim card! Come on!'

He led the way down the terrace steps to the waiting car. Then they drove away from Mauleon.

He pointed blindly at the map as he motored: already doing ninety kilometres an hour. 'OK. Please...Amy, work out a route. Make it a zigzag, unpredictable. Let's go and see these churches. Right now.' Right now.'

Obediently she examined the old map, the pattern of blue stars. The forests unfurled as they accelerated. The mountains were coned with snow in the distance: a row of brooding Klansmen.

The town of Savin was easy to find. An hour of fast, anxious driving brought them to its cl.u.s.ter of sloped roofs. Savin was prettily situated on a crest, overlooking the grey farms and vineyards. They parked on a side street, looking up and down. For Miguel. For the red car. The street was empty.

A smell of incense enveloped David as they entered Savin church. A few Americans were taking pictures of a spectacularly ornate organ. David glanced at a rough old font, the pedestal of which comprised a trio of carved stone peasants: holding up the water. The faces of the peasants were sad. Limitlessly sad.

Then David paced around the nave, and through the choir; he peered into the chancels, where the flagstones were striated with soft colour from the stained gla.s.s windows. He stepped into a side chapel dedicated to Pope Pius the Tenth. A stern portrait dominated the little chapel. The long-dead Pope glared eternally through the incensed and sepulchral gloom.

There was nothing else in the church. Amy had already given up, she was sitting in a pew. She looked tired.

But he felt curious about something. Or was it nothing? Or was it something?

There was another door, a smaller door, to the side. Why were there were two two church doors, one so obviously humbler than the other? He stood and gazed around. He looked back. This little door was tucked away in the corner of the church, the southwest corner; low and modest. Was that significant? How many churches had two doors? Lots, maybe. church doors, one so obviously humbler than the other? He stood and gazed around. He looked back. This little door was tucked away in the corner of the church, the southwest corner; low and modest. Was that significant? How many churches had two doors? Lots, maybe.

Approaching the smaller door, David touched the granite surround: the cold and ancient jamb was worn smooth. The iron handle was rusted and unused. And brutally chiselled into the lintel of the door was a slender, spindly, peculiar arrow, of three lines meeting at the bottom: the arrow was pointing down.

He stepped back, nearly b.u.mping into a priest who was hovering behind.

'Er, je m'excuse... je m'excuse...sorry...'

The priest gave him a sharp, wary glance, then paced away down the nave with a swish of nylon vestments.

David stared, transfixed, at the arrow. He was recalling the font in Lesaka. That church had possessed two fonts, and carved into one of them was a similar cruel arrow. Primitive but definite: three carven lines converging at the top: an arrow. That arrow was pointing up.

His thoughts were whirring now, the cogs of the puzzle turning fast. What about the church in Arizkun, that had two doors and two cemeteries and two cemeteries. How could he forget that second cemetery? The image of an angel, with a tawny cigarette b.u.t.t screwed in the eye, was lodged in his memory.

Just like the old woman with the goitre, pointing and cussing.

s.h.i.t people, s.h.i.t people, s.h.i.t people.

He was closer. How close he didn't know. But he was close and he wanted to keep moving. He signalled to Amy shall we go? she smiled in a wan way, and stood. But David kept his thoughts to himself as they retreated to the car. Because some of his thoughts were truly disturbing. Was there some direful link between the markings on the font and the markings...on Amy's scalp? He believed her story about Miguel: the s.e.x game with a knife. Her painful honesty as she admitted this had been all too authentic. But the scars. The scars were odd. The marks made on the foreheads of witches after the Sabbath intercourse with Satan.

It was too much and too headily upsetting, too rich a mix of repellent ideas. David felt faintly nauseous as he walked the car park gravel. A damp grey drizzle was falling. They didn't say a word as they headed for the next town, slaloming across Gascony, trying to throw Miguel off their tracks.

Sixty kilometres of empty road brought them, very slowly, to Luz Saint Sauveur. The winding route ran spectacularly between walls of rock, with occasional side roads rudely blasted through the oppressive chasm walls: they were heading towards the Pyrenees once more. Clouds collared the black, brooding, saturnine mountaintops like white lacy ruffs around Van Dyck grandees.

Turning a final corner they saw their destination nestled in a vivid green valley. The old and sombre heart of Luz Saint Sauveur concealed another ancient clutch of low slung houses surrounding a very old church. They parked right by the church, climbed out, and entered. David just knew he was near to the sobbing heart of the mystery, at least this part of it: what the churches meant. He had no idea what the solution might be, but he could hear the noise of it, the long wailing cry of confession: this is what it all means. this is what it all means.

There were two other people inside the eglise parroissial eglise parroissial of Luz Saint Sauveur. Sitting on the rear pew with a woman who seemed to be his mother was a young and evidently r.e.t.a.r.ded man. His eyes were rolling, a wet line of spittle ran down his chin, like the track of a slug. His mother's face was prematurely aged, visibly wearied by the necessity of caring for the son. The cretin. David felt a surge of sympathy; he offered the woman a helpless but sincere smile. of Luz Saint Sauveur. Sitting on the rear pew with a woman who seemed to be his mother was a young and evidently r.e.t.a.r.ded man. His eyes were rolling, a wet line of spittle ran down his chin, like the track of a slug. His mother's face was prematurely aged, visibly wearied by the necessity of caring for the son. The cretin. David felt a surge of sympathy; he offered the woman a helpless but sincere smile.

Amy had been staring at the altar, and the chancels. Her expression, as she returned, was despairing.

'I don't get it. There's nothing.'

'I'm not so sure...maybe there is something.'

'Sorry?'

He gazed her way.

'Look for two. Two of something. Two doors, two cemeteries, two '

'Two fonts? I saw two fonts. Over here...'

They walked over, their footsteps echoing in the stony silence.

This church also had two fonts, and one of them was hidden away in a cobwebbed corner, half-concealed, musty. It was small and humble and somehow melancholy.

Just like in Lesaka.

Amy said: 'But...Why two? Why ever should there be two?'

'I don't know,' he answered. 'Let's just keep going.'

Another tense and silent hour found them in the remote Pyrenean village of Campan, sequestered and isolated at the end of a side-valley. David buzzed down the window and stared, as they rolled down the main street.

Every house had a large rag doll grinning in the window, or at the door. Gawky rag dolls, almost the size of grown men, were sitting in shop windows. Another big doll was lying on the road, fallen from some high sill it stared up at the wild Pyrenean peaks that imprisoned Campan.

Amy gazed at the dolls.

'Jesus.'

They parked in a side street and strode to the empty centre of the village. Their route pa.s.sed a tiny, rundown, shuttered office du tourisme; office du tourisme; in the window of the office was a small typed sign. Amy read it aloud, and then translated for David's benefit: the festival of rag-doll-making was apparently a local tradition, for centuries the people of little Campan had made these big effigies, known as in the window of the office was a small typed sign. Amy read it aloud, and then translated for David's benefit: the festival of rag-doll-making was apparently a local tradition, for centuries the people of little Campan had made these big effigies, known as mounaques mounaques, and in mid September the people would put their handmade rag dolls on display in windows and doors, in shops and in cars.

It was a village of dolls. A village of silent, impa.s.sive doll faces, smiling absurdly at nothing. The smiles felt like jeers or insults.

Not that there was anyone to feel menaced or insulted: Campan was deserted, locked up, empty, taciturn, shuttered. One old woman was stepping out of a horse meat shop; she stared their way, then frowned, and walked quickly around the corner.

They reached the main place place of Campan. A mournful war memorial, a bus stop, and a shop, also closed, marked the centre of everything; one short road led to a bridge, over the rushing River Adour. Even from here David could see that the opposite bank of the river was utterly derelict, a field of roofless cottages and mouldering barns. of Campan. A mournful war memorial, a bus stop, and a shop, also closed, marked the centre of everything; one short road led to a bridge, over the rushing River Adour. Even from here David could see that the opposite bank of the river was utterly derelict, a field of roofless cottages and mouldering barns.

Campan was wholly empty, and half abandoned. and half abandoned.

The other road off the place place led straight to the church. A metal gate gave onto an overgrown churchyard surrounded by a tall, grey stone wall. led straight to the church. A metal gate gave onto an overgrown churchyard surrounded by a tall, grey stone wall.

The church door itself was open, so they stepped straight through. The nave was adorned with cheap purple plastic flowers. Four dolls sat on the front pew, staring at the altar: an entire manikin family.

David hunted for twoness, yet he couldn't find it. Campan had one font, one door, one pulpit and four rag dolls grinning like cretins, like inbred r.e.t.a.r.ds.

Not two. two.

Amy maybe sensed his frustration, she put a hand on his shoulder.

'Maybe it's more complicated...'

'No. I'm sure sure that's it. Two. that's it. Two. It has to be. It has to be.' He was snapping the words angrily, and unfairly. Amy flinched, and he apologized. He said he needed fresh air and stepped outside again, into the churchyard. The overcast autumn day was clammy and oppressive, but still an improvement on the dankness of the interior.

He breathed in, he breathed out, calming himself. Staring lucidly. Working it out. The distant mountaintops peered over the plastered brickwork of the church wall.

David gazed at the wall.

If there was a second door it might be in this strange, high castellated wall, which barricaded the entire churchyard.

His search was hampered by the wet brambles that brawled between the graves. Enormous spiders scuttled from his steps.

'What are you doing?'

Amy had followed him out.

He lifted a hand, without turning.

'Looking...for doors. In this wall. Don't know what else to do.'

He kicked his way through the sodden undergrowth, flattening wild roses, and clambering over broken tombstones. The air was damp to the point of rain; the graves were slippery to the touch. He climbed and slithered and examined.

The wall was intact, the ancient bricks were apparently unpierced. Amy called out.

'Here!'

She was behind him, pulling back some ivy, which had draped one section of the wall. Behind the ivy was a door, shut and dead, but a door a door. He hurried over and leaned near to see: the tiny door exuded age, the stone surround was crooked, the brown wood was rotten, yet the door was somehow still firm. Resolutely shut. Shut for centuries.

David looked closer. The lintel was carved.

Urgently he ripped away the last coils of ivy and revealed the inscripted symbol in the centre of the stone.

'Here.' He was anxiously excited. 'This arrow. I keep seeing it. The font, the doors, the arrows.'

Amy was shaking her head.

'That's not an arrow.'

'What?'

'I know that's not an arrow.'

'How?'

'Because there's one on a house in Elizondo. I remember walking past it with Jose, one day years back. I asked him what the symbol meant. He was evasive. Oddly evasive.'

'I don't '

'All I remember is this: what he called it, Patte d'oie Patte d'oie. I remember distinctly because he used the French.'

'Patt what does that mean. Patt...?'

'Patte d'oie. Goose's foot. An ancient symbol.' Amy brushed some more mud from the incised lines, so brusquely carved into the stone. 'This is a goose's foot, not an arrow. It's a webbed goose's foot.'

15.

They were on the last leg now: heading for the last place marked on the map. Approaching the heart of the maze.

Navvarenx. Near to Gurs.

Navvarenx was north by a distance, so they pulled over at a garage for more fuel. David walked to the tiny shop, trying to work out what the doors meant. Smaller doors, smaller cemeteries, smaller fonts. Why?

It didn't make sense. Why was everything duplicated in this eccentric, almost insulting way? Was it a kind of apartheid, like benches for black people in 50s Alabama? Like old South Africa?

Or was it something else? Could they be smaller doors for...smaller people?