The Watchers (34 page)

‘You’re bleeding a little.’

‘What?’

Rochat pointed to her right cheek. It took her a moment, seeing the blood on her hands, looking at the bloody robe on the floor, touching her cheek and seeing the damp red on her fingers.

‘They cut my face?’

‘On your cheek.’

Rochat took a small mirror from the shelf near the door, he shuffled to the bed, handed her the mirror. She held it like something fearful.

‘I’m afraid to look.’

‘You rubbed it and made it messy but I don’t think it’s deep.’

She looked into the mirror.

‘My face, Jesus, my face.’

‘I’ll boil some water so you can wash. I have Marseilles soap.’

She didn’t answer. She kept staring in the mirror, touching the bloody spot as if trying to make it go away. Rochat shuffled towards her, she stiffened.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I need to get things from underneath the bed. And I’ll close the air vent, so it stays warmer in the loge.’

‘OK.’

She lifted her legs. Rochat dug through the cabinet, closed the small vent at the back of the closet, pulled out the plastic tub of washing things. He took a water jug from behind the door, filled the kettle and set it to boil. She watched his every move. The timbers creaked and groaned.

‘Cover your ears.’

‘What?’

GONG! GONG
!

Her hands shot to the walls, holding on to the timbers as the loge shook in the deafening sound.

GONG! GONG
!

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Marie. Shes lives in the carpentry next door. When you hear the timbers, it means she’s going to ring the hour. She said it’s four o’clock.’

‘Marie?’

‘That’s her name, Marie-Madeleine, she’s a bell. Do you want to see?’

He watched her eyes, slipping away and returning to now.

‘That’s the French name for Mary Magdalene, isn’t it?’

‘
Oui
.’

The kettle clicked off. Rochat poured hot water in the plastic tub. He added cool water, mixed it around. He set a stool by the bed and rested the plastic tub on top.

‘I can make it hotter or colder.’

She reached into the water with her bloodstained fingers. She raised them slowly, watching pink drops fall from her fingertips.

‘No, it’s just right.’

He gave her the soap, a washcloth and towel.

‘The towel’s clean. I brought it from home.’

She stared at the things in her hands.

‘My name’s … Katherine. Do you have any bells named Katherine?’

‘
Non
.’

She looked up. Rochat saw a tear run down her bloodied face.

‘But Katherine would be a pretty name for a bell too.’

‘You think?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘Your name, it’s Marc?’

‘
Oui
, Marc Rochat.’

‘And you’re the guy in the bell tower, with the lantern.’

He nodded.

She leaned over the tub.

Steam rose from the water and enveloped her face.

She soaked the washcloth, touched it to the cut and cleaned away the blood. She cupped water in her hands and poured it through her hair again and again. Then she unwrapped her arms from the duvet to wash her arms and neck. The duvet slipped, Rochat saw her breasts. There were red marks and scratches all over her skin. He quickly turned around, putting his nose to the door again, listening to the water run through her fingers. He didn’t move till long after the water sounds stopped and he heard her voice call to him.

‘You can turn around now, Marc.’

She was pulling the duvet over her shoulders, tight around her neck. The towel was wrapped around her hair. Her face was clean, the skin around the slice on her cheek looking purple and swollen. Rochat stepped towards her, but then stopped.

‘You need some medicine and a bandage, I have some.’

‘OK.’

She watched him open the cabinet next to the door, take out a small bottle, some 2 x 2 bandages and a roll of surgical tape. He removed two bandages from the sanitary packaging, picked up one and poured antiseptic solution over it. He shuffled three steps to the bed and held it out to her.

‘Could you do it for me, Marc?’

‘Me?’

‘Please?’

‘
D’accord
.’

He stepped closer, dabbed the damp cloth to the wound. She flinched. He dabbed a few more times till the wound was clean.

‘I’ll make a bandage now.’

She watched him shuffle to the table, cut four strips of surgical tape from the roll and attached the strips to a fresh bandage, careful to make sure the strips were half on, and half off. He shuffled back towards her, holding out the bandage for her.

‘Here.’

She looked at him.

‘Are you a med student or something?’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘It’s like a doctor.’

‘I’m not one of them.’

‘Could you hold the mirror for me?’

He held the mirror for her as she set the bandage over the wound.

‘How do I look?’

‘You look better.’

He gave her the mirror and shuffled back to the door. He stared at the floor, feeling the strange sensation of her presence in the loge.

‘Marc?’

He raised his eyes from the floor. In the soft candlelight of the loge she looked pretty again, he thought.

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Because you’re lost.’

‘Lost?’ She pulled her knees under her chin, half smiling to herself. ‘I must still be hallucinating.’

Rochat wasn’t sure what the word meant.

‘Is that like imagining things?’

‘Yeah. Big time.’

‘I imagine things too.’

She looked at him. A crooked little man in a floppy black hat and long black wool overcoat, a mildly insane look in his pale green eyes.

‘Where on earth did you come from?’

‘Quebec City. It’s on the same line as Lausanne.’

‘The same line?’

‘The line on the globe in Maman’s house.’

Her eyes became heavy, overcome with exhaustion. She lay down on the bed.

‘That’s nice.’

That’s when Monsieur Booty jumped down from his hiding place behind the radio to stick his cold nose in her face, and Rochat said the cat’s name was Monsieur Booty and she said, ‘Hello, Monsieur Booty,’ and she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Rochat pulled his eyes from the lantern flame and blinked.

His cup of tea was cold now.

He whispered to himself:

‘The angel has come to Lausanne Cathedral, Rochat, just like Maman said. And she’s lost, so you must protect her. Like you protect Marie and Clémence and all the bells and all the old stones and teasing shadows and Otto and … you must protect her till she can go home. That’s what you must do.’

He moved quietly about the loge, blowing out the candles. All but the candle in his lantern, in case she woke and was scared. Then she’d know she was in the belfry and was safe, he thought.

He took off his overcoat and sat on the wood floor, his back at the door.

He laid the coat over himself like a blanket.

He watched her sleep.

book three

the awakening

twenty-one

Steel wheels on steel rails.

Running east to west this time.

Hotel telly didn’t have History Channel so Harper spent the night waiting for the cathedral bells to count off one more sleepless hour. Wasn’t much, but it beat counting and recounting dead soldiers in the ashtray. A packet of smokes’ worth now.

Steel wheels coming again. The sound like a wave rolling up from Geneva, cresting at Gare Simplon, rolling on to Montreux.

Christ, Montreux.

Once or twice, drifting in the almost sleep, Harper saw the night clerk pinned to the wall. But it was only the curtains at the balcony door moving in the draught. Then he thought he saw Yuriev stumbling out of the casino on his way to his own grisly end. That one was only trails of cigarette smoke floating through the room. Two poor sods you never met, Harper thought, slaughtered because they talked to you on a telephone.

Another train.

West to east.

Heavy and lumbering.

It slowed into Lausanne but didn’t stop, it picked up speed, moved on. Had to be a freighter. They rolled by Lausanne like clockwork on the twenty- or forty-minute mark all through the night.

Just after the seven o’clock bells, lighter trains came every two or three minutes. Leaving behind pecking sounds of feet on icy pavements that grew more in number with the coming and going trains.

The eight o’clock bells brought buses and trolleys and gathering voices. Harper climbed from the bed, crossed the room and pulled open the curtains. He saw locals in the streets on their way to their daily bread. He saw morning light glowing firelike on the iced cliffs above Lac Léman.

He walked back to the bed, downed three aspirin, looked at the telephone. The thing had buttons with pictures next to them. Man carrying bags, woman behind a desk, woman in maid uniform, man with a tray, man holding a suit of clothes. Harper picked up the receiver, pushed a button.

‘
Bonjour
, Monsieur Harper, how may I serve you?’

‘Are you the man with the tray?’

‘
Pardon?
’

‘I’d like a pot of coffee and croissants, please.’

‘
Absolument, monsieur, tout de suite
.’

‘Do you have the
Guardian
?’

‘
Pardonnez-moi?
’

‘English newspaper. I’d like to give the state of the world another go.’

‘Of course, monsieur. I can purchase one from the tobacconist. May I charge it to your room?’

‘Sure, and add five francs for yourself.’

‘
Merci, monsieur
.’

‘Hang on, what day is this?’

‘
Jeudi, monsieur
.’

‘Thursday.’

‘
Oui, monsieur
.’

Harper hung up the phone, headed to the shower and lingered long enough to feel the cobwebs of the long night clear a bit. He dried himself before the steamy mirror. Drips of water snaking down the glass letting him see watery reflections of his face, his chest, the still healing bruises on stomach and ribs. Couldn’t remember where they’d come from. Must’ve been way beyond pissed at the time. Took a fall down some stairs maybe.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and found his valise. Everything inside arranged as only a Swiss copper could’ve done it. The socks were perfect. He took his shaving kit to the sink, did the deed without slicing open his throat. He stared at the face in the mirror a good long while.

‘What?’

Down on a stool, a hotel bathrobe folded nice and neat. He picked it up and shook it out, wondering about the man who spent his life folding bathrobes. Thinking that’s the job he should’ve had in Lausanne. Out of sight, out of mind. Locked up in some basement. Left sleeve, right sleeve, fold twice, tie snugly with belt. He slipped it on as someone came rapping at the door. He walked over, looked through the spy hole. Young woman in white busman’s jacket standing behind a serving trolley. Silver pot, china cup and saucer, basket of croissants, neatly folded newspaper. The newspaper looking as if it’d been folded by the same man who did the bathrobes. He opened the door.

‘
Bonjour, monsieur
.’

‘Sorry, not quite dressed.’

She wheeled the trolley through the door. Harper stepped into the hall.

No bad guys this way, no bad guys that way. No good guys either.

‘Do you wish me to pour the coffee, monsieur?’

Harper stepped back in the room.

‘That’s fine, I’ll do it.’

‘As you wish, monsieur.’ She offered him the bill in a leather folder. ‘This is only for record purposes. The Swiss police will be paying your bills.’

‘I should hope so.’ He signed it and handed it back. He saw the bulge under her busman’s jacket. ‘I take it you’re one of Inspector Gobet’s gang?’

‘Monsieur?’

‘The gun under your coat. Rather hefty from the look of it, or perhaps that’s because you’re such a delicate thing.’

She took the leather folder.

‘I’ll be delivering all your meals during your stay. If anyone else appears at your door, don’t answer and dial triple zero on your telephone. The code will alert us.’

‘What about the maid?’

‘Fresh towels are under the breakfast trolley. Inspector Gobet suggests you make your own bed. He also suggests you do not leave the room. Please feel free to use the minibar.’

‘I didn’t see any guards in the hall.’

‘There are CCTV cameras in the lobby and lifts. As long as you stay in your room, you should be safe enough.’

‘Should be?’

‘Yes.’

She turned to leave.

‘There’s no History Channel on the telly.’

‘Inspector Gobet left instructions you were not to have History Channel.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He thought it best you find another way to pass the time.’

‘Any idea what that might be, besides die at his beck and call?’

‘I’m sure I’m far too delicate to know such things, monsieur.’

She walked out of the room, closed the door.

Harper rolled the trolley to a chair near the balcony windows and tucked in. Two cups of coffee and half a croissant later he checked the headlines. World still going down in flames, just faster than yesterday. As if caught in the laws of physics, gravity dragging the whole bloody thing down. He tossed the paper on the bed, stared out at the big rocks across the lake. Orders of the day: stay out of sight, look for a new hobby. Wait for a pack of fucking psychokillers to find you. How lucky can a man get?

Laws of physics.

Gravity.

Luck.

No such thing.

He searched the room for his mackintosh. Nowhere to be seen till he opened the closet and saw it in a heap on the floor. A hanger lying next to it, as if in the wee hours he’d given up the struggle. He hung the mackintosh up properly and pulled the manila envelope from the pocket. He poured another cup of coffee, pulled the photos from the envelope, flipped to the last shots: Yuriev stumbling out of the casino.