At seven she woke him, bringing him an ice cold Pernod. Wearing just a pair of white tennis shorts, John sat outside in the yard under a straw‑lean‑to roof, watching the setting sun. After an hour, Cecilia came and told him dinner was ready.
She had laid the table for one.
‘Please eat with me,’ he said. ‘I can’t sit here alone with you in the kitchen.’
She protested, but in the end sat down at the table and ate her dinner with him, keeping her eyes averted. The food was simple, but much better than he was used to.
‘Qu’est ce que c’est?’ John pointed to his plate.
‘Civet de lapin,’ Cecilia answered.
He shook his head and shrugged. She rose and led him out of the house, turned left and walked a few steps into a field full of lavender. She stood listening, then waved for him to follow.
A rabbit lay snared in a trap, struggling desperately to free itself. Cecilia lifted it carefully, stroked the paralysed animal, and then after turning its head slightly to the right, yanked it hard to the left and broke its neck.
‘Lapin,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘You like, eh?’
John nodded, marvelling at the efficient way she had despatched the poor creature.
After finishing his dinner, he sat outside in the yard again, face towards the dark blue mountains. The whole place was completely quiet. Not a sound, not a movement.
He was still sitting there hours later when with a shiver he realised how late it was. He went indoors, finding the place deserted, though a light glowed beneath Cecilia’s door as he went up to his room.
The next day was equally warm and sunny. Cecilia was up before him and served him a breakfast of eggs, homemade bread and strong black coffee. He asked her if there was somewhere in the area he could swim.
‘Oui. There is a lake, fifteen minutes by car,’ she said. ‘But there is also the river quite near. I show you yesterday.’
‘I’ve forgotten where it is,’ he said. ‘Show me again, sil vous plait.
She led him outside and they walked for a while before they came to the river. She pointed up to the mountains, then hugged her shoulders, shivering. ‘Il fait tres froid. Brrr!’
John laughed and repeated, ‘Brrr. Brrr.’ Then took his socks off and poked his toes in. The water was cold and clean.
‘Merci. I can find my own way home.’ When she had left him, he took off his clothes and dived into the water, sitting with his back to the current. He stayed there for a while without moving, enjoying the sensation, before he noticed the large trout swimming round him. An ideal place for Michael to fish.
At the thought of his son, John’s peaceful mood was shattered. He’d been lying low for too long already – and just when contact with his family had been restored this had to happen. He had to win back Michael’s affection, which meant he must find some means of reconciliation with Catherine. If he didn’t, he knew his relationship with his son would be in danger of gradually fading away and that he could not allow. Whatever the cost, he must repair the damage he had done to his marriage.
When he got back to the house, Cecilia was preparing lunch. Afterwards, John slept for several hours, before being woken as before with a large cold Pernod.
* * *
The warm and pleasant days passed in an unchanging rhythm.
Cecilia taught him French for two hours every afternoon, but her English improved more than his French. John liked to see her serious expression relax into smiles, and told silly jokes which he would then have to explain, waving his arms and pulling faces while she dissolved into giggles.
She assured him she was happy with her job, living on the isolated lavender farm. Although he had told her to use the car when she wanted, she used it only to go shopping in Lodeve, buying supplies to last for a whole week. She was not interested in visiting the town more often than necessary. Told him she had no family, except an old uncle in Lodeve and had never been outside Languedoc.
She also told him she had been married, but had separated some years back. Her husband had beaten her. She had asked the Church for a divorce, but that was not possible at the moment. John knew she was a devout Catholic and attended mass every Sunday without fail, walking there in the heat dressed in her best black dress, a bible in her hand. She would not drive. When John asked why, she replied, ‘It does not look right to God.’
In his turn, John merely told her he was married with one son. He realised that Cecilia was innately shy not from ignorance or lack of sophistication but as an animal is shy. It took a while for her to feel fully at ease with him, but gradually she relaxed as she found him to be kind and good‑humoured.
He had noticed she seemed to possess only three dresses and no shoes other than the sandals and walking boots. One day he persuaded her to go to Lodeve and buy a new dress, shoes and a television for her room. He spent the rest of the day fitting an aerial on the roof.
He found her to be the perfect companion for his new life. She left him alone, but was always in the background if he needed her. She smiled more readily now and often sang as she went about her chores.
John got used to sleeping for an hour or two every afternoon, when the sun was at its hottest. Cecilia prepared his Pernod in the early evening and brought it to him, waking him quietly by opening the shutters to let in the daylight.
One day, nearly a month after he had arrived, he half sat up in bed and took the glass she held out. Instead of quietly leaving the room, as usual, she remained standing.
Looking straight ahead, she said in a low voice, ‘Tu ne preferes pas les femmes?’
She put out her hands to him. He looked at it, touched her palm with his fingertips. Then she turned her back, unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the ground. She stood unmoving for a few seconds before, courage restored, she turned to face him.
He made room for her beside him. She shifted her lithe, strong body next to his and lay on her back, eyes closed. She sighed deeply and held his hand against her breast, savouring the moment. Gently he touched her hair and lips and brought his mouth down on hers. Her kiss was soft and lingering. She smelled of lavender, fresh twigs of which she always put in the wash.
After that, they made love every afternoon. Cecilia never stayed afterwards but, carrying her dress and shoes, showered, then started preparing the evening meal in the kitchen.
She was shy at all times except when she was making love. For her it was a natural and uncomplicated part of life, and for John an unexpected blessing in this strange new life.
* * *
John had still not made contact with Arthur or anyone else. His daily routine included walking alone for hours every day. He lost track of time. Solitude suited him, giving him an opportunity to think and plan.
He knew he could not continue like this. He must decide his future: whether to remain here with Cecilia, or go back to England and try for a reconciliation with Catherine.
It would, of course, be possible to arrange matters so that it looked as if he had died. He could then live quietly here, improving the place year by year, but with no possibility of ever seeing his son again. He would also have to forget the plan upon which Erick was already embarking. No, staying on, living as he was now, would only be exchanging one prison for another.
On the other hand, if he chose reconciliation, he would have to give himself up and serve the rest of his sentence. His master plan could still move ahead. If he did persuade Catherine to give him a second chance, she would insist he change his way of life. He could sideline his criminal operations, already nominally under Boucher’s control, and concentrate on the group of groups, to all intents and purposes an entirely legitimate enterprise.
A few weeks later the postman arrived on his moped, flourishing a telegram.
‘Phone me,’ it said. It was not signed, but only Arthur knew where John was.
He drove to the boulangerie in the village with Cecilia. While she went for a walk, he phoned the branch of ‘Dazz
ling’, a shop where Diana worked. He gave her the number and waited for Arthur to phone back. Ten minutes later, his friend phoned him.
‘Michael’s ill. He’s back in hospital,’ Arthur announced without preamble. ‘They have a bone marrow match and are going to operate.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘I need a plane at Lodeve airport first thing. Make the arrangements in London and tell the Clark’s to find out how I can visit the hospital without being seen.’
John put the receiver down slowly. He had been kidding himself, thinking he had any easy option. There was no way he could walk away from this. Whatever Catherine wanted, he would have to agree. Nothing mattered so long as Michael recovered to live a normal life.
As he sat outside the shop, staring into space, Cecilia came back. Seeing his expression, she knew something was wrong.
‘My son is sick. He has leukaemia,’ John said mechanically. ‘I have to go back to England.’
She looked at him levelly, then took his hand. Without speaking, she led him towards the church. Pulling open the heavy door, she walked into the dark interior, leading him like a child. She sat him in a pew at the back and moved slowly towards a statue of the Virgin. Crossing herself, she dropped a coin into a collection box then lit a wax taper, sliding it into the rack beneath the painted figure.
John watched her, moved by her utter conviction she could help him by bringing him here. For an instant all hope vanished. He feared the worst could be happening at the present time and he was far away, unable to help or support. He dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his face. ‘Please save Michael. Please save him,’ he whispered.
Feeling Cecilia’s hand on his shoulder, he got to his feet and followed her out of the church.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
_________________________
London, September 1983
Cecilia drove him to the airfield early the next day and left him there to wait as he asked for. It was deserted. At one o’clock a Beachcroft B200 plane landed. The pilot jumped out and came towards John.
‘We were told over the radio,’ he said, ‘your son was operated on this morning. He’s sleeping now.’
‘Thanks.’ John climbed on board and decided to try to get some sleep. Five hours later, when they arrived at an airfield in West Sussex he jumped out on the far side of the field and the plane taxied back to control.
A car was waiting at the perimeter fence with Sam O’Sullivan behind the wheel.
‘Any news?’ John asked breathlessly, sliding in beside him.
‘He’s in a coma. They don’t know how long before he’ll come out of it. That’s all I was told.’
Outside the hospital John was met by Neil Clark, in white hospital overalls. ‘The Police are here. Two of them at least.’ He handed John a white coat with name tag, stethoscope and bleeper in the top pocket. ‘Follow me.’
They walked quickly past reception and straight on to the end of the corridor where they called a lift.
‘We’ve already passed one policeman downstairs,’ Neil said. ‘The other is snoring his head off. Some Temazepan fell into his dinner, if you know what I mean. You’ve hours yet.’
On the fifth floor they walked towards Michael’s private room. Jim Clark was standing outside the door, dressed as a male nurse, while beside him a man lolled fast asleep in a comfortable chair.
John opened the door. A nurse sitting beside the bed looked up. He nodded at her, hoping she was an agency employee and not on the permanent staff.
‘Everything all right?’
She smiled. ‘No change.’
‘Fine. I’ll just take a look at him. You go and get yourself something to eat.’
As she had no reason not to believe he was a doctor, she immediately walked out of the room. John sat beside the bed and stared at his son. Michael slept, clear fluid dripping into a vein in his left arm. He looked very white and thin. John took his limp, cold hand. He sat in silence for a while, then started talking. He talked about anything and everything, hoping the sound of his voice would rouse Michael. He described the fishing trip they would take together, just as soon as he was well.
His own sleepless night and the flight were telling on him. Sometimes in mid‑sentence his eyelids would droop, before he jerked awake with a start. It was getting light when, after short doze, he felt another presence in the room.
‘Cathy.’
At her name she blinked, almost as if coming out of a trance. Was there a fleeting warmth in her face, the beginnings of a smile? Just at that moment, Michael’s hand moved in his.
‘He’s coming round. Catherine, call the doctor!’ John got up and made for the door. ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘Where can I get in touch with you?’
‘Phone this number from a public box.’ He hurriedly wrote Sam’s telephone number on a scrap of paper and gave it to her. ‘I’ll wait for your call.’ He threw a last look at the bed. ‘Hurry and fetch the doctor! I think Michael can hear us.’ Then he stepped past the sleeping policeman.
* * *
At Sam’s neat house in Edgware John kept informed of Michael’s progress.
His son, although he still had not eaten or spoken, now seemed aware of what was going on around him. When Catherine phoned in the afternoon, she told John that Michael was doing as well as could be expected.
‘Be outside Dazzling in the King’s Road at five o’clock. Someone will pick you up there and we can meet. You will come, won’t you?’ he implored her.
‘Yes.’ The receiver clicked as she hung up. John stood looking at the phone in his hand for a long time, until Sam came up behind him. ‘I don’t know if they told you, Mr Forbes,’ he said, ‘but it was your wife who donated the bone marrow only some days ago.’
‘No, they didn’t. Thanks for telling me, Sam.’ He asked the driver to pick up Catherine at the appointed place and to keep an eye on the house from the end of the road while she was there. At half past five the bell rang. John opened the door and Catherine walked in. She didn’t look him in the face but went straight into the front room and sat down.
He followed and stood in the doorway. She lifted her head and looked directly at him. For a moment neither of them said anything.
‘Michael was feeling better when I left the hospital. I think he’s aware that you’ve been there,’ Catherine began.
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘They think he’ll pull through,’ she said tiredly, ‘but that doesn’t mean everything will be all right. He may need another transplant.’ Then, in a flat voice, she told him Michael’s life had depended on the operation. Fortunately her bone marrow was a good match, but the risk of a relapse was considerable. ‘I was left to make the decision alone,’ she said. ‘Imagine how that felt. I’m sorry. It was brave of you.’
‘The procedure was nothing. I was out of bed the next day. The bone marrow was frozen ready for when the operation could take place.’ She paused, still holding his gaze. ‘If everything goes well, Michael should be all right for a long time. But if he rejects the transplant, he’s at risk of infection all over again. Complications could set in. We just have to hope...’
‘You’ve been very brave,’ said John, wanting to take her in his arms and offer comfort. If only she would not reject it. ‘Whatever happens, you know you’ve done the right thing. And he’ll be fine, I know it. He’s young and strong and has everything to live for.’ He paused. ‘We have so little time. Everything’s got out of hand. We have to talk, Cathy.’
‘I know. I’m here, aren’t I?’ She set her chin at a defiant angle. ‘You’ve brought all this on yourself, John. Why did you escape? You’ve just made a bad situation worse.’
He was silent.
‘All this cloak and dagger nonsense, disguising yourself as a doctor,’ she went on. ‘How long do you think, you can keep it up? Prison might be degrading, but surely living like this must be
humiliating for a man like you?’
He nodded. ‘You’re right as usual. Catherine. I hope I can sort it all out, but I have to ask you to make an incredible sacrifice.’
‘Why should I?’ Her eyes flashed at him. ‘I didn’t choose a life of crime, or have an affair for fourteen years. I didn’t run away because I couldn’t face up to the consequences! It’s you who should be making sacrifices.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ He took a step towards her, then stopped. ‘Listen to me, please, Cathy. You can turn me down and I won’t argue, but please, please think about what I have to say before you answer.’
She bit her lip, then sighed. ‘All right, I’ll listen.’
‘Come and stay with me for a week. Just you, Michael and me. We’ll talk this through. Catherine, if I’ve ever meant anything to you at all, please give me this one chance.’ He moved another step closer to her. ‘Think about it for Michael’s sake, if nothing else. Then, if we can make a go of it together, I’ll go back to prison and finish my sentence.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
_________________________
Lodeve, Languedoc, France, 24th October 1983
Five weeks later Michael was well enough to travel. John picked Catherine and his son up in the Renault 2CV from Lodeve Airport, having given Cecilia two weeks off.
When Michael and his mother left the quiet Dorset village, looking as if they were just going shopping, Bernard Boucher’s people had ensured they were not followed. They had travelled via Paris taking the journey in easy stages over two days.
John decided it would be best not to push things but allow them to discover the magic of the place themselves. The journey had tired Michael out, so they spent the first day in the house, getting acclimatised.
The next day they picnicked lazily beside the river while Michael sat fishing. His health seemed to improve daily. His hair, which had fallen out with the latest treatment, had started growing again, but he wore a baseball cap most of the time.
Catherine seemed to be enjoying herself, but had not said anything about their situation. John could not help thinking about his uncomplicated sex life with Cecilia. Between them there was no conflict. No difficult choices to be made. He knew it was up to him to broach the subject of the future to Catherine and one evening, while they were sitting outside watching the sunset, he began. ‘I must ask your forgiveness for my affair with Mona. If you can forgive me, I’ll do what I promised – give myself up and finish my sentence. Then we can start a normal life.’