The Babylon Idol

Epilogue

It was worrying him even more as he trudged up the front steps of the farmhouse at Le Val the following evening.

It was his intention to stop off at home for a few hours, get cleaned up a little, change his clothes and inspect his dressings, before calling another taxi to drive him up to Cherbourg. He’d given up trying to call Sandrine. Either she’d switched jobs, or she’d taken an unexpected holiday and left her phone at home, or she had something to tell him that could only be said face to face. That could only be one thing, and it filled him with dread that made his wounds ache so badly he craved more of that Syrian rebel army morphine.

The farmhouse was totally dark, not a lit window in the place. He found the door locked, so he took out his key and let himself in quietly. The house felt dead and sombre, to match his mood. He hung his jacket on the hook in the front hall, as well as the walking stick that he’d need to use for a few weeks, until his leg healed up completely. He limped slowly into the dark kitchen. Without turning on any lights, he opened a cupboard and took out the bottle of Laphroaig and a glass.

The best part about not being able to drive a car for a while was that you could drink as much as you needed to. Which, in Ben’s case, was going to amount to a lot of drinking. That was his intention, too.

He was finishing his glass and about to pour another when the kitchen door opened and Tuesday walked in. ‘I saw the taxi come and go.’

‘Then you know I’m back,’ Ben said.

‘How come you’re sitting in the dark?’

‘Because it feels like a good place to be right now,’ Ben said. ‘How come all the lights are out?’

‘I was in the back,’ Tuesday said, as though that explained anything.

‘You want a drink?’

Tuesday shook his head. ‘Nah. I’m okay, thanks. So… what’ve you been up to?’

‘I had a few things to sort out.’

‘Sorted them?’

Ben nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

‘We good?’

‘We’re good,’ Ben said.

Tuesday nodded and made no reply. Ben looked at him. Tuesday could be inscrutable at times. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ Ben asked him.

Tuesday gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘One bit of news. Looks like we’re off the hook with the cops. They’ve reinstated our licence. The armoury stuff all came back yesterday.’

‘Fancy that,’ Ben said. ‘Anything else?’

‘There was one other thing,’ Tuesday said morosely.

‘And what’s that?’

‘You’d better come with me.’

‘What for?’

‘’Cause I need to show you something,’ Tuesday said.

‘Show me what?’

Tuesday said nothing.

‘Can’t you just tell me?’

‘It’s best you see it. I can’t describe it.’

Tuesday led Ben from the dark kitchen, down the dark hallway, towards the living-room door. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. The living room was dark, too.

Ben limped inside the room. ‘What the hell’s this about?’ he was about to snap irritably at Tuesday, when the lights all came on at once.

‘SURPRISE!’

Ben nearly fell over. Partly out of shock, and partly because Sandrine flew at him and hugged him so hard that he almost lost his balance.

Everyone was there. Boonzie McCulloch, accompanied by his wife Mirella and clasping a bottle of whisky that he’d already drunk too much of to be able to speak coherently. Fry, Blackwood, McGuire and the other two ex-SAS guys Boonzie had drafted in to look after things in Ben’s absence, all loud and hearty. Marie-Claire, busily topping up empty glasses. Chantal, smiling radiantly but still eclipsed by the terawatt grin that was suddenly splitting Tuesday’s face in two. Lynne Dekker and her guy Kip, the crocodile farmer, both pink-faced with mirth and booze. Storm and the rest of the dogs, happily wagging their tails and lolling their tongues.

And Jeff.

He was sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the crowded room. He’d lost weight and a couple of shades of colour. But he was alive, and awake, and laughing out loud at the expression on Ben’s face. ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ he hooted.

Ben didn’t know what to say. He managed, ‘Welcome back to the land of the living, Dekker. Hope you had a good sleep while the rest of us were out working.’

Sandrine clasped Ben’s hand. ‘You look awful,’ she said. He couldn’t have said the same thing about her. Her hair was loose, all the way down past her waist.

‘I tried to call you,’ he said.

‘I got your message that you were coming back tonight. And I thought you’d like a surprise.’

‘When did he wake up?’

‘Six days ago.’

‘Six days of hell, mate,’ Jeff laughed. ‘These women won’t leave me alone. This doctor lady, she’s a slave driver, I’m telling you. You never met an RSM half as tough.’

‘I like the chair,’ Ben said to him. ‘It’s a good look.’

‘Just for show,’ Jeff replied. ‘You want to see me dance the tango?’

‘Some other time,’ Ben said. A twinge made him step to the nearest sofa and lower himself stiffly into it.

‘Fuck, mate, you look even more banged up than I am. What happened?’

‘You want to hear a story?’ Ben asked him.

‘Just what I need.’

‘I have a story for you,’ Ben said. ‘It’s about a guy who got his neck stretched like a chicken.’

‘Sounds great.’

‘I don’t think we need to hear that story now, chéri,’ Chantal said, stepping behind Jeff’s chair and putting her hands on his shoulders.

‘Later,’ Jeff said with a wink to Ben.

It was too much. Tears melted into Ben’s eyes as he sat there, surrounded by laughter and light and warmth. Sandrine looked tenderly at him and squeezed his hand. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I am now,’ Ben said. ‘I am now.’