The Critic

III

Enzo emerged unsteadily onto the steeply sloping cobbles of La Barbacane. He saw moonlight glistening on a surface slick with dew and felt his feet sliding from under him. Strong hands stopped him from falling. He turned to look into Bertrand’s smiling face, pointless pieces of metal glinting absurdly in the moonshine.

‘You’ve had too much to drink, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘No more than you.’ Enzo heard his words slurring, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.

‘Bertrand was spitting, Papa. You were drinking.’

‘You can’t spit out wine of that quality. That Cheval Blanc was probably about ten euros a sip.’

‘Some of us have to drive, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘And some of us can hold our wine better than you, Papa.’

Enzo shook himself free of Bertrand’s grasp. ‘I can manage perfectly well, thank you.’ And he promptly sat down heavily on the wet cobbles. ‘ Merde!’

Bertrand helped him to his feet again and looked down the two hundred feet of incline they would have to negotiate to get to the van. The streets were narrow and dark and treacherous. He made a face at Sophie and shrugged.

‘Look, Papa, why don’t you stay here with Braucol. I’ll go with Bertrand to get the van.’

Enzo glared at her. ‘If you can get the van up here, why didn’t we bring it up in the first place?’

‘Because we didn’t know,’ Bertrand said. ‘Monsieur Domenech says there’s a back road up that’s easier.’

They helped Enzo up over the crest of the hill to the fortified battlements of the original thirteenth century enclosure at the Porte du Vainqueur. From here, there was a clear view out south over the dew-glistening layers of surrounding countryside. The autumn mist that old Domenech had spoken of earlier, was already gathering in the river valley, luminous and ghostly. Enzo sat on the stone retaining wall and shivered. ‘Be quick, then. It’s getting cold.’

When they had gone, he looked down at Braucol looking up at him and smiled at the absence of disapproval. Certainly, he had drunk too much, but Braucol wasn’t making any judgments. The wines had been wonderful. And now he had in his pocket the annotated outcome of old Domenech’s tasting. He was certain they had managed to marry three or four flavours to Petty’s lettered codes, so he was anxious to start looking for ways of deciphering the rest. But he was not so drunk that he didn’t realise he was in no condition to do it tonight. He closed his eyes and felt the earth move beneath him. When Braucol sighed he opened them again to find the puppy still staring at him. ‘It’s alright for you, Braucol. You don’t have a daughter who disapproves of your drinking. Or a lover who won’t commit to a relationship. Or a woman half your age who wants to take you to bed.’ He snorted. ‘ Putain! I should be so lucky.’

He closed his eyes again and drifted off into an alcohol-induced torpor. He felt himself swaying, then heard the dangerous, throaty rumble of Braucol’s growl. A bark startled him awake. He opened his eyes in time to see Braucol disappearing into the shadows. Then nothing. Not a movement. Absolute silence.

He called out. ‘Braucol?’ But there was no response. To his right, the cobbles meandered unevenly between houses shuttered and dark. Clumps of grass and weed grew all along the stone gutter. The walls of the battlement rose steeply into the sky. Every gateway and alley was mired in the deepest shadow. To his left, the narrow road fell away to the west. Ahead of him, a tall archway opened into a tunnel devoured by darkness. Something moved. A fragment of something shiny catching the light. A sound, like the scuff of a leather heel on stone.

Enzo felt the perspiration gathered across his forehead turn cold. It was only three nights ago that someone had tried to kill him. But who would even know he was here? He stood up. ‘Who’s there?’

No reply. His mouth was dry from sudden fear and too much alcohol.

‘God damn you! Come out of there, will you!’ The bellow of his voice echoed around the ramparts. He was no more than a hundred metres from the safety of the house where they had been drinking wine all evening. But it was down the steepest of inclines, and he doubted if he would make it. And up here, on the top of the hill, there wasn’t another soul around. No light, no sign of life. He felt absolutely alone and horribly vulnerable. Why in the name of God had he let Sophie and Bertrand go off without him? And where the hell was Braucol? Just the presence of the dog might have given him courage.

A sudden movement, and a clatter in the shadows, provoked a surge of adrenalin to fuel the opposing instincts of fight or flight. He was in no condition to fight, so turned instead and ran. Slithering over the cobbles on shaky legs. He heard sounds of pursuit behind him, but was afraid to look round. The street ahead dipped away into darkness, and he was afraid that if he went that way he might be lost in it for good. Beneath the wall on his right, where he had been sitting just moments earlier, a slope thick with shrubs and bushes fell away to a lower street transecting the hillside. It was caught in full moonlight and seemed like the safer option.

He scrambled over cold stone and felt fresh air beneath his feet as he dropped into the bushes below. It was not as soft a landing as he had hoped for. Jagged branches and thorns tore at his clothes and face and hands. Then he began tumbling uncontrollably down the slope. Even as he fell, he was aware of a streak of movement off to his left. But he was unable to focus on it, as the world turned over again. He came to a cushioned halt, cradled in the branches of a young tree. Branches that creaked and dipped, and broke beneath him, to dump him unceremoniously into the middle of the street below.

The fall took away his breath, and pain shot up his arm from his elbow. He heard his head crack hard on the cobbles, and his whole universe was shot through with light. A roaring sound filled his ears, to be replaced by a sudden squealing. He screwed up his eyes against the light and saw that it came from two blinding orbs no more than a metre from his face. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes and a car door slammed.

‘My God, Papa, what are you doing?’ To his great relief, Sophie loomed out of the darkness, her silhouette crouching against the light.

‘Someone was trying to kill me.’

‘What?’

‘Up there.’ He waved an arm vaguely through the air. ‘There was someone up there.’

Bertrand dipped into the light and helped him up off the road. ‘Did you see them?’

‘Well…no. But there was someone.’

‘Where’s Braucol?’ Sophie said. And almost as if he had heard her, Braucol came haring out of the undergrowth, growling and barking, a streak of black cat ahead of him, just inches beyond his reach.

With three agile leaps, the cat mounted a wall, a window ledge, a roof, and sprinted away across the tiles. Braucol was left barking in frustration below the wall.

Sophie shouted at him. ‘Braucol, shut up! You’ll wake the whole town.’

Enzo wondered if there was anyone in the whole town to wake. It had seemed so impossibly deserted just minutes before.

And as Braucol flapped big paws and crossed the cobbles to join them, disconsolate and defeated, Sophie said, ‘So that was who was trying to kill you, then? A cat?’

Enzo shook his head and found that it hurt. Surely it wasn’t just a cat that had spooked him. ‘There was someone up there,’ he repeated, but with less conviction than before.

‘We’d better get you home,’ Bertrand said.