The Nostradamus prophecies

60

Alexi was holding Yola up in his arms, taking all her weight. Protecting her from the certain death that her own body mass would inevitably have afforded her.

Sabir felt blindly above her head until he encountered the rope. Then he followed it down with his fingers until he was able to undo the noose that had tightened around her throat. She drew in a great, ragged breath – the very inverse of a death rattle. This was the sound of life returning. Of the body succouring itself after a great trauma.

Where was Bale? And Macron? Surely they hadn’t killed each other? Part of Sabir was still expecting the fourth bullet.

He helped Alexi lay Yola out on the floor. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his hand. Hear Alexi’s sobs of pain.

Alexi lay down beside her, with Yola’s head cradled against his chest.

Sabir navigated his way by feel across to the fireplace. He recalled seeing a box of matches on the left, near the fire tongs. He felt around with his fingers until he encountered them. While he did this, he listened with all his concentration for any alien sounds inside the house. But the place was silent. Only the murmur of Alexi’s voice broke the hush.

Sabir put a match to the fire. It flared into life. He was able, by its light, to focus on the rest of the room. It was empty.

He moved across to the fallen footstool, dried off one or two of the candles and lit them. The shadows played off the walls above him. He was consciously having to control the panic that was threatening to send him at a fl at run back out of the room and towards the welcoming darkness outside. ‘Let’s take her over to the fire. She’s drenched. I’ll get a blanket and some towels from one of the bedrooms.’

Sabir had a fair idea by now of what he would find out in the corridor. There had been blood all over the floor near the stool. Thick gouts of it. As though the eye-man had blown an artery. He followed its trail until he came to the tangle of chairs encircling Macron’s body.

The top of the man’s head had been blown off. A flap of skin covered his one remaining eye. Dry-gagging, Sabir levered the gun out of Macron’s hand. Averting his eyes from the rest of the mess, he felt blindly around for the cellphone he knew Macron kept in the front pocket of his blouson. He straightened up and continued on down the corridor. He stood for a while contemplating the fresh blood trail where it crossed the ledge of the rear window.

Then, glancing down at the illuminated VDU of the cellphone, he walked into the first available bedroom in search of blankets.