The Nostradamus prophecies

19

‘What did you tell the two Ripoux?’ Bale pressed the point of his knife against the back of Gavril’s thigh.

‘Oh Christ? What’s this now?’

Bale stuck the blade a quarter of an inch through Gavril’s flesh.

‘Aiee! What are you doing?’

‘My hand slipped. Every time you don’t answer one of my questions, it’s going to slip further. Failure to answer three questions and I’m through to the femoral artery. You’ll bleed to death in under five minutes.’

‘Oh putain! ’

‘I repeat. What did you tell the two Ripoux?’

‘I told them nothing.’

‘It’s slipped again.’

‘Aaahhh.’

‘Keep your voice down, or I’ll stick my knife up your arsehole. Do you hear me?’

‘Jesus. Jesus Christ.’

‘Let me rephrase my question. Where have Sabir and his two sea lice gone to?’

‘Down to the Camargues. To the festival. Sainte Sara.’

‘And when is this festival?’

‘In three days’ time.’

‘And why have they gone there?’

‘All gypsies go there. Sainte Sara is our patron saint. We go to get her blessing.’

‘How do you get a blessing from a saint?’

‘Her statue. We go up to her statue and get it to bless us. We touch it. We try to kiss it.’

‘What sort of statue are we talking about?’

‘Jesus Christ. Just a statue. Please take the knife out of my leg.’

Bale twisted the knife. ‘Is this statue black, by any chance?’

Gavril began to keen. ‘Black? Black? Of course it’s black.’

Bale snatched the knife from Gavril’s leg and stepped backwards.

Gavril doubled up, clutching his thigh in both hands, as if it were a rugby ball.

Bale rabbit-punched him on the back of the neck before he had a chance to look upwards.