The Sacrifice Stone (11 page)

But somehow she couldn’t picture it.

‘Come on.’ He touched her hand briefly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

He left two ten-franc coins on the bar, called out ‘
Au
revoir
’ — nobody answered — and they went back to the car.

‘Now,’ she said, spreading out the map, ‘I’m looking for a right turn, yes?’

‘Yes.’ He was turning round, preoccupied with avoiding a litter bin.

‘I can’t see one. Unless — No, that can’t be it, it’ll take us back the way we came.’

‘Well, that’s what the man said.’ He sounded distant.

‘What shall we do?’ Even to herself, her voice sounded forlorn.

‘We’d better take the turn,’ he said firmly. ‘Otherwise we might get even more lost.’

‘Perhaps it’s like Looking Glass Land,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, ‘and you have to set off in the opposite direction in order to get where you want to go.’

He didn’t respond.

After a mile or so she said, ‘Right turn coming up.’

He took it.

They came to a junction: trying to locate on the map the places signposted to right and left, she spotted one that lay between them and the main road. ‘Go left!’ she shouted.

He turned right.

‘Adam, this is the wrong way — we have to go left, towards that place St something, then just a bit beyond that we’ll come out on the main road!’

He didn’t answer.

‘Adam!’

He turned to her briefly. ‘Don’t worry, Beth, this is a short cut.’

But it isn’t, she cried silently, it can’t be, unless this map’s got a really appalling misprint.

They were driving in completely the wrong direction.

She felt fear creeping up her backbone, cold and sinister.

They were returning to the place on the poster. She could see the trees now, and there were the buildings. They looked neglected, crouched low to the ground, hunching in on themselves as if trying not to be seen. As if — she couldn’t prevent the thought — they had something to hide.

In her head came a sudden scream, and she heard a child sobbing.

Then it stopped.

She spun round, looking wildly in all directions. ‘Adam! Stop, I heard —’

Did I? Or did I imagine it?

She couldn’t see a soul.

They were almost at the buildings now. There was a long, low house, mud-walled and thatched with reed. Among the sheltering tamarisk bushes she could see a stout chimney. No smoke came from it.

Behind it were two smaller buildings, little more than cabins. One of them had its door hanging by the hinges.

She thought she heard a boy’s voice. I hate you! Leave us alone!

She pulled at Adam’s sleeve. ‘We’ve got to go! Please, turn round, let’s get away from here!’

But slowly he opened the door and got out of the car. Stiff with fear she watched him walk up to the house, peer in at a small window.

Then, very deliberately, he moved on to the cabin with the broken door.

He disappeared inside.

The cry that cracked the still air was a man’s, not a child’s.

She flung open her door and raced after him. Past the house, leaping over tussocky grass, she sped across to the cabin.

He wasn’t there.

She screamed,
‘Adam
!’

There was no answer.

A narrow doorway led out of the back of the cabin, and she squeezed through it. Beyond, a track ran along beside a water-filled ditch. Adam was hurrying down it, and she ran after him.

Then, abruptly, he stopped.

Catching up with him, she skidded to a halt. He was standing stock-still, eyes tightly closed, muttering under his breath.

She edged closer.

What’s he saying? What’s the matter with him?

Now she could hear the words he was whispering. But it didn’t do her any good, because he was speaking in Latin.

11

Now she was as still as him, both of them standing as if they’d been turned into marble statues.

She became aware of a high-pitched whining: a cloud of mosquitoes floated in the air around her head. Looking down at her bare arms, she saw three of them already settled and sucking her blood.

She wanted to scream: from somewhere came the courage to speak calmly.

‘Adam, we should go back to the car. There are rather a lot of mosquitoes — they’re probably coming from the ditches — and we’re being bitten to death.’

He opened his eyes. At first he didn’t seem to recognize her. Then, to her vast relief, he was himself again.

‘God, Beth, I’m sorry!’ Grabbing her arm, he hustled her back along the path. ‘I’ve got some stuff in the car, come on.’

They ran past the cabin, past the house. She thought she heard mocking laughter.

It’s all right, we’re going, we’re going!

They got into the car and banged the doors closed: in her haste she’d left hers open, and the interior of the car was full of mosquitoes.

‘I’ll get us moving,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘If we open the windows, the mozzies will be blown out.’ He turned round then, reaching into the side pocket of his door, got out a tube of ointment. ‘Sting relief.’ He handed it to her. ‘If you bung it on your bites, it’ll stop them itching and swelling up.’

‘Thanks.’ She squeezed huge blobs on to both arms, rubbing furiously.

‘There’s a mirror behind the sun visor. You’ve got a bite coming up on your cheek.’

Pulling down the visor, she looked in the mirror.

As well as showing her a big red lump on her right cheek, it also provided a clear picture of the scene they were swiftly leaving behind them. Standing outside the cabin was the man in the toga, only now he was barelegged, dressed in a tunic and heavy-soled sandals with elaborate leather straps.

Gasping, she twisted round. ‘Adam, look! I can see —’

But the man had gone.

Hunching down in her seat, she covered her face with her hands and began to weep.

*

‘I really am sorry about that, I hate women who cry.’

They were sitting in a restaurant on the square at Aigues Mortes, in the deep shade of an awning and with glasses of chilled kir in front of them. Beth was feeling much better, and deeply ashamed of herself.

‘It’s I who should apologize,’ Adam said. ‘That was an awful place, and I should never have taken you with me.’

Emboldened by the kir — she had drunk most of it and it seemed to have gone straight to what was left of her brain — she said quietly, ‘Why did you have to go there? It’s nothing to do with your film on the gipsies, is it?’

He didn’t meet her eyes at first but sat staring into his glass, swirling the dark drink gently round and round. Then, looking up, he said, ‘Very perceptive of you. No, it isn’t.’

‘Why, then?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Beth, I owe you an explanation, I appreciate that. But can it possibly wait?’

She stared at him. He still looked pale, and his grey eyes were dark with whatever was troubling him.

What do I do? Decide he’s a nut, wish him
au
revoir
and get myself a taxi back to Arles? Or stick with him and wait till he feels like providing a few answers?

There wasn’t really any question. Stretching across the table to hold his cold fingers in hers, she said, ‘It can.’

She didn’t feel very hungry and doubted if he did, either, but it seemed a good idea to eat, if only to counteract the alcohol. They had pasta with a shellfish sauce, accompanied by another bottle of the amber-coloured rosé, then hot, strong coffee.

They’d eaten in silence, but the coffee stimulated her and she managed to dredge up something to say.

‘Joe’s got a fresh line of research he wants to follow up,’ she began. ‘That’s partly why he was peeved about us going off today, he wanted me to do the following-up with him.’

‘Oh, really?’ Adam said politely.

‘Yes. He says the Romans worshipped some Eastern deity called Mithras who miraculously killed a bull and gave life to mankind. He thinks one of his Christian martyrs may have had his throat cut in some sort of parody of the bull-slaying ceremony, and he’s convinced himself that the person who did the deed was a follower of Mithras, and that he killed the saint for refusing to sacrifice to his god.’

Adam made no response; he was sitting gazing out into the square as if he hadn’t been listening. Well,
I
thought it was quite interesting, she reflected.

She had another sip of coffee, then drained her wine. She was feeling light-headed. ‘I suppose he could be right,’ she mused, mainly to herself. ‘If you believe you have to make sacrifices to your god to keep him sweet, then if someone wouldn’t, it might mean the god got angry and everyone suffered. Plagues and earthquakes, famine and fire.’ She leaned her elbows on the table. ‘It wouldn’t have been much fun living with a tetchy god you had to keep propitiating, would it?’ She picked up an unused knife from the table, weighing the handle in her palm. Then, taking a grip, she made a firm slicing movement as if cutting some animal’s throat. ‘Slurp. There goes the blood.’

Adam’s fingers were round her wrist, grasping so tightly that the knife fell out of her hand and clattered to the floor. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said quietly.

She snatched back her hand, both angry and hurt. ‘What’s the matter? Delicate stomach? It’s all right, Adam, I was only pretending. As it happens I don’t even eat meat, let alone slaughter it myself.’ She rubbed at her wrist, turning away from him.

But he pulled his chair closer to hers so that he could speak into her ear. ‘You’re wrong — Joe’s wrong. Quite wrong. What you don’t understand is that the Mithraists didn’t make a habit of slaughtering bulls. Oh, yes, they made occasional sacrifices, but purely as a part of their special rituals. And they certainly didn’t sacrifice human beings, no Roman religion tolerated that. This idea of the followers of Mithras being bloodthirsty killers is pure propaganda, put about by the Christians who had to either discredit them or lose out to them. And you know
that
didn’t happen.’

She turned to face him, spurred by his tone into hotter anger. ‘We’ve done a film on the religions of ancient Rome, have we? And that’s why we’re such a little know-all? Well, you can stuff your bloody Mithraists, I’m fed up with hearing about them! I’ve been lost in the back of beyond, scared witless and bitten to bits, and I’ve had enough.’ She stood up. ‘You can either drive me back into Arles right now or I’ll get a taxi, which on the whole I think I might prefer.’ Picking up her bag, she strode out of the restaurant.

He caught up with her outside the town walls; she’d been unsuccessfully trying to find something remotely resembling a taxi rank.

‘I’d have been here sooner only I had to pay the bill,’ he panted. ‘Beth, please come back with me. I shouldn’t have got cross with you, it’s not your fault, nothing to do with you. It’s ... oh, Jesus, it’s ...’

‘Another of those things that you’re going to explain if I can only bear to wait?’ she said scathingly.

He nodded.

She sighed. ‘I must be off my trolley, but for some ridiculous reason I feel sorry for you.’

‘That’s something,’ he murmured.

‘I
will
let you drive me home, but just don’t talk to me, all right?’

A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Whatever you say.’

And he led the way back to the car.

*

They got back to Arles in the late afternoon, and spent some time sitting in slow-moving homegoing traffic. Letting them into La Maison Jaune, she called out, ‘Joe? It’s me.’

There was no reply, and, when she looked into Joe’s study and his bedroom, no sign of him.

‘Perhaps he’s out researching,’ Adam suggested. He’d followed her down the hall.

‘Who invited you in?’ But she was smiling as she said it.

‘I’ll go if you like.’ He was standing right in front of her, so close that she could have stretched up and kissed him.

Whatever, she wondered, made me think of that?

‘No need,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll make some tea — do you drink tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

She led the way into the kitchen. ‘You’d think he’d have left a note,’ she said. ‘Now I’ve no idea where he’s gone or when he’s likely to be back.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘He wouldn’t have been expecting you home this evening,’ Adam pointed out, ‘so he wouldn’t have thought it necessary to tell you where he’d gone.’

‘True.’ She put tea-bags in cups and went to the fridge for milk. ‘Shame the French can’t produce a decent pint of milk, isn’t it? The taste of this stuff taints your cuppa something rotten.’

‘Welcome, though.’ He reached for his cup and stirred in sugar. ‘Thanks.’

She stood drumming her fingers on the worktop, biting her lip. She noticed he was watching her. ‘I wonder if he’s coming back for supper. Joe, I mean.’

‘I thought so.’ There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

‘I’ll have a look on his desk.’ She headed off for Joe’s workroom. ‘He might have left out some papers or a book that could give us a clue where he’s gone.’

Adam followed her, and together they stared down at Joe’s tidy desk. Not a book was out of its place in the neat row across the back, not a file had been left lying open.

‘Damn!’

Adam said, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but why are you so worried? He’s big enough to look after himself, surely, and, knowing you were going to be out, isn’t it likely he’s decided to spend the afternoon strolling about, then gone straight on to find himself a quiet drink and a nice supper somewhere?’

‘Highly likely.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘The thing is —’ She stopped. Do I want to tell Adam? She glanced at him. He was perched on the edge of Joe’s desk, looking at her with a kind expression. ‘I’ve got a feeling he’s up to something, and I’m worried about him.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘I’ve no idea, that’s the problem. It’s just that he had a couple of mysterious phone calls, and yesterday he pretended he’d come back here on his own when I distinctly heard him talking to other people outside.’

Adam thought for a few moments, then said, ‘It doesn’t add up to much.’

‘I
know
!’ Oh, I wish I hadn’t said anything, I knew you wouldn’t understand.’

‘It doesn’t matter if I do or not. But I can see you’re rather upset, so if you like I’ll stay with you till he gets back. Although,’ — now he sounded amused again — ‘bearing in mind your embargo on my talking to you, perhaps you’d prefer that I went.’

‘I only said you weren’t to talk to me on the way home,’ she pointed out. ‘It doesn’t apply here.’ She met his eyes. ‘And I’d love you to stay. Thank you.’

*

There was enough in the fridge and the larder for her to make supper for them both; the frozen coquilles from Monoprix were surprisingly good, and it was a novelty to make a salad with all the local vegetables. In case Adam was still hungry she cut up some bread and put out a goat’s cheese.

‘Have you tried this hot?’ he asked.

‘No. Is it nice?’

‘Lovely. I’ll do it for you, one day.’

The idea that there might be a day when he would cook for her somehow failed to surprise her; comment didn’t seem appropriate, however, and she didn’t make one.

‘Is Joe older than you?’ He shared the last of the Cotes du Rh
ô
ne between their two glasses.

‘Yes. By two years.’

‘And he’s doing a degree?’

‘His MA.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘And what about you? Did you go to university?’

‘Not — no. Girls don’t need to, according to my father.’

‘So Joe gets to do two degrees and you left school at sixteen.’ It was a statement, not a question, as if he knew.

She waited for the old resentment to build up and boil over into the usual invective, but surprisingly it didn’t. Instead she found herself saying calmly, ‘I was good at science at school, but my family didn’t encourage me so when I left I became a secretary, and went on being one for the best part of ten years. But then I got a temporary job in a science lab, and all the ambitions I’d had at fifteen came rushing back.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I enrolled at night school and did chemistry, physics and biology A levels, which of course led on to a much better lab job.’ She smiled.
‘And
a permanent one.’

‘Good for you. What did your father say to that?’

She tried to remember his exact words. ‘He said, “It is certainly not the career I should have chosen for a daughter of mine.” Oh, and he said I was stopping some “decent man” from having the post.’ Suddenly she laughed out loud. ‘Honestly, my father’s incorrigible — he truly believes all women should be wives and mothers and remain firmly in the home at all times. I once tried to tell him that was as silly as saying all men should be engine-drivers, but he didn’t begin to see the point. He can’t bear female newsreaders — he gets up and leaves the room when Anna Ford or Moira Stuart are on.’