The Watchers (49 page)

‘Remind me, which one’s Gübeli?’

‘He brought me to Lausanne. He takes care of the bank my grandmaman and papa owned before they died. And he takes care of my building in Ouchy.’

‘You have a building in Ouchy?’

‘I have a building in Ouchy.’

‘Which one?’

‘L’Hôtel de Léman. Half of it is apartments and it has a little clock on top.’

‘I know that place. It’s yours?’

‘Grandmaman and Papa gave it to me before they died because I’m not part of the family fortune because Papa’s wife is a Bavarian countess and the children are spiteful.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘Were your grandmother and father, like, rich?’

‘Grandmaman lived in a big castle in Vufflens.’

‘You mean the castle with the butler and all the maids you told me about the other day, it was real, you weren’t imagining it?’

‘I wasn’t imagining it.’

Katherine stared at him.

‘Man, you’re so full of surprises.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘
Merci
.’

She fingered the cash.

‘So could I borrow four thousand francs?’

‘You can borrow four thousand francs.’

She counted some bills, stuffed the rest back in the tin, closed the lid.

‘OK, got some paper and something to write with?’

Rochat tore a blank page from a sketchbook and gave her a drawing pencil, Katherine took the paper and started writing.

‘I’m making a list of things for you to buy. You know where Globus is?’

‘Around the corner from Café du Grütli, but …’

Rochat started rocking back and forth on his heels. Katherine touched his arm.

‘Marc, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t read very well and I’m not good with numbers. I might make mistakes.’

‘Don’t worry, just go to the section where they sell women’s clothes and give this list to one of the ladies behind the counter. She’ll get everything for you. I’m putting down sizes so it’ll be really easy, OK?’

‘What kind of things am I buying?’

‘Things I need to get out of town.’

‘So you can go home?’

‘Well, on my way at least.’

Katherine wrote quickly. Blue jeans, tops, lingerie, couple twinsets, make-up. Enough things to travel light for a week. She held the note out to Rochat, then she snapped it back.

‘Hey, how do you think I’d look with black hair?’

Rochat imagined it.

‘Not like you any more.’

‘Perfect. Do you know where there’s a pharmacy?’

‘On Place de la Palud, across from Café du Grütli.’

‘Is everything in this town next to Café du Grütli?’

Rochat thought about it.

‘Sometimes.’

‘OK then. I’m writing some things on the other side of the paper, I’m putting a big star at the top of the page so you’ll know the things on this side come from the pharmacy, OK?’

‘OK.’

She handed him the list.

‘Here you go.’

Rochat took the list, turned and headed out of the door.

‘Here I go.’

She listened as he shuffled down the tower till it was quiet.

She sat on the bed with Monsieur Booty on her lap. The tin box with the cash in sat on the table like a cookie jar waiting to be raided. Ninety-six thousand Swiss francs inside. Enough to hop a train to Italy or France and get lost and live in a style to which she was accustomed, for a few months at least. More she thought about it, the more it seemed like the way out. No passport checks at the borders, not for someone with a cute smile. Get a place and lie low, figure out the next step. She picked up Monsieur Booty, stared him in the eyes.

‘What do you think, fuzzface, think it’d be OK if I take the money and run?’

Mew
.

‘C’mon, he’s loaded.’

Mew
.

‘You’re right. He’s been awfully nice. But I’ve still got to get out of this place.’

The timbers creaked and Marie-Madeleine shook the loge eleven times. The mother of all hookers weighing in with her own advice.

GONG … go and sin no more. GONG … yadda, yadda, yadda
.

‘OK, you win. I’ll be a good girl.’

Katherine scooted Monsieur Booty from her lap, folded the duvet and tidied the loge. She swept the mound of long blond hair from the wood floor and dumped it in the bin under the table. She picked up the hand mirror and saw her reflection in the glass. The cool bob of a haircut, the scar on her face, the look in her eyes. The look that made all the boys go weak at the knees. Wasn’t quite the same with a sliced-up face but still workable in a tight spot, she thought. Could still turn a few tricks on the run to make ends meet. And she could start with her roomie in the belfry. Teach him a few things before his big date with the farmer’s daughter. Rock his world, say goodbye. Leave him thinking he’d imagined the whole thing. Face it, she thought, a hooker by another name is still a hooker. That way, it wouldn’t be stealing. Just a little business between friends. Besides, he’s fucking loaded, yeah?

She opened the tin.

Such a lovely pile of cash.

She reached for it as a soft knock met the door.

Taptaptaptap
.

‘No fucking way.’

Taptaptaptap
.

Katherine slammed closed the lid. She walked to the door and pulled it open.

‘Don’t tell me, Marc, you forget where Globus—’

‘Hello, Miss Taylor.’

‘Harper.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘How did you get up here?’

‘I walked. Bloody long way up those steps.’

‘The tower’s supposed to be closed to tourists.’

‘That’s what the sign says on the cathedral doors. I went around to the side door and picked the lock.’

‘You know how to pick locks?’

‘Rather surprised myself on that score. Mind if I come in, I’m not that comfortable standing out here.’

‘Don’t worry, no one looks up any more.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Marc says no one looks up, no one’ll see you.’

‘Marc?’

‘He’s the guy with the lantern.’

‘Right. I met him and his lantern last night on the esplanade.’ Harper glanced back over his shoulder towards the sky. ‘Actually, three steps that way and it’s a fast way down to the esplanade.’

‘Come again?’

‘Heights, Miss Taylor, I’m not keen on heights.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No, actually.’

‘Then you’d better come in before you hurt yourself, big guy.’

She turned from the door and Harper stepped into the loge, checking the odd angles of the skinny room.

‘What a funny old place this is.’

Katherine sat at the table, suddenly aware of her appearance. The second-hand clothes, the slice on her cheek. She turned away, combed what was left of her hair with her hand, trying to hide the scar on her face. Harper watched her, gave it a moment.

‘I like it.’

‘What?’

‘The haircut. Do-it-yourself job?’

‘No, Marc did it.’

‘Really? Where is he anyway?’

‘He’s gone to buy me some clothes.’

‘Planning to make a run for it?’

‘I’m in an awful jam, Harper.’

‘So I gather.’ Harper set a shopping bag on the table. ‘I brought you something to eat.’

‘Great, I’m starving. I was giving up on you, you know.’ She opened the bag:
jambon cru
and Emmental cheese baguettes. ‘Swiss fast food. Gee, aren’t you the big spender.’

‘There’s also some antiseptic and stitching strips in the bag. You’re lucky, Miss Taylor.’

‘On the run and hiding out in a cathedral looks like lucky to you?’

Harper pointed to the slice on her cheek.

‘I mean your face. The cut isn’t deep or ragged. We’ll clean it and put on the strips. They dissolve from normal washing in a few days. There’s some vitamin-E capsules in there too. Squeeze one of these on the cut four times a day. Few weeks from now, you’ll hardly know there’s a scar.’

Humiliation burned in Katherine’s eyes.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Harper. I think it’s a hot new look for me. From perky
Playboy
centrefold to she-bitch dominatrix. I’ll wear black rubber, do the stiletto-heel number. I hear pain’s where the real money is. It was never my thing. I was always a give-the-boys-a-thrill sort of girl. I liked seeing the twinkle in their eyes when they went over the edge, you know? I’m lucky when you think about it. It’s not like you have to be pretty to give a man pain.’

‘Miss Taylor—’

‘No, I don’t have to be pretty at all, ugly is good. In fact, the uglier the better. I might have a few more scars done. I’m going to be the ugliest bitch on the fucking planet.’

‘Miss Taylor …’

‘What, you fucking son of a bitch!’

Pigeons bolted from the carpentry and into the sky.

Harper sat on a stool.

‘Miss Taylor, I’m not sure what the hell’s going on in this bloody town but trust me, you’re not the only one neck-deep in shite. Now, I’m going to dress the wound, you’ll eat your Swiss fast food. Then I need you to tell me what the hell happened.’

‘Does Monsieur see anything that appeals to him?’

Rochat looked around the shop, saw statues wearing lace things, pictures of girls wearing lace things. The lace things looked very small.

‘What do girls like?’

The lady patted the pile of clothes on the counter.

‘Well, Monsieur, judging by the blue jeans and tops selected from your list, I’d say Madame enjoys projecting a casual image while showing off a nice figure. The choice of lingerie says she is a woman of elegant, if somewhat naughty, taste.’

Rochat had no idea what any of that meant.

‘Oh.’

‘If I may ask, has Monsieur purchased lingerie for a lady before?’

He shook his head vigorously. The lady smiled and arranged a set of black lace undergarments on the counter.

‘Then allow me to be of assistance. Why doesn’t Monsieur imagine Madame wearing these.’

Rochat looked at the things. He imagined the angel on that first night, dropping her robe to the floor of the loge and him seeing her naked body. He snapped quickly back to the lady behind the counter.

‘Could you choose?’

‘Of course, monsieur. Would you like the items gift wrapped?’

‘I’d like the items gift wrapped.’

Rochat shuffled quickly to the windows overlooking Rue Centrale. He didn’t dare look back and see what the lady was choosing. He kept his eyes busy with cars and people and the policewoman in her grey uniform standing in the middle of the intersection, blowing her whistle and directing all the cars and people. Everyone obeyed.

Sunlight poured down the steep cobblestone lane from Place Saint-François. Skinny elongated shadows followed people walking up the lane and stretched ahead of people walking down the lane. He watched the shadows cross over each other and through each other and disappear when people stepped from the sun, only to pop out in another place and attach themselves to someone else.

‘Monsieur?’

Rochat turned to the lady. She had two big shopping bags in one hand and money in the other.

‘I was watching teasing shadows.’

‘
Pardon?
’

‘Down in the street. The shadows. They’re the teasing kind.’

The lady smiled politely.

‘Of course. Here are your purchases and change, monsieur.’

‘
Merci, madame
. I’m going to follow the teasing shadows up the hill to the chemist shop to buy more things for the angel.’

‘Who?’

‘The angel, that’s who the clothes are for.
Merci, madame
.’

‘
Bonne … journée, monsieur
.’

Rochat shuffled to the escalator machine and stepped on carefully. Just before he sank through the floor he looked to the windows and saw the sales lady standing at the window, staring outside. He jumped from the escalator just before the steel teeth caught the tips of his boots and pulled him under the floor. He shuffled out of the door and into the bright winter sun washing up the hill. A shadow jumped out from nowhere, took his shape and matched his crooked pace, step by step.

‘Going my way? Well, you must keep up. I’m very busy today.’

The shadow looked funny with shopping bags at the ends. Rochat swung his arms back and forth making them long and short and long again. He imagined he was a strongman at a circus lifting heavy bags of iron. He watched the shadows of other people coming from behind him and growing bigger, till he saw the feet where the shadows and people were sewn together. The people and their shadows all walking faster than him, their shadows laughing ‘Nahnahnah’ as they passed.

‘Don’t be rude. I’m carrying these big bags. If you had any manners you’d offer to help. But no, too busy being teasing kind of shadows.’

A tall skinny shadow moved up on his right and slowed to the pace of his shuffling steps. And on his left, a short and thick shadow did the same. Rochat slowed, the shadows slowed. He looked back over his shoulder – no people were attached to the two shadows. He looked back at his boots. The two shadows were gone. Just his own crooked shadow standing alone, holding the shopping bags.

‘I’m very sure it was only an imagination, Rochat. Mustn’t become distracted from your duties.’

He continued to shuffle up the hill. The two strange shadows caught up to him again, following at an even pace. Rochat stopped, they stopped. He moved, they moved. He turned slowly, no one was there again. He jumped to the shaded doorway of a patisserie. The shadows disappeared.

‘You didn’t imagine them, Rochat. And they didn’t feel like teasing kind of shadows.’

He waited a moment before stepping back into the sun. A teasing shadow took his shape and led him up the hill. He kept his eyes on the ground all the way to the fountain at Place de la Palud, making sure all the passing shadows had people sewn to their feet. Suddenly, the two strange shadows appeared at his side again. One tall and skinny, the other short with a little beard on his chin.

‘I know who you are. You can’t fool me. Go away.’

He swung the shopping bags at the cobblestones. The shadows jumped back, only to creep closer again.