| General Fiction posted April 2, 2019 | Chapters: |
...46 47 -48- 49... 
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Chapter 48: Charles suffers from delayed shock
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Barking at the Moon
by tfawcus
| Background Whilst seeking temporary respite in England, Charles has been coerced into the British Secret Service and set up to become an unwitting assassin... |
Last part of Chapter 47...
It was easy enough to imagine the bloody remains of Gaston Arnaud, splattered through the debris and shattered glass.
I slipped out quietly and started walking, numbed by the enormity of my unwitting involvement and unsure what to do next.
Chapter 48
I walked briskly, my only thought being to put distance between me and the scene of the explosion. After about quarter of an hour, I was overcome by an uncontrollable shaking, so severe that I sank to my knees, huddled in a doorway. To make matters worse, I felt my gorge rising, and I began to be violently sick. The retching continued until I was only bringing up bile. When, at last, the spasms ceased, I continued to squat, exhausted, with my head between my knees.
By this time I was well away from the turmoil and panic. I could still hear sirens in the distance, but the nearby streets were undisturbed. Most of the night owls and revellers quickened their step as they walked past, studiously ignoring me. However, as one young couple approached, the youth drew his girlfriend closer to him, steering her towards the curb. She had other ideas, though, and pulled away, turning a concerned face towards me.
"Are you all right, old man? Do you need help?" She spoke with a soft Kentish accent.
I noticed she wrinkled her nose slightly at the sour smell of my vomit. I looked up gratefully and managed a weak half-smile. "C'est bon. I'll be okay. Merci, mademoiselle!"
"Bloody drunk! Come on. Leave him alone." The lad grabbed her arm and started to tug her away. She wrenched herself free, her eyes blazing with indignation.
Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and tossed a couple of two-euro coins onto the pavement beside me. "Here you are, you old pisspot. Go get yourself a cup of coffee and sober up." I doubted this grudging act of generosity would salvage his hopes of a romantic evening. I sincerely hoped not. He didn't deserve her.
A few minutes later, I staggered to my feet, brushed the dirt from my knees, and ran my fingers through my hair. Get a grip, man. I squared my shoulders, blew sharply out through my teeth, and set off again.
I soon found myself on Rue de Hauteville, and realised that I was only a few hundred yards west of the Folies Bergère. However, having been involved in enough folly for one evening, I turned my attention to the magnificent twin towers of St. Vincent-de-Paul Catholic Church, rising up above the surrounding rooftops.
Although I still describe myself as C. of E. when it comes to declaring my faith on official forms, I am not a religious man. My only church attendance these days is for weddings and funerals. Nonetheless, I was overcome with a sudden urge to confess my sins to whatever divine being might currently be hovering over Paris, with arms spread wide in a classic gesture of forgiveness.
Recalling that St. Vincent used to have a soft spot for galley slaves, I thought he might perhaps put in a good word for me. With a contrite heart, I started to walk north up Rue de Hauteville towards the church. As I reached the steps to the main entrance, I felt another twinge of reflux, which left a searing aftertaste of bile at the back of my throat. Part of my penance, I supposed.
Forgiveness does not come easily. It being well past nine o'clock, the church doors were securely locked. I beat upon them with a mixture of frustration and indignation, which bruised my knuckles considerably and did little to improve my feeling of maudlin self-pity.
On the other hand, I knew that the Wine Therapy Bar, a few hundred yards down Rue la Fayette, was bound to be open. St Vincent-de-Paul might not be available to come to my aid, but Bacchus certainly was.
When I reached the wine bar, having missed out on my chargrilled chicken at Churrasqueira Galo, I ordered a cheese platter to go with my bottle of burgundy but when it arrived, I found I still only had the stomach for a few dry biscuits.
I was determined to follow Keats' example and imbibe a beaker or two 'full of the warm South, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim'. I intended to gain a purple-stained mouth, drink myself silly, and then, all being well, 'leave the world unseen'.
With that in mind, it occurred to me that I still had my diplomatic passport and £5000 in the bank, though, on reflection, I wan't too sure about the £5000.
It is remarkable how a few glasses of wine can change one's perspective and clear the conscience. Half way down the second bottle, I began to realise that I was not merely a sordid assassin, but the alter ego of James Bond, and on Her Majesty's Secret Service. I gazed around the room and my eyes alighted on a particularly attractive-looking young lady at an adjacent table. I flashed her a dazzling smile but should perhaps have left the winking to beaded bubbles and blushful horse-hoof thingummybobs.
She looked at me disdainfully and said, unnecessarily loudly in my opinion, "That disgusting old man over there is leering at me. Do something about it."
I found a dozen pairs of eyes boring into me but the ones that most seriously disconcerted me belonged to her husband. I hadn't anticipated Oddjob in this scene. The bull neck and beady eyes were unpleasantly familiar, but my, how he had grown.
“Cochon!" He spat the word out as he towered over me, grabbed me by the collar, and propelled me towards the door. I always thought it was only in Westerns that one went sailing through the air and landed in the gutter. How wrong can one be?
"Pig, yourself!" I said between gritted teeth. I held out my hand to the waiter hovering at my elbow, as I staggered to my feet. I thought he was there to assist but it turned out that the only thing he was proffering was my bill.
The effect of the wine intensified the cool of the evening as I swayed down the street, slurring the words of the old song:
I b'long to Glasgee
Guid old Glasgee toon
Sheesh, what's the matter wi' Glasgee?
It's goin' 'roon and 'roon...
There was little doubt that I was as legless as a French frog. The fact that I regarded my Diplomatic Passport as a Get Out of Jail Free card confirmed the fact.
I'm only a poor old working chap
As anyone here can see
But with a couple of drinks on a Saturday night
Glasgow belongs to me.
Paris, in this case, but what the hell - same difference.
It suddenly occurred to me that it would be an excellent idea to go back to La Galerie Arnoux and inspect the scene of the crime. I whispered "Shhh!" to myself and started tiptoeing back towards Rue de Dunkerque, sidestepping to avoid the bollards that kept getting in my way.
As luck would have it, the two gendarmes who had been posted to guard the premises happened to be temporarily distracted, giving directions to some passing tourists.
I ducked under the chequered tape, slid along what remained of the front wall doing a fair impression of a Ringwraith from Mordor, and crept into Arnoux's erstwhile fortress. Having achieved my objective, I was at a loss to know what to do next, so I curled up on the floor in a back room and went to sleep.
It was easy enough to imagine the bloody remains of Gaston Arnaud, splattered through the debris and shattered glass.
I slipped out quietly and started walking, numbed by the enormity of my unwitting involvement and unsure what to do next.
Chapter 48
I walked briskly, my only thought being to put distance between me and the scene of the explosion. After about quarter of an hour, I was overcome by an uncontrollable shaking, so severe that I sank to my knees, huddled in a doorway. To make matters worse, I felt my gorge rising, and I began to be violently sick. The retching continued until I was only bringing up bile. When, at last, the spasms ceased, I continued to squat, exhausted, with my head between my knees.
By this time I was well away from the turmoil and panic. I could still hear sirens in the distance, but the nearby streets were undisturbed. Most of the night owls and revellers quickened their step as they walked past, studiously ignoring me. However, as one young couple approached, the youth drew his girlfriend closer to him, steering her towards the curb. She had other ideas, though, and pulled away, turning a concerned face towards me.
"Are you all right, old man? Do you need help?" She spoke with a soft Kentish accent.
I noticed she wrinkled her nose slightly at the sour smell of my vomit. I looked up gratefully and managed a weak half-smile. "C'est bon. I'll be okay. Merci, mademoiselle!"
"Bloody drunk! Come on. Leave him alone." The lad grabbed her arm and started to tug her away. She wrenched herself free, her eyes blazing with indignation.
Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and tossed a couple of two-euro coins onto the pavement beside me. "Here you are, you old pisspot. Go get yourself a cup of coffee and sober up." I doubted this grudging act of generosity would salvage his hopes of a romantic evening. I sincerely hoped not. He didn't deserve her.
A few minutes later, I staggered to my feet, brushed the dirt from my knees, and ran my fingers through my hair. Get a grip, man. I squared my shoulders, blew sharply out through my teeth, and set off again.
I soon found myself on Rue de Hauteville, and realised that I was only a few hundred yards west of the Folies Bergère. However, having been involved in enough folly for one evening, I turned my attention to the magnificent twin towers of St. Vincent-de-Paul Catholic Church, rising up above the surrounding rooftops.
Although I still describe myself as C. of E. when it comes to declaring my faith on official forms, I am not a religious man. My only church attendance these days is for weddings and funerals. Nonetheless, I was overcome with a sudden urge to confess my sins to whatever divine being might currently be hovering over Paris, with arms spread wide in a classic gesture of forgiveness.
Recalling that St. Vincent used to have a soft spot for galley slaves, I thought he might perhaps put in a good word for me. With a contrite heart, I started to walk north up Rue de Hauteville towards the church. As I reached the steps to the main entrance, I felt another twinge of reflux, which left a searing aftertaste of bile at the back of my throat. Part of my penance, I supposed.
Forgiveness does not come easily. It being well past nine o'clock, the church doors were securely locked. I beat upon them with a mixture of frustration and indignation, which bruised my knuckles considerably and did little to improve my feeling of maudlin self-pity.
On the other hand, I knew that the Wine Therapy Bar, a few hundred yards down Rue la Fayette, was bound to be open. St Vincent-de-Paul might not be available to come to my aid, but Bacchus certainly was.
When I reached the wine bar, having missed out on my chargrilled chicken at Churrasqueira Galo, I ordered a cheese platter to go with my bottle of burgundy but when it arrived, I found I still only had the stomach for a few dry biscuits.
I was determined to follow Keats' example and imbibe a beaker or two 'full of the warm South, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim'. I intended to gain a purple-stained mouth, drink myself silly, and then, all being well, 'leave the world unseen'.
With that in mind, it occurred to me that I still had my diplomatic passport and £5000 in the bank, though, on reflection, I wan't too sure about the £5000.
It is remarkable how a few glasses of wine can change one's perspective and clear the conscience. Half way down the second bottle, I began to realise that I was not merely a sordid assassin, but the alter ego of James Bond, and on Her Majesty's Secret Service. I gazed around the room and my eyes alighted on a particularly attractive-looking young lady at an adjacent table. I flashed her a dazzling smile but should perhaps have left the winking to beaded bubbles and blushful horse-hoof thingummybobs.
She looked at me disdainfully and said, unnecessarily loudly in my opinion, "That disgusting old man over there is leering at me. Do something about it."
I found a dozen pairs of eyes boring into me but the ones that most seriously disconcerted me belonged to her husband. I hadn't anticipated Oddjob in this scene. The bull neck and beady eyes were unpleasantly familiar, but my, how he had grown.
“Cochon!" He spat the word out as he towered over me, grabbed me by the collar, and propelled me towards the door. I always thought it was only in Westerns that one went sailing through the air and landed in the gutter. How wrong can one be?
"Pig, yourself!" I said between gritted teeth. I held out my hand to the waiter hovering at my elbow, as I staggered to my feet. I thought he was there to assist but it turned out that the only thing he was proffering was my bill.
The effect of the wine intensified the cool of the evening as I swayed down the street, slurring the words of the old song:
I b'long to Glasgee
Guid old Glasgee toon
Sheesh, what's the matter wi' Glasgee?
It's goin' 'roon and 'roon...
There was little doubt that I was as legless as a French frog. The fact that I regarded my Diplomatic Passport as a Get Out of Jail Free card confirmed the fact.
I'm only a poor old working chap
As anyone here can see
But with a couple of drinks on a Saturday night
Glasgow belongs to me.
Paris, in this case, but what the hell - same difference.
It suddenly occurred to me that it would be an excellent idea to go back to La Galerie Arnoux and inspect the scene of the crime. I whispered "Shhh!" to myself and started tiptoeing back towards Rue de Dunkerque, sidestepping to avoid the bollards that kept getting in my way.
As luck would have it, the two gendarmes who had been posted to guard the premises happened to be temporarily distracted, giving directions to some passing tourists.
I ducked under the chequered tape, slid along what remained of the front wall doing a fair impression of a Ringwraith from Mordor, and crept into Arnoux's erstwhile fortress. Having achieved my objective, I was at a loss to know what to do next, so I curled up on the floor in a back room and went to sleep.
 Recognized |
The idiom "Barking at the moon" refers to someone who's gone a bit crazy, because of their drinking.
C. of E. = Church of England
Quotes from John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale
Oddjob - Goldfinger's bodyguard in the James Bond saga
Ringwraiths of Mordor c.f. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings
Characters:
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Wing Commander Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. C. of E. = Church of England
Quotes from John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale
Oddjob - Goldfinger's bodyguard in the James Bond saga
Ringwraiths of Mordor c.f. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings
Characters:
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Wing Commander Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6
Helen Culverson - a woman of some mystery, also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident, and seems also to be involved with international drug trade.
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Francoise Gaudin - an intellectually disabled woman living in Versailles.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - an unknown quantity at this stage, a dilettante. Owner of an art gallery in Paris.
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