hurled myself out and rolled over on the baking chalky road. I swung my legs round and lay flat on the ground, facing the car. Underneath the car I could see the lower half of the second thug down the street. He was holding a gun to Frank’s head. Frank was on his knees, but his head lolled and there was blood on his T-shirt. I fired once. The thug suddenly snapped his right foot up and I stood, breathed, and fired again and the thug staggered back, dropped his gun, letting go of Frank. The thug then looked confused at his chest and sank to his knees and then fell face first onto the pavement.
I dropped the gun. I ran round to Lucia who was down the street, staggering about, hugging herself and sobbing loudly.
‘Lucia, are you okay? Are you hurt? Lucia.’ I grabbed her shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’
She looked at me strangely. Then she flung her arms around me and hugged me tight.
‘They shot Granddad,’ she said.
I nodded. We rushed around the corner. I did my best to shield her from the sight of the two bodies of the thugs sprawled on the pavement.
Frank was lying on his back. A large patch of blood was visible on his shirt around the stomach area. Lucia kneeled down next to him and clutched his hand. Frank gurgled and slowly opened his eyes.
‘Lucia,’ he said weakly, his glazed eyes trying to focus.
‘I’m here, Granddad,’ Lucia said through her sobbing.
With difficulty, Frank placed his other hand over Lucia’s hand.
‘Granddad, I’m sorry…’
Frank slowly moved his head round. He looked up at me. I thought perhaps I should go. I didn’t want to intrude. But I saw that Frank’s hand was now weakly moving; bending the fingers back in a sort of ‘come closer’ motion.
I crouched down beside him. He took my hand in his blood-soaked hand. He seemed to nod a little as he looked at me. He tried to speak. All we could hear was a terrible gurgling sound. He was in the grip of an intense pain, but he fought it.
‘Look after my Lucia,’ he eventually managed, staring at me.
I nodded. ‘I will, Frank,’ I said.
I think he tried to smile then. He held both our hands. He looked back at Lucia and as their eyes met for the last time the light went out in him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Snow lay in clumps on the bushes as I walked along the path. A pair of beaming faces awaited at the front door, waving and marvelling at how high I had grown.
I was five years old and my parents were visiting my uncle and aunt who lived in Armenti è res in France.
Christmas music filled their house.
I remember sitting on the floor near a massive glittering Christmas tree, warmed by the roaring log fire, and simply watching everybody.
My mum and her brother could not have been more different. My mum’s an artistic type. She loves to paint and will talk for hours about Degas and the light in Monet and all that sort of thing. Whereas her brother Claude was very much an outdoors man. He loved to travel, learn new languages, get out there. His wife, Agnes, my aunt, was a similar character. Together they would take great delight in planning their next trip. I used to love to sit on the floor in front of them, watching them spreading out maps and leafing through well-thumbed guide books and discussing hotels and different cultures and places to stop at.
On this particular visit they were talking about a trip to Cairo. And I scrambled closer and my five-year-old eyes marvelled at the pictures of the pharaohs and the Sphinx and the Pyramids. My aunt would occasionally break off to make the strong coffee which I used to love the smell of, but at the time was too bitter for me to enjoy the taste. She would bring the cups and cafeti è re out on a tray with St Honor é cakes and Petit Ecolier chocolate biscuits which I wolfed down.
They were writing down an itinerary which sounded like music to me. But apparently the itinerary was never something they adhered to rigidly. They worked out where they would
I dropped the gun. I ran round to Lucia who was down the street, staggering about, hugging herself and sobbing loudly.
‘Lucia, are you okay? Are you hurt? Lucia.’ I grabbed her shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’
She looked at me strangely. Then she flung her arms around me and hugged me tight.
‘They shot Granddad,’ she said.
I nodded. We rushed around the corner. I did my best to shield her from the sight of the two bodies of the thugs sprawled on the pavement.
Frank was lying on his back. A large patch of blood was visible on his shirt around the stomach area. Lucia kneeled down next to him and clutched his hand. Frank gurgled and slowly opened his eyes.
‘Lucia,’ he said weakly, his glazed eyes trying to focus.
‘I’m here, Granddad,’ Lucia said through her sobbing.
With difficulty, Frank placed his other hand over Lucia’s hand.
‘Granddad, I’m sorry…’
Frank slowly moved his head round. He looked up at me. I thought perhaps I should go. I didn’t want to intrude. But I saw that Frank’s hand was now weakly moving; bending the fingers back in a sort of ‘come closer’ motion.
I crouched down beside him. He took my hand in his blood-soaked hand. He seemed to nod a little as he looked at me. He tried to speak. All we could hear was a terrible gurgling sound. He was in the grip of an intense pain, but he fought it.
‘Look after my Lucia,’ he eventually managed, staring at me.
I nodded. ‘I will, Frank,’ I said.
I think he tried to smile then. He held both our hands. He looked back at Lucia and as their eyes met for the last time the light went out in him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Snow lay in clumps on the bushes as I walked along the path. A pair of beaming faces awaited at the front door, waving and marvelling at how high I had grown.
I was five years old and my parents were visiting my uncle and aunt who lived in Armenti è res in France.
Christmas music filled their house.
I remember sitting on the floor near a massive glittering Christmas tree, warmed by the roaring log fire, and simply watching everybody.
My mum and her brother could not have been more different. My mum’s an artistic type. She loves to paint and will talk for hours about Degas and the light in Monet and all that sort of thing. Whereas her brother Claude was very much an outdoors man. He loved to travel, learn new languages, get out there. His wife, Agnes, my aunt, was a similar character. Together they would take great delight in planning their next trip. I used to love to sit on the floor in front of them, watching them spreading out maps and leafing through well-thumbed guide books and discussing hotels and different cultures and places to stop at.
On this particular visit they were talking about a trip to Cairo. And I scrambled closer and my five-year-old eyes marvelled at the pictures of the pharaohs and the Sphinx and the Pyramids. My aunt would occasionally break off to make the strong coffee which I used to love the smell of, but at the time was too bitter for me to enjoy the taste. She would bring the cups and cafeti è re out on a tray with St Honor é cakes and Petit Ecolier chocolate biscuits which I wolfed down.
They were writing down an itinerary which sounded like music to me. But apparently the itinerary was never something they adhered to rigidly. They worked out where they would
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