were empty, the street was deserted.
He began to calm down. False alarm.
Then he saw the flare of a lighter in a doorway and spotted two men, not twenty yards away, smoking, chatting in low voices, glancing around them, paying particular attention to the entrance to his block. They were waiting for him to show up. Rufus felt his guts clench with queasy fear. His heart started to hammer wildly in his chest. Gabby was right. Don had found him.
Carefully, he backtracked. As soon as he was out of their sight he ran, scrambled into his car and drove, fast, away from them. He’d prepared for this. He didn’t dare return to his flat now. He drove down to the warehouse near the Albert Dock, and made his way to the wall.
Removing a few of the bricks, he rummaged inside the cavity and drew out the plastic package he’d hidden there. It contained a fake passport with his picture in it, and a stash of francs. Then he drove to Portsmouth, parked up on a quiet side road, bought a foot passenger ticket and boarded the ferry to France.
17
Paris, 1983
Rufus loved France. More especially, he loved the club life along the Champs-Elysées, where he quickly found work as a bouncer. No one cared who he was here, no one knew him. It was all fine. He moved into a small flat on Faubourg-du-Roule and started dating one of the louche blonde dancers from GoGo, the club he worked in.
He didn’t speak the language fluently yet, but it wasn’t a barrier to him. He set himself the challenge of learning more as soon as he could. But most of the French spoke English. And everyone, from all around the globe, understood fuck off when a meaty eighteen-stone redhead with muscles bulging out from his suit like ball bearings in an overstuffed sock, said it.
He stayed there, enjoying la vie Française.
Then he got word that Don Callaghan was on his tail again and it was time to move on. In Lille he got a job as a driver, working for a Saudi diplomat who had business and property in the Loire Valley and further south.
Sometimes he thought of his old life in Ireland, of his happy childhood, of Orla his long-dead cousin. He missed the auld country. But here, at last, in the depths of France, he could at least begin to relax.
He was driving the boss down near the medieval town of Arles, gateway to the Camargue where the wild white horses ran. The air was hot and pungent as he steered the Rolls-Royce through fields of lavender and bright yellow sunflowers. There were roses, fields of them, ready to be made into rose oil, the costliest oil on earth, at the perfumeries of Grasse.
Rufus was sweating. He had to wear full dress uniform whenever he chauffeured the boss, who sat in the back studying papers and who never talked to him except through his prissy little translator.
He pulled into the forecourt of the hotel. Five star, of course. With a spa, a huge pool, cypresses all around the beautifully manicured grounds. The moment Rufus opened the door for his important passenger, staff emerged from the vine-covered entrance to greet the diplomat and escort him inside, to take his bags, to tell Rufus where he could park the car and where the kitchens were so that he could get some refreshment.
He had parked and was on his way round to the kitchen when something hit him, hard, on the back of the head. He reeled forward, falling on to the gravel drive, feeling the sting of pain as his skin was scraped from his palms. His head was spinning. For a moment he was conscious, rolling over, trying to get to his feet, staring up at the brilliant sky. Then everything went dark.
‘Rufus! Hey, Rufus. Come on. Wake up.’
He could hear the voice – it was a man’s – but he couldn’t see a thing. His brains felt scrambled. The back of his head was hurting like crazy. He squinted, tried to focus. He was in a room, run-down, like one of those old gîtes the wily French sold on to gullible English tourists at a vast profit, as doer-uppers.
He was in a kitchen. There
He began to calm down. False alarm.
Then he saw the flare of a lighter in a doorway and spotted two men, not twenty yards away, smoking, chatting in low voices, glancing around them, paying particular attention to the entrance to his block. They were waiting for him to show up. Rufus felt his guts clench with queasy fear. His heart started to hammer wildly in his chest. Gabby was right. Don had found him.
Carefully, he backtracked. As soon as he was out of their sight he ran, scrambled into his car and drove, fast, away from them. He’d prepared for this. He didn’t dare return to his flat now. He drove down to the warehouse near the Albert Dock, and made his way to the wall.
Removing a few of the bricks, he rummaged inside the cavity and drew out the plastic package he’d hidden there. It contained a fake passport with his picture in it, and a stash of francs. Then he drove to Portsmouth, parked up on a quiet side road, bought a foot passenger ticket and boarded the ferry to France.
17
Paris, 1983
Rufus loved France. More especially, he loved the club life along the Champs-Elysées, where he quickly found work as a bouncer. No one cared who he was here, no one knew him. It was all fine. He moved into a small flat on Faubourg-du-Roule and started dating one of the louche blonde dancers from GoGo, the club he worked in.
He didn’t speak the language fluently yet, but it wasn’t a barrier to him. He set himself the challenge of learning more as soon as he could. But most of the French spoke English. And everyone, from all around the globe, understood fuck off when a meaty eighteen-stone redhead with muscles bulging out from his suit like ball bearings in an overstuffed sock, said it.
He stayed there, enjoying la vie Française.
Then he got word that Don Callaghan was on his tail again and it was time to move on. In Lille he got a job as a driver, working for a Saudi diplomat who had business and property in the Loire Valley and further south.
Sometimes he thought of his old life in Ireland, of his happy childhood, of Orla his long-dead cousin. He missed the auld country. But here, at last, in the depths of France, he could at least begin to relax.
He was driving the boss down near the medieval town of Arles, gateway to the Camargue where the wild white horses ran. The air was hot and pungent as he steered the Rolls-Royce through fields of lavender and bright yellow sunflowers. There were roses, fields of them, ready to be made into rose oil, the costliest oil on earth, at the perfumeries of Grasse.
Rufus was sweating. He had to wear full dress uniform whenever he chauffeured the boss, who sat in the back studying papers and who never talked to him except through his prissy little translator.
He pulled into the forecourt of the hotel. Five star, of course. With a spa, a huge pool, cypresses all around the beautifully manicured grounds. The moment Rufus opened the door for his important passenger, staff emerged from the vine-covered entrance to greet the diplomat and escort him inside, to take his bags, to tell Rufus where he could park the car and where the kitchens were so that he could get some refreshment.
He had parked and was on his way round to the kitchen when something hit him, hard, on the back of the head. He reeled forward, falling on to the gravel drive, feeling the sting of pain as his skin was scraped from his palms. His head was spinning. For a moment he was conscious, rolling over, trying to get to his feet, staring up at the brilliant sky. Then everything went dark.
‘Rufus! Hey, Rufus. Come on. Wake up.’
He could hear the voice – it was a man’s – but he couldn’t see a thing. His brains felt scrambled. The back of his head was hurting like crazy. He squinted, tried to focus. He was in a room, run-down, like one of those old gîtes the wily French sold on to gullible English tourists at a vast profit, as doer-uppers.
He was in a kitchen. There
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