sight of Bruno in uniform, the youth turned as if to climb back up the stairs again. Bruno gently took the fire tongs from the first man’s hands and stepped inside the house. The two men on the stairs had also been beaten, with red marks on their bodies as if they had been hit with sticks. The older man, blood trickling from his mouth and nose, winced as he stood upright. The buttocks and thighs of the young man flared an angry red.
A pair of jeans and a T-shirt lay on a chair by the glass doors, a wallet peeking from one of the pockets. Bruno took it out, opened it and saw that the young man had a French ID card, age eighteen, with a name he knew, Edouard Marty. Just a few weeks earlier, Edouard had been at the tennis club with schoolmates, celebrating their graduation from the
lycée
in Sarlat. Edouard was going on to university, planning to study architecture at Bordeaux.
‘What happened here, Edouard?’ Bruno had asked, and the middle-aged man helping Edouard put a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if to stop him turning to answer.
‘We were enjoying a quiet day by the pool when we were attacked by a bunch of thugs with pickaxe handles,’ the man said in good but accented French. His friend in swim trunks tried to interrupt but the one on the stairs was too angry to be silenced.
‘They wore stocking masks over their heads. They beat us up, smashed the cars and drove off with two of our friends. Two more of us have gone to the clinic. One has a broken arm.’
Beside him, Edouard sank to his knees on the stairs and lowered his head, his shoulders heaving with sobs.
After a brief but angry exchange between the two Englishmen in their own tongue, they refused even to give their names to Bruno. It didn’t matter; Bruno found registration papers in the Range Rover along with a copy of the rental agreement for the
gîte
. But it was clear that one had told the other to say nothing. Nobody had answered when Bruno asked if they had all been at the pool when the attack had come or whether some of them had been indoors. They wouldn’t even confirm how many attackers there had been, or if any of themhad spoken. Edouard would not look at Bruno and remained silent throughout, shaking his head at Bruno’s offer to take him to the clinic, or to call his parents to take him home.
And there it had ended. Uncertain of the legal rights of foreigners, Bruno had felt powerless and frustrated. He had been alone; the Gendarmes had been too busy with a traffic accident to be able to send any support. When Bruno reached the medical centre, one Englishman had been treated for a fractured arm and a young Frenchman for a broken nose. The French youth had not shown his
carte vitale
, which would have qualified him for free treatment. Another Englishman in an Audi with smashed headlamps had paid the medical fees and driven them away.
When Bruno went back to the
gîte
the place was empty, the crumpled drinks trolley and broken glass tidied away. An envelope containing two thousand francs had been left on the kitchen counter, the words ‘for damages’ scrawled on the outside. Edouard called his parents that evening to say he was joining friends for a vacation in England. His parents were too embarrassed to answer Bruno’s questions in anything more than grudging monosyllables. Bruno had no statements, no formal complaints and no real basis for an inquiry, as the magistrate told him when declining to take up the case. What he should have done, Bruno now knew, was to seize the visitors’ passports and their car keys, confiscate Edouard’s ID card and say they could only have them back when they had made formal statements at his office.
Bruno knew that an injustice had been done. He had checked on the age of consent for homosexuals and established that Edouard and his English friends had committed no crimeunder French law. Edouard being gay had neither shocked nor offended him; he had been too long in the army to confuse anyone’s
A pair of jeans and a T-shirt lay on a chair by the glass doors, a wallet peeking from one of the pockets. Bruno took it out, opened it and saw that the young man had a French ID card, age eighteen, with a name he knew, Edouard Marty. Just a few weeks earlier, Edouard had been at the tennis club with schoolmates, celebrating their graduation from the
lycée
in Sarlat. Edouard was going on to university, planning to study architecture at Bordeaux.
‘What happened here, Edouard?’ Bruno had asked, and the middle-aged man helping Edouard put a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if to stop him turning to answer.
‘We were enjoying a quiet day by the pool when we were attacked by a bunch of thugs with pickaxe handles,’ the man said in good but accented French. His friend in swim trunks tried to interrupt but the one on the stairs was too angry to be silenced.
‘They wore stocking masks over their heads. They beat us up, smashed the cars and drove off with two of our friends. Two more of us have gone to the clinic. One has a broken arm.’
Beside him, Edouard sank to his knees on the stairs and lowered his head, his shoulders heaving with sobs.
After a brief but angry exchange between the two Englishmen in their own tongue, they refused even to give their names to Bruno. It didn’t matter; Bruno found registration papers in the Range Rover along with a copy of the rental agreement for the
gîte
. But it was clear that one had told the other to say nothing. Nobody had answered when Bruno asked if they had all been at the pool when the attack had come or whether some of them had been indoors. They wouldn’t even confirm how many attackers there had been, or if any of themhad spoken. Edouard would not look at Bruno and remained silent throughout, shaking his head at Bruno’s offer to take him to the clinic, or to call his parents to take him home.
And there it had ended. Uncertain of the legal rights of foreigners, Bruno had felt powerless and frustrated. He had been alone; the Gendarmes had been too busy with a traffic accident to be able to send any support. When Bruno reached the medical centre, one Englishman had been treated for a fractured arm and a young Frenchman for a broken nose. The French youth had not shown his
carte vitale
, which would have qualified him for free treatment. Another Englishman in an Audi with smashed headlamps had paid the medical fees and driven them away.
When Bruno went back to the
gîte
the place was empty, the crumpled drinks trolley and broken glass tidied away. An envelope containing two thousand francs had been left on the kitchen counter, the words ‘for damages’ scrawled on the outside. Edouard called his parents that evening to say he was joining friends for a vacation in England. His parents were too embarrassed to answer Bruno’s questions in anything more than grudging monosyllables. Bruno had no statements, no formal complaints and no real basis for an inquiry, as the magistrate told him when declining to take up the case. What he should have done, Bruno now knew, was to seize the visitors’ passports and their car keys, confiscate Edouard’s ID card and say they could only have them back when they had made formal statements at his office.
Bruno knew that an injustice had been done. He had checked on the age of consent for homosexuals and established that Edouard and his English friends had committed no crimeunder French law. Edouard being gay had neither shocked nor offended him; he had been too long in the army to confuse anyone’s
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