The Watchers (25 page)

The floodlamps flickered and the cathedral almost shrank in fright. Rochat shuffled across the esplanade. He saw the dragons and demons, gargoyles and man-beasts in the stone carvings of the great arch, all looking terrified and wanting to hide. He rapped Moses on his stone sandals.

‘What have you been telling everyone? Another plague of locusts on the way, rivers running red with blood? You shouldn’t scare everyone with your stories. It’s not nice.’

The wind swelled and the bare branches of the chestnut trees twisted wildly. The black clouds sank through the sky, scraping the high turrets of the belfry tower. Rochat looked at Moses, rapped his sandals again.

‘I’m sorry, monsieur, you’re right. This isn’t a December kind of storm. What? What do you mean, I should run away? I’m
le guet de Lausanne
, it’s my duty to protect the cathedral.’

Rochat hurried to the embankment wall, looked out over Lausanne. All the trees twisting and bending in the wind, branches clawing at rooftops and windows. Shutters slamming and fallen leaves swirling in funnels through the narrow lanes of the old city. Then the clouds forming into a great tumbling mass, covering the Alps in a dark shroud and spreading over Lac Léman. The lake turning dark as ink as it began to churn and swell. White crests formed like sharp teeth, snapping at the low tumbling clouds. And all along the shore, orange warning lights flashed … one long, three short, one long, three short …
Danger! Danger! Run away
!

Rochat hurried towards the cathedral.

‘Be not afraid, Rochat, be not afraid.’

Thunder cracked and lightning sliced at the chestnut trees on the esplanade. The tallest of the trees snapped and crashed to the ground, skidded over the esplanade and charged towards Rochat. He jumped behind the corner of the tower, the tree just missing him and sliding on till it smashed and shattered against the fountain. Water from the fountain rose from the basin as if it was raining upside down into the black clouds now breaking into black shreds and flying madly in the winds, then swooping down across the façade of the cathedral. Rochat ran to the red door of the belfry tower, banged hard and shouted:

‘Otto, my Brave Knight, I know you’re sleeping by the altar, but wake up! I think bad shadows are here and they’re scaring the cathedral!
En garde, mon ami
! You protect the nave! I’m going to protect the bells!’

He unlocked the tower door, raced up the tower to the south balcony. The lights of Lausanne, the lights of Évian, the villages along the lake, flickering on and off. And the winds now charging from every direction, howling like a pack of wild dogs, driving the mass of black clouds to the east, then chasing them to the west, faster and faster, till the tumbling mass formed a giant spiral above Lausanne. Rochat leaned over the railings and looked up into the boiling, bubbling eye of the storm, hovering directly above the lantern tower.

‘Stop it! You’re scaring the stones and the bells! They’re very old! It’s not nice! Stop it, I say!’

Clattering on the cathedral roof.

He hurried to the east balcony.

Hailstones bouncing off the tiles, spilling from the gutters. Then a screaming gust of wind ripping open the clouds.

‘Leave us alone! Go away!’

And a flood of hail bore down.

The winds tore through the carpentry and slammed into Rochat. He stumbled and grabbed the balcony railings and held on. Pulling himself around the tower, jumping past pillars, grabbing the railings again. The wind lashing at his face, hailstones crunching under his boots. Then he heard terrible wailing sounds in the wind and the screech of metal against metal. He hid in the southeast turret, watched the building works surrounding the cathedral. Tarpaulins on the scaffolds flapping like untethered sails, high scaffolds rocking from side to side, metal planks dropping 60 metres to the ground and clanging on the cobblestones like frightened bells. Rochat jumped to the south balcony, barely able to see beyond it as the mass of swirling clouds closed in on the cathedral.

‘Stop it! You’re not supposed to be here! Go away I say!’

As if to mock him, the winds ripped the scaffolds from the cathedral walls and they crashed to the ground in one monstrous scream of falling-down steel. The winds then charged through the turrets, finding Rochat and knocking him from his feet, sending him sliding over the icy balcony towards the tower steps. He grabbed at the railings, they slipped through his hands.

‘No! Help!’

His crooked foot caught a stone pillar, stopping him from tumbling down the tower steps. He pulled himself to his knees, he heard the ancient timbers of the carpentry creak and groan and Marie-Madeleine cry out in the face of the storm.

GONG … GONG … GONG …

Rochat knew he should run to the loge, light the lantern and call before the ninth bell faded, but he couldn’t move. His hands squeezing the iron railings with all his strength, his whole body trembling to the sound of Marie-Madeleine’s voice.

‘Rochat, Marc Rochat! Evil has returned to Lausanne!’

fifteen

‘Hello, Jay.’

Harper looked up, saw a pair of kid gloves, dark brown this time.

‘Hello, Miss Clarke. What brings you to planet fucking perfect?’

‘I was on my way to the Château d’Ouchy with some mates when the storm hit. Like fire and brimstone out there.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘World’s coming to an end and that’s the best you can do?’

Harper looked out of LP’s windows. The small forest of Christmas trees and twinkling lights lay in tatters, snow was beginning to fall.

‘I suppose it was rather exciting for the two minutes it lasted.’

‘Said the actress to the bishop.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a joke, Jay. A Brit joke. You’re a Brit, you’re supposed to laugh at Brit jokes. So, do I continue to stand here like an idiot, or do you ask me to sit down?’

He stood, offered a chair. She sat down, lit a smoke.

‘Anyway, my mates decided to run for cover in the Palace. We’re having dinner down in Le Jardin. I’d ask you along but you seem happy with your club sandwich.’

‘It’s the chips. Deadly in this place.’

‘You really need to get out more, Jay.’

She took a drag from her smoke. A new addition attached to the butt end, a pearl-coloured cigarette holder.

‘Nice touch with the fag.’

‘Can’t soil the new gloves, Jay.’ She reached over, stole a chip. ‘Yeah, not bad for Swiss chips.’

‘Thought you didn’t want to soil the gloves.’

‘I always carry a spare. And thanks, by the way, I’d love a drink. Vodka tonic with a twist.’

Harper signalled the polite bartender, vodka tonic with a twist, make it two.

‘So I had a visit from the Swiss police.’

‘So I hear. A cop in a cashmere coat told me you weren’t impressed with my detective work.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Who?’

‘The cop in a cashmere coat.’

‘Sees all, knows all, talks shite.’

‘Oh, that one. Well, he wasn’t there, whoever he is. But I told the other lot you were cute.’

‘I’m sure that made an impression.’

‘One of them’s coming back tomorrow. Spending the afternoon looking through security tapes for your missing Russian pal. He’s a sergeant. He’s cute, too. Nice green eyes, like you.’

A waitress delivered the drinks.

‘Cheers, Miss Clarke.’

‘The eyes, Jay. Look me in the eyes.’

‘Sorry?’

‘To make a proper toast in Switzerland, you must look into each other’s eyes as you touch glasses. It’s one of the rules.’

‘Like no laundry on Sundays?’

‘Like you don’t want to look me in the eyes?’

‘Sure, they’re nice. They match your gloves.’

‘My knees are positively trembling, Jay.’

‘Where are your friends?’

‘In the restaurant. I said I’d follow on, maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Unless, maybe, you had a better idea.’ She watched him fumble with his watch, trying to read the time. ‘You’re a strange one, aren’t you, Jay?’

‘How so?’

‘I see you through the window and abandon my friends. And as fate would have it, I’m wearing one of my better fuck-me dresses so maybe, just maybe, I’ll get lucky enough to not spend another Christmas Eve with Jimmy Stewart. And you haven’t batted an eye.’

‘Who?’

‘Jimmy Stewart, actor in
It’s a Wonderful Life
. Weepy Yank holiday trash designed to keep lonely hearts from jumping off Pont Bessières.’

‘That’s a bridge in Lausanne.’

‘Yeah, but there’s also a bridge in the film, in Bumfuck, USA. Jimmy’s about to take a flying leap on Christmas Eve when an angel shows up to save the day. I’ve seen it a hundred times, still cry like a baby every time.’

‘Hang on, what’s Pont Bessières got to do with Bumfuck, USA?’

‘Because every year at Christmas time, a few lonely Lausannois take a dive off Pont Bessières.’

‘You must be joking.’

‘You think people diving off a bridge is a joke?’

‘No, I was there a few nights ago. Middle of the night, actually. This lad popped out from nowhere, asked me if I knew about the bridge, wanted to know if I needed comfort. I thought he was on the game.’

‘Maybe he was a ghost.’

‘A ghost?’ Harper laughed to himself. Headless virgins, skeletons … now ghosts. ‘This town’s bursting with comfort and joy, isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t, but it’s better than the rest of the world, or haven’t you noticed?’

‘Noticed what?’

‘The state of the world.’

‘What about it?’

‘When’s the last time you looked at a newspaper, Jay?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Then I’ll clue you in, it’s fuckingly depressing out there. That’s why I’m looking for a body to keep me warm on Christmas Eve.’

‘What about your cute Swiss cop?’

‘Oh, he’s cute enough. Strikes me as a bloke who’s married to his job, with no timeouts allowed for fun. But none of that matters. What matters is I’m sitting here like a sure bet on a million-to-one jackpot and you sit there eating chips, with ketchup on your chin.’ She picked up the napkin from the table, leaned over, dabbed away the splotch. ‘And it makes the second time you’ve turned me down. You’re giving me a complex.’

‘You don’t waste time, Miss Clarke.’

‘Only ten shopping days till Christmas. Besides, life is too short.’

‘I’ve heard that. Somewhere.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘No bloody idea.’

‘Jay?’

‘Present.’

‘You’re incredibly pissed.’

‘I passed that point long ago. Which reminds me, another drink?’

‘No, thanks, Jay. I might be gagging for it, but I don’t beg.’

‘Sorry, Miss Clarke.’

She sighed. ‘I always fall for the wrong guys.’

‘What kind of guys make wrong guys?’

‘Guys like you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah, they wash up on the shores of Lac Léman like emotional refugees. I take them in but they’re so bruised by the time I find them, they can’t even trust a sure thing.’

‘Known a few, have you?’

‘Bags. And you, Jay Harper, make one more.’ She stamped out her cigarette, dropped the holder in her bag. ‘Well, I’m off. There’s a cute waiter down in the restaurant who might fancy a quick shag in the wine cellar.’

‘Fast work, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, well, what can I say? I feel the need to hang on to someone tonight. You ever feel the need, Jay?’

Harper watched her stand, turn to walk away, feeling something unremembered.

‘Miss Clarke?’

She turned back.

‘Do they sleep?’

‘What?’

‘The wrong guys, do they sleep?’

‘Sure, Jay, everybody sleeps. Don’t you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘My telephone number in London.’

‘What about it?’

‘I can’t remember it.’

‘This keeps you up at night?’

‘Among other things.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s just it, Miss Clarke, I can’t remember a bloody thing before coming to Lausanne.’

‘Goodbye, Jay, wish me luck.’

She blew him a kiss, headed for the door. Harper lit a smoke, scanned the room. Two clowns sitting at the bar. Tall skinny fuck blowing Lucy Clarke a prissy kiss. Short one with a goatee glancing at Harper with a wink and a nod. No idea if they were the wrong guys or not, but Harper had a visceral dislike of them. He gave the short one a ‘fuck off, shrimp’ stare, then he looked out of the window. Snow coming down hard.

As Rochat finished the three o’clock rounds the tiled roofs of the old city were covered in snow. He raised the lantern into the dark.

‘
C’est le guet. Il a sonné l’heure, il a sonné l’heure
.’

He crawled into the carpentry and hung the lantern on an iron spike. He quickly tucked himself in a sleeping bag under Marie-Madeleine and pulled his floppy hat down on his head. He curled up his legs and leaned against a timber. He watched lantern light glow against the great bell, seeing the tiny chips and cracks at the edge of the bronze skirt. He could sense she was still upset from the storm, still unable to slip into her usual snooze after ringing the hours.

‘It’s so quiet, isn’t it, Marie?’

Silence.

‘
Pardonnez-moi, madame
, but if you’re going to have me sit out here in the cold to keep you company, you should at least have the decency to chat. I have a very warm bed in a very warm loge awaiting me. Instead, I’m stuffed in a sleeping bag and looking like a big stupid caterpillar with a silly hat on his head, talking to a bell of all things.’

He reached up, rapped the hem of her bronze skirt. Marie hummed with a soft voice.

‘Yes, yes, I’m only teasing. I’m warm enough, don’t worry. Yes, I know, it always turns warmer when it snows. What? No, the bad shadows are gone and I haven’t seen anything evil returning to Lausanne. Yes, I’m very sure we were only imagining them. Yes, yes, I’ll keep a sharp eye, just in case.’

He stared off the balcony, watching the snow fall through the dark sky.

‘Hail and thunderstorms and so much snow, all in one night. It’s so strange, isn’t it, Marie?’