The Babylon Idol. Scott Mariani
chair and slipped it on.
‘You want to come?’ he said to Storm, who instantly sprang to his feet as though it were feeding time. Life was simple if you were a dog.
Outside in the biting wind, the sleet was turning snowier by the minute. Ben pulled up the collar of his jacket and crossed the yard, past the minibus and over to the ancient Land Rover. It was a tool box on wheels, filled with all kinds of junk including a greasy old chainsaw. Storm hopped in the back and found a space for himself while Ben got behind the wheel, and they set off across the yard and down the rutted track that ran between the buildings parallel with the rifle range and led across the fields towards Sector Nine. He heard the muffled boom of a rifle coming from the range, the ear-splitting report and supersonic crack of the bullet in flight muted by the high earth walls that ran parallel from the firing points to the butts at the far end and prevented any ‘flyers’ from escaping the range boundaries. Not that such elementary mistakes could happen under Tuesday’s expert supervision; he could splatter grapes all day long at five hundred yards with his modified Remington 700, and he was one of the best instructors Ben had ever seen.
The old tree had been a bone of contention for years. Marie-Claire, the local woman they’d employed from day one as an occasional cook, swore the particular apples it produced were essential to her mouth-wateringly delicious traditional Normandy apple tart recipe. As popular as her tart was with the parties of hard-worked and hungry trainees at Le Val, Jeff had always griped that the tree was too close to the fence and had argued that they could get perfectly decent apples at the grocer’s in Saint-Acaire or the Carrefour in Valognes. It had been an endless and hard-fought debate, with neither side giving an inch, while the tree kept growing taller and spreading outwards year on year. Now it looked as if the winter wind had settled the argument for them.
The track wound and snaked through the grounds. To Ben’s right, he passed the patch of oak woodland, now bare and gaunt, that in summer completely screened the ruins of the tiny thirteenth-century chapel where he sometimes retreated to sit, and think, and enjoy the silence. To his left, beyond hills and fields and forest, he could see the distant steeple of the church at Saint-Acaire pointing up at the grey sky.
He loved this place, in any season. He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever wanted to leave it.
But then, he’d done a lot of things in his life that he couldn’t understand why, looking back.
As Ben approached Sector Nine, he saw Jeff’s Ford Ranger over the grassy rise up ahead. Then Jeff himself, arms folded and frowning unhappily at the branches that had become enmeshed in the wire. The whole tree had uprooted and toppled over, flattening a thirty-foot section of fence with it. Those ever-lurking jihadis had only to come leaping through the gap, and they’d be just a step away from total European domination.
‘What did I always say?’ Jeff said, pointing at the fallen tree as Ben stepped down from the Land Rover. ‘What did I always warn that old bat would happen one day? And did she ever listen to a word? Did she buggery.’
‘No use crying about it now,’ Ben said. He grabbed the chainsaw from the back of the Landy. The dog clambered into the front seat, fogging up the windscreen with his hot breath as he watched the two humans set about dismantling the tree.
Ben started with the smaller branches, trimming them off while Jeff dragged them away and tossed them in a heap to one side. Once the gnarly old trunk was as bare as a telegraph pole, it was time to start chopping it up into sections before the real work of rebuilding the broken fence could begin. By then, the sleet had delivered on its threat to turn snowy. Ben and Jeff took a break, and sat in the Land Rover watching the snow dust the landscape. Ben lit another Gauloise, smoking it slowly, savouring the tranquillity of the moment.
‘I love her, you know,’ Jeff said, out of the blue after a lengthy pause.
‘The old bat?’
‘Chantal. I’m in love with her, mate.’
Ben had never heard his friend say anything like that before. From his lips, it was like Mahatma Gandhi saying how much he loved a good juicy beefsteak.
Jeff shook his head, as though he could hardly believe it himself. ‘I mean, I know what it sounds like, and I never thought this would happen to me. But I think she’s the one. Christ, I really fucking think so.’ He glanced at Ben. There was a look in his eyes something like helplessness.
‘Chantal’s great,’ Ben said, even though he’d only met her briefly a couple of times.
‘Yeah, she is.’ Jeff swallowed, like a man about to make a confession. ‘Listen. I … uh, I asked her to marry me. She said yes. Wanted you to be the first to know.’
Ben masked his complete astonishment and said, ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.’ The subject of marriage wasn’t one that was ever discussed between them, given Ben’s patchy history in that department. He was more unqualified than most people to extol the joys of married life, but it was all he could think of to say right now.
‘Thanks, mate.’ Jeff smiled, then pointed through the windscreen, obviously keen to change the subject. ‘Look at this frigging snow.’ It was thickening by the minute, blown about in sheets by the increasing wind.
‘No point waiting for it to stop,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s get on.’
The chainsaw buzzed and snorted and kicked in Ben’s hands as he sliced the tree into sections, bending over the prone trunk, with Jeff standing at his shoulder waiting to grab each piece as it came loose and toss it into the pile. Ten minutes later, the top half of the tree was next year’s firewood logs ready to be loaded on a trailer and split and stacked in the barn.
Two minutes after that, it happened.
There was a strong gust of wind, followed immediately by a strange whizzing crack that was only faintly audible over the noise of the saw. At almost the same instant, Ben heard Jeff’s strangled cry of shock and pain. He looked quickly around, just in time to see the blood fly. As if in slow motion, like a scarlet ribbon fluttering from Jeff’s body, twisting in the air. Jeff doubling up. Falling against him. Collapsing into the trampled grass. Mud and snow and sawdust and more blood. Lots of it, spilling everywhere. Ben yelling Jeff’s name. Getting no response. The sudden fear twisting his guts like a pair of icy gripping hands.
In those first confused instants, Ben thought that the chain had broken and gone spinning off the bar of the saw, hitting Jeff in some kind of freakish accident. In a panic he hit the engine kill switch. The saw instantly stopped, and Ben realised the chain was still intact.
He threw the saw down and fell on his knees by Jeff’s slumped body. Jeff wasn’t moving. The snow was turning red in a spreading stain under him. Ben yelled his friend’s name. Tried to shake him, to roll him over, to understand what was happening. Blood slicked his hands and bubbled up between his fingers. So much blood.
Now Ben was thinking that the spinning chainsaw might have dislodged an old nail or fencing staple buried deep in the tree trunk from long ago, and sent it flying through the air like a deadly piece of shrapnel.
‘Jeff!’
Jeff’s eyes were closed. His face was white, except where it was spattered red. His jacket and shirt were black and oily with blood. Ben ripped at the material.
And then he saw the gaping bullet wound in Jeff’s chest.
You didn’t need to be a forensic pathologist to recognise the devastating effect that a high-velocity rifle bullet could have on the human body. And Ben was no stranger to gunshot wounds.
This one was bad. It was very bad.
A gust of wind slapped a fresh flurry of snowflakes over them, and suddenly it was blizzarding. Ben crouched in the mud and the blood and the snow, bending over his friend’s inert body, blinking away the flakes that swirled into