Trio: The Redemption Code

CHAPTER ONE

The gendarme squinted at the dawn, trying to swallow the bile that burned his throat, his breathing controlled, like the ocean’s sigh as it left thousands of objects bobbing and twisting to the rhythm of ripples. Bottles, tins, driftwood and other strange objects dotted the beach. He scanned the dunes. There was still no sign of an ambulance or other vehicles. He thought about walking back up the beach to wait for them there, but was still out of breath from the stretch of soft sand he’d negotiated, twice, in the search for more evidence. How long ago did he make the call? He looked down at his sweat-stained shirt, barely concealing a hefty stomach. Maybe the walk would do him good. He had almost forgotten the man standing patiently beside him.

Will there be anything else, officer? the man asked.

Sorry. Here’s my card. I’m Corporal Gerard. He took out his pen and wrote carefully. They don’t give us our own cards, you see.

They shook hands in a clumsy exchange.

Am I keeping you from anything?

No, said the man, shrugging. Gerard was struck by how large he was, surrounding him in shadow.

Are you feeling well? I mean, you’re a bit pale.

Am I? He was holding his nose now, trying to look anywhere but down.

I’m sorry, said Gerard, patting the man’s shoulder and gently turning him away. Thank you, Mr … er … Baptiste? I have your details so if you’d like to go home I understand.

The man nodded and walked off leaving deep impressions in the sand.

Gerard watched him for a few moments. He was an African, of which there were few on Réunion Island. The poor guy seemed innocent enough. He’d made the call about 6am, very disturbed. He said he’d walked this beach every day at that time before going to work. Gerard felt a pang of shame that he hadn’t at first taken the call seriously. Many a panicked citizen phones the Gendarmerie with a strange account that turns out to be nothing more than fantasy or drunken misadventure, which only fuelled his sense of superiority to the varied ethnic population. He felt ashamed of that too but this was a French protectorate and that was his job. Protection.

He looked up and down the beach again. The big storm yesterday had left a lot of debris. If it hadn’t been for the weather, these remains may never have been found. Gerard wondered about that – how so many investigations turn on mere chance. Not that this would require much of an investigation. It was all too obvious. He couldn’t resist turning back to the decomposing flesh that lay no more than a metre in front of his waterlogged boots. Flies, worms and other parasites seethed on the remains of an elderly man. The right arm and part of the torso were missing. The left arm was damaged but still attached. Both legs had been severed, the left just below the thigh and the right just below the knee. The curvature of large bites left no doubt. That face – bloated, discoloured, haunting, eye sockets picked clean by scavengers. The matted grey hair was tangled with seaweed. The mouth was slightly open, a couple of gold teeth visible. There was a scar on the lower lip, curiously ragged.

He shook his head and glanced at his watch. Where was Captain Giroux? It was then that he noticed the sparkle of something attached to the body. He hurried forward, surprised he hadn’t noticed it before: a shiny object, partly obscured by seaweed. It was a silver medallion, about three centimetres in diameter, protruding at an angle from the side of the old man’s neck, almost behind his ear. The fine chain was embedded in the flesh.

Reaching for a leather holster, he produced a pen knife, opened it, and carefully turned the medallion with the blade. On one side was an engraved symbol of justice: a blindfolded woman, draped in a robe, holding scales. On the other side was an inscription: pour la France et la liberté frère – L’ours (for France and freedom brother – Bear).

He folded his knife and looked back. A gust of wind cooled his neck so he turned into it and took a deep breath.

Gerard! What the hell are you doing?

Gerard stiffened at the sight of boots lifting comically from the sand as they approached.

Keep your grubby fingers away from the crime scene…

It’s fairly obvious, Sir, that it’s no crime. He gestured to the carcass. Meet our fifth shark victim this year.

Captain Denis Giroux came to a halt, his feet still seeking traction in the rise of the shoreline. He squinted and held his nose. After a few moments, his eyes steadied again and he fixed them on Gerard. Hmm. The Tourism Board will be thrilled with this.

Any ideas, Sir? said Gerard, scanning the ocean.

No, Gerard, because, as brilliant as I am, my intimate knowledge of the community does not extend to sharks. I’d guess it’s a Great White because they seem to be climbing over each other to consume drunken backpackers but as far as I know we have no mug shots to look at. If you have any contacts in shark world I’d be fascinated to hear from them…

Gerard smiled, all too familiar with his boss’s rants. I think you need your morning coffee, Sir. I meant the victim.

An agitated Giroux stared at the remains again. Well, not too many people go missing here and this one’s been missing for some time, I’d say. He nodded to himself. I think I know who this is.

It still hadn’t sunk in. The buildings whizzed by along the motorways, roads and alleys. From the airport to the apartment, fatigued eyes saw nothing but a blur. Rue Du Dragon looked like just another laneway among many in the maze but then it all stopped. A restaurant, boulangerie, tobacconist, men’s fashion – all came slowly into focus as they heaved their bags from the shuttle bus and fumbled with the front door security code. That overwhelming feeling of let’s just get in there… Just a few metres away Boulevard Saint-Germain seethed with people who couldn’t care less.

Spike unpacked like he’d been given someone else’s bag and was last out the door as usual. Within minutes he was chasing Robbie and Lauren down creaking wooden stairs, agitated as he emerged in the dry warmth of a European autumn. He pulled his sunglasses down onto his nose and took a deep breath. They spread across the footpath as it widened at the corner of the Boulevard, a sleepy creek feeding into a torrent.

Robbie found himself struggling against the tide. It was barely midday and their mission was to stay awake until late in the evening, but getting in step with Europe was not easy. He searched for the only topic they had in common. Dad’s a tool, he said, stifling a yawn. The more he talks, the less I want to do.

How can you do less than nothing? said Spike.

I thought you were ignoring me.

I am.

I’m telling you. Don’t start, or I’ll have my shirt back.

I told you back in the apartment. You gave it to me…

I never gave you that shirt. It’s one of my favourites. Mum must have put it in your pile…

Spike’s tone amped and his body language changed. He pumped his legs until he drew level with his brother, chest swelling and face contorting. You came out of your room with three shirts. You said you didn’t need them and threw them at me. Remember?

Not. That. One.

Two elderly women strolling in front of them turned their heads.

Please, said Lauren, jogging forward to push them apart. Not here.

There were a few minutes of silence. Traffic hummed. Snippets of French conversation waxed and waned. Brakes moaned. Horns protested.

But seriously, what about Dad? said Robbie to Lauren. We barely get through the door and he starts his little travel guide speech: ‘I don’t have to report to the studio until tomorrow and we’ve got half a day left, so let’s make sure we don’t just fall asleep. Let’s take a nice, long walk…blah, blah blah…’ It’s like, shut up. We’re here for five weeks…

At least Mum’s starting to come around, said Lauren.

Only because Dad reminded her how much this was all costing. She sure hates spending money.

Lauren grabbed his arm and he shrugged it off. You know it’s not about money. Not this time.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Don’t drag me into this, said Spike.

Robbie sneered and shook his head. Are you for real? Do you have any idea what we’re talking about? All this is about you. Remember?

Leave it, said Lauren between clenched teeth. Robbie surged ahead, leaving her, uncomfortably, with Spike. She stopped, conveniently, to look at the window of a boutique fashion store. Behind the window was a lonely mannequin, unlike anything she’d seen at home, like a three-dimensional Picasso. She was trying to define the dress that adorned it, when she heard some whistling and voices coming from a car revving at the traffic lights. She didn’t understand what they said but the tone and laughter gave them away. Ever since her 14th birthday she had been referring to herself as going on 16. As she stared at the bizarre display, she thought of how her own shape had made an almost overnight leap towards womanhood. Now it was happening again. As much as she craved the company, the stares, the clumsy compliments and competition for her attention, there was something disconcerting about it. She gathered her long blonde hair, took out a scrunchy and tied it back.

Hey! snapped Robbie.

She knew his tone. Only last week her oldest brother had called her a slut for taking her school jumper off in the playground, lifting her shirt and briefly exposing her stomach.

What?

Don’t encourage them.

She was annoyed and heartened by her brother’s awareness. One of the men in the car, darkly handsome with a mop of soft wavy hair, leaned further out the window, gesticulating wildly, almost losing his head to a passing lorry. More laughter, before the car disappeared around a corner.

Further up the street Spike was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, head tilted towards the sun. He was thinking again. He’d been doing too much of this lately but couldn’t help it. It seemed like every unoccupied moment would fill with some flashback from the week before. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end. Words, visions, sounds. He was back in the schoolyard at Bayside High, maroon and grey uniforms washing out of the beige brick buildings. Smiles were inflated with end-of-term expectation. He remembered a gaggle of geeks surging this way and that; lean, pimpled figures craning for a better look at the boy who was shoving them aside with a sore arm, all brooding impatience and puffy eyes. He remembered checking his shirt for signs of blood as they yapped, waving mobile phones with which they had filmed his epic battle. By then it had found its way onto YouTube. He remembered them melting away just as fast.

Spike had little in common with the nerds other than the occasional discussion of video games. They had become aware of each other though, weeks before, when the bully showed up. Unlike the other kids, Spike couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t write it off as part of the usual schoolyard order of things. Something inside him just couldn’t leave it be. He asked questions, found out the time and places it tended to happen, and made it his business to be there next time it did. He had even promised them he would do something. Promised. What right did he have? What the hell was he thinking?

He liked being Spike. Michael seemed too average. His dad gave him the nickname when he was a toddler – for his belligerent cowlick and cherubic face. From the day he was born he was smaller than most boys but naturally muscular. In his formative years he developed a hyperactivity that drove him to leap from roofs and high branches – just to see what happened. He would have been great at any number of sports if he could ever concentrate long enough to practise. The doctors said he had ADHD, but they said that about most boys. He was interviewed, tested and even prescribed Ritalin but his parents could not bring themselves to use it. The older he grew the more his teachers saw that he was not typical, so they tested him again. He was then diagnosed as having an obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD, the therapists told him with a smile, as if it were something cool. At first, he thought it was too.

Back and forth, Mum and Dad frequented bizarre parent-teacher meetings, always starting with the same question, framed by pity and amazement: Oh, so you’re the Miltons? Disorder or not, Spike danced along an invisible line between disarming charm and eccentricity. Teacher or parent, you were either grinning unreservedly or banging your head against the wall, but the cuteness wears thin at 15. That’s when people take fighting seriously, especially when it’s out there on Facebook for the evening news to download. He recalled standing alone, halfway between the school and the bus stop, watching the number 56 dutifully humming. He had planned to go with some of the boys to the local café for a milkshake, as he sometimes did on Fridays, but he didn’t feel like it now. So this is what happened to rock stars and athletes after they’d been milked by the paparazzi? He sniffed the air, savouring the fresh, earthy smell of gum leaves dampened by a light afternoon rain. It was only about three kilometres to home.

He followed the footpath that bordered the school, ignoring the almost non-stop buzzing of text messages, too absorbed in a mental replay of the fight. After he was stung by that first unexpected jab, a cowardly shot as he’d turned sideways, he launched into a controlled combination of punches that left the bully sprawling.

Less than an hour later, the school principal, Jock Wentworth, squirmed as he listened to Spike’s colourful summation. So, instead of doing the sensible thing, the right thing, and telling me about this problem, you took the law into your own hands…

Spike shrugged. I didn’t want to fight. I said that. I said, ‘Mate, this shouldn’t be happening…’ I could tell he wasn’t that into it. Of course, he had all his mates around him, calling me names and that. I turned to walk away. That was when he hit me. I hadn’t even put my hands up, Sir.

And I suppose all this was witnessed by a crowd of boys and girls?

Dozens.

Mobile phone cameras?

Spike nodded.

Michael, this boy has two black eyes, a cut cheek and three loose teeth. He’s at the hospital. You could be charged with assault.

Spike snorted. It was self-defence.

Show me the video. Wentworth watched four different recordings, all of which had been texted to Spike in the minutes after the fight. His eyes widened. I’ve spoken to the other boy. He admits that he started it. Regardless, I am forced by the school rules to suspend you both for one week. I’ll be phoning your parents this afternoon to inform them. I realise they are both at work so you may stay on the school grounds until this afternoon. Because it’s end of term, you will serve this suspension at the beginning of next term…

Umm, I’ll be missing the first two weeks of term, Sir, because we’re going away…

I’ll discuss it with your parents but my feeling is you should serve that suspension when you return from holidays. Have you made a formal request for this extra leave? I’ve heard nothing about it.

Yes, Sir. We’re going to Paris…

Oh I see. Dad’s reporting on the Rugby World Cup, is he?

Yes.

You’re lucky.

I don’t know about that. He’s never home much.

Well I hope you use the time away to grow up a little and think about the stupidity of what took place today. Now get out.

Spike! Hello! came a voice from somewhere else, somewhere outside his consciousness.

He looked up. Robbie and Lauren were on the other side of Boulevard Saint Michel, hands raised in frustration. He scowled, red-faced at the thought of pedestrians gawking at him. He looked around but there was nothing to fear. Thanks to traditional l’importance de soi, none of the locals seemed to know he was alive. Yet he couldn’t escape the negativity as he waited for the lights to change. It almost pushed him across the road.

Down there. See the park? Let’s take a look, said Robbie to Lauren as he lurched towards Jardin du Luxembourg.

Hang on. Spike hasn’t crossed yet…

He’s not a baby.

You’re so selfish…

He gave her a blank look.

Spike watched as his older brother stomped off before he could reach them, leaving Lauren looking confused. He’d seen that insolence before. He had seen it on the afternoon of the fight. It was when he had veered from the pavement onto grassy parkland that bordered the bay.

Robbie was approaching with a group of mates. He was the only one who didn’t immediately surround Spike to pat him on the back. Champion! they cried, what a fight! In fact, Robbie called them away, not even bothering to ask if he was okay.

I’m walking home, Spike called out, thinking his brother might join him. He wasn’t sure why but this time he felt like talking to Robbie, and no-one else.

I’m not going that way, said Robbie, without looking. He was already ten metres away.

One of the boys lingered, holding Spike affectionately by the shoulders. Spike’s the bully-basher! Good on ya, mate. Give the mongrel what he deserves. Don’t ya reckon, Rob?

Come on guys. Let’s go. Robbie sounded agitated.

Spike stood for a moment as the group diminished. Was Robbie jealous? Not of the fight perhaps, which he would have scoffed at. Robbie was never the fighter, always the schemer, keeping an eye on the easiest way out of a situation. They had argued about it often. Robbie always claiming his was the practical way, that he had an eye for trouble and could always skirt it; that he was sick of Spike blundering in, inviting drama, confronting it, and expecting others to join. To be fair, he had warned Spike that he had long given up watching out for him. No, it was not the fight. It was the attention.

Distant surf roared on the other side of the peninsula as Spike continued through the parkland. It was no more than a few hectares of reserve, a small dense forest of banksias and gums separating the school grounds from suburbia. The scrunching of his sneakers on the gravel path was soon lost among the trees. Another 500 metres further the path would leave the forest and confront the first of several palatial waterfront homes that blocked access to the foreshore. No Trespassing and No Access signs peppered high brick walls stained by graffiti. There, unless you had a boat, you had no choice but to take a sharp left turn back to the main road.

As Spike moved into the forest he heard a deep, throaty cough somewhere behind him, not on the path. But it was the smell of cigarette smoke that snapped him from his thoughts. He hated that smell. Smoking and everything about it sickened him. He wheeled. Instinct immediately told him to run. It was times like this – stress, confusion, contemplation – that a million thoughts seemed to crowd him, from the absurd to the starkly real. Yet, there was never a choice. It was always the same. Stop, challenge, explore. By the time he sorted this out, it was too late anyway. Two large, dark men came at him from the bush and dragged him away.

His body jolted to attention as someone grabbed his arm. It was Lauren dragging him with peak-hour commuters across the boulevard.

Don’t touch me, he grunted.

Rob’s gone off. He’s heading for that park down there. I think it’s Jardin du Luxembourg… Her voice trailed off as she consulted a map.

Why do we have to follow him?

Mum would go nuts if we didn’t stick together. Besides, I think you two need to sort things out before we go any further. I’m sick of it already. She choked on her words for a moment. It’s not that I don’t care about what happened. This is the first family holiday we’ve ever had and I don’t want it wrecked by you guys arguing all the time. Besides, I don’t think it’s good for you.

I’m not the one who walked away.

Lauren shook her head, partly in pity, partly in fascination. He was 18 months older and yet had always seemed younger. We can talk about it. If you want. I don’t mind.

Spike glared at her.

I heard about the fight that day. Did you know about half a dozen people sent me copies of it on phone messages? Part of me hoped you’d get a hiding.

Why?

She shook her head. For all the times you’d been nasty to me and abused me in front of my friends.

He walked on.

I went looking for you that day. From a distance, I saw Rob and his mates talking to you. I also saw that beaten-up purple car creeping along the road. Everything about it seemed wrong. Those two ugly men in the back seat. That fat scowling bitch behind the wheel…

I don’t need this.

I ran, sweating like you wouldn’t believe. God, I remember thinking how unfit I was. I was so out of shape. My shoulders were aching from that damned backpack full of text books. My shoes were sinking into that stinky old leaf litter. By the time I got to the forest, you were all gone. So I continued down the path. Then I heard the voices. I went off the path and ran into wet, scratchy branches, giant webs with those awful brown and green spiders as big as my hand. She shuddered at the thought of it.

Are you serious? Like, it’s all about you? Look. Rob’s gone in that entrance over there. You want me to follow him? Shut up then.

Spike…

He stopped, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter. Really. They arrived at Place Edmund Rostand, the roundabout where the boulevard converged with Rue Soufflot. We’ll cross down there.

It does matter. If you don’t want to talk about it that’s your problem but I have to tell you this. I’m not saying it for you. I’m saying it for me. I tried. Okay? I wish I could have done something more.

I don’t hold it against you, if that’s what you want to hear. But I’ll never forgive him. The only reason I’m following him now is because we have to.

Lauren’s heart sank. She had heard that tone before, back in the forest, when she called Robbie.

She told him Spike was in danger; that she heard the bully’s mother was a small-time drug dealer and was out for revenge. Robbie said he didn’t care. He wouldn’t turn back. She pleaded with him, explaining that no-one copped more grief from Spike than she did, but family came first.

If you want to help him, fine. I don’t owe him anything.

Do it for me then. Rob? Rob?

He’d hung up. Had Lauren been able to control the situation, Spike would never have known it happened that way. The problem was, Robbie’s mates were there when he hung up. They soon put the word around that he had refused to help his brother. There were comments and memes on Facebook. Still, Robbie refused to show even the slightest misgivings, which angered Spike even more, and they both knew that by the time they returned from Paris, no-one in the school would have bothered to remember.

They crossed the road and entered the historic gardens, where Robbie was sitting on a bench, shaking his head. As they approached he leapt up again, staying just ahead of them. They stopped at the Fontaine Medicis.

That is pretty, said Lauren, glancing at each of them as she spoke. Should have brought the camera…

We should have our phones, said Robbie, grudgingly impressed by the ornate statues and carvings. Mum and her stupid roaming charges. You can fix that easily…

Some elderly men had pulled up chairs beside the pool and were chatting in French.

Spike looked at the surrounding trees, shrubs, artwork and palace buildings. He couldn’t imagine, in this mixture of pomp and serenity, that anything bad could happen. Guards stood at key places and patrolled the pathways. He hadn’t told anyone that every day, more than once, he would replay the incident in his head to figure out how he could have made it different. It wasn’t the fight. He was proud of that. It was the humiliation of what came after. Could he have fought harder as the two men dragged him to that tree? Suddenly, he was smelling the mix of stale cigarette and beer breath, returning him to the forest.

The older of the two men, his beard flecked with grey, had pinned his arms behind the tree while the younger man, his face obscured by wild jet-black hair, stood in front, sneering, if a little unsure of what to do next.

Think you’re tough now? he said. This guy couldn’t have been more than 20 years old but Spike figured it must have been a long 20 years. His agitation and false bravado indicated more than intoxication. This was a person with deep seated anger. Spike knew that rational debate would get him nowhere and that was daunting. He liked order. He liked to pursue a