
1.10 pm The English Channel
Monday 25th June 2001
The shuddering vibrations of the ferry's final manoeuvring towards port, together with a lilting Strauss waltz piped into the cabin, gently stirred Nixon from a deep sleep. An announcement cut in over the music. They would be arriving in around thirty minutes. As the mists of sleep cleared, Nixon momentarily hoped that the events of the previous day had, in fact, been a dream. He was on holiday in France, visiting and old friend. No, that wasn't true.
Nixon didn't do holidays in the conventional sense. Ever since his road trip almost twenty years before, the concept of communal beach bathing held little appeal. The tourist trail was not the reason he was here. Instead, he occupied his thoughts again, on how exactly he was going to broach his situation with someone, that in all honesty, he barely knew.
Earlier that morning, when he'd boarded the boat, any attempts to consider his rendez vous with Gil had been overcome by fatigue, and he'd immediately fallen under. Now, having readied himself for arrival, he realised that he would have to put those thoughts on hold for a little while longer. French passport control awaited, and it dawned on him that he still wasn't yet, technically, in the country.
There could be no more coffee capers on this side. This time, he would have to play it straight, but he was fairly certain there'd be no more spot checks, unless perhaps, something looked particularly suspicious to the Douanniers. He just needed to stay calm.
At precisely 1.40 pm, the ferry opened its bow doors, and lowered the ramps. As engines started around him, Nixon busied himself with checking Gil's address and consulting the map. He looked up the distance, and calculated the time. His sensed his heart beating. Eight minutes passed, nothing moved, then, just as Nixon had run out of things to occupy himself, they were off. Down the heavily ribbed ramp, and onto the quayside. Nixon looked for the checkpoint, he couldn't see it from here. His throat felt dry, as the procession of vehicles wended through a convoluted path, towards the terminal building. He began to sing...
“God knows I'm good, God knows I'm good. Surely God will look the other way today.....”
Then, as the line of traffic straightened, Nixon finally caught sight of........ not much at all.
A building, a tricolour, hanging limp in the still air, and some empty kiosks. There was not a soul, nobody, sweet, sweet, nothing at all. A further hundred metres of concourse, and he was through the exit gates and officially in France. He slipped the passport into his jacket, grateful of course, that in France, everything still stopped for lunch.
The journey to the environs of Saint Brieuc, and Gil's home, took nearly three hours. He drove down, through lower Normandy, eventually passing the famous landmark of Mont St Michel, and then west, along the northern Breton coast. Nixon hadn't been to France for years, and had forgotten how calm everything seemed. Aside from a few cars, he'd hardly seen a single individual. It was hard to tell whether some of the older properties he passed were inhabited or not. In a country like this, he felt confident that he could find somewhere quiet, somewhere lonely, somewhere............... well away from anywhere.
He planned on dispatching the body as soon as possible, but would still have to be shrewd in his choice of location. It appeared that he now had far more scope in finding somewhere remote, and he began to feel that even if Lucia's remains were eventually discovered, it would be that much harder for any subsequent investigation to track events back to their origin, and ultimately, his implication. It gave Nixon some respite, and although he still favoured the idea of a sea burial, he did now have a more viable Plan B. Much of this conjecture, though, still depended largely on Gil.
Nixon was still firm in his conviction that he intended to spend a good period away from home. It seemed logical that if he could cover his tracks, the dust would eventually have to settle. If no leads were found, then inevitably the sands of time would, he hoped, lessen the resolve for anyone to dig too deeply in the future. Lives changed, things moved on. Eventually, surely, it would all become history, just a bad memory.
Knowing he could afford to spend at least six months away, the idea of living and working in France wasn't altogether unappealing. It could be something of a new beginning. Ever since his time in Greece, he'd come to believe that everything happens for a reason. It wasn't always easy to see it at first, but now, approaching middle age, Nixon had noticed that the more he examined the events of his life, the more he could see the cause and effect of its most significant moments.
It was a question of observing the signs, and acting upon them. Most people, he concluded, lived their lives within loops. Names, faces and places could change, but the script remained largely the same, repeating mistakes, and ultimately, suffering the same frustrations. Nixon, until recently, was content with his lot. He lived his life in a simple way, having learned way back, that the allure of material possessions were over valued. He saw it as a perennial quest to sail to the moon, temporal, the value of anything gained, usurped by the frustration of the next challenge. It was borne of a need to feed the ego, a reward system for the soul, and that was hard to ignore. If one could find a different kind of reward, one that gave something back in return, only then, could it be of true value.
Nixon realised he'd achieved this, to some extent, by giving music lessons. His musical skill, but more especially, his method, had led not only to a livelihood, but a more profound payback. He'd taught for seventeen years, and calculated that in that time he must have given more than twenty thousand lessons. Along the way, many students had improved their skills, but actually, none more so than himself. As well as inevitably improving his own musical ability, he realised that he'd learned to anticipate his clients, easily detecting strengths, weaknesses, and potential. Nixon wondered whether it was time to see if that applied in a more general context.
Around the time he'd met Lucia, nine months before, things had begun to change. A restlessness had begun to creep upon him. He'd just turned forty, and was in a loop. He began to realise that something was missing. He thought of Lucia. Up until that point, he'd always kept his relationships at arm's length. A cold fish, as one old girlfriend had called him. Whether it was Lucia herself, or just simply that he'd finally realised that he needed something more, he wasn't sure. He'd never know about her now........
At just after four pm, Nixon arrived at Plerin, the little seaside commune of Gil's home, just to the north of Saint Brieuc. He found the house, parked the van, and knocked the door. Prior to his arrival, he'd formed a loose strategy that he wouldn't divulge the full extent of his situation immediately. As with Steevo yesterday, he'd use the idea that he was merely wanting to escape the attentions of Peter, so Lucia's presence would have to remain secret until he could ascertain whether Gil might be willing, or even capable of helping him. He wouldn't have long to decide, perhaps just this evening and tomorrow, before he knew he'd have to act, and attempt the disposal, whatever the outcome. There'd be no greater test of his judgement of character than now. In the event, and as usual, it didn't pan out like that. Gil opened the door.
“So, don't tell me, you're on the run for murder ?” Nixon froze.
Gil's pale, blue eyes gazed at Nixon, and the smile which had accompanied his opening gambit, slowly dissolved from his face. The joke wasn't funny, and Gil could see he'd touched a nerve.
The expression on Nixon's face was enough, and Gil was smart enough to spot it. Nixon caved in.
After he'd finished his story, the real story, Gil didn't say anything. He got up, and put a record on.
I’m walking, through streets that are dead
Walking, walking with you in my head
My feet are so tired, my brain is so wired
And the clouds....................are weeping
The murky, back beat groove of the opening track of one of Dylan's finest albums for years, somehow charged the moment. Gil pulled out a bottle of good whisky, and handed over a glass. Nixon rolled a cigarette.
“I wasn't gonna tell you any of this, well, not at first, but you caught me there, man......... So now the cards are on the table. I know it's big ask, and well...........If you don't want to get involved, I understand, and I'll be out of yer hair......If that's the deal, then all I ask is that this meeting didn't happen........You never saw me, yeah ?....Please, that's all I want from you. Can you do that.............. at least ?”
“When were you going to tell me ?”
Nixon shook his head, and looked up. For the first time since he was in the doorway, he looked directly at Gil, sitting opposite. The emotion had drained out of him, and despite the discomfort, he felt his load had lifted a little. Gil stared at him and said nothing. Nixon changed the subject.
They talked and drank for the next few hours. Gil got up from time to time, and changed records. He had a large music collection, mostly on vinyl. His taste was just as good as Nixon remembered, all those years before. The conversation stayed away Lucia.
Gil filled in his story of the last few years, and Nixon did the same. As the evening wore on, the tension ebbed away, but Nixon still felt reluctant to return to his dilemma unless Gil went there first. It started to seem as if it would never be mentioned.
Then finally, as if all along, he'd been weighing the situation behind the scenes, Gil stood up and looked out of the window, and into the darkness outside. Ten seconds passed in silence.
“Bon, I will help, but I need something in return...........”
Before he explained, Nixon stepped in, and gambled with what he thought it might be. He knew that if he was right, then it would give credence to a situation that would require enormous, mutual trust.
He was right. Was it luck, or skill? Nixon preferred to think it was his perception that had paid off.
They spent the rest of the evening discussing the immediate task at hand. Gil proved to have a very logical mind. Now he'd made his decision, he quickly set out the details of how he thought they could achieve their goal, at minimal risk. It had taken over eight hours since Nixon arrived to get to this point, but finally, there was a plan in place, and they'd need to be up early.
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