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Back Time Is a Killer
Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Time is a Killer
  3. Contents
  4. Map
  5. 1
  6. Twenty-seven years later …
  7. IRevellata
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. IISaint Rose’s Day
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. IIISempre giovanu
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. Twenty-seven years later
  77. Acknowledgements
  78. AFTER THE CRASH
  79. BLACK WATER LILIES
  80. DON’T LET GO
  81. About the Author
  82. Also by Michel Bussi
  83. More on W&N
  84. Copyright

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’

‘Nothing … It’s just all these coincidences, they keep coming. Valou falling, a clip giving way. My papers being stolen six days ago. The breakfast table this morning …’

‘Stop!’

He banged his mobile phone down on the camping table, making the plastic legs shake and raising a fine cloud of dust.

‘Stop! Your daughter nearly died, Clo, so come down to earth and stop spouting all these old stories of yours, old letters, friends you lost and found again. Good God, Clotilde, stop all this nonsense or I’ll explode!’

The plastic chair went flying as he got to his feet.

Franck’s nerves were fraying, which was unusual for him. Probably because he was at the end of his tether, because thinking his daughter was dead, or paralysed for life, was unusual too.

Because she should have been as messed up as he was?

An unworthy mother?

Franck picked up his phone, slipped it into his pocket and turned to leave.

‘One more thing. When you go to take a shower, don’t leave your phone on the bed.’

Shit!

Clotilde immediately thought of Natale’s texts. She had exchanged a few messages with him before going for her shower, after reassuring herself that her daughter was OK. Clotilde would be seeing Natale again tomorrow; he had invited a ghost to tea, those were his terms, a ghost who would talk only to Lydia Deetz. There was really nothing compromising about their exchanges, but Franck wasn’t stupid, and each phrase was underpinned by a hint of something else.

Clotilde was capable of losing it too. Or biting, if she had to.

‘My phone that I left on the bed? Did you look inside, did you rummage through it?’

‘Why, do you have something to hide?’

Had he dared to do that?

Franck took three steps into the darkness.

‘There’s a game of poker at the bar. A few regulars. Cervone invited me. I think I’ll go.’

Before disappearing into the night once and for all, he turned again and said, ‘For the last time, Clotilde, I beg you, forget it! Pay attention to your daughter. Pay some attention to your husband. Pay attention to what’s happening today. And forget the rest!’

31

Sunday, 20 August 1989, fourteenth day of the holidays
Abyss-blue sky

He’s a charmer. All men are charmers.

A fraud, a scam, not worth a damn.

Designed to trap me.