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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

But how to get rid of the old German’s body?

Take advantage of the darkness? Take advantage of the silence?

It was already too late.

Outside, in Alley A, a noisy group was approaching, probably players from one of the poker tables who had finished their game and were talking about bluffing, beginner’s luck and going all in. Others would follow, as each table emptied.

He’d have to think of something else. Now that it was all over, he needed some peace and quiet.

33

He wiped the blood from his hands, from the pétanque balls, the scarlet stains from the floor of the mobile home, then he walked, walked away and waited until he had found a street-light isolated enough that he could start reading the diary again.

Red, everything was red.

Apart from that notebook, and its deep-blue words.

*

*     *

Sunday, 20 August 1989, fourteenth day of the holidays
Delphinidine sky

Delphinidine, my future reader, is the scientific name for the blue pigment in flowers. Incredible, isn’t it? It’s the pigment that roses don’t have. That’s why no true rose will ever be blue!

I’m not a rose.

I’m letting myself dry on the rocks of Oscelluccia beach. I haven’t put on my T-shirt. This time Natale can peer at my innocent water-nymph bathing costume for as long as he likes; no skulls, no skeleton, not even a single drop of black, nothing but every shade of blue.

The Aryon is moored alongside us, attached to a ring hammered into the rocks. Oscelluccia beach isn’t really a secret inlet that can only be reached by sea, there’s a little path that leads almost directly from here to the Euproctes campsite – it’s a steep slope, too steep to go down wearing flip-flops and carrying a parasol, but it’s a lot less busy than Alga beach.

For the moment we’re on our own.

Natale Angeli goes on talking, sweet-talking. Except this time I’m actually listening to him.

‘You see, Clotilde, this would be the ideal spot for my sanctuary. At first you’d just have to put up a pontoon, some moorings, maybe a ticket desk and a little bar. I’d model it on the Baie des Tamarins on Mauritius, maybe you’ve heard of it?’

I shake my head and close my eyes. He can say anything he likes …