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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

Three bends further up they saw their first human being. An old woman was walking along the side of the road, on the side of the mountain, bent over and dressed in black, as if she bore the mourning of a whole village that had toppled into the void, leaving her as sole survivor. Franck slowed down and pulled over towards the edge of the chasm. Probably not enough. The woman initially gave them a dark look, as if amazed that any strange car should venture all the way up here. When they had overtaken her, Clotilde looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the old woman pointing at them and muttering insults under her breath. Unless she was delivering some kind of evil incantation. In that moment, Clotilde suddenly felt sure that the witch hadn’t mistaken them for lost tourists venturing on to her territory; she knew them, she had recognised them, and her gestures and curses were directed at them.

At her.

The witch disappeared from sight as they rounded the next bend.

A few hundred metres further on, after a slight ledge, a gravel track on the left led to the vast yard of the farm. New images emerged from Clotilde’s album of memories and floated in front of her eyes. Arcanu Farm, which everyone referred to only as ‘the farm’, or sometimes ‘the sheepfold’, consisted of three grey stone buildings forming an open U above the slopes of la Balange: a farmhouse where the Idrissis lived, a barn and a huge shed where the animals slept. All the windows on the north side gave people, goats and sheep a panoramic view over La Revellata and the Mediterranean. In the middle of the farm, the huge stone yard was coloured only by a few wild rose hedges and beds of wild orchids, Mamy’s favourite flowers, giving the impression that nothing else could grow in the shade of the three-hundred-year-old oak tree planted at the heart of the property.

Clotilde turned to look towards the barn. The bench was still there. The severed tree trunk where she had listened to music on the evening of 23 August 1989, La Mano Negra wailing in her ears, the notebook open on her knees, before Nicolas had called her.

Clo, everyone’s waiting for you. Papa’s not going to …