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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

Silence that little voice that was telling her, over and over again, that everything was happening exactly as it had twenty-seven years ago. The same place, same story, same family scene. That dress her husband had just given her, just as her father had given one to her mother all those years ago … perhaps it would be the one she would die in.

A few hours later, back at the campsite, alone in the shower block without even Orsu mopping up or some teenagers to yell at, Clotilde slipped on the dress and looked at herself in the mirror. It was quite obvious. Even if she had to wear that dress on the last day of her life, she would never make as sexy a corpse as her mother had.

The stretchy fabric sagged where her breasts failed to fill it out, it floated around her undistinguished hips, covering her short thighs all the way to the knee.

She definitely wasn’t a match for her mother.

And Franck wasn’t a match for her father.

They had died too soon to bring her up. Bring her up in the purest sense, up to their level.

Why?

Why had they died?

Perhaps she would find out tomorrow.

Cesareu Garcia, the retired policeman who hadn’t wanted to tell her anything over the phone, wanted to see her the following morning. ‘You’ve been waiting for the truth for twenty-seven years, Clotilde,’ he had said before hanging up. ‘You can wait a few more hours.’

17

Tuesday, 15 August 1989, ninth day of the holidays
Sky beached-jellyfish blue

Hello, hello? Alga beach here, live.

Each to their own towel.

Mine is black and flame-red with rows of pretty little white crosses, and I can tell you that finding a Metallica Master of Puppets beach towel is no mean feat! Nico’s is a bright-red towel with the yellow Ferrari logo, about as tacky as Maria-Chjara’s, which is a bright-orange sunset with the shadow of a palm tree and a naked couple embracing. Hermann’s, placed between Nico and Maria-Chjara’s, is black and white with a giant B and an unpronounceable name running across it. Borussia Mönchengladbach – as glamorous as it gets! But you have to give the cyclops his due, he’s swift and responsive, because he wasn’t the only one who wanted to put his towel down next to the beautiful Italian girl’s. Towels on the beach are like desks in a classroom. You elbow your way through until you’ve found the right one, next to the right person.