And the torment was: he had no one to ask. That was the worst thing. He couldn’t ring his mum and say when did we do this, he couldn’t ask his granddad and say why did we do that. There was no one left to give him answers, to explain his childhood, to laugh about the funny stuff, to swap memories, to say remember when we went on that picnic. He had been left alone and behind by the others, and David yearned, with a wild sadness, to know why. Granddad had sent him here for a reason, the reason had to explain it all.

It had to.

David gripped the steering wheel tightly. The road into Navvarenx took them through the outlying village of Gurs, which seemed to be virtually a suburb of Navvarenx.

Gurs was straggly. The long French road was lined with parallel trees, whitewashed at the base. There was some kind of strange flat area to the south of town – adorned with a series of glass structures, somewhat like bus stops. David looked at it and looked away. An enormous black crucifix loomed over the flatness; he got an overwhelming urge to drive faster. The cross was so very black.

They drove straight on, straight past the village of Gurs, tucked off the main road, and a few minutes later they were seeing a sign saying Navvarenx.

At last Amy spoke.

‘You know, we don’t have to do this now…’ Her sadly traced smile was empathic.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We can wait. It’s been a long day already. Maybe we should wait.’

‘I’m OK. I’m fine. And if Miguel is after us I want to do this quickly.’

He wondered why he was saying this. He knew Miguel was after them. Probably in Mauleon right now, asking the hotel manageress. Leaning across the desk, tall and scarred and imposing. Which direction did the English-speaking couple go?

As they motored the last couple of kilometres Amy asked him: ‘Why didn’t you ever try and find out more? About the crash.’

He exhaled.

‘I was young…I wanted to shield myself. From the agony. The knowledge.’

‘That’s why you didn’t ever think that the map was connected.’

‘I guess. Yep. Denial. Erasure. Repression. I avoided the details. And the Andersons protected me from the truth. I was just fifteen – and alone.’

‘Understandable.’

‘Zakly. But now I have to think about it.’

David put the car into second as he watched a man cycling down a suburban lane. There was a red car at the end of the road. He stifled the duetting cries of his grief and anxiety.

They parked at the edge of central Navvarenx; they had no choice, it was a fortified and historic town and cars were, apparently, forbidden to drive inside the centre du ville. So they locked the car, and they walked.

A town map confronted them at the edge of an empty grey square. It revealed that they were near the church. The last few hundred metres brought them to the impressive frontage of Navvarenx Saint Germain. It was austere and grey, with hints of Gothic arches, but no more, like a fading memory of Gothic.

The interior was virtually deserted, just like the other churches. An old priest was stacking books by the chancel; David noticed a portrait on the wall above the priest’s balding head. He didn’t have to go over and read beneath the painting: the portrait was exactly the same as the one in Savin. The same severe Victorian visage, frowning, disapproving, contemptuous.

Pope Pius the Tenth.

The main door of the church banged shut behind them. Alerted by the noise, the priest turned – and he stared at David. He stared with a shock of recognition whitening his aged face.

David wanted to go and talk to the man. But the priest shuffled away, and shook his head, and continued his task, as if he were avoiding their gaze, manfully ignoring their presence. He returned to stacking books.

What was this? David fretted, impatient and scared. Was he imagining it? Perhaps he was letting paranoia take over. And yet he knew Miguel was after them right now. He knew this because his heartbeat was telling him: quick-ly, quick-ly, quick-ly.

David examined the church doors. Because the plural was correct, again. There were two doors.

Amy came over.

‘OK. Campan, Luz, Savin, Navvarenx. Two doors. Two doors each time. And two cemeteries. They’re all linked. But how…?’

He shrugged.

‘Two doors maybe you could explain, I guess – but two fonts, or stoups? Doesn’t make sense.’ He sighed. ‘And the symbol. The goose’s foot. I don’t get it.’

As urgent hiss interrupted their dialogue.

It was the priest.

The old man was at his side and tugging David’s sleeve: he was gabbling in thickly accented French, keenly, urgently, saying something important. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow, like tainted egg-yolk. David replied with a desperate, apologetic shrug: he didn’t understand!

Amy stepped over; she was frowning as she listened to the priest. Then she explained, and interpreted:

‘He says he…recognizes you. Very odd, he says they have been waiting for you. But now he sees your face he feels…different? He wants to know if your father was called…Edward…’

David shivered at the revelation. He looked first at Amy, then at the old man.

‘Yes. Edward! Eduardo Martinez. Why?’

The old priest was crossing himself, and repeating: ‘Eduardo Martinez…Eduardo Martinez…’

Amy listened closely and translated the priest’s further words. ‘Apparently you look just like your father. He says everyone in Navvarenx knows what happened, the accident…Oh…oh my God…’ Amy’s face was grave with sympathy. ‘David…I don’t how to put this, it was not an accident, it was…it was something else…’

‘Just tell me.’

‘He says your mother and father were murdered.’

Her blue eyes were wide with compassion. But he just wanted the truth.

‘Ask him…’ he said. ‘Please ask him if he will sit with us. And tell me more.’

The old priest looked fretful, even frightened, but he seemed to agree.

‘He says he knows a little more. But it is dangerous. The Society is waiting for us. He is meant to tell them. I’ve no idea what this means…He wonders…can we go somewhere else, discreet, right away?’

‘Merci!’ David snapped. ‘Thank you. Thank you!’

The three of them walked to the blaze of light – the open door. The larger door, which had banged shut behind them. Before they crossed into the light, Amy lifted a hand and said:

‘Stop.’

‘What?’

There was something defensive in Amy’s stance. Something very scared.

She nodded towards the square.

‘A car. Just pulling up.’

He knew what her next word would be.

‘Miguel.’

16

The cold terror flashed – as far as David’s fingertips. Fight or flight. He visored a hand, and stared across the Place d’Église.

Amy was right. A red car had just swung into the square. The doors opened, Miguel got out, with two other dark-haired men. They walked towards the church.

David shrank back into the shadows. The fear was numbing. Amy had also crept away from the threshold.

‘He hasn’t seen us yet.’

‘But he will. He’s coming…We’re trapped.’

They stared from the darkness into the ominous brightness.

Another voice intruded on their urgent dialogue. The priest was nudging Amy, saying something, very rapidly.

Amy translated:

‘He says we can escape. Use the other door. The…qu’est-ce que c’est?’

‘La porte des Cagots!’ the priest stammered. ‘La porte des Cagots! ’

He was hurrying across the church, taking them to the other door. Talking wildly as he did so. Amy and David followed. Amy hissed:

‘Something about the door of the…Cagots? It leads to the medieval quarter…we can get out this way. He says we can escape -’

They were at the side door, the humble door, the smaller door. Amy looked at David who looked at Amy.