Notorious Read Online Free Page A

pecking at his trouser cuff. He points to the nearest stone turret, one of four, each tulip-shaped. ‘There. We have his diary.’
    I am startled. That wasn’t in my files.
    He laughs. ‘Maybe it is a forgery. For the tourism, Monsieur Devlin. In winter and autumn, we charge for visits. On Tuesdays.’
    ‘The Church doesn’t mind?’
    ‘The Church wants to spend even less. We are all thankful for the crowds who pay to visit one of the great outposts of French exploration. The diary of Rimbaud might condemn us to coach tours at Christmas but Sister Antony would say it has been our saviour.’
    He absorbs my expression. ‘You really know nothing about Rimbaud?’
    ‘I really don’t.’
    ‘They say Arthur Rimbaud never wrote poetry after the age of nineteen,’ says Laforche. ‘Imagine – the shocking, outrageous poems about sex and death and madness, the revolutionary work that will begin modern poetry, it is all done between the age of sixteen and nineteen. Sixteen, Monsieur. Think of what you were doing at sixteen. Then Rimbaud goes to Brussels, the final break with Paul Verlaine, he comes to Africa, to travel and run guns. After Africa, nothing. No more poetry.’
    ‘Do you believe that?’
    He glances at me. ‘I do not believe it. I think, in the beginning in Africa, it was true. He was emotionally exhausted, he felt he had failed in Europe. He had wanted to be a prophet, famous among all men. A wild, reckless youth: if he said a thing, then he couldn’t take it back. But I think once he walked out of the desert, he became the seer he always wanted to be. He started writing again.’ Laforche closes his eyes for a moment. ‘He must have,’ he says, almost to himself.
    ‘Where did he walk out to, after the desert?’
    ‘Here. The first place Rimbaud came to after the desert was Abu N’af.’
    ‘Just like . . . ’
    ‘Yes. Like the woman.’
    We cross into the shade and turn into a long room with whitewashed stone walls and large windows. There is a row of empty beds and a silhouette by the farthest window.
    A thin nun in a white pinafore over her black habit sits, reading, in a chair next to the last bed.
    This side of the Asylum is on the edge of the plateau, with a sheer drop to the pitted plain below. I take a good look around the room, searching for possible exits. There is only one door. At the far end are six windows fitted with wooden shutters, half of them hooked back against the outside wall. The fierce light is muted here, away from the morning sun.
    The door is behind me. There is no escape if the door is blocked.
    I straighten my tie. It is 11.05 am. Laforche, halfway across the room, looks back at me.
    I scan the room again, note the plain dresser with two hurricane lamps, both full. On the nearest wall is a faded photograph of a series of fountains falling down a steep hillside, the sun catching chips of colours in the water sprays below an iced-white chateau. People in mini-skirts and stovepipe trousers pose, smoking. I read the title:
    The Singing Fountains At Villa d’Este . On the far wall is another photo, of a luridly coloured oil portrait of a glum man in white robes. The current king, Mohammed VI.
    I move closer, put the briefcase on the next bed. My fingers slip on the silver clasps. Another look at my watch. Execution hour. I open the briefcase, lift up the files on top, feel the micro-camera, the finger-thin laptop computer. The gun is there, next to the burnt diary held together by the red silk ribbon. I touch the ribbon and the gun and take out the tape recorder.
    The woman lies on her back under the misty cloud of a tethered mosquito net. Her arms are by her sides, her palms up. I brace myself for the turn of the head, the sudden cry. But nothing happens.
    Laforche beckons.
    She is blurry – I think it is my eyes. But as I draw nearer, I see the figure is bandaged from her head to her palms. Welts creep like red vines from under the white bandages at her wrists. Her hands