Georges was prepared for this. “The man who runs that new boat-hire company.” He sneaked a peek at the notes scribbled in the palm of his hand. “He says the prize money is nothing compared to what he’ll fetch, renting out his boats to the competitors.”
“Sharp,” Irene said admiringly. “Maybe I should try to find something that’ll attract more visitors to Les Pins. Afternoon tea? Aperitifs on the terrace?”
“You will tell Jean-Paul Morreau, won’t you, Mother?”
This was how the conversation had started. With him asking her to pass the message on.
“I don’t really see him as the fishing type,” she said doubtfully.
“None of the other guests is interested, I’ve asked,” he cut in quickly, because the last thing he wanted was for her to broadcast it round the hotel, only to discover it was a better work of fiction than the Harold Robbins he was reading. Also... “It would be good publicity for us, too, if he won.”
“Good heavens, Georges, you do surprise me sometimes!” Every mother is proud of her children, but at that moment Irene thought her heart would burst out of her chest. “But you’re right, and what young man could possibly resist the lure of such a competition, given the right motivation by his hotelier!” Irene cocked her head. “Pity you’re not a tourist. I’ll bet you know exactly where the big fish live.”
Bingo! The moment he’d been waiting for.
“Oh, yes,” he said, unable to hide the big, broad beam that cut his face in half. “I know where to find the winner.”
As the door closed behind him, Irene became aware of hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment when her son had grown into a man. But she was fiercely proud of what he had become.
Fishing is as much about patience as anything else. Having baited his hook, Georges sat back, ready to reel in Jean-Paul, but even he was surprised at the speed with which he bit.
“Got a proposition for you,” he said, less than one hour later. “You help me catch the winner and I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.”
Georges swallowed. “The best time’s dusk. That’s when they rise to the surface.”
Weasel looked suspicious. “I thought they sank to the bottom.”
Never tell a lie if you can help it. Suddenly, they were trotting out like ants. “Not the big ones.”
“Dusk it is, then.” Jean-Paul rubbed his hands together. “Tonight?”
Georges studied the sky, confident the weather would hold. “Perfect.” The only thing that could have spoiled his plans was a storm that whipped up the water. But on a moonless night there’d be no tourists on the lake, and with his parents busy serving dinner, there’d be no one around to notice that two men went out, but only one came back.
“What was that about?” Sandrine asked Jean-Paul, seeing him swagger out of Georges’ shed. She was about to get on her scooter to ride home. He was off to the coast for livelier entertainment than what was on offer at Les Pins.
“That, my little Gingernut, is about winning a competition, and you know the best thing?” He chuckled as he unlocked the car. “We’re going fifty-fifty.”
“What’s fifty-fifty?” Sandrine wasn’t good with maths.
Jean-Paul slung his jacket on the passenger seat and winked. “It means he catches me a fish and I give him a hundred and fifty francs.”
“I wish someone would give me a hundred and fifty francs,” she sighed. “I’d buy myself a haircut just like Farrah Fawcett’s.”
“Bloody dark out here. Sure you can see to row?”
“I’ve fished loads of times at night,” Georges said truthfully, but all the same his hands were clammy. “I know this lake like the back of my hand.”
“Not surprised, considering they’re the same size,” Jean-Paul sniggered. “Where’d you say the big boy lives?”
Georges couldn’t meet his eye. “Far side of the island.”
Jean-Paul squinted towards a dark lump in the distance. “Wake me up when we get there.” He leaned back and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
Georges listened to the slapping of the oars and the pounding of his heart. It wasn’t too late. He could turn round. Tell Jean-Paul he had a headache or stomach pains, even admit he’d made the whole thing up...
It’s so nice to be able to take a walk, while I’m still able.
Madame Morreau’s sad smile hung in the air like the Cheshire cat’s.
Will you run?Will you, Georges?
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Madame Morreau was never going to feel the wind in her hair. He looked at the shoreline, growing thinner with each stroke. Glanced over his shoulder, at the island looming closer. She’d never see the sunset from the room where she’d shared so many good times with her husband. Never smell the leather of the seats of her old Peugeot, or run her hands across its walnut dash. She wouldn’t even have the chance to chide her nephew, or wonder where he’d got to when she needed him.
“We’re here.” He nudged Jean-Paul with his foot.
“It’s the middle of bloody nowhere!” Lights from the villages twinkled like miniature fireflies around a lake as black as soot. “Still, for three hundred smackers, it’s worth getting spooked, eh, Slowpoke?”
“Stop calling me that, my name’s Georges.”
His tone made Jean-Paul look up. “Right.” Both smile and voice were unusually tight. “Georges.” He shifted in his seat. “So how long do you reckon it’ll take to track down our little winner?”
“Depends.” Georges pulled out a flashlight and leaned over the water. “Could be minutes, could be hours — whoa! Look! It’s—”
“Give me that.” Jean-Paul’s unease vanished as he grabbed the torch from Georges’ hand. “Where? I can’t see any—”
The rest was drowned by the splash of two giant hands tipping him over the side.
“Hey! Hey, I can’t swim!”
“I know,” Georges said, rowing out of range with a speed that would have surprised Madame Morreau’s nephew, had he not been gulping so much water. “You told me.”
“All right, all right, you’ve had your fun. You’ve humiliated me, shown me who’s boss, and fair do’s. I called you names, bullied you a bit, and now you’ve got your revenge — but for Chrissakes, man, I’m drowning.”
“No, you’re not. Not if you kick your feet about a bit.”
Jean-Paul had nothing to lose. He kicked his feet about a bit, but the fear of being sucked in wouldn’t leave. “Enough’s enough, you stupid bloody halfwit.”
“You killed her,” Georges said, pulling out a piece of paper and reading it by flashlight.
“What?” Jean-Paul’s arms flailed and flapped in the water. “Is that what this is about? My stupid bloody aunt, you stupid moron?”
“My mother thinks she had a long and happy life, but Mother’s wrong.”
For one thing, Madame Morreau was only sixty-eight. Georges saw her identity papers lying on the table once, and sixty-eight was no age at all these days. Also, reading her diary, he saw that she’d never got over the devastation of not having children, sinking all her love in her husband instead.
“When he fell ill with cancer, she had no qualms about spending every last centime on finding him a cure.” He didn’t know what a qualm was, but it sounded so good that he’d quoted it anyway. “She even mortgaged her house.”
“I know that, you stupid idiot.”
“Not when you killed her, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now listen to me, Georges. You’ve had your laugh, you’ve made a fool of me, so come back and pull me out before I drown, you bloody retard.”
“She was too proud to let people know she hadn’t got two francs to rub together—” Or, more accurately, too ashamed to admit she’d blown their entire fortune on charlatans and quack cures. “—and like everybody else, you assumed she was well off. You were her only heir, and so you killed her. For her money.”