'There's no point in struggling, you'll only get hurt. I don't really want to hurt you.' Duclos voice was both soothing and menacing.
The motion was sudden. Christian let out a half scream, half gasp as Duclos yanked down his shorts and pushed him face down in the grass.
Duclos gently stroked the boy's back, lifting his shirt higher and running his thumb up and down the ridge of his spine. The boy's sweat eased the motion, and after a few strokes Duclos lowered his stroking to the boy's buttocks and the cleft in between. Duclos became quickly aroused. The boy's skin was so smooth. He could feel the small body trembling beneath his touch, though after a few moments it became more intense then finally verged into gentle quaking as the boy started sobbing.
Duclos found the noise disturbing, the mood was being spoilt. 'Be quiet. For God's sake, be quiet. It will do no good.'
The crying became more muted. Duclos took off his own clothes. He tried to force in other thoughts to distract himself from the crying as he crouched over the boy. Jahlep was beckoning with one finger, smiling back at him and urging on his increasingly urgent thrusts. The Algerian boy's eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure. He could feel the sun hot on his back, the sweat in the ridge of the boy's back as he ran his hands slowly up and down. Duclos shook his head from side to side. The wind through the nearby treetops momentarily drowned out all other sound, and Duclos felt himself sailing on a wave of pleasure. Jahlep's brown eyes looked at him soulfully, imploring, willing him on to greater heights of pleasure. But the green eyes of the boy beneath him suddenly superimposed — sullen and haunted, frightened, pleading. He shook his head again to shift the image, but it stayed with him obstinately until his final moment of orgasm, his strangled and guttural cry of pleasure lost among the wind rippling through the treetops.
It took him a moment afterwards to become orientated again. He'd pulled out and ejaculated on the ground and part of his weight was rested on the boy's back, his cheek against the bare skin, suddenly sweaty, sticky. He rolled off.
In the aftermath he lay on his back and stared up at the sky. He could still hear the boy gently crying, though intermittently it merged with and was drowned out by the rustling of the wind. They became one and the same.
Duclos looked over. There was a small trickle of blood running down the boy's inner thigh. He reached over and touched the boy's back, but felt him flinch sharply under the touch. He wanted to say 'I'm sorry', but it would sound so empty and futile now. He knew that he would have to be stern to warn the boy off. He sat up and gripped the boy's shoulder tight.
'Look at me. Look at me!' Duclos gripped tighter and shook the boy until he looked up. The boy's face was streaked with tears and he made a vain effort to wipe away a fresh tear with the back of one hand.
'What happened today never happened, you understand. It never happened!' Duclos looked at the boy intently, as if by staring and continuing to shake the boy's shoulder he could force his will home.
'It's our secret, and you're to tell nobody. Nobody! If you do, I'll come after you and kill you. I know where you live now, it will be easy for me to get to you.'
The boy nodded after a second. Duclos shook his shoulder once more for emphasis. 'You understand!'
But once again the boy's eyes betrayed him. Mixed with the fear, Duclos could see the uncertainty and confusion. He knew that whatever the boy agreed now, later he would be faced with awkward and insistent questions from his parents about the afternoon, and he would finally talk. The police would be called. With his distinctive car, he would be easily found, would face a trial, public humiliation and a jail term; his life and career would be ruined. His dreams and plans of becoming Assistant Public Prosecutor in Limoges within three years would be over.
He knew in that moment that he would probably have to kill the boy.
Duclos sat close to the window in the restaurant. From there, he had a clear view of his car at the far side of the car park. It was out of the direct path of people approaching the restaurant, but still he couldn't be too careful.
Having decided what to do, it had taken him almost fifteen minutes to secure the boy, ripping up the boy's shirt and using some rags from his car to tie his hands and feet and gag him. Space in the car boot had been very restricted, and he huddled the boy tightly next to the spare tyre in almost a foetal position, the arms draped over the tyre itself. He warned the boy not to make a sound or move about, otherwise he'd feed in a hosepipe from the exhaust and gas him. The boy had nodded fearfully, his eyes wide. It was the last image he remembered as he shut the boot lid — those eyes staring back at him, questioning, pleading.
At first Duclos wasn't sure why he'd delayed. It had just felt wrong killing the boy then and there on the spot. And he wanted time to think. But was the delay just to steel up courage for what he already knew was inevitable, or was he having second thoughts? In the end what he thought about most was if he had to kill the boy, how best to cover his tracks? He didn't want to take any action hastily.
The effort of tying up the boy and bundling him into the car in the heat had tired him. Duclos' clearest thoughts only came as he drove away, jig-saw pieces matching with how he saw the crime being re-constructed by investigators based on his past experience with forensics. By the time he reached the outskirts of Taragnon, he'd worked out most of the details, and the restaurant was an integral part of that plan. He checked his watch: 1.41pm. Timing would be the key. Ideally, he should stay just over an hour.
Duclos had already looked at the menu, and scanned it briefly again as the waiter came over.
'Plat du jour, but with the veal cassoulett, please. The mushrooms to start and the l' isle flotant to finish.'
'And for the wine?' the waiter asked.
'Vin rouge, please, and some water. What is the house red that comes with it?'
'Chateau Vernet. It's quite good, fairly full.'
Duclos didn't ask the year. The house wines were nearly all non-descript recent vintage. In any case in the hot weather he normally mixed house wines with water, though if it was good he might savour one glass on its own.
The restaurant was the first that he saw after Taragnon with a reasonable car park in front. It was important that he could see the car while he ate. Simple and cafe style, it was very close to the village, less than a kilometre, and the roadside sign advertising Plat du Jour at only F3.40 had attracted a reasonable crowd that lunch time. Almost half full, Duclos counted another eight cars and two trucks in the car park.
The waiter had put his order into the kitchen and now returned with his wine and water. He poured the wine but left the water for Duclos to help himself. Duclos took a sip; it was full bodied, but had a slight acid aftertaste. Palatable but unexceptional. Duclos added some water, and noticed the other waiter behind the bar look over briefly. He was more surly and curious than his own waiter, and had been by the front window serving, looking out as Duclos pulled up and walked in. He could tell the look, he'd seen it a thousand times: young, nice car, nice clothes, Rich kid! Everything bought and paid for by his parents. The waiter, little more than his own mid-twenties, was slaving behind the bar day and night thinking that meanwhile kids like himself whiled away their summers on the coast on their parents' money.
But in Duclos’ case, the resentment was misplaced. He'd come from a family probably no better than the waiter's, his father just a simple works foreman in a local pottery factory. It had taken his father years to work up to foreman through various positions on the factory floor. Then three years later a badly stacked crate fell and injured his back. After increasing time off for treatment, he was forced to work part time, then the company finally wanted to let him go. The company was inadequately insured, the compensation poor, and it was only by involving a lawyer and the threat of a large suit that his father had finally won the day. The company paid for treatment, gave a six month pay cash settlement and a full time office position for his father handling inventory.