‘The Sperrgebiet. The Forbidden Zone. Safest place in the world – for the world’s last breeding Cagot.’
‘Apart from Miguel.’
Nairn’s eyes brightened.
‘So he is a Cagot as well? The terrorist! How is that? Tell me how. Tell me everything. The Urbock is cold and the desert evening is long. Tell me!’
Over half a dozen beers, and plates of cold kudu steak and okra, Amy and David relayed the story to Angus Nairn. They were getting used to telling this story. There seemed increasingly little point in concealing the story from a potential ally. Miguel was the enemy.
At length Angus sat back, the desert breeze riffling his red hair.
‘This explains a lot. It explains the murders, the ones you mention!’
David said, ‘But…why? It doesn’t explain why Miguel…’
‘Don’t you see? He’s involved in the killings where torture is involved. The first two victims, the poor old girls who turned out to be rich.’
The logic unfolded in David’s mind. Dimly.
‘I guess…He was just back from abroad. When he came in the bar – Amy –?’
She nodded. ‘And after Miguel was back in Spain, the killings changed. Right? The man in Windsor – he was just killed. Not tortured. And Fazackerly, the scientist, he was also…just killed. Cruelly but…efficiently. I suppose. But then when Miguel got another chance, in Gurs – Eloise’s mother. She was elaborately tortured…Miguel again. But why?’ Her blue eyes gazed Angus’s way, full of questions. ‘Why would he kill and torture – where others just kill?’
Angus stuffed another morsel of bread and chewed, exuberantly. ‘Think harder. One reason is obvious.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes!’ A broad smile. ‘Why is he so murderously cruel to the Cagots? In particular?’
The truth unpetalled in David’s mind.
‘Because…he knows about himself?’
‘Zakly. He’s a fucking self-hater! Like that Basque witch burner.’
‘De Lancre?’
‘Yep. That’s it! He can’t face his own reality, his own race, his terrible identity. Can’t deal with it. Sublimated self-hatred becomes externalized violence. That must be the answer. Like Freud said! And Miguel Garovillo is a Cagot! So he takes his violent feelings, and inflicts them on the hated Cagots who embody his self loathing, his misery. He uses the tortures once inflicted on the deformed people. The witches and outcasts. The pariahs of the forest who he cannot accept as kin.’
‘But –’
‘And he probably heard about the Basque witch burnings when he was a kid, all the stories. And that’s gotta affect you. Tales of fire and torments! They fuck you up, your mum and dad, especially if they are terrorists. He probably has a psychosexual neurosis about the witch tortures.’
There was a momentary silence. David turned Amy’s way, and he flinched. Because he’d noticed. Amy had just that second – briefly, subconsciously, surreptitiously – put her hand to her head.
As if she was hiding the scar. The marks of the witch. David considered that scar, the interlocking curves. Was the scar simply more evidence of Miguel’s obsession, his sexual hang-ups, of the killer’s psychic need to revisit these witch tortures? But why did Amy let him do it? Cut her living skin? Why?
He remembered her words in Arizkun.
We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are fourteen thousand strong.
Angus was talking again, his face shadowed yet animated in the long Damara twilight.
‘And Miguel probably has his own strange urges, anyway. One or more of the nasty syndromes of the Cagots. The violent urges. Poor Cagot bastard. No doubt the church told its agents to despatch with swift efficiency. Yet when Miguel had a chance he snuck in a bit of medieval mutilation, couldn’t help himself…’
A large moth flickered in the lamplight: lanterns had been strung from trees around the camp. David gawped: ‘You knew it was…the church?’
‘Well, I presumed. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I? Uh-huh?’
‘Actually,’ Any interjected, ‘it was the Society of Pius X.’
‘Aha. The Lovely Zealots.’ He slapped a hand down on the table, gleefully. ‘Chalk one up! I should have guessed. Bigtime zealots. With lots of money and powerful sympathizers. If not them then another church sect. Yep, the Catholic church was, as you know, one of the prime movers in the closing of Stanford; they hated us, too. Totally hated GenoMap. And of course, thinking about it, the Society would be the obvious people to do the dirty work for Il Papa. And I mean dirty work. Left footers versus web footers. Hah.’ He gulped beer, and continued. ‘Always fascinated me, the infinite human capacity for violence. Where does it come from? Frankly I blame the