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.
‘David!’
He squinted, checking the square again. At a greater distance, it was hard to tell, the light was blinding compared to the darkness of the church – but it looked like the three figures had paused.
But then they walked, fast, towards the church.
‘He’s coming!’
‘La porte! ’
The old priest was trying the door, but the doorknob obviously hadn’t been turned in decades. David helped. He pulled, and twisted: nothing happened.
‘It’s totally rusted!’
David’s hands were sweaty with the tension – the fear – he grabbed at the old iron handle and twisted again, with all the force he could manage.
Miguel was closing in, approaching the church. Any second he would enter, see them trapped in a corner…and draw his gun. But the door was unbudgeable.
‘Try this!’
Amy was clutching a glass phial.
‘From the altar. It’s oil.’
The oil oozed over the handle as David frantically twisted. The old priest was babbling, ‘Votre père, votre père –’
The metal grated – and sighed – and then it yielded. There were men silhouetted at the main door, but the handle of the old door was turning. With a final puff of rust, the door burst open – onto a lightwell surrounded by looming medieval houses, crooked and ancient. Various alleys led off the courtyard, disappearing into darkness.
Was that Miguel’s voice behind them? A noise echoed across. The priest had slammed the door; he was still inside, blocking Miguel’s way. They had a chance.
David yelled: ‘Down here!’
Amy was already following. David grabbed her hand and they sprinted. He didn’t dare to look back. The priest was in the church, maybe defending them, confronting Miguel. What would happen? Miguel might shoot. He would force the door open…and then…and then…
He kept on running. The alley was little more than a sheltered gutter, overhung by eaves and the bulging upper floors of ancient tenements. Shafts of sunlight speared through the slates, like rods of light they had to dodge. As he ran, half tripping, David thought of his parents. Killed. Slain. Murdered.
The fear mixed with anger; his stomach roiled with terror as he ran. At last they emerged from the alley into a space of green grass and old crumbling battlements.
‘Through here?’
There was a Gothic archway – piercing the white limestone walls of Navvarenx. Beyond it was a moated dip, and beyond the dip, over a footbridge – was the car park.
‘There!’
His car keys were slippery in his sweaty hands as he clicked the doors open. They piled inside. David revved and reversed – and flung them out onto the road.
South. For several minutes they drove: fast and silent. David checked the mirror. Nothing. He checked it again. Nothing. Amy sighed, urgently:
‘Too much. That was too close…’
David glanced yet again in the rearview mirror as he drove. But the road was deserted. They hadn’t been followed. The appalling tension eased a touch, but just a touch. They were out in the countryside, a big aluminium farm building marked a junction.
He pulled over. He handed Amy the phone he’d bought at the garage.
‘Check something. Please?’
‘What?’
‘These people with the doors. What did he call them…the Cagots?’
Amy shook her head.
‘Now? Shouldn’t we just get the hell out?’
He cursed, sardonically.
‘Fuck that. Where are we going to go? And if I run away…I will never know the answer. My parents died here; they were fucking killed here. It