bread and soup.
‘Haven’t you heard of knocking, woman?’ Tomas bellowed.
But the young nun set the wooden tray on the desktop with a defiant clatter. ‘Sausage and vegetable soup,’ she said, as she moved towards Marc and reached out her hand.
The director was furious. ‘What are you doing, girl? Get out.’
The young nun pretended not to hear. ‘I’ll clean his wounds now that you’re finished.’
The director gave Sister Madeline a look that seemed to question her sanity. ‘And what makes you so sure that I’ve finished with him? I might have barely begun.’
‘Marc has had enough, Director,’ she said, trying to sound firm, but clearly frightened. ‘Enough.’
Marc rolled on to his bum and sat up, but the director stepped in front of him.
‘This is my office and my orphanage,’ he boomed. ‘I deal with the boys as I see fit and if you don’t get back to the kitchen this instant I’ll report you to the bishop.’
The young nun clenched her fists. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘And when I’m brought before the bishop, I’ll be sure to mention your new suits and the bicycle. I’m sure you’ll be able to make a proper account of all the money paid by Mr Morel.’
The director reddened as he reared up on his heels and hurtled his cane back into the umbrella stand. ‘Take the boy then,’ he growled.
‘Thank you, Director,’ the sister said, nodding obligingly as she helped Marc on to his bare feet. ‘I hope you enjoy the soup, sir.’
Marc bunched his fists and bit down on his lip, determined not to let the pain show. He knew he owed Sister Madeline, but he was too upset to speak as she led him down the hallway and into a small room with a bed and a sink that was used as a sickbay.
There were boys playing outside and the sister shut the door and pulled the curtain before they got a chance to gloat about the state he was in. Marc sat on the edge of a small bed – ironically, his bum was one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t injured – while Sister Madeline ran a face cloth under the cold tap. She smiled reassuringly as she sat down and began dabbing the blood from his cheek.
‘Thank you for …’ Marc said, but he stopped before he broke down.
‘You don’t have to be proud,’ Sister Madeline said, as streaks of pink water drizzled down Marc’s face. ‘We’re all humble before God.’
‘I didn’t mean to do anything to Jae,’ Marc said, stifling a sob. ‘She was … We had a laugh together. Now I’ll never see her again …’
Marc rested his head against the nun’s floury apron as he began to cry openly. She wanted to put an arm around his back, but he had cuts all over and she didn’t want to hurt him even more.
* * *
2Penal colony – a prison in the French colonies where inmates were expected to do backbreaking physical work.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mrs Mujard stood on the front steps of a five-storey apartment block, trying to get her money’s worth out of a cigarette stub. The elderly woman had been the building’s concierge for more than thirty years and could now barely move on the lattice of varicose veins that passed for her legs.
Her eyebrows shot up guiltily when she saw Mr Clarke’s Citroën swing into a parking bay across the street and she shuffled back to the chest-high reception desk as Rosie and Paul came into the lobby.
‘Hello, Madame,’ Paul said brightly. ‘Any post?’
Mrs Mujard pulled three envelopes from one of the cubby holes behind her. Paul aimed his Toblerone at her.
‘Chocolate?’ he asked brightly.
The elderly lady shuddered. ‘Sticks in my teeth.’ And then she looked up at Mr Clarke, who’d stepped into the lobby holding his briefcase. ‘I have news,’ she said gloomily.
Mujard always had news. News could be anything from a new tenant to someone overfilling their bath and damaging the flat below. Recently, all of Mujard’s news had been about tenants packing up to leave the city.
‘I’d love to catch up on the gossip,’ Mr Clarke said, ‘but we’re heading south. I want to get on the road as soon as possible.’
‘The news is about your apartment, sir.’
Mujard never came straight out with a story. People were more inclined to stay and gossip if you fed them slivers.
‘My apartment?’ Mr Clarke asked, as Paul and Rosie turned away from the foot of the staircase.
‘Yes sir,’ Mujard said, nodding grimly, but