Son of Serge Bastarde (9 page)

  The front door was slammed after us and when the lift arrived I realised we had no chance of getting the buffet in it, but Serge insisted we turn it this way and that, trying to squeeze it through the sliding doors. It didn't help that every time we pulled it out, ready to try again, the lift door slid shut and descended to pick up someone below who had pushed the button. Serge began cursing and shouting to whoever was down there to stop it.

  It was hard to convince him we were going to have to hump the buffet down eight flights of stairs, but in the end he conceded we had no choice. Around the fourth floor the strain began to get to me and I found myself singing Bernard Cribbins' 'Right Said Fred'.

  'What's that damn thing you keep singing?' asked Serge, puffing as we negotiated the winding stairway.

  'Oh, nothing much,' I said. 'It's an English song about moving a piano, that's all.'

  'Pianos! Don't talk to me about pianos! I got a hernia moving bloody pianos. Thank God no one wants those sods any more.'

  We managed to get the buffet to the ground floor, load it into Serge's van and drive it to his apartment, where he had spent most of the evening in his garage squirting a smelly woodworm treatment into all the little woodworm holes.

  'These holes are mostly old,' he said now. 'I can't see why there would be live worm in here.'

  The treatment consisted of an aerosol can with a clear plastic tube with a needle on one end. The needle was inserted into a hole and the button on the can pressed, whooshing a thin spray of deadly killing liquid deep down along the tiny passageway to where the worm was supposedly hiding. Serge had lost the small protective funnel which fitted round the needle. When he pressed the button the deadly fluid went deep down the entrance hole and out an adjacent exit hole, spraying him unexpectedly in the face. He leapt back like he'd been stung, frantically rubbing his eyes. He ran to the bathroom and reappeared a few minutes later. His eyes were red and he kept blinking. He continued his work with the aerosol but this time leant back so when the liquid sprayed out it missed his face. I kept dodging the spurts as I held the buffet steady.

  We stopped for a coffee and Serge had a Ricard with his. We examined the buffet again.

  'See this one here?' Serge pointed out an impressive hole a few centimetres across. 'That's where a Capricorn came out. The grubs have got massive jaws. I think that's what could be making the noise.'

  I'd seen these Capricorn beetles. They were beautiful. About the same size or slightly bigger than an English stag beetle, only more streamlined, with great long antennae that curved out and round either side. They were a species of longhorn beetle, so-called as the antennae resembled the curving horns of a mountain sheep.

  I decided to go and ring Helen again. Earlier I'd phoned to tell her we'd picked up a buffet from Serge's Romanian client. She'd sounded surprised.

  'Romanian? That's interesting, does he speak French then?'

  'Yes, he's a nice bloke,' I lied.

  'Nice? What sort of nice?' She smelt a rat.

  We had noticed Eastern Europeans gradually arriving in France over the past few years and others travelling down into Spain. They had increased in number and some seemed to be lost, ill at ease and out of step with the modern world. Many had integrated quickly, learnt French and set up and ran very successful businesses, but others were outside society. Over time it was these begging Eastern Europeans that were the only ones everyone noticed, talked about and objected to, and the hardworking majority was overlooked. Helen and I had been travelling back from a sale in the van one time, our clothes all dusty from collecting items we had bought in a barn, when we were flagged down. French laws oblige you to stop and help if someone is in difficulty and this was a family in trouble on a country road. We pulled over only to be harassed for our bank card, purportedly to buy petrol, by a tough character and his thuggish son. They wanted me to take them to a cash machine. Luckily we had neither cards nor money on us and we looked so poor they lost interest when one of the family managed to stop another car. Most of the French are wise to these scams and drive past unconcerned. I had to admit I did have a nagging feeling of unease about Serge's client.

  I promised Helen I wouldn't be much longer. She was keen to tell me about a house she had looked at. I went back to help Serge in his garage.

  He was bent over the buffet intent on the job in hand, examining the large Capricorn hole. 'I reckon if we cut out this piece of wood here and follow the tunnel down we'll find the little swine making all the noise,' he said. 'The woodworm killer doesn't seem to affect him. He's probably so tough he's immune to it.' He fetched a vicious-looking pointed saw.

  'Is that such a good idea?' I said. 'Maybe we should just wait for the treatment to work.'

  'No, Johnny, trust me. He's in there, all right. It's just a question of cutting him out like a cancer. He'll never crunch again once I get to him.'

  He began sawing vigorously on either side of the large hole. Eventually he gave up and fetched a mini electric drill with a box of small bits and saw wheels. He affixed a nasty-looking cutting implement, plugged in the machine, set it running and attacked the buffet anew. It made a scary searing noise, which reminded me of a dentist's drill. The expression on Serge's face was disconcerting, too. When I was a kid my mum took me and my brother to a dentist called Mr Walmsley in Kingston who had a similar expression when he was drilling your teeth. His drill wasn't much more sophisticated than the one Serge was using, and it vibrated and sent screaming shafts of agonising pain through your raw nerves. My brother, who was three years younger than me, had been unable to stand it and bit into Mr Walmsley's hand, drawing blood. We changed our dentist soon after that.

  The tunnel was longer than Serge expected. Soon there was a big chunk out of the wood and a little pile of sawdust on the floor. He began poking about in the hole with a screwdriver and after a moment let out a cry of triumph. A huge bloated white grub plopped out and fell amongst the splintered pieces of wood. He dropped down on his hands and knees and scrabbled about in the sawdust until he held the thing aloft grasped between his thumb and forefinger. It twisted and turned in its nudity like a peeled prawn.

  'There you are, my little beauty.' He placed it on the concrete floor and before I could stop him, brought his heel down on it hard. It exploded with a loud pop, sending a squirt of disgusting glop all over his jeans. He pulled a face and tried to wipe off the mess with an old hankie, but only succeeded in spreading it into a large unsightly stain.

  'The buffet's not too bad. I can graft a piece in there later, he'll never notice,' he said confidently.

  He removed the drawers and the pair of walnut doors and leant them against the garage wall. We stood listening again, hardly daring to draw breath. All was quiet. The crunching sound had stopped.

  'That's it then, it was that little bugger all the time,' he said, wiping at the yellow gunge on his jeans.

  'Well, I'd better be off,' I said, standing up to leave. 'Helen's expecting me back.' It was way past midnight and I was anxious to get home.

  'OK, Johnny, you go. Maybe you could give me a hand getting this back to my client. I'll get Diddy to help us tomorrow. It'll be easier with the three of us.'

  I was halfway to the door when I stopped. What was that? It couldn't be! But there it was again – the crunching sound. Only this time it was even louder. Serge was up in a flash, saw in hand. I thought he was going to attack it willy-nilly, but he knelt over the buffet, head to one side, listening. The look of desperation on his face was unsettling.

  'There must be another one in there. If we can kill one, then we can get the other. It's here, I'm sure of it,' he said, pointing at a carved leg. 'I could just cut him out. It won't take a minute.'

  I thought about trying to dissuade him. But I was exhausted and he wouldn't have taken any notice. He took my tired expression as one of agreement and began to attack the leg ferociously with the electric saw. Soon it was in pieces on the floor and the buffet was leaning to one side. He turned off the saw and listened. Nothing. Silence. Then we heard it again. The steady crunch, crunch, crunching sound.

  It was then that Serge lost it. He grabbed a handsaw, a hammer and chisel and began dismantling the beautiful walnut buffet plank by plank. I watched helplessly as he piled up the pieces. Every so often he stopped to listen and move the bits about. And when he established the crunching hadn't stopped he carried on sawing and chiselling.

  I couldn't take any more. Bits of the beautiful walnut buffet were strewn all over the garage. 'I'm going,' I said, and began to pick my way through the debris to the door.

  'Stop and have a coffee before you go, Johnny, I feel in need of a bit of support here. Diddy doesn't normally roll home until the early hours of the morning,' pleaded Serge.

  How could I refuse? He looked pathetic. He went through to the kitchen while I sat on the chaise longue listening to him clattering about. He brought in the coffees and we sat drinking them, staring at the mess.

  Suddenly I noticed a tiny movement in the sawdust near my foot. A piece of splintered wood began to rock almost imperceptibly. A large black beetle emerged and slowly began to make its way across the concrete floor. It was unmistakably a Capricorn, its longhorn antennae clearly visible. Serge saw it too and gripped my arm. We watched, fascinated, as it scuttled away, picking up speed as it headed off in search of pastures new. Serge gave a cry, whipped off his shoe and charged after it, taking a flying leap. But the beetle had reached the beams in the wall and with an uncanny sixth sense found a crack in the woodwork and disappeared into it. Serge brought his shoe down with a loud thwack but it was too late – the insect had escaped.

  He hopped back, his shoe hanging limply at his side. I passed him his coffee and he sipped at it. 'That Capricorn will lay its eggs in there,' he said. 'The whole place will be infested.'

  'What's he going to say, your rich client, when he finds out you've totally destroyed his beautiful walnut buffet?'

  'I don't know, what can he say? He'll probably have me killed and my body parts cemented into a Spanish motorway flyover somewhere.' He gave a crazed laugh.

  'You'll have to give him his money back.'

  'I'll have to find it from somewhere, if I want to stay alive. I don't know how, though. I don't have that sort of money. Diddy did the deal and he charged that guy a fortune, but I never saw a
cent
of it.'

  We sat sipping our coffee, contemplating the fact. I half expected to hear the sound of crunching coming from behind the beams, but I imagined the beetle would be settling in first, checking out a whole new world of unexplored wood before it began to lay its eggs.

  'That's that then, I really ought to be getting home,' I said, making another attempt to leave. I began to pick my way gingerly through the broken pieces of the buffet. There was a noise in the hall upstairs, a key in a lock, the sound of the front door opening and footsteps walking about in the apartment. Serge looked up and listened expectantly. Then there was the sound of someone coming down the stairs to the garage, the door swung open with a bang and Diddy walked in. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see me and came straight over and greeted me like a long-lost brother.

  
'Johnny, qu'est-ce qui ce passe?'
(What's happening, man?) He shook me by the hand, effusive and full of bonhomie. He was well oiled.

  He turned to see Serge, sitting in the chair surrounded by the debris from the walnut buffet.

  'Eh, Papa!' He shimmied over, put his arms round him and gave him a hug.

  'My Papa, my dear old Papa! Where you been all my life?'

  Serge looked across at me, embarrassed. He stood up and patted Diddy on the back as if he wasn't sure how to react. Diddy swung round and beamed at me.

  'What the pair of you doing out here in the garage, man?' He smiled fondly at his dad. 'You should be in bed, Papa, it's way past your bedtime.' This struck him as funny and he gave a little giggle. He looked down, noticed the bits of broken buffet scattered about and his eyes widened.

  'You two been breaking up the happy home? Man, you're sure making a mess in here!'

  Serge opened his mouth as if to say something.

  Diddy picked up a piece of the shattered buffet and held it up close to his eyes, turning it slowly, examining it. He reached down, picked up another piece and inspected it. He turned to Serge, confused.

  'What's this, Dad?'

  'You don't recognise it?' said Serge. He was simmering gently.

  'Nah, man, it's wood... pieces of wormy old wood.'

  Serge gave me a look, raising his eyebrows.

  'Right then,' I said. 'Helen will be wondering where I am.'

  I started for the door and stopped. There was a woman standing in the doorway. She was stooping slightly and appeared unsteady on her feet. This could have been something to do with the stack heel shoes she was wearing. She entered the garage and tottered forward, grabbing my arm for support. Up close I could see she was a woman of a certain age – well past seventy, if I had to hazard a guess. Her face was caked with make-up, her lipstick was blood red and her eyes were thick with dark eyeliner. She was a dead ringer for Bette Davis in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
She smiled coquettishly and her perfume was overpowering. Diddy was grinning at us like he was party to some private joke. 'That'll do, Claudette, this good man is off home to see his wife.'

  She stopped, frozen for a moment, and stepped back.