Time is a Killer: From the bestselling author of After the Crash by Michel Bussi

Time is a Killer: From the bestselling author of After the Crash by Michel Bussi

Author:Michel Bussi [Bussi, Michel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781474606707
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2018-04-04T22:00:00+00:00

II

Saint Rose’s Day

37

Monday, 21 August 1989, fifteenth day of the holidays

Mum’s-the-word-lotus-blue sky

It must have been almost noon. I was calmly sitting in my Sea-Calves’ grotto, in the cool, secretly reading The Never-Ending Story, with Dangerous Liaisons plonked under my bottom, when Nicolas came to get me. When he entered my grotto he was like a big bear blocking out the sunlight. To make me panic, for starters. And then to stop me reading. I was still able to take advantage of the darkness to quickly swap Bastien and his pudding-bowl hair for Valmont and the Marquise. As soon as Nico moved, his black silhouette parted from the sun that hung behind his back, like in a film, when the police inspector points the light straight into the eyes of the accused.

‘I need to talk to you, Clo.’

Well, go ahead then.

He assumes his serious face, which generally conceals some kind of monstrously idiotic plan.

‘I know you like snooping about, spying, playing the little mouse and writing everything down in your notebook, but this time you’ve got to stay out of it. I’m not saying you have to shut up, but you’ve got to stop trying to know.’

‘Trying to know what?’

I love driving my big brother mad.

‘Clo, I’m serious.’

He bends a little, as if weighed down by the revelation he’s about to make, or just trying not to bump his head on the roof of my grotto. The result is the same, the sun full in my face, and here my Chief Inspector adds:

‘I’m in love!’

Well, well, well …

‘Who with? Chjara?’

He didn’t like me calling her that, he only calls her Maria, or Mary, or MC, pronounced the English way, emcee.

And he didn’t like the way I looked at him, he didn’t like that one bit. As if he’d told our parents that he wanted to give up school to become a professional footballer. But I carried right on, waving my book in front of his nose.

‘You shouldn’t get the two things confused, brother dear, it isn’t love, it’s just excitement. Excitement among the boys because of the competition. Who’s going to be the first to touch her boobs.’

I love being vulgar with my big brother.

‘The guys definitely aren’t going to be in a hurry to touch a pair of fried eggs.’

The scum. I’ve copied that out because that’s exactly what he said. I hope you’re touched by my honesty, O reader on the other side of the galaxy.

So we moved on. I love making up with my big brother.

‘OK, then, Casanova, what do you want from me?’

‘Nothing … Nothing, just stay out from under my feet, keep your distance, don’t draw Maman and Papa’s attention to me. Or, if necessary, keep them away from me, tell them fibs when I’m not there, say we’re playing guitar on Oscelluccia beach or building a shack in the Belloni woods with Filip and Estefan, I don’t care, I’m just asking you to cover for me for two days, until the evening of the twenty-third.’

‘Saint



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