La Plage, Plerin

Isabella Lake, at thirty years of age, had already learnt much in the ways of the world, and its workings. She'd never had a career in the conventional sense, wasn't as widely travelled as most, but nevertheless, her parents and then subsequently, she herself, had nurtured a wide base of skills and knowledge that few could match. One area where she was bereft, however, was relationships.

Her entire romantic history only amounted to a few teenage boyfriends, and then marriage to Gil, which had now run its course. Gil wasn't complicated to understand, and it was hard to see where she belonged in any of his plans or desires any more. Nixon Tyme was a different animal altogether. In many ways, he was an opposite to Gil. He'd shown a genuine interest in Isabella's vision for Les Moulins, and she couldn't help but fantasise how things may have turned out if she'd met Nixon first. That, on its own though, was not enough. Something was still missing.

Cecile Labat had only arrived in her world three days ago, but already Isabella felt comfortable in her company. Being older, Cecile held a big sister quality, that Isabella missed greatly. Her friends filled some of that space, but Cecile possessed something extra, a certain conviction that showed her where to go. It was something that Nixon himself had referenced when he'd talked about music. It was all very well going through the motions of learning the theory and technique, but without an inbuilt sense of direction, one would only ever be, as he put it, 'painting by numbers'.

It was a big reason why she felt attracted to Nixon. Gil was a technician, but Nixon was an artist, in the true sense of the word, and uniquely, without an ego. That much was true of her, but was it possible for that to equate into a wider compatibility?

“You will know if it's right. I haven't known Tanner for long, but almost from the beginning, I knew he was the man for me. Now I've started to see more of him, it only confirmed what I first sensed. I suppose it comes down to understanding how a person thinks, practically every detail of what makes them tick, whilst still retaining an ability to surprise.”

“I know Tanner doesn't really want to be on the beach today, but I also know he's happy to make me happy.....and I would do the same. Most of the time though, we think exactly the same. We enjoy the same things, and laugh and cry in unison.”

“From what I've seen of Nixon, he looks like he's holding something back. I think he's blocked in some way......and until you discover what that is, you may never know him for real”

Isabella knew she was right. It was what she'd always felt, and it was nice to hear it confirmed.

“Well I do know one thing. He's not happy being on that boat. I wonder how they're doing ?”

Five kilometres out in the bay of Saint Brieuc, Tanner felt altogether better. The heat of the beach had given way to a warm breeze of fresh, sea air. Gil was in a good mood, too. Last night's performance had vindicated his actions, and he thought that if he could persuade Tanner to run with the idea of a single release, then he had a decent chance of having his name associated with something successful. There was also, of course, the idea of an album. The Riders were familiar with Les Moulins. Gil and his studio were in pole position to record any future project, and he chatted away happily outlining his ideas for how they could go about it. It made sense to Tanner, but he still felt cautious. He needed time. He'd soon be back in England, and have to confront Erica.

He had no doubt that his life now belonged here, with Cecile, and extricating himself from his life in London could be complicated. The resurrection of the Belleville Riders had been a means to an end, but now it had proved a success, he wasn't sure how to progress. The idea of a single would provide a useful stop gap, and if successful, perhaps enable him to set up a new life in France, but there was still the nagging question of how far they could push it. Tanner explained his concern.

“The problem with an album, is the songs. There has to be some continuity with the previous stuff, and I'm not sure your song writing is that close in style. Don't get me wrong, Gil....We listened to your album in the bus......Very impressive, I thought, but I just can't see it suiting Ren and the boys.”

“Yeah....I've been listening to it as well. What the fuck is T.I.M.O when it's at home ?” 

They'd been on the boat for forty minutes, and it was the first time Nash had spoken. Gil had been so wrapped up in his conversation with Tanner, that he'd almost forgotten about him sitting opposite, next to Nixon. He swayed, slowly forward and back, then took a slug from a half bottle of vodka kept inside his jacket. His hard, cold eyes, trained on Gil's puzzled features.

“..err, it's a play on words....an acronyme for 'This is my obituary'........”

Even before Gil had stumbled over his almost apologetic answer, Nixon felt himself tense with the sudden awful realisation of whom he might be sitting next to. It could have been paranoia, but before he'd had a moment to reconsider, the damning confirmation of the next accusing jibe, proved all he needed to know.

“Nothing to do with a tattoo, then ? 

Dennis the Menace's pet dog Gnasher, had seemed the perfect nickname for Peter, back then. Even at school, he'd demonstrated a liking for a fight, and Ren and his classmates had never called him anything else. After school, they'd stayed in touch for a while, and Peter had even crewed a bit for Ren's first punk band, so, when Peter turned up, despondent, at his door all those years later, Ren saw an ideal opportunity to ask his old mate 'Nash' along.

Would Nixon have clicked if he'd used his real name? He'd given no indication of his background, so perhaps not, but if he'd travelled in the car with Tanner on the way here, he'd have known already. It was then that Peter had finally begun to open up about the trauma of his missing wife. Up until then he'd kept it bottled, exactly as Ren had told him to. But of course, Tanner and the others knew nothing of Nixon's secret, and now, here on Gil's boat, it was clear that neither did Gil.

The tattoo of Timo, the Viscacha, on Lucia's thigh, was unknown to Gil, and so Peter's question left him genuinely baffled. Peter, too, couldn't understand it. He knew Gil lived in France. How could he have had anything to do with Lucia? And yet the interview he'd given at Rennes, had exactly described her situation. Then the record. It was as if Lucia herself, was telling him her story. How could this be? It was driving him to the point of madness...

“You think you know it all, you fuckers, don't you ? Poncing around without a care. Something always turns up for the likes of you, but in my world most of us never stood a chance, and now you bastards think its cool to sing about the only thing I ever cared about. So, tell me you don't know about the tattoo, you fuck !” he jabbed his finger, menacingly.

Gil felt uncomfortable. He didn't know what he was talking about, and still no idea of who he was, but desperately needing to deflect the rage of his tormentor, blurted out the phrase that sent events into an accelerated tailspin. Nixon had seen it coming, but couldn't find a way to warn him.......

“I....don't....know !.......Ask Nixon.....He wrote it !”

It all fell into place. The Englishman he'd been sitting next to. Silent.....and guilty.

With a single movement, Peter had flipped Nixon backwards off the bench seat, and was kneeling over him, right arm raised, about to strike. Tanner, confused, couldn't grasp what had driven this sudden attack, but determinedly, lurched forward in an attempt at restraint. Standing upright was difficult in the boat, and scarcely had he got anywhere near, than Peter with a sudden rearward jerk of his elbow, into his stomach, had overbalanced Tanner, and sent him crashing overboard.

This was dangerous. No one was wearing life jackets, and they were a good distance out. Gil, instinctively slammed the outboard into reverse, and tracked back to Tanner, who was gamely trying to negotiate the swell. Peter was oblivious. Nixon was the focus of his pent up fury, and blows rained down. He was going to kill him. Gil glanced at Tanner. They were getting closer. He cut the motor, then he knew he had to get Peter to stop.

“Stop you idiot ! You're going to kill him.....We have a man overboard !”

He grabbed Peter around the neck, and desperately tried to pull him away, but Peter was stronger, and for a moment it looked as if Gil, too, would topple over the side. The boat rocked wildly. Gil clung on though, and it gave Nixon just enough time to wriggle away, but then, as the boat swung violently back in the opposite direction, Peter caught sight of something metallic, rolling under the slatted floor. With his free hand, he grabbed the knife.

As Gil focussed his strength around Peters neck, he felt a deep, sharp pain, in his right side. Gil relinquished his grip, and tumbled back towards his seat by the motor. Hot, sticky blood seeped through his fingers. Peter was still on his knees. His eyes were black. He stared backwards, towards Gil, glanced at the red blade in his hand, then slowly, turned his attention back to Nixon. Nixon hadn't moved. His eyes stung, and his nose throbbed, trickling with blood from the beating. He stiffened with fear, unable to think......this was it.....He was going to die.

Then, suddenly, the boat swung hard down on one side. Tanner, with an enormous effort, had reached the boat, and pulled himself half aboard, with one leg over, and grabbed at Peter's belt with his spare hand. It was enough, and together with the angle of the boat, he'd managed to pull Peter over the side and into the swirling water. Nixon stirred from his fear, and quickly scrabbled over, and helped Tanner pull his sturdy frame into the boat. Gil was still conscious, but bleeding badly, sat upright on the boat deck. He could see Peter struggling in the water, already a dozen feet away. Gil stared at him. He knew who this man was now.

“She's dead, you know.....down there. Nixon did nothing wrong.......It was you !”

“Cut it out, will you ? We've got to try to get him back in !” 

Tanner pulled at the starter cord, and tried to work out how to direct the boat towards him. Perhaps if Gil was handling the boat, they could have got nearer quicker, but since his outburst, he was now fading fast, and it was all he could do to press both hands in against his wound. His waist area was now covered in blood, and had begun to soak into his jeans.

In the sea, Peter was drifting further away. He appeared to have stopped swimming, and no matter how they tried to angle the boat, the sea pushed them further away. After five minutes, he was twenty metres away, and then the waves started to completely obscure him. Suddenly, one much larger wave engulfed him, and he didn't reappear. Had he given up? Tanner looked at Nixon.

“Did you see that ?.....It seemed to suck him in....” Nixon then whispered something to himself.

“We've got no chance of getting to him in this boat....he's a gonner....Let's get Gil back before we lose two................” 

He revved the engine to its maximum, and steered them to shore. They remained silent for a couple of minutes, then Gil came to, and perked up for a moment. Tanner thought they needed to talk about something to keep him going.

“So, is either of you going to tell me who 'she' is ?”