I

The rear kitchen window was the easiest place to access. Nixon removed his jacket, placed it over the small pane, and tapped it with a rock. The glass tinkled loudly onto the bare floor inside. Nixon looked around at the neighbouring chalets. It was just after three. Silence everywhere. He lifted the catch, climbed in, and removed his shoes.

He knew exactly where the device was kept, in a drawer, beneath the record deck, yet first he went upstairs. The bedroom contained just a mattress on the floor, a wardrobe and a cabinet. He pulled his sweatshirt down over his fingers, then pulled out each drawer, overturning the clothes onto the floor. That would do. Then, downstairs again, he opened the drawer beneath the deck. In the dark it was hard to make out, perhaps a passport, a few bills and documents. He carefully picked up the device, then let the rest of the contents fall to the floor.

If he was a real thief, he might take the deck and amp, or perhaps a guitar, but he hadn't got the heart. Other than that, there was no evidence of any money, or anything else of any value that was compact enough. It wasn't so unreasonable to think, any passing junkie, or opportunist, might ignore the bigger stuff, and take only money, jewellery, or at a push, a GPS, which looked quite valuable. It would have to do. He put his shoes back on, squeezed back through the window, and tottered back to the lane, on the balls of his feet.

Back in the car, he took one last look down the lane. Darkness. No one saw a thing. Twenty minutes later, he was back at Les Moulins. He parked the car, went over to his van, and slid the device under the drivers seat, and then, with that inexplicable sense that tells you when you're being watched, he glanced up, and noticed he'd been spotted. She was awake. Had she seen him put the thing in his van? He wasn't sure.....it was dark, but then again, in one way, he almost didn't care. Gil had really pissed him off tonight. Nixon smiled, and made a little, timid wave. An image of Stan Laurel flashed into his mind. He felt slightly ridiculous. Isabella made the symbol of a T, with her two forefingers. He raised a grateful thumb, walked over to the great, wooden door, and delighted at the sound of bare feet on oak, approaching from within.

II

Tanner lay on his hotel bed, and pondered his options. He'd been here before, just at the point of success, only to see it fall from his grasp. Was this the way it was always meant to be? Whoever this Gil Riot character was, he knew he'd been had. The success of that warm up show would only heighten interest in the band. It was too big a risk to call his bluff, but then again, where could it lead if he went along with it?

He flicked on the TV. Various channels of crap, oddball sports, and pay to view porn. None of this was going to distract him, and his forlorn attempt to think this through, had only left him more troubled. He recalled previous times, when he'd made wrong decisions, and it usually amounted to his own impetuousness as the cause. No, this time it would be different. Tanner turned off the TV, and made his way back to the bar. Sure enough, none of the band or crew had budged. Ren was holding court, recounting a debauched tale from one of Simon Palmersley's epic, weekend jollies.

“.....and so then, she suggested, we go and try it in the snooker room, while her old man was getting busy with the.......aah Tanner, dear boy........Checking if we're being good boys ?”

“Actually no, not this time Jacky....I've got a problem I've been thinking on, and if you're all not too shot yet, I'd appreciate your ears for a few minutes.......It affects us all, really.”

Tanner ordered a round of drinks, called them around a quiet, corner table, and recounted the tale of his little encounter with Gil, and his ensuing ultimatum.

“So there you are. I don't know how he knows, but he does. The thing is, if this goes public, we're fucked before we begin. Anybody got any smart ideas ?”

“This is the guy with the hat ?” Tanner nodded “Then I'll fuckin' kill him”

“Wow, steady, Nash....We might want to be a bit careful. Remember.... We need to be on best behaviour.” Ren patted his roadie friend on the thigh.

“Yes, death may be overdoing it, but still, the threat of it, might scare him off”

Tanner looked at his latest crew member. He certainly looked the sort of individual that could issue a convincing threat. Nash, was an old school friend of Ren's, who joined the tour at the last minute. Tanner, due to his preoccupation with Cecile, and her dramatic, confessional email, had uncharacteristically overlooked hiring a roadie, until it was too late, and so Nash, on the recommendation of having worked with Ren's original punk band in the seventies, had managed to be in the right place at the right time. So far, he'd performed admirably, even helping with the impressive intro to the opening show. He settled quickly within the group, and, respectful of Tanner's strong, no nonsense leadership, had already developed a loyalty, which had probably provoked his rather violent suggestion. Nevertheless, murder was still, taking it too far.

“Well.....it's like a goal, against the run of play, innit ?” all eyes turned to Clifford

“Why do you always relate everything, to bloody football ?” Cliff ignored Damon's jibe.“The worst thing any team can do, is over react. We need to build from the back, an 'ave belief in our own ability that we can win......” Nobody spoke. Cliff sipped his drink, and went on..“....so, this guy Gil, he's scored a goal, yeah ? No worries, let him have his bit 'o glory. He ain't won yet 'as ee ? Give him a couple of gigs, we'll do the tour, then we sort 'im out after....It'll be like the winner in injury time”

“He has a point, dear boy. The more momentum we get, the less of a threat he is. If we do a blinding tour, they can't say they didn't like it afterwards, no matter who was singing, can they ? The future will look after itself................I say, let's placate this fucker, and crack on. Who cares who the support act is, anyway ?”

Suddenly, it all seemed a lot clearer to Tanner. His band had solved it between them. He'd call Gil tomorrow and agree to his demand, then after it was all over, he'd have his new sergeant at arms scare off any future threats.

III

Back at White Mills, Nixon was also wondering how he could to extricate himself from his situation with Gil. The evening's events had brought into focus his suspicion that Gil, was beginning to get carried away with the idea of pushing their project at any cost. He'd undergone something of a, 'starving man at a banquet' loss of decorum, from which Nixon would normally distance himself. The problem was, that due to their pact, he was trapped. If Gil had the bottle to blackmail the manager of The Belleville Riders, then he didn't doubt that he, himself, would get the same treatment if he jumped ship now.

Although Gil was involved with the disposal of Lucia, it would be hard to prove he'd had any direct connection. Nixon, conversely, could be easily traced, and so, unable to disentangle himself from this pillar of guilt, he could, at least nullify the threat, by implicating Gil. The GPS device, now hidden in his van, was his insurance. As well as containing within its memory, the exact location of Lucia's marine grave, there was almost certainly evidence of Gil's fingerprints, as its last user. It was a desperate measure, and Nixon hoped he would never be forced to use it, but it was better than nothing. It was still too early to return to the UK yet. God knows what her crazy husband was up to, but Nixon felt he was safer, sitting here, right now, in Isabella's womb like lounge.

“It's a cruel, slow death....I've watched them for ages, wrestling in vain against the inevitable”

Isabella had noticed Nixon staring at the fly paper, speckled with death, hanging near the window. Most had, evidently, given up the fight, but one or two were still occasional twitching, vaguely flailing limbs. Now and again, a sudden burst of energy, caused an almost grotesque buzzing. Nixon thought back to the final scenes of 'The Fly', a movie which had startled him as a boy. He recalled Vincent Price, discovering the trapped, human headed fly, desperately screaming for help, as his captor, prepared to devour him. Too late to intervene, Price had destroyed them both with a rock. It was a predictable, unsatisfying ending, and it made Nixon ponder his own chances of ever escaping his complicated predicament.

Isabella poured some tea, and offered a side glass of whisky. It was a combination Gil had recently introduced him to, and he couldn't deny, that the pale, clean taste of the Lapsang, complemented perfectly, the subtle strength of the single malt. That apart, the night's events had revealed a cunning side to a man he was only just getting to know. After the encounter with Tanner, Gil had returned to the bar. His mood had changed, especially towards Nixon. Perhaps it was the beer, but for whatever reason, thereafter, Gil paid him little attention. Then, soon after, he got talking with a woman, with whom he was clearly well acquainted. It was pretty obvious, that Nixon's presence was no longer required, and by closing time, it was clear where Gil would be spending the night. The keys to his car were proffered with a wink of an eye, and scarcely a goodbye. It was then, in his anger, driving back alone, that Nixon realised he had one chance, to visit Gil's chalet on the coast, and take out some insurance.

Isabella sipped her tea, and remained quiet. It was as if she already had a good idea where Nixon's head was, and, rather like a psychiatrist, her silence drew out what he needed to say. Nixon began to recount the night's events, remaining vague about the woman in the bar, and passing off his visit to the chalet, as 'driving around for a while' in order to calm down.

“...and you'd feel humiliated, playing in an under rehearsed band ?”

“Exactly”

“Then ask him to delay, until the band is ready. Surely he knows you're right.”

“I've already tried. He's driven, you know, and I've got a feeling he's got them. He ain't going to be very popular, but I think they'll have no choice but to let us do some shows. The thing is.....and I hate to admit it, but in a way, he has a point. A couple of shows with The Bellevilles, will probably help more than starting from scratch. As long as we're not completely awful, the mere association will outweigh the music.”

“But the album sounds brilliant ?”

“Doesn't matter. I've seen it happen at first hand. The quality of the music only really comes into play once you've been noticed.....Until then, it ain't what you know, it's.............well, you know......” Nixon broke off, and sipped his scotch.

“Nothing is ever perfect is it ? Thank you for sparing my feelings, but don't you think I know where Gil is right now ?” Isabella smiled a mock smile, as she filled another cup.

“It often strikes me why we get so upset, when everything goes wrong. You know about my parents. I did a lot of thinking in the years after that..............”

“Those flies on that paper, they're the same as us. Despite no chance of freeing themselves, they still try and try, until they die. So we try to build our perfect castles, but the sea always comes to wash them away. It's just the way it is Nixon. In fleeting moments, though, there is still beauty to be savoured, before the waves come crashing in. That's where the pleasure is, in the moment. I think, as soon as we try to save it, then it's inevitable, we will be disappointed.”

She laughed at her little diatribe, then got up, and put the kettle on. Nixon loved hearing her speak. His mood had lightened. Evidently, Isabella had come to terms with Gil and his ways, drawing a line in the sand, and not letting it get in the way of her quest for beauty in the most unlikely places.

They had a further drink together, and just for a moment, Nixon sensed that the evening might progress even further, but, for one of the first times in his life, he decided he'd prefer to savour the moment, and so instead, he kissed her gently goodnight, and made his way to his bed, alone.