Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Thirteen

“So who’s your friend?” said Jack. “You called him Gaston?”

“Uh huh,” replied Molly, enjoying the conversation. The path was wide, grass on either side for twenty yards and then thick bushes or trees. It was very quiet. “I’m doing a book with him. He’s French and he needs a translator. He speaks good English but writing in another language is entirely different. Lives near Nice in the southern French Alps.”

“So that’s what you are, a translator?”

She grinned. “I guess so, if I’m translating a book.”

Jack laughed. “What’s it about?”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “He researches unsolved murders around the globe. He’s noticed a pattern among over a dozen deaths in various countries and created a hypothetical serial killer to explain them. The book’s part fiction/part fact. It’s the story of this killer, travelling round murdering people.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It can be grisly at times, the acts of violence are described quite grittily, but it’s a good work and Gaston is very charming; he’s also quite good looking for an older man. He’s in his sixties now, but I’ve never met a greater authority on murder.”

Jack was quiet for a while, thinking again about whatever secrets played around in his head.  His brow was set and rigid.

“You all right?” asked Molly, feeling better now she had talked about her father. She was still unsure why she had been able to discuss those things with him but getting them off her chest had removed what felt like a backpack full of rocks.

Jack sighed. “I’m fine. I was thinking about murder. Do you think it’s possible that you’re born to do it or that it’s all down to the way you’re brought up? Do we really have a choice when it comes to the moment?”

“You mean do we really have free will?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” replied Molly. “I know that I hated my father because my mother brought me up to; but in the end, when I became an adult, I also think I should have been able to make my own decision.”

“But aren’t the ways you go about making decisions determined by the same things I just said? I’m not sure that we really get any choice at all.”

“You should talk to Gaston,” said Molly. “He could tell you all about it.”

“Is he staying here at the moment?”

“Not anymore. He’s gone back to France.”

Jack shrugged. “Shame. That would have been interesting.”

The moon shone down through the trees. It was starting to mist and a halo was forming around it.

“Look at that,” said Jack, pointing up. “It makes me want to go and get my paint and brushes and get to work.”

“Did you bring them with you?”

“Yeah; and my paintings too. They’re all at my uncle’s house.”

“Are they good? I mean, what are they of on the whole? Still-life or landscapes?”

“Portraits... and scenes that I imagine. I like to paint dark things like images of misery; but I try to paint them with light.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always try to look for the light in the darkness; the hope; the purpose.” He smiled self-consciously. “I guess I’m trying to save the locations in them.”

It was getting chilly. Molly did the zip half way up the front of her jacket. “Have you ever sold any?”

“Not in a big way, not really, but I want to some day. I’ve always wanted to.” He gazed off into the mist. There were lights up ahead, street lamps and shop fronts. It looked safer. “Can you imagine how magical it would be for someone to buy a painting that you made, to love it to the extent that they wanted to have it on their wall every day for years and years? I put so much of myself into each one, it’s as though they would have a part of me up in their homes. I can’t think of anything that would make me more proud.”

He looked at her and grinned, once again a little shyly. Molly smiled back.

Then Jack’s whole face crumpled with pain and he dropped to the floor.

Molly turned round. There were two guys dressed in leathers: bikers. Jack was on his knees, hands out on the ground, head hanging. One of them had a stick; the other grabbed the shoulder of her jacket, pulling her back.

She called out Jack’s name. A gun was forced into her face. They were demanding money. The one with the stick smashed it down on Jack’s back. He cried out as his arms buckled; then they struck him again and Jack’s head hit the floor.