"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 03 - Cannibal Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

The guards inside the prison van had their pistols drawn even though he was handcuffed. Like everybody else, they were frightened of the tall grey-haired man with the aristocratic features. History was repeating itself, another nobleman on his way to M. Guillotine, the mob roaring for his head and the sight of blood. He laughed aloud and his two companions started, blanching, their pistol barrels jerking up and training on his chest.

'You will not laugh when your head is on the block, Monsieur Nevillon' one of them spat. 'I have witnessed an execution. Once. Shall I tell you all about it?'

'I, too, have been present at an execution,' Nevillon replied softly, 'so perhaps you would like to hear about mine first. The condemned girl's name was Yvette ...'

'Cochonr a clenched fist caught the prisoner across the mouth, jerked his head back. 'Filthy swine!'

The second man drove forward with a booted foot, took Louis Nevillon full in the groin, knocked him from his seat More blows. He threw up his manacled hands but it was impossible to ward them off.

'If I had my way,' the guard who had delivered the first blow restrained his colleague, 'I would not put his head on the block. A little at a time, eh, Marcel? One leg, two... one arm, two .. . maybe something else after that!' He winked and they both roared with malicious mirth.

Now the end was in sight. The priest wanted to see him dead because it was all part of the fight against evil. The guards, the executioner, this was their revenge for Yvette de Coulon. Fools, Satan's own could not be destroyed by the guillotine; he was not as other men.

The priest was mumbling something, reciting from a prayer book. None of them tried to look pious; they were deliberately prolonging the finale, thinking that he would suffer untold mental agonies these last few minutes. They should have drugged him but they had deliberately overlooked this act of legal mercy. Who was to know? This chamber was soundproofed; nobody would hear his final screams for mercy.

Yet Louis Nevillon heard the huge gathering beyond the high prison walls, a slow countdown to the accompaniment of slow handclapping and the stamping of feet. They were shouting Yvette de Coulon's name.

Two of the warders led Nevillon forward, viciously kicked his legs from under him so that he fell hard, was dragged into a kneeling position, the steel neckbands almost choking him as his head was strapped on to the block. His eyes should have been covered but this, like the sedatives, was ignored.

He could see everything that was happening. A detailed reflection on the polished stainless steel base on which the guillotine stood, spared him nothing. It wasn't meant to; a conspiracy between these four had determined his final agony.

They were taking their time, the masked man checking and double-checking. So rarely was the death penalty used in France that he needed to savour each occasion. Particularly in the case of Louis Nevillon. It was Gallon's finest hour, the peak of a distinguished career in death.

'Have you anything to say?' The priest was standing back as though suddenly he felt guilty about this mental torture, sought to make amends for the sake of his own conscience.

'Ottif Nevillon laughed softly. 'You are a man of God.' A faint sneer. 'So doubtless you are well acquainted with the happenings of the third day following the crucifixion of the man purporting to be the Son of God.'

'I am' a haughtiness. 'Why?'

'Because, my friend,' Nevillon had stopped laughing, his voice a hoarse whisper that all four of them heard clearly, their flesh prickling even before he had got the words out, 'on the third day I shall live and you will fear my coming!'

'This is blasphemy!' the padre paled, almost dropped his prayer book. 'Monsieur Gallon, delay no longer in the name of Our Lord!'

'I shall rise again!' Nevillon repeated and saw the reflection of the executioner's hand on the switch; he heard a faint click but had no time to anticipate the falling heavy blade.

The priest turned his head away, heard the first thud as the knife struck, followed by a lighter one as the severed head rolled into the basket. A spurting gurgling sound, the main artery jetting, the drain below the basket taking the flow of blood. Somewhere below, water was flowing to wash the scarlet fluid into the city's sewers.

Gallon paused to survey his handiwork. Perfect. So quick, and that was always a pity where a man like Louis Nevillon was concerned. The two warders just stared; if they came upon a gory road accident tomorrow they would stop and look. Blood fascinated them, so long as it was not their own.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' Gallon was the formal national executioner once more. 'Your presence has been a great help to me. The condemned man died quickly and painlessly.' Unfortunately!

Outside, the crowd had fallen silent. Obscene chanting had died to low muttered conversation and then petered out altogether. Yvette de Coulon had been avenged. There was nothing more to stay here for.

Slowly the gathering broke up, began to file away in an orderly fashion. The watching police bolstered their pistols and breathed an audible sigh of relief.

The Beast of France was no more. In time the bitter and gruesome memories would fade. It was all over.

'I say it is impossible!' The prison governor trembled and banged his desk with a clenched fist, causing an open ink-well to overturn and spill its blue-black contents. 'It is absolutely impossible. This is some kind of joke and the perpetrator will be punished!'