My guess is that he’ll run off without waiting for the answers. I need to intervene and place the course of destiny firmly back on its rightful tracks.
I loathe direct confrontation. Achilles is not a fighter. Just think on that for a moment. I’m far too distinguished to debase myself by grappling with an opponent. It’s true that I’ve hit women on occasion, and I don’t deny that, but I needed to knock them out. I had to avoid any unnecessary suffering.
I jump to my feet, ready to catch Destrien should he try to make a run for it, but once again he takes me by surprise. He chooses the first option and I see his fist moving forwards. In the path of said fist is my chin. Pain spreads across my lower face. My eyes close and my temples explode. My lower jaw slams against the upper.
It hurts.
I open my eyes and notice that I’m down on the floor, stunned. Strangely enough, my throat is throbbing. There’s a knot tightening in my oesophagus, but it must be the relief of breathing again.
I try to get up, but his foot smashes into the side of my head. I think he’s just burst my eardrum. I shuffle backwards and lean against the box from which I took the documents. My head is spinning. I put my hands on the ground and straighten up, staring Destrien in the eyes.
I look ashamed. I know this because I can see in the eyes of my torturer that I’m completely at his mercy. I am quite unable to stem the flow of blows – they just keep on coming. All I can do is clench my teeth while they’re still in my mouth and hope he finishes me off quickly.
I’ve never drawn out the procedure when I’ve bled my prey. That would be too vicious. Unfortunately, not everyone has the same ethics as I do in this business. The integrity of a murderer is lost on the younger generation.
Destrien looks at me. That is indeed a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He steps forward, and I take the time to really study him closely.
I know his face quite well by now because I’ve had plenty of time to look at all the framed photos of the couple on the white-painted walls of the house. His oily hair disgusts me. Curly, jet-black locks fall around his neck and twist behind his ears. It reminds me of the gypsies from the Camargue who come to play guitar in the Pays Basque at the end of the summer, before heading down towards Bilbao and Santander. In his dark irises, I read his hidden weakness.
He’s reasonably short, in fact. You might think he’s stocky, but no, that’s just an illusion. I think it’s his posture that gives this impression. Anyway, he’s hiding his game. He is younger and stronger than me, and without the element of surprise, I don’t stand a chance.
Two steps forwards and his legs are now above mine. He laughs and looks down on me with contempt. My pulse is racing from all the adrenaline. His behaviour, quite honestly, is a little too cocky. You should know how to kill with class, for God’s sake.
He leans over and grabs me with both hands by my collar. He’s forcing it a little, and my backside starts to lift off the tiles.
I shift backwards, putting all my energy into it, then come out of nowhere. Frankly, if he hadn’t laughed, I’d have left him to it. I would have preferred my death to be as easy as possible, but now a terrible fury invades my veins, beats at my temples and seems to buzz in the very air as I gnash my teeth and jump to my feet. This is my only chance. I hit him hard and he loses his balance.
It’s a simple chain reaction – call it the theory of acceleration, gravity, whatever you like – but it’s not Newton who’s doing all the work here, it’s Achilles. Destrien flies forward, his forehead strikes the edge of the desk, and all of a sudden I’m covered in blood. The thick red soup trickles down my forehead and the top of my nose, leaving a velvety trail on my skin. A drop slips between my lips and the taste of it wakes me up.
I squirm on the spot like a reptile as I pull myself from beneath my opponent’s body.
Sebastien Destrien is unconscious. He’s bleeding profusely and I believe he’s about to die. I need to keep him alive . . .
I have a couple of questions for him first.
Before I do anything else, I’ve got to tie him up. I go into the next room and open a cupboard built into the wall, digging around in the plastic storage crates.
I come back with a couple of ties and bind Destrien’s hands and feet. It won’t be enough. After five minutes in the kitchen emptying drawers, I return with some thick string to bind the wrists of the man who almost killed me to the point of drawing blood. I use a pair of dirty socks to gag him.
I’m working on autopilot, but feel faint. Every part of me hurts. I really want to lie down in Destrien’s bed and just sleep for a couple of hours. I stumble to the bedroom, leaving him tied up in the living room, and I couldn’t care less. I’ve immobilised him for now, but perhaps abandoning him is too dangerous? I don’t care . . . I’m in no condition to continue with this. I need time to come to my senses.
I walk over to the bed and lift the sheet. A musty smell rises up of dirt, mingled with body odour and sperm. Once again, I feel like throwing up, and since I’m finally free to do as I please, I rush into the toilet and do just that.
Afterwards, I feel a little better despite the migraine thumping away inside my skull. In the bathroom medicine cabinet, I find a box of paracetamol and swallow two tablets, then disinfect the open wound on my cheek with some cotton wool and antiseptic. It runs all the way up to my brow, but the blood has dried.
When I rub my temple, I have to stifle a scream, and my anger goes up another notch.
Back in the living room, Destrien’s still out of it, slumped by the desk. I make myself a coffee in the kitchen and knock it back in one. It’s only as I light a cigarette that I notice my hands are shaking.
A review of the situation is required.
Viviane’s husband doesn’t know that I’m The Artist. He probably thinks I’m just a burglar.
The dead can’t kill, so Viviane herself is not the sadist who’s been tormenting me since November. Sébastien Destrien, however, is at the end of his tether. He’s furious and has nothing left to lose.
His wife and son are no longer part of the equation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s lost his job, which would explain why he came home so early. I really thought I had a good hour more ahead of me.
To regain some semblance of restraint, I’m going to have to sleep. I may even have to consult a doctor. I may as well take advantage of my prey currently being unarmed, vulnerable and unable to move.
I originally set out on this trail to prevent everything catching up with me later. It was Hector who made me realise that unless you wipe a table properly, the crumbs can turn rotten. I would never have expected that such testimony – I’m talking about the sketches of me – could ever have existed. I’m definitely not quite as infallible as I thought . . .
What if Destrien had happened upon me by chance one day? There’s no doubt that he’s obsessed with the portraits of the man who indirectly turned his miserable existence upside down.
Destrien’s on the move. I can hear it. Only for a brief moment – but it was the sound of his shirt fabric rustling. He’s coming to. About ten seconds later and I can hear more movement. He’s trying to sit up.
I go through to him. When he sees me and understands the situation in which he finds himself, his eyes widen. I read three emotions in his expression: hatred, incomprehension and fear. I’m quite pleased about the third.
‘I’ve tied you up and there’s no way you can get out of it. I have some questions to ask you. There are several ways we can go about this.’
The hatred is still there in his dilated pupils.
‘Don’t make me lose my temper. My questions. Will you answer them?’
He gurgles. I’m wondering what to do next.
‘If I remove the gag, will you promise not to scream?’
Destrien is making as much noise as he can. The words themselves are muffled. I may not have been particularly perceptive of late, but have no trouble understanding that it’s a ‘no’.
‘Listen, Monsieur Destrien, I’m going to hurt you. I don’t particularly like hurting people, but it seems to me that you don’t know who you’re dealing with.’
I push the blade against his cheek and give it a sharp downwards flick. Blood trickles out.
For a moment I wonder if Destrien might work out as a canvas. After all, an artist must explore new possibilities. I lift the bottom of his shirt. There’s no belly fat, but I’m repelled at the sight of the bushy black hairs.
So no, it’s not possible. And to cut flesh without Patroclus would be to deny my art. There is a certain ceremony that needs to be respected, and I would never be willing to break the rules for a raggedy wastrel like Destrien, not for anything in the world. My ritual is immutable; to upset it would be to negate my own self.
My opponent is crying – tears of fear or pain, I don’t know which, but there they are. And they are too valiant to be dried by pride.
I maintain my posture.
‘All right. Let me repeat myself: I have some questions to ask you. Shall I take that gag off?’
26.
I remove the gag with care.
‘If you scream, I’ll cut your throat. Understand?’
He mumbles.
‘Do you understand me?’
‘Yes. Understood. Who are you?’
‘I’m the one asking the questions. I think you know exactly who I am, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you’re the bastard who killed my Viviane!’
‘What . . . Huh?’
I suppose he didn’t scream the words exactly, but you have to admit he deserves what comes next. I sweep the air in front of me with the blade, and it slices him just above the right eyebrow.
‘Hey!’ he shouts. ‘Stop it!’
‘I’m the one holding the knife, Monsieur Destrien. I think it might be a good idea to talk nicely to me, and don’t you forget your manners. My mother was not unmarried. She brought me up well and I’m going to ask you to respect her. You think I wasn’t raised right? Is that it?’
He looks smaller somehow.
‘Monsieur Destrien, do you know exactly who I am?’
‘Of course I know who you are. I see your face every blinking day.’
‘Your wife’s drawings! Yes!’
‘Yeah. She lost her mind after you attacked her. Spent her days drawing your face, and you’re now asking me if I know who you are?’
All right, we’re making progress.
‘Well,’ I say with a voice that I want to sound firm and determined, ‘how come you’re here?’
‘Here? Is this some kind of joke? This is my house. I should be asking you.’
‘You know very well what I mean. Why did you come home so early? Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Work? I’ve been fired, if you must know. All because of you.’
‘Because of me? Gosh . . . Are you going to blame me for Mitterrand’s defeat in the elections too?’
‘Viviane killed herself because of what you did to her. I’ve been through hell. So yes, all this is because of you. It’s your fault . . .’
I squat beside him, holding my right hand – the one with the knife – out in front of me.
‘Monsieur Destrien, you’re mistaken and you just won’t admit it to yourself. She’s the one who topped herself, and I’m sorry about that . . .’
‘Sorry? Really?’
‘Well, perhaps I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. Let’s just say I don’t really care. This particular one wasn’t my doing.’
‘“This particular one”? Why “this particular one”?’
‘What?’
‘You said: “this particular one”, as if you’d killed others. Why did you say that, monsieur?’
I note that he’s speaking quite formally, and I like that. Finally, a little respect . . .
‘I don’t know. Why do you think I said that?’
‘To scare the shit out of me. Just stop being so dramatic – what do you want?’
‘I’m the one asking the questions, remember? I didn’t kill your wife. If she died, it’s because she didn’t have enough strength to overcome what happened to her, and that’s partly your fault. And the same goes for you: you’ve let yourself go and that’s entirely down to you.’
He stays quiet and lowers his head until his chin is touching his chest.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘now that’s been established, let’s carry on. I asked why you came home so early, and you said you were fired?’
‘Yes. After Viviane died, I went on sick leave, and then I couldn’t go back. My boss just let me go. And my son – I was refused custody of my own . . .’
‘I know, I know. All your own doing. You’ll just have to get over it, Monsieur Destrien. So, what do you know about me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was indeed I who pushed your wife around a bit a few years ago. What else do you know about me?’
‘Pushed her around a bit? Are you saying you just pushed her around a bit?’
‘Answer the question. What else do you know about me?’
‘I know you pretended to be a PTT man, that my wife let you into our house and that as soon as she turned round, you knocked her out. I don’t know if you stole anything from us. We had no cash and we never noticed anything missing.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
I know the answer to this question because I saw a report among Viviane’s papers, but I want to make sure Destrien doesn’t lie to me.
‘Yes, yes, we told them everything.’
‘And what did the police think?’
‘Just that you must have been disturbed by someone and so made a run for it before you got a chance to ransack the house. The other possibility was that . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘The other possibility, they said, was that you were there to rape her. And . . . you were disturbed . . . and you left.’
‘I wasn’t there to rape your wife.’
I can read infinite distress on his face. He’s rolled up in a ball at my feet, crumpled like a pile of dirty linen, and it’s painful to see.
‘That’s what she thought. Viviane, she always thought she was almost raped. That’s what drove her to a breakdown. That’s why she had to take all those fucking pills. Fucking hell! She was sure she came this close to being raped and that you would then have killed her. It’s all she could think about. I never saw her smile again after that day, you know. It was an obsession. That’s what killed her.’
‘She was wrong.’
‘She couldn’t have known that. Why did you choose us? Was it a robbery?’
‘I am asking the questions.’
‘Come on! You can at least tell me, can’t you? Look at me! Tell me! You were there to steal from us, weren’t you?’
I say nothing for a while and light a cigarette. ‘Monsieur Destrien, I like the way you’re giving me orders.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t expect you to be so . . . impudent. But I don’t like surprises. I’m going to have to take care of you. I can’t have a second Hector on the loose.’
‘Hector? What’s that supposed to mean? What are you talking about? Who’s Hector?’
‘Hector was one of the heroes of the Trojan War, along with Ajax, Achilles, Patroclus and Agamemnon. The conflict was between the Achaeans and the Trojans. Have you ever read Homer’s poem, The Iliad? No, of course, the only thing you people read is the TV guide. The duel between Achilles and Hector is epic. It really is. They are valiant heroes in battle, the bravest men of all time. Hector kills Patroclus, Achilles’ faithful companion.’
‘You . . . You’re out of your tiny mind, aren’t you?’
‘There are several things you should know. I am Achilles and Zeus is on my side. At the end of their legendary fight, Achilles ties Hector’s ankles to his cha
riot. He drags the body through the dust until his enemy’s head is reduced to nothing but pulp. At first, Achilles refuses to return Hector’s body to his father, Priam . . .’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘But, in the end, he agrees . . . in exchange for a ransom. In the mythology, Achilles eventually dies. I may also die, but it won’t be by your hand, and it won’t be today, nor tomorrow.’
I’m now face to face with Destrien, and suddenly I smell something sour rising up to meet my nostrils. Destrien has pissed himself.
‘Do you know the name I go by?’
‘What?’
‘Do you know what people call me? The nickname the press gave me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, let me go! I won’t tell the police, I swear! I don’t even know who you are, and I don’t care . . . I don’t want to know! Just release me and leave and I won’t say a thing. I don’t even want to know why you attacked Viviane. I just want us to get this over with and . . .’
Let’s get this over with then.
It’s a resolute blow to Sébastien Destrien’s throat and I’m amazed at my own dexterity. I swipe my wrist to the left and the blade sinks into his jugular, then swivel it back to the right so the wound opens up and the blood gushes out.
A final roar rumbles through the chest of the dying man.
This man taking his last breath here in front of me is nothing. He has lost whatever it is that drives a human being to survive. I release him by killing him – just as I freed Pascal Vermillon.
Sébastien’s carcass, emptied now like a bladder, is slumped across the worn-out tiling. I take his pulse. He’s definitely dead.
I have to sit here for five to ten minutes before I’m able to fully take in what’s just happened. I wipe down any objects I might have touched with a clean cloth. It takes me more than an hour. I wear gloves, of course. I always do that – just in case. I suppose it’s a way of reassuring myself and really, dear comrades, I need some reassurance right now . . .
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