Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  He drained his glass, dropped a five-euro note on the bar and walked away. As he made his way to the door, he brushed against one of these beautiful girls, felt the curves of her body, the heft of her breasts pressed against him. He gently pushed her away, wrestling with the urge to shove his hand between her legs and drag her away with him.

  He wandered around for a while, shocked by the violence of his feelings, of his desires, he drifted towards the dark corners of the square past lurking groups of thugs, walked a little way along the cours Pasteur then turned back and walked back down the cours de la Marne oblivious to everyone, paying little attention to the fight that broke out on the opposite pavement, only dimly aware of shouts, jerking movements, a body collapsing into the road. He needed to get back to his car, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being clumsy, drunk, pathetic, his stomach lurching queasily. He slipped behind the steering wheel with a groan of exhaustion and relief and drove off, all the windows rolled up, happy in this silence, this solitude. He crossed the city in his air-conditioned bubble, the radio playing a Mozart concerto he happened upon while flicking through the stations. He allowed himself to be filled with the grace of this music. By the sudden joy that formed like the cool condensation on a glass when you are thirsty.

  As he got home and was fumbling in his pockets for his keys, the telephone in his apartment rang. He slammed open the door, crashing through the dark flat, winded and wheezing.

  He recognised the voice. He listened.

  “It will be all over soon,” the man said, “You’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘over’?”

  “For everyone. You, me. The time we’ve spent together. This is the moment when everything comes together.”

  “What about Sandra? What about my partner?”

  “It will be over for them too. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of it right now. You tried to fuck me over, but you’re not in control of anything, you shower of shits. I’ve been in control, ever since the beginning. Oh, and I’ve got some stuff about your son. You’ll like that.”

  Vilar had to sit down. He slumped into an armchair, feeling suddenly dizzy. The darkness whirled around him.

  “Hey, you listening to me?”

  Vilar sought some reserve of air within himself.

  “Yeah, I’m listening. One of these days, I’m going to kill you.”

  “Whatever. But maybe you should wait till you find out about your son, because if I’m dead, you’ll never know.”

  Vilar closed his eyes. The man had stopped speaking. There was nothing now but the hum of electrical static, a meaningless buzzing.

  Then, without another word, the call was cut off.

  Vilar threw his head back. Tears trickled into his throat.

  Late that night, the telephone rang again and immediately a dream came to him in which Ana was saying that they would be home soon and telling him she was about to pass the phone to Pablo, and Vilar, half asleep, leaning over the nightstand, receiver pressed to his ear, smiling at the thought of hearing his son’s high-pitched voice, could not understand why Daras was talking to him in a muffled, distant, barely audible voice as though she were calling from the bottom of an abyss; he had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

  “They’ve found Sandra de Melo at the Cité du Grand-Parc. It’s not pretty. You have to get here.”

  19

  Victor was sitting in the sweeping shadows cast by the mulberry tree and the oaks at the bottom of the garden where, at this time of the evening, it was so dark that it seemed it was from here that night welled up and spread irresistibly across the face of the earth. He abandoned himself to the muddled thoughts and chaotic images which seemed to sum up his situation. Once again he felt as though he were trapped in a deep hole, with no means of escape. At times the hole seemed to be filling with water, or to be flanked by steep powdery sides where his hands could find no purchase to climb out.

  Then he thought about Rebecca, about her hands on him, about what she had allowed him to do, what he had glimpsed. He ran a finger over his lips trying to recapture some trace of the pleasure he had experienced. But he felt nothing, alone and stupid in the silence that had suddenly swelled around him; there was not a breath of air and he looked up at branches of the trees which seemed impossibly still, tried to listen for the sound of the television in the house but heard nothing, not even the noise of the plates clattering in the sink.

  When finally he did hear something, it was too late. A hand was clamped over his mouth, a blade pricked at his throat. He recognised the voice whispering in his ear. He smelled the boozy breath that reminded him of the stink of cheap plonk that often hung around the wineries.

  “Keep your trap shut. You’re coming with me. You know who I am?”

  Victor nodded.

  “No … you don’t know. But I know. I’m sure now. I’m your father, you got that? I’m the one who had you with that whore and now you’re coming with me.”

  Victor felt his head being pulled back, the man’s hand was still clamped to his mouth so the boy decided not to resist and allowed himself to be dragged backwards, toppling the deckchair where he had been sitting, knocking over a plastic chair. The man was behind him, panting suddenly out of exhaustion or fear, following Victor’s footsteps, walking so close behind him that he stumbled and trod on his heels. They moved towards the house, passing the shed where Julien had finally got the engine of his moped working, and Victor remembered the kid’s whoops of joy that almost drowned out the backfire from the engine as he sprang from his den, stripped to the waist, slick with oil and sweat, coughing and spluttering from a cloud of exhaust fumes that looked as though they were coming from a big diesel truck rather than a moped. He recalled these whoops of joy perfectly now, the reek of engine oil, he could see Marilou hugging the kid, kissing and congratulating him like a little brother.

  Victor felt nothing. Neither fear nor anger. He tried to understand what was happening, but things were moving too quickly. All he knew was that he was drifting away. Everything suddenly seemed distant, remote. He was sorry it was dark because he would have liked to see the world flash past.

  As they passed the terrace and the golden glow that streamed from the open French window, Victor heard the familiar sounds of evening, Denis’ voice, loud and clear, saying to everyone “Hey, come look at what this guy’s doing on the telly,” and Victor was not sure whether he wanted someone to suddenly burst through the door and save him, chase this evil bastard out of his life or whether he wanted them to stay inside, safe and happy in this beautiful summer evening. The familiar sounds died away and Victor quickly found himself out on the road in the gathering dusk, faintly lit by a distant streetlamp. The man pushed him towards a large estate car whose make Victor did not recognise, but he thought it might be the car he had thrown stones at the other day. The man stopped when he clicked open the vast boot filled with boxes, bags and tins, he hesitated and Victor felt the grip on his mouth and his throat ease a little, but he did nothing that might anger the man or arouse his suspicion, he forced himself to remain completely still. He was terrified that someone might come out into the garden – probably Denis, who was always worrying where the kids were at night – might call him, come out to the gate and see what was going on, might see this guy trying to bundle a boy into his car, rush over and get into a fight or – worse – the guy might turn round at the last minute and stick the knife into Denis’ chest, so Victor let himself be manhandled, he tried to imagine Marilou and Julien sitting wide-eyed in front of the television with Nicole and Denis commenting on what was happening because someone on television was clearly doing something extraordinary, almost beyond belief, and he knew that this peaceful world was over now, that one way or another, he would be done for.

  “You scream or make any sudden move and I’ll cut your throat,” the voice behind him said. “I don’t give a fuck.”

  The man took his hand from Victor’s mouth, reached into the boot to get a roll of
duct tape, which meant he had to let go of the boy, keeping him pressed against the bumper only by the weight of his body, struggling to locate the end of the tape.

  Victor did not know what the man had done with the knife, but he knew he needed to use both hands to unroll the tape so he drove his elbow back hard and the man staggered back in surprise, allowing Victor to run out onto the road away from the village. As he turned away, he could clearly see the house he was leaving behind and he thought about the people inside, happy that he was able to keep them out of this. He heard the man curse and run after him, then dash back to his car. As he heard the engine start up, Victor came to the little path he and Rebecca had taken a few nights earlier, he plunged down the embankment as the utter darkness closed its huge jaws around him. He made no attempt to get his bearings, he simply ran across the soil rutted by tractor tyres and when he felt the ground rise again he stopped to catch his breath and listen, but he could hear nothing save the silence of the night pierced by stars with a pink moon rising over the estuary. He realised he could make out the shadowy mass of the vines and the dark track of the path running gently uphill from here. Feeling thirsty, he picked a heavy bunch of grapes, feeling each one with his fingers and eating only those that were soft and ripe. He loved the taste of the sweet juice filling his mouth and he walked on more slowly now, almost calm, hearing nothing but the night wind whispering in the vines.

  He carried on walking with no concept of time, skirting around the vast fields of the vineyards, along paths that criss-crossed one another; the moon, rising behind him, cast the faintest shadows that alerted him to any obstacles he had to negotiate, the furrows or the hillocks where he might trip and fall on all fours, pricking his hands on the brambles or thistles. His feet were bare, he had been wearing only a pair of old espadrilles that Nicole insisted they use when coming and going between the garden and the house, but the canvas had ripped while he was running so that they barely stayed on his feet, and more than once he had to hop around in the dark looking for the one that had come off.

  His only thought was to move forward. The darkness made him invisible and this entirely suited his desire to vanish, to cease to exist, to be able to watch unseen, as the dead do, perhaps, to eavesdrop on what others say about you, to know their secrets, to be close to them without their knowledge. He plunged into the balmy darkness and felt weightless.

  Then he stopped. He thought about his mother, he had left her behind, and his heart beat wildly as he pictured the urn in his wardrobe. “Manou,” he said aloud, “Manou, I’m not leaving you, I’ll come back to get you. You saw the guy. I had to run, I had to.” Once again he waited several seconds for her answer, but there was nothing but the wind tickling his neck.

  After a while, his legs began to tremble each time he needed them to jump a ditch or a stream, and he wondered where he was going to sleep. He scrambled up another bank and found himself on a narrow tarmac road, which he thought he recognised from having cycled this way once or twice – to the right, it led down to the estuary. He was afraid of that expanse of water gliding in the dark, afraid that it would swallow him up or carry him away, so he turned left and walked uphill for about a hundred metres, then cut back into the vines. He was hurrying now and turned his ankle in a rut, breathless and aching and suddenly so exhausted that he wanted to lie down and try to sleep, but when he felt the rough, dry grass prick his hands and his knees, felt the soil radiate the accumulated heat of the day against his skin, he gave a disappointed groan and limped on.

  Further on, just as the moon disappeared behind a wisp of fog, he almost ran straight into a trailer lying in the field; the boy hoisted himself into the back and lay down on the rough bare boards. He peeled off his shirt, rolled it into a pillow and the moment he lay down on his stomach and pressed his cheek to it, he was asleep.

  20

  If Sandra de Melo was not dead, it was only because an old woman out walking her dog at about 1.00 a.m. had started screaming when she saw the guy kicking and punching something she dimly recognised as a human being, Only as she drew closer did she realise it was a woman. The yapping dog had dragged its arthritic mistress towards the hulking figure who was raining blows on the broken body that jerked and twitched but made no sound. The man had made his escape in a large estate car of unknown make, possibly grey – the old lady had very bad eyesight, and had been unable to make out anything at all of the number plate.

  When the ambulance arrived, Sandra was lying curled up in a gutter, her head in a pool of blood. The paramedics quickly noticed a deep wound to the occipital bone and several fractures to the face – the nose, the jaw, the supraorbital arch – and diagnosed an intracranial haemorrhage. Her heart stopped beating but was restarted with a defibrillator. Vilar, who arrived just as she was being lifted into the ambulance, did not recognise the misshapen face with the bruised and swollen eyes, the split lip. He felt as though he were seeing Nadia as she had been on the day her body was found. Once more, the two women seemed determined to merge into one, but when he commented about this to Daras she shrugged and turned angrily away.

  “I don’t give a damn about your disturbing insights, Pierre. I want this bastard stopped right now, do you understand? He kills, he murders victims, he kidnaps one of ours, shit, this guy didn’t get to be who he is in the space of a month. He has form, he’s got a record and I’m guessing not just for assault. Jesus Christ, I want a name at the very least, and before tomorrow night.”

  She was trembling. For all the horrendous crime scenes the two of them had witnessed together, Vilar had never seen her so distraught. Without waiting for a response, she walked over to where Mégrier and his men were cordoning off the area and, since there was a whole team working the scene, Vilar decided to go home.

  He had driven, oblivious to the chaotic tangle of cars around him, with the sensation of slowly emerging from the weight of this muggy night, as though stepping through a curtain of cobwebs which were impossible to brush away, that dusty glue that sticks to the hair, clings to the eyelids, the filthy hands, the futile gestures. He had slept for two or three hours with no dreams, no nightmares: perhaps, realising that he was exhausted, his little ghost had decided to leave him in peace for once. He had taken a barely lukewarm shower, drunk half a cafetière of coffee and polished off a packet of sponge fingers and felt almost fine by the time he went down to the garage to find himself in his car, out on the street, back in this city where he could no longer bring himself to look at anything. He needed a cigarette, and indeed would have liked another coffee and something to eat to go with it, he desperately wished he were anywhere but here, behind this steering wheel, and he tried not to think about the place he would like to be, because it was too far away and there was no way back.

  He called the hospital. Sandra was still in a coma. The charge nurse in the intensive care unit, who spoke in a gentle, slightly weary voice, told him not to give up hope, that sometimes they saw catastrophic situations improve in a matter of hours. For the moment, the patient was stable. It was a promising sign that her condition had not deteriorated. They would have to wait. When she did not say anything else, Vilar suggested a time frame, though he knew it was pointless.

  “Forty-eight hours?”

  “Yes, that’s about right. Let’s say forty-eight hours. Well, if you’ll excuse me, someone’s calling on the other line.”

  She had already hung up by the time he could say thank you. From what little he could guess of the extent of Sandra’s injuries, Vilar started weighing up her chances of surviving, and the long-term consequences if she did manage to pull through. He set the mobile down on the passenger seat and weaved between a parked bus and a truck that sat on the edge of a vast building site that had transformed this part of the ring road into a disaster area. He turned onto the cours de Médoc, slowing to a crawl in the early rush hour traffic. He called the station and discovered that Pradeau was still missing. They were moving heaven and earth to find him. “But given what he did t
o the girl, who knows what that fucker has done to Laurent. Everyone’s really worried,” Ledru said, a young lieutenant whom Vilar liked – somewhat nervous, but always reliable. “Otherwise, there are three of us combing through prison records for a con named Éric released between ’92 and ’94.”

  “And?”

  “So far, we’ve got seventy-six. We’re cross-referencing against the crimes they were banged up for.”

  Vilar got him to promise he would call the minute they found something.

  “Daras was looking for you five minutes ago,” Ledru said.

  “I’m on the cours Balguerie. I’ll be there as soon as I can be. Tell her. She’ll know what I mean.”

  The studio flat Nadia had used could not have been more than twenty square metres. Vilar sat in a corner watching the forensics team from l’Identité judiciaire taking prints and bagging evidence. At present, all he could hear was their surprise at the lack of any useable prints.

  “Someone’s scrubbed this place spotless,” Lopez said after about five minutes, holding up a fingerprint brush. “We’ll see what we can get, but it doesn’t look promising. It’s like being in a sterile laboratory.”

  The interviews with the neighbours had produced nothing: no-one had seen or heard anything. No particular comings and goings. The studio was on the first floor, making it easy to enter or leave without anyone else noticing. The police had found two champagne bottles in the fridge, a few snacks in the cupboards, two glass champagne flutes and some plastic tumblers and plates. In the bathroom, there were some clean towels. A tube of toothpaste but no toothbrush, some cotton buds and a dried-out bar of soap.

  Vilar tried to get in touch with the owner of the building, and only reached his secretary. She tried to contact her boss on his mobile, Vilar could hear her talking on the other line, but could not understand what she was saying, perhaps because she had put her hand over the receiver or stood up to use her mobile. When she came back on the line, she told him that he could dial the number she was about to give him and Monsieur Vacher would answer straight away. Vilar rang off without saying goodbye and dialled the number.