Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  “Maybe we’ll meet a policeman,” Marilou said.

  Victor shrugged. He walked a little faster, brandishing the shaft of the hoe like a rifle.

  In the distance they could see a crossroads. A police car was parked on the verge, all the doors open in the blazing sunshine.

  “Come on,” Marilou said.

  “We’re safe now.”

  “No, you go. I have to leave. I can’t stay here.”

  She walked towards the road, jumped the bank and turned back.

  Victor had crept back into the furrow and was lying on his belly between the vines. He could see her looking for him, standing in her red dress on the boiling tarmac. She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear, looked at the ground as though trying to decide what to do, then shrugged and walked down the middle of the road towards the village. Victor stood up again and watched her over the tops of the vines as she grew smaller before she vanished among the houses.

  He felt as though he would never see her again and he stood for a long time staring at the point where he had lost sight of her, down in front of a house with a blue shutter. He would have liked to tell her how empty he felt, right in the pit of his stomach, and how he was a prisoner of that emptiness which followed him wherever he went, keeping him in a bubble that he could neither puncture nor burst. But she could not know, still less understand. She could not see the shadow that he sometimes saw at night in the darkness of his room. Could not hear that voice. And yet, a little earlier, when he had held her in his arms, he had felt her thin, hard, gentle body imprint itself, interlocking precisely with that void, nestling in the cleft of that emptiness, but it had lasted only for a moment and then she had become a nuisance and he had wanted to push her away but could not bring himself to, because he loved the feel of her hair against his neck.

  He followed the line of the estuary, taking narrow paths that led through the reeds or across the fields of hard mud, dry and cracked from the heat. He recognised this place from the afternoon he spent here with Julien, watching the river rats and the fish leaping sluggishly in the water. He trudged for more than an hour along crude paths that skirted the vines, their leaves blue with sulphate, or disappeared into fallow fields, barren and baked by the sun. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of the estuary on his right between the trees, and he thought that he could walk as far as the sea and wake up tomorrow morning on a sand dune watching night sink below the horizon.

  He passed a group of three caravans clustered beneath a thicket of trees, they were so dirty and mud-spattered that at first he thought they were abandoned until he heard a squalling baby and a dog barking, a huge brute probably, and – fearful – he took a detour. With the rusty old hoe he could defend himself, he thought, but this place was so desolate, so empty that he felt a faint uneasiness pushing him onward without his knowing what he was doing or where he would stop.

  He passed the village, saw the church spire in the distance, and drifted closer to the estuary before suddenly spotting a blue fisherman’s cabin, the glare of a corrugated iron roof in the sun. He moved closer. The boat was still there, tied up, resting on the mud. A path, or rather a wheel track in the dirt, stopped some fifty metres from a flat area of ground where the fishermen probably turned their cars. An old banger sat rusting, propped up on breeze blocks, surrounded by rusting steel rods and even older tyres. He walked along this path to see whether it might not lead to the back of a house or a storehouse and saw that it came out onto a wider dirt track, the one they had taken when they cycled here. The tracks here seemed to be older, since many were overgrown with grass.

  No-one would come here. He felt as though he had come to the end of the world. He wondered what time it was and turned on Rebecca’s phone which told him it was just after four. There was a long time still before it would be dark. Suddenly he felt exhausted and walked to the shade of some trees growing near the fisherman’s jetty. There, he sat down, opened the backpack and drank a little water, careful to leave some for later. He was sitting facing the muddy water, he heard it lapping against the shore and leaned against the trunk, legs stretched out. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing and listened to the murmuring all around him.

  He felt as though he might fall asleep here, so he got up again and walked to the fisherman’s hut. The door was nothing more than a salvaged piece of board, the varnish worn away, fastened by a bolt and two padlocks. The board did not reach the top beam; he pushed the point of his hoe under it and using it as a lever, he managed without much effort to ease it off its hinges. Then he had only to push and the door fell onto the floor of the shed, overturning a camping table and two folding chairs. He opened the shutters on either side of a huge cogwheel – used for reeling in the nets – turned by a handle which operated a windlass to which was attached a steel cable. He liked the breeze on his face, and the fact that from here he could see the whole breadth of the estuary.

  The water shimmered yellow in the sun and the blue of the sky was reflected as grey shards that shifted on the waves. A fish leapt above the water not far from him and the boy stood watching, hoping he might see another. The far shore was nothing but a dark line, above which rose an expanse of sky more vast than anything he had ever seen. Even the towers of the nuclear plant seemed insignificant, like pebbles placed along the shore. He quivered to feel so alone, faced with the expanse of the horizon, proud to be standing staring at it even as he was crushed beneath the vastness and the weight which he could feel bearing down on him. He turned around, picked up the chairs and the camping table, then opened the doors of an old formica cabinet: he found crockery, some knives and forks, a bottle of pastis, four or five glasses stacked on top of each other, salt, pepper, a bottle of olive oil and two tins of sardines. In the drawers, there was a ball of string, a pair of rusty scissors and a jumble of nails, screws and wire. In the bottom cupboards he found nothing interesting other than a hacksaw.

  He stood in the middle of the hut, turning slowly around, wondering whether it would be possible to survive here, especially in winter. He had no clear answer to this question. He set the chairs facing each other and sat down on one, putting his feet up on the other, grabbed his backpack, rested it on his legs and began to rummage through it. First he took out the urn, laid it on his belly, placed one hand on it. He closed his eyes. It was warm. He took one of the tissues Marilou had brought and wiped the urn clean of fingerprints, then, wetting the tissue with spit, polished the red surface until it shone. “There you go, Manou,” he whispered.

  They sat for a long time, lost in a daydream, a rush of chaotic images mingling old memories of Marilou, Rebecca and Julien, but also memories of Nicole and Denis, and he could no longer distinguish his previous life from this one. He had gone on living without quite knowing how. But there was still this pain, this tightness in his heart, this insurmountable void. This desert heat followed him like a shadow.

  He was struggling to breathe, so he looked out at the river again, the powerful waves and eddies of the water, and took a deep breath, shaking his head with a groan. Suddenly he felt unbearably hot. He ran out of the hut and the air outside felt cooler as it whispered in the leaves. He went down to the boat and saw that it was chained to one of the piles supporting the jetty. He sat in it, his feet resting on a hillock of ropes. He looked around for the oars, went back to the hut in case he had missed them, then decided it was probably normal for the fishermen to take them home so no-one would steal the boat, as he had been planning to do. He wondered what he could use to steer to boat. The estuary was murmuring now with a thousand jets of spray as the waters swelled, the waves breaking in a spume of muddy water that glittered in the sun. The rising tide pushed against the river, the powerful current rippling the water.

  Victor went back up onto the bank to explore around the old abandoned car. It was a veritable rubbish dump: old tyres, scrap iron, gravel and a few long planks that he dragged back to his den. There, he set to work on them with the broken hoe and the hacksaw. He had no skil
l and not much strength. Before long he was sweating profusely, perspiration burned his eyes and left his lips tasting of salt. He stopped from time to time to drink some water, finishing off the first bottle. He watched the rising tide, observed the inexorable patience as it encroached on the dry ground.

  Eventually he fashioned a piece of wood that would serve, flattened at one end. He threw it into the boat and began slowly cutting through the first link of the chain, the steel ring shifting under the hacksaw which was reluctant to bite into the metal; the boy grunted and groaned as the boat rocked under his movements.

  When he checked the time again on Rebecca’s phone, it was almost 7.30. He decided to eat in the boat which he had now reattached to the jetty with the length of rope. From the hut, he got an old blanket that smelled of paraffin and threw it onto the seat. He opened a tin of sardines which he ate using the tip of his knife, then sopped up all the juice with some of his bread. He did not eat all the pâté, nibbled a few of the crackers. Finally, in small sips, he drank half the second bottle of water.

  He felt happy and tired. He lay down in the bottom of the boat and looked up at the leaves of the trees above him. There were noises from the bank, a crackling in the dry reeds, river rats probably. He heard the fish leaping in the water, carried in on the high tide, which was calmer now the ocean had the upper hand.

  Then he heard the shout. It was Julien. And another voice, muffled. A car door closing. Victor dashed to the hut to get his bag. He had trouble fitting the urn back into it, got tangled with his shoelaces, grabbed the hoe.

  As he stepped out the door he saw the man running towards him, and behind him Julien scurrying down the bank shouting something he could not make out. The man was no longer paying any attention to Julien, who raced to the water’s edge. Victor took his knife from his pocket and leaned his weight against the boat towards the current, forgetting that it was still tied to the jetty and had to fumble to loosen the knots he had tied himself. He was still pushing the boat, his feet already in the water, when the man grabbed him by the hair, jerked him backwards and clamped a hand over his mouth in case anyone might hear a scream in this godforsaken spot, then he put an arm around his throat. The boy felt his face flush and gulped as much air as he could. He still had his knife, but did not know where or how to strike and he knew the man could easily disarm him, so he lashed out, stabbing behind him at random, feeling the blade hit something hard; he pulled it out and stabbed again. He felt a warm wetness on the fist gripping the handle that made him feel nauseous. The hand over his mouth disappeared and he heard the man stumble back and fall. Victor turned and saw him get to his feet and walk towards him, his trousers stained with blood. The pale, slick face betrayed no emotion. He looked like a robotic creature, executing a mission it had been programmed to perform. Watching him lumber forward, head down, dragging his injured leg, it fleetingly occurred to Victor that the man might be immortal, eternally destroyed only to be reborn. At that moment Julien leapt at the man, only to receive a punch in the face that sent him reeling; he fell onto his back, motionless, as though dead. Victor let out a cry. He called out then turned and jumped towards the boat which was drifting into the current. He fell into the water, trying to grab the length of rope, his hands sank into the mud and were cut on something sharp and jagged that made him think of bones. When finally he managed to grab the rope, he pulled the boat towards him, moving deeper into the water as he did so, then clambered over the side and fell onto his stomach.

  The man was behind him, clinging to the back of the boat, the water up to his waist, trying to climb aboard. Victor got up on all fours, grabbed the hoe and lashed out with all his strength but he only struck the man’s shoulder with the handle, the rusted metal barely grazing his shoulder blade. The man arched his back, leaned his weight on his hands, but he seemed unable to hoist himself, sinking back into the mud. The boy stood up, unbalanced by the man rocking the boat, he took the hoe in both hands. This time he was careful to keep his eyes open, but as he struck out he stumbled and had to steady himself against the side of the boat and the blow caught the side of the man’s head and he saw the metal scrape across the scalp, seeming to rip his ear off, Victor could see nothing in the gush of blood. Screaming, the man clamped his hand over the wound, staggering in the water, clumsy and heavy, his whole upper body now spattered with blood, bogged down in the mud, the water lapping around him.

  Victor paddled as best he could with his makeshift oar, and the boat moved away from the stupefied man who shook his head and slowly turned back towards the bank. The boat slipped into the current and was carried, askew, far from the bank, so Victor stopped paddling, his arms stiff, his back aching. He could still see the fisherman’s hut, but the man had vanished. He wondered whether Julien had come round, picturing again that brutal punch that would have stunned a rabid dog. He felt like a coward, running away like this, but did not know what else he could have done. He knew he had to disappear. And here, in the middle of the estuary, being carried upstream on the tide towards Saint-Estèphe and Bordeaux, he was going back in time, going back to the place he had left and as he lay exhausted in his little boat there was nothing he could do about it – he could not fight the power of the tides which, tomorrow, might drag him back and fling him into the roaring ocean.

  24

  The telephone. Vilar did not dare to move, as though the device were capable of detecting his presence and would stop ringing if it thought he was not there. He dearly hoped this was just another dream. Go back to sleep. Everything will be fine. This is what he and Ana used to say to Pablo. Pablo was often scared during the night. Perhaps scared of the night itself.

  His mobile. Slowly he emerged from the delirium of sleep. It was almost 2.00. He found the telephone. The call was coming from a landline.

  “Were you asleep?”

  Vilar had not turned on a light and yet around him the darkness began to pale to the point that the room seemed to have been sprayed with phosphorous. He blinked and now the shadows were lit by spots before his eyes that darted in time to the pulsing in his veins.

  “What do you want?” Vilar asked.

  “To get this over with. I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “So this was a game?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. I think it was the same for you. At least it keeps your mind busy, all your police bullshit, the corpses, the investigations, all that shit. That’s what gets you up in the morning, dickhead. If it weren’t for that, you’d have put a bullet in your head long ago, am I right?”

  Sanz was interrupted by a hiccup. Vilar could hear his breathing.

  “Where are you calling from? Have you gone into business as a shrink?”

  “I’m in the Médoc, if you can believe that. I came to get my son, but the little bastard doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Your son?”

  “That’s right, my son, Victor – ring any bells? I’m sure you know, they placed him here with a foster family … Just like his father before him. We’ve got a lot in common. But this is the second time he’s got away from me, so fuck it, he can drop dead just like his whore of a mother …” He paused, took a breath. “Anyway, we’re coming to the end of the road.”

  Vilar tried to think, but his mind was blank. All his concentration was focused on this voice in which he thought he could finally hear a crack, a supressed quavering.

  “Where’s the kid? Is he with you?”

  Sanz sighed.

  “I … Are you fucking dense or what? I just told you, he got away. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t give a shit, you got me?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “I’ll tell you. Come and get me …”

  Vilar wondered if this was a request or an order. The voice had trailed off towards the end. There was none of the manic triumph, the overweening arrogance with which Sanz usually imbued every word.

  “You want me to come get you? Don’t you have a car?”

  Sanz si
ghed again and mumbled vaguely.

  “No petrol. And I’m not heading out in the middle of the night, the place is crawling with cops.”

  “Cops? Looking for you?”

  “No. You’re the only one looking for me. No, they’re looking for the kids. Probably think I raped them or killed them, fuck knows. Get me out of here. You have a warrant card, you can get through the cordons.”

  “You said kids. What kids? Victor? Who else?”

  “It’s no big deal, I’ll explain later … Come get me and I’ll take you where you want to go.”

  Vilar felt an excruciating current course through his body. The bruises from the previous day’s altercation ached as though Sanz were beating him again.

  “And where is it you think I want to go?”

  “You know perfectly well. You’ve known for the past five years.”

  “I’m tired. Why should I go anywhere with you? What do you know about what I want? I should rip you apart for what you’ve said about my son, what you’ve done. I …”

  Suddenly he had no more breath, his chest felt as though he were suffocating.

  “It’s not like I’m not tired too. Chill out. You’re not going to rip anyone apart because you’re not like me, you don’t have that rottenness in your brain.”

  Vilar tried to marshal his thoughts. It was like trying to catch and hug the driving rain. He’s trying to suck up to me. All psychopaths do it. But I’ve got him. He’s got me.

  “Tell me where you are. If I can’t find you, I’ll get directions from a local officer.”

  He turned on the light, reached for a piece of paper and a pen. Out of the shadows the lamp conjured a familiar reality and he feared his nightmare might fade away. Vertheuil. A remote house with a blue door on the road to Cissac. A white Golf parked out front. Some sort of pine in the garden. Vilar may have stumbled across the names of such villages on the labels of wine bottles. In the chaos on his desk, he dug out a sufficiently detailed map and went down to the car.