Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  By the time he had finished and gone back to the kitchen, it was almost 3.00 a.m. He took a long drink from the tap, rinsed out his mouth and blew his nose, unable to get rid of the putrid stench. It was as though he himself had begun to rot. For a moment he sat down on a chair and stared at the remains of the meal, the familiar domestic chaos that could so easily be tidied away, but he was thinking about the irreparable chaos all around him, the decomposing bodies, the house that might well conceal yet more terrors.

  He gripped the edge of the table and hoisted himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness forced him to lean against the workbench. The throbbing migraine plunged him into an anguished stupor. He wiped tears from his face though he had no sense that he was crying, and went out into the hall. He looked for the door to the wine cellar, since a house like this was bound to have one. He found it to the left of the staircase; it was padlocked. He went back into the scullery, took the shotgun and loaded it. The two men did not react to his presence. Sanz did not move at all, he might well have been dead, Pradeau, lying on his side, watched him, his eyes wide in fear or shock, his mouth open.

  It took two shots to blast open the cellar locks. He pressed the light switch and went down the stone steps. The smell of damp stone and mildew pervaded the place, and it was cool. Set into the beaten-earth floor were two pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling. He followed the line of duckboards, moving between the crates filled with thousands of wine bottles. The cellar was organized by château and by vintage, marked out on labels or signs. The cellar was lit by spotlights which gave it a comfortable, convivial atmosphere. Vilar stood and contemplated the space. He could imagine people gathering here to sample fine or rare old vintages, trading pretentious chatter about the world of wine, revelling in this haven in the timeless pleasure of true privilege based on complicity and impeccable taste. He tried to imagine the couple rotting upstairs rhapsodising with their posh friends over the bouquet of a Médoc. He pictured the man whose face had been blown off roaming among these liquid assets, and as he did so the wine cellar was transformed suddenly into a macabre crypt.

  Just then, he noticed a low, narrow door on the right. A couple of kicks put paid to the lock and the stout wooden door crashed open. There was a step down. The smell here was the same, though he thought he could make out something which he assumed was the musty odour of a room long unused. There was no light. Gradually, his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, feebly illuminated by the glow from the wine cellar.

  He could make out a mattress. A chair. His heart did not seem to know whether to stop or to hammer fit to burst. He went back to the cellar and, in the drawer of a cupboard stocked with glasses and decanters, he found a torch.

  A blue washbasin. A chamber pot. The walls of the room were piled high with junk: suitcases, trunks, shelves lined with old books, their bindings blackened.

  He stepped towards the mattress and realised he was trembling, he could not breath for the lump in his throat. The beam of the torch faded, but he could see a thin piece of rope lying on top of a pile of rags. He ran his fingertips over the bright colours and noticed that they were mostly strips of fabric cut crudely from bed sheets. He began to rummage through them and pulled out a T-shirt printed with a cartoon character, then a vest and a pair of shorts. There were other children’s clothes.

  He wiped away the sweat that was coursing down his face, his back like rain.

  He turned when he heard a movement behind him. The torch bulb gave out just then and there was nothing but a faint, useless afterglow that made him think he could see shadows moving amid the piles of junk. He stared into the darkness, expecting to see a ghost.

  “Pablo?”

  Vilar did not see the dawn break. By the time he came back upstairs, the sun was streaming in through every window, causing colours to bloom everywhere he looked. He did not recognise the house he had entered the night before. Everything was suddenly beautiful, peaceful.

  It was unbearable. He called Daras and told her the situation, groping to find the words and struggling to utter them. He heard the anger and the fear in his voice while on the other end of the line she struggled to remain calm. She told him she would call the procureur and the local police and send the emergency services. She asked him how he was feeling, but he did not know what to say, so he said he would be fine. After they hung up, he went out and sat on the steps in the sunshine to wait for them.

  27

  He woke because he felt eyes staring at him. At first he could see only the teeming stars, but the sound of water splashing brought him to his feet. There was a dark figure standing in the water some ten metres from him. Its head was covered by a large hood, it was faceless. Still groggy with sleep Victor’s mind conjured fantastical visions. Death was standing before him, here on the riverbank. In its invisible hand it probably clutched the mooring rope of the boat and would stop him from leaving. Then the creature move and took shape.

  Ears pricked. An eye glittered in the moonlight. A horse. It advanced soundlessly. Standing up to its belly in the water, it stretched its muzzle towards the boy. A white stripe ran from its forehead to its nose. It was black or possibly brown, the colour of night. It did not move.

  And yet the power of the river was palpable, the murmur of the current lapping against the bank, the boat, tugging at the mooring line. The current wove its way between the horse’s legs and the animal stood, impassive, or perhaps surprised, staring at this boy who had washed up here.

  Victor leaned forward and the animal gave a quiet whinny that echoed in the boat. The boy clicked his tongue softly, reached out his hand, stretching his whole body, and petted the nose of the horse which bent its neck slightly, allowing itself to be stroked. Victor could feel hot breath against his fingers, could feel the nostrils flaring, the soft warm skin. “What are you doing here?”

  He wanted to wrap his arms around its neck and press his face to this large, gentle head. The horse moved closer. Victor leaned his forehead against the animal’s muzzle and the animal stood, motionless, and the boy could hear nothing but the muffled roar of its breath, all the power in a chest that cleaved the water and forced the river to flow on soundlessly.

  The horse jerked imperceptibly then moved its head away. It sniffed the water and tapped its hoof. Victor could see it better now, could see the gleam in its eyes, the tuft of hair falling over its forehead. The sky had brightened and gradually everything became visible. The river became bluer. The horse half turned and heaved itself onto the bank. Once on dry land, it looked at the boy and then disappeared into the trees.

  The river was once more flowing towards the ocean. Victor could now see the broad mass of water gliding slowly, peacefully, untroubled by the eddies of the rising tide. It seemed to be governed by a universal harmony. The boy untied the rope and used the plank of wood to propel himself into the current. He watched as the island disappeared into the distance, the mass of emerald trees framed against the brightening sky and the fading stars.

  He saw the horse between two thickets. It was grazing in a field, black against the shifting brightness of the long grass. Victor kept his eyes on the animal for as long as it remained in sight, then he settled in the bow, staring straight ahead, making no attempt to work out where he was, but simply watching the landscape broaden as the sun rose. He waited, expecting at any moment to see the wall of spray where the river hurtled into the sea. He felt as though he were speeding towards rapids that would hurl him over a waterfall or into dangerous whirlpools. Instinctively, he clung to the sides of the boat. He felt the rush of air against his face.

  He had drifted into the very middle of the estuary. The banks flashed past, and quickly disappeared, a single line underscoring the horizon while before him the sky was becoming infinite. He was not thinking about anything, utterly focused on this solitude. He reached behind him and touched the metal urn in his backpack and as he did so, a deafening wail rent the air making him jump in alarm.

  Two hundred metres be
hind was the bow of an ocean liner, white, and sharp, that seemed to fall inexorably towards him like a giant sword. He picked up his plank and struggled to change tack, but the boat simply swung around without moving away from the path of the ship. The siren blared again. He could hear the keening of the water beneath the bow, could see the muddy swell it pushed before it, tall as a ridge carved out by a ploughshare. His arms began to cramp from rowing, the boat seemed locked in the current which dragged it onward and made it impossible to turn. Victor saw the white blade bearing down, now barely twenty metres from him. People leaned over the bulwark, screeching and waving like great dumb birds. A huge wave lifted the boat, tossing Victor sideways, and he barely had time to jump before the boat tipped over and capsized.

  Muddy water filled his mouth. The churning of the motor was deafening, a terrifying racket that threatened to burst his eardrums. He surfaced, the sun’s glare forcing his eyes closed, water coursing into his lungs until, coughing, he went under again, flailing wildly and in vain to find some purchase. He surfaced once more and saw the capsized boat some metres away. He tried to swim, thrashing around at random and managed to float despite the gobbets of mud that sprayed from his mouth or lodged in his throat until he could hack them up.

  His hand slid over the curve of the hull as his head slipped under the water again, but he managed to grab the side and hang on, keeping his head above water, spewing out water and sucking in lungfuls of air. He coughed and spluttered and every time he did so his head banged against the wood.

  Then he remember the backpack. The urn. “Manou!”

  He plunged back into the water, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, his ears ringing, but very quickly found himself engulfed in a cold, murky heaviness where light itself died as he got deeper. He had to resurface, blinded by the mud, his mouth filled with dirty water. Grunting, he managed to hoist himself onto the upturned boat and lay on his belly, gasping for breath. He spat and breathed in between groans and sobs. The sun and wind dried his hair and his skin leaving him grey with dust, he kept his arms and legs outstretched so as not to fall back into the river, because suddenly this mass of water hurtling towards the ocean frightened him. Because he had been more frightened to die than to live.

  When he had got his breath back and his eyes were clear of mud, he thought about his mother at the bottom of this filth and sobbed and asked her to forgive him. He was not sure that she heard him and he could not imagine what her answer would have been. She was gone. The absence stretched away before him across this immensity that dazzled in the sunlight.

  He let himself be overwhelmed by exhaustion and grief.

  He raised his head when he heard a voice calling his name and the roar of an engine. The sun was higher now. A man was leaning over the side of a patrol boat, reaching out a hand towards him. Another man was holding a red buoy. He felt hands and arms pressing around him and voices asking if he was alright. Faces and peaked caps. Uniforms.

  He managed to explain that it was possible that his backpack was stuck under the boat. Two men used a grapnel to turn it over as he watched, holding his breath. There was nothing at the bottom of the boat but a little brownish water.

  They offered him water and a sandwich. He reluctantly ate everything he was given and got some of his strength back. Sadness replaced tiredness.

  Settled in a narrow cabin, he saw nothing of the return journey. One of the crew sat with him and gave him some chocolate. The boy said nothing. He was thinking of Her at the bottom of the estuary. He wept silently. His tears traced pale tracks through the drying layer of mud. He went up to the bridge as they came alongside in Pauillac. The quay was thronged with police and firemen. Once again he found himself surrounded, being asked if he was alright. Hands pressed against him.

  He felt the dry river tug at his skin.

  He walked through the crowd and then he saw them and he felt a twinge of happiness. First Nicole and Denis, hugging each other, their eyes red, their faces drawn. Then Marilou, who was smiling, the wind whipping her hair across her face. Julien was there, his face swollen, one eye black, a bandage on his chin. Victor waved and walked towards them.

  Further off among the crowd of onlookers, Rebecca called to him. She waved her tanned arm and the gesture made her body sway. She was smiling as he had never seen her smile before.

  Epilogue

  The remains of three children have been found in a house in Castillon: two boys and a girl, all aged approximately nine or ten. They were buried in the grounds near derelict outbuildings in which a hiding place was discovered, where they may have been imprisoned. Two rings embedded in the wall were probably used to restrain someone, however the fittings were clearly old and no further evidence has been found. In the cellar discovered by Commandant Vilar, the beaten earth floor preserved considerably more evidence: a milk tooth, a small earring, some hair. Soil analysis leads us to believe that one corner of the cellar had been used as a toilet by at least one of the children. Probably over the course of several weeks.

  D.N.A. tests have confirmed that the girl was Sonia, who disappeared, aged nine, from the Caen region in 1998. Nothing is known about the two boys. No match has been found in the records of missing children in metropolitan France in the past fifteen years. It is suspected that they were kidnapped abroad or perhaps even bought, potentially in Eastern Europe, which would make identification almost impossible. Forensic pathologists have confirmed that the most recent death dates from approximately five years ago.

  Obviously, we have delved into the past of both Jean-Luc Lafon and of his partner Marie-Hélène Cassou. The dates and details of extravagant parties and orgies Vilar uncovered during his investigation have been confirmed and corroborated by a number of witnesses. We have in addition identified those who supplied the cocaine and the petits-fours. Various names have circulated, some of them famous. Entertainers, politicians, even a celebrated writer. Television stars. The respective roles of Commandant Pradeau and of Éric Sanz have been clarified and a former commissaire divisionnaire who had assigned them minor jobs at these parties has been called before the Police Disciplinary Body.

  Little has been confirmed about the paedophile activities of the Lafon couple. An internet file-sharing network has been uncovered but it is impossible to interrogate dead bodies that, overnight, nobody will admit to having known. The identity of the young man whose head was blown off remains unknown. No identity papers. It is impossible, for obvious reasons, to create an e-fit. All of these leads are still being actively pursued.

  Éric Sanz is dead; when the police arrived they assumed he had been shot by Commandant Pradeau during a violent altercation. Little was done to establish the facts and, since the case was complex and contained much surprising material, the juge d’instruction had been happy to accept the version given by the responding officers.

  Laurent Pradeau has been found hanged in his cell at Gradignan prison after his second hearing before the magistrate at which, as before, he refused to answer any questions. He left no note. No explanation.

  *

  Vilar lets the November rain flow down his windscreen, remembering it all. Remembering the dead, specifically.

  He is parked outside the school, sat behind the steering wheel. He is in no hurry. No-one is waiting for him now. He was firmly advised to take a long leave of absence to take stock and to give his superior officers time to think of some other position to which he might be allocated, within the police force or elsewhere. The world quivers and shatters into dozens of soft, shifting slivers as the rain courses down. From time to time the windscreen wiper resets the scene, then once again the world begins to dissolve.

  He was there when the J.C.B. stopped digging and the forensic technicians from l’Identité judiciaire climbed down into the trench to finish the job. He ran towards them, slipping in the mud. He watched them working with silent, painstaking care, all eyes were focused on the trench and the white figures within it, brushing away the earth. A skull appeared an
d in that instant Vilar felt the ground slip from under him, hurling him into the pit. Apparently he screamed.

  When he came around, a paramedic told him he had been unconscious for an hour but that he was fine.

  “Are they finished?”

  The paramedic shook his head. It would be a long job. They were trying not to mix up the various sets of bones.

  Ten days later Vilar discovered that Pablo was not buried there. He called Ana to tell her. She said nothing. From her breathing, Vilar thought that she was crying. They hung up without another word.

  The rain stops and he thinks that the children will be able to go home without getting wet. He sees the lights in the classroom, and children’s drawings pinned up here and there. It is 11.23 a.m. The school gates are still closed and there are people waiting outside, always the same people; over time he has come to recognise them. He lays his hand on the gun which he has covered with a cloth. The sun appears from between two clouds, everything becomes dazzling. Behind the windscreen Vilar can see nothing but blinding light, so he gets out of the car and turns away from the sun so that he can see this little street where water gurgles in the gutters and young women chatter in front of the school gates.

  He looks at his watch. Two minutes.

  He cannot carry on. Pablo is dead, like the children buried in the pit. It was not him, but Vilar saw him. Across time and space. He knows. Over the past weeks, this thought has been slowly taking root in his mind. Now it sprouts in this damp sunshine.

  And already the predator is lying in wait, or is on the prowl. For days now, perhaps for months. Somewhere other than here. Obviously.

  Vilar bursts into tears and gets back into his car and drives off, turning on the windscreen wipers which cannot wipe away his tears.

  He leaves the city and drives for almost an hour. He stops beneath some pine trees in the roar of the west wind. As he crosses the dunes, he screws up his face against the gusts of wind damp with sand and spray.