The Ninth Life of Louis Drax

by Liz Jensen

  —I said Louis, can you hear me? You’re in hospital. In Provence.

  No. No, I can’t hear you because I’ve found the Off button. And Off is best.

  And I press it and they’re gone.

  All except one.

  —Hello, Young Sir, he says. —Welcome to your ninth life.

  His head’s all wrapped in bandages and his voice is croaky like he’s swallowed gravel.

  Louis’ bizarre seizure changed nothing on the surface of things – but somehow, like a seismic shudder, it rocked us all in unforeseen ways. The worst part of the whole episode, I thought afterwards, was the reaction of his mother. It should have told me instantly that things weren’t fitting together the way they should. That something was fundamentally and irredeemably amiss, that an appalling truth was trapped inside her, insisting on release. But I was blind. We all were.

  When I caught sight of Louis sitting up in bed, before I even had time to register the fact that he might be waking, I felt a rush of superstitious guilt. He heard us. He saw us. He knows. I raced across the garden, up the path – white gravel and dust spitting beneath me – and up the stone steps to the balcony. I was aware of Natalie following somewhere behind, calling out to me to wait, to please explain what was–

  But there was no time. I stormed through the French windows to find chaos. The nurses had come running and everyone was crowded round the bed, including several visitors, Isabelle’s father among them. They cleared the way as I arrived. When I saw that Louis was still sitting up, I felt a surge of hope.

  His small, pinched face was enamel-white and glistened with a marshy, feverish sweat. His dark eyes – huger than I could have imagined – stared straight ahead. I sat on the bed and gently took his face in my hands, levelling my eyes with his. But as I looked into the dark pools of his enlarged pupils, it felt as if I were looking at holes to darkness, no more. Whatever Louis could see, it was not of the here and now. His fixed gaze was pure, unblinking blindness, like the introversion of insanity or the deep alienation you see in torture victims. A massive, involuntary shiver ran through me. Nothing could have prepared us for Louis Drax being capable of such a big, decisive, movement. Or for what happened next.

  The child spoke. In a tiny voice, almost a whisper.

  —Where’s my papa?

  The words seemed to echo silently for a moment and then his mother screamed. It was a delayed shock reaction I suppose. There was barely time for anyone to register that the voice we had heard came from Louis, when suddenly Natalie Drax had hurled herself at him, flinging her arms around the child’s torso in a frenzied embrace.

  —It wasn’t Papa’s fault! He didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident! she wailed.

  —Get off! Do you want to kill him? I yelled, wrenching her off. —He has head injuries! Don’t touch him!

  I gripped her by the upper arm and shoved her – quite violently – down into the chair next to the bed, where she cowered, covering her head with her hands and shuddering like a creature electrocuted. I felt a stab of regret at having acted so harshly, but this was not a time for subtleties. Louis required my attention; his mother would have to fend for herself. Jacqueline had by now quickly assessed the situation and had come to the same conclusion as me: that Natalie Drax, in her current state of hysteria, was a liability, and had to be removed from the ward. Somehow, in the interim, she and Berthe persuaded her to come with them and stand at some distance from Louis’ bed.

  —Louis, can you hear me? I asked, still unable to believe he had spoken. —I’m Dr Dannachet. You’re in hospital.

  The boy was still sitting bolt upright on the bed, surrounded by the clutter of bedside furniture and monitors; I held my breath as I waited for more words to come. But nothing did. There was no sign at all to indicate that he had spoken, except that his lips remained slightly parted. They looked dry. I moved to take his face in my hands to look properly into his eyes. For a split second they seemed to flicker with life.

  —Yes, Louis! I breathed.

  But when I felt the weight of his head become denser, my flash of hope evaporated. Quickly I changed position to protect the back of his skull, and as I did so, I sensed – very distinctly – a swift series of muscle spasms in the neck region as the energy that had flooded into him ebbed out again, like sea water swallowed into sand. He slumped back, his eyes sweeping shut. It was over. He had gone back to wherever he had come from. The whole episode had lasted no more than two minutes, I estimated. Whatever the unexplained seizure that had animated his body was, it had run its course. I felt total defeat. It seemed that something had so nearly happened, and then had not. And then guilt ploughed through me again. If I had been a professional, spending time with Louis on the ward, instead of kissing the child’s mother out in the garden – kissing his mother, for Christ’s sake – would things have been different?

  That little voice, asking for his papa. That just isn’t the way things happen with coma. Never in twenty years had I–

  My thoughts whirled.

  Meanwhile Natalie’s reaction to her son’s seizure had been just as bizarre, in its way. She behaved, I thought afterwards, as if she’d seen a ghost. And perhaps she thought she had.

  —You can come back when you are prepared to be quiet, I told her as I fixed his drip. —But for now, please just go home.

  —I’m staying with my son.

  —No, I said firmly, as Jacqueline patted her arm. I noticed that again Natalie Drax pulled away from the physical contact, as though she had been flayed raw. —Believe me, it’s for the best, I said. —You have to trust us. Now try to relax.

  —Relax? Natalie’s voice was a hoarse, cracked whisper. —My son nearly comes alive for the second time, and you want me to relax?

  Her face, just like her son’s, had turned an unearthly white. Against her pallor, her lipsticked mouth was a wound, a bloody gash in her face.

  —Come with me now, said Jacqueline. She spoke kindly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. —We’re going to the cafeteria for a coffee. We’ll talk about Louis there, and I’ll introduce you to some of the other relatives. It’s time you talked to them, Madame. And listened. They’ve seen it all. And so have I. I haven’t told you about Paul yet, have I? I think it’s time for me to tell you about my son Paul.

  And she steered the poor broken creature off.

  Appalled though I had been by Natalie Drax’s reaction, I could understand it on some level. The mind is delicate. Hers had been assaulted again and again by the unimaginable, the unexpected, the inexplicable and the unfair. And at this point I will confess there was a surreality to the episode that made me want to scream too. It was almost, I thought, as though Louis were a puppet, his body operated by a stranger.

  As though the voice that came from those dry lips were not his own.

  If you wanted to hide, this would be a good place for it.

  —My name’s Gustave, says the scary man. —What’s yours?

  But I can’t remember anything except Wacko Boy. —None of your business, I tell him.

  —I’ve been waiting for you, he says. —I was hoping you’d come. It can get lonely here. And he reaches out his hand for me to shake but I stay still. Don’t move don’t move don’t move, don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t say anything. You shouldn’t touch a stranger, or let him touch you, because he could easily be a pervert or a paedophile, plus he looks like a mummy that’s a pickled human being and he stinks of the water when she empties a vase out. The bit of mouth I can see is smiling or maybe he’s just hungry.

  —What shall we call you then? says Gustave. —Everyone here has to have a name. If you can’t remember your name, they give you one, or you find one for yourself. Do you think Gustave suits me? I’ve grown quite fond of it.

  He’s riddled with germs and bacteria, you can tell. Maman would scream if she saw him. She would scream and say he is a disgusting sick pervert, get away from my son, don’t you touch him, don’t you come nea
r him. He’s not yours, just get off him, you bastard.

  —Bruno? he goes.

  —You must be joking, I say. —You know what I’d rather be, mister, than be called Bruno? I’d rather be dead.

  So he tries out more stupid names like Jean-Baptiste and Charles and Max and Ludovic and – this is the worst one – Louis.

  —Louis sucks! No way am I ever going to be called that! I’d rather be called Wacko Boy.

  —Calm down, Young Sir, he says. —It’s just a name. I like it. I think it’s a good name. I can see you as a Louis.

  And that’s when I remember something. The Strange Mystery of Louis Drax, the Amazing Accident-Prone Boy. It must be a book I once read.

  —Louis Drax, I say. —There used to be a boy called Louis Drax.

  Things are different in your ninth life. Your ninth life’s much further away than your eighth one, it’s a whole new place. It isn’t the place Maman’s in, a beautiful place, she says, lovely and sunny and hot and blah blah blah. Too hot sometimes, they have forest fires nearly every year. People light them. Arsonists. She keeps whispering stuff in my ear. Come back, Lou-Lou, come back. But I’m too far away. I love you darling. Maman’s here for you, my sweet boy blah blah blah. And there’s a nice doctor called Pascal Dannachet who’s looking after you blah blah blah. She’s always whispering, like it’s a secret, and me and her are the only people in the world, and singing me baby songs that suck. Ainsi font, font, font les petites marionnettes. Ainsi font, font, font trois petits tours et puis s’en vont.

  —You don’t have to listen, says Gustave. —You can switch her off.

  —I’d like to meet an arsonist, I tell him. —I’d like to watch him do it, and maybe help.

  She says we can go out in the garden later. They’ll strap me into a wheelchair and she’ll push me along, just like when I was a baby in a pram. It’s a beautiful garden, and all the others are going out too, because there’s a breeze today and you can smell the sea and the pine from the forest. And Pascal Dannachet’s a good doctor, one of the best, and he knows what he’s doing and he’s very hopeful about you, sweetheart, he knows you’ll come back, and so do I, blah blah blah.

  And the best thing is, we’re safe here. No one knows where we are, no one can find us ... It’s just you and me again, like the old days.

  What old days? Blah blah blah.

  —Don’t listen, says Gustave. —Talk to me instead. Tell me stories.

  So I tell him what happened with Fat Perez. How in Fat Perez’s room there’s a big glass bowl with water and seashells in. It’s sitting on the table in front of you. You can look inside it and pretend you’re drowning. If you went very small you could be like a hermit crab and go inside one of the shells with just your legs coming out when you needed to go somewhere, like from one side of the bowl to the other.

  —So what do you say, Louis? says Fat Perez.

  But I’m not answering because I’m too busy stuffing my whole body into one of the shells, a small yellow one, where I can concentrate on the last episode of the Power Puff Girls. The bit after the robot shark attack, before they realise that Buttercup hasn’t been swallowed up, because she was in the lab all the time, making a potion to reverse the Laws of Time and give the land back to the animals. I can hear his voice but I can’t hear the words. I’m in my shell now. I’m safe here and I can think about Buttercup all I want, and forget about the stuff he is saying.

  He is afraid it hasn’t worked out between us.

  —It’s no one’s fault. But it’s been a pleasure working with you, Louis. I have learned a lot. I think you have learned a few things too. But your mother thinks we should call it a day. I’m sorry, Louis. I’m used to making progress and your mother feels that I haven’t. Or at least, not the progress she was hoping I would make with you. The honest thing for me to do at this point is to tell you that your mother feels I have nothing more to offer you.

  You wouldn’t think I would cry when he says that, would you? You’d think I would be pleased to get rid of this stupid fat man instead of being a stupid weedy crybaby and shouting over and over again, —NO! Please, Monsieur Perez! No!

  But he says he’s sorry. —It’s your maman’s decision. It’s over, Louis. No more visits. You don’t need me any more.

  —Yes I do!

  —You’ll see.

  —No, you’re the one who’s going to see.

  That’s what I said to him, before I climbed into the shell with Buttercup the Power Puff Girl.

  The next day I wrote Fat Perez a letter and I put some of Mohammed’s poo-droppings in. Eight droppings, because I was still eight then, plus some sawdust. I got an envelope and a stamp from Papa’s desk and wrote his name, Marcel Perez, and his address, 8 rue Malesherbes, Gratte-Ciel, Lyon, and on the way to school next morning when we were going past the postbox, I said —Maman, look over there. See that dog?

  And I pointed to the other side of the road and while she was looking for the dog, I took the letter out of my pocket and put it in the postbox.

  —Did you see the dog?

  —Yes, he was lovely.

  —You really saw him?

  —But I couldn’t work out what breed he was. A husky, maybe?

  —Or a Dobermann. I think he was probably a Dobermann.

  But here’s the funny thing about Maman. She can see dogs even when there aren’t any. Even when you’ve made them up.

  You are a big fat liar, Fat Perez. You told her you didn’t want to see me any more. You told her I was too much for you. That’s what she told me. Plus you said nothing would leave the room and that wasn’t true either. So you suck. I hope you die soon or catch a gross disease.

  Louis Drax

  All the time I can feel Gustave’s eyes staring through a little slit in the bandages. If someone’s staring at you but their face is covered in bandages, you don’t know if he wants to be your friend or kill you. He won’t stop looking at me like I’m his enemy or his son or like I’m living in his head just like he’s living in mine.

  —Hi, Louis, says Dr Dannachet. —It’s a lovely day outside, there’s a bit of wind at last. I know you can hear me, Louis. I want you to try and reach us all again. You were trying, weren’t you? I know you were. I could feel it.

  Don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t say anything.

  —Your mother’s waiting for you. Have you been listening to the cassettes she’s made you? I hope so. I’m looking forward to you waking up. My wife got a book out of her library for you, Les Animaux: leur vie extraordinaire. I was just reading about bats. I know you like them. I guess you know the bat bit by heart, don’t you? But I was fascinated.

  And he starts reading from the bat bit.

  —Did you know that bats are the only mammals that fly? Other kinds of mammals can glide from tree to tree, but bats use their wings in much the same way as birds. These wings are actually flaps of skin called membranes, and they are supported by fingers, front and back limbs and a tail. Bats are to be found all over the world, except in the North and South Pole, but most species are ...

  But his voice is getting further and further away, and it’s hard to listen to. Tropical or sub-tropical. There are about 1,000 known species. About thirty of these – all insect eaters – are to be found in Europe ...

  People come along and then they go. You don’t know who you’ll see and who’s going to suddenly disappear. There’s a clock on the wall but the time jumps around. Sometimes it’s night for too long, and day lasts just a minute, and other times it’s for ever and ever.

  —What were you doing before? I ask Gustave. He still scares me but I know he can’t hurt me. Not by touching me anyway, because he isn’t properly real.

  —I can’t remember. Not completely. None of us can. I had a wife. Her name was ... Sometimes I remember it. But not today. I just remember being in a dark place. A cave.

  —Do you get visitors?

  —No. I’m alone. I must have done something bad. Maybe something
evil. And you?

  —My maman’s here but my papa’s a pilot. When he comes he’ll bring me Lego models and stuff. He’s coming soon. He’s on his way.

  If it was Fat Perez, he’d have asked me a question then. I liked it that Gustave didn’t. I wondered what he did to his wife. Maybe he’s a rapist. Maybe he forced her to do things she didn’t want to do that made a baby she hated who’d be better off dead. Rape is a terrible thing, you can look it up in the dictionary. It lets you down very badly.

  And then it’s suddenly night-time and there’s a thunderstorm and the clock says three.

  Adults do stupid things sometimes, you have to believe me, sweetheart. Your father loves you really. He didn’t mean to do what he did. Mothers are always there for their children. And one day we’ll be free. He’ll be out of our lives and we can live together happily ever after.

  I wonder if Gustave can hear the same voices as me. Or maybe he hears other ones.

  —What happened to you? What happened to your face?

  —I don’t know, he says. —I don’t even remember what I looked like.

  —My papa, he has hairy arms like you. Are you tall when you stand up?

  —Quite tall, I think.

  —So’s Papa.

  —And your maman? says Gustave. —What’s your maman like?

  —She’s going crazy without me. Some bad things happened to her. She can’t always trust men, because some men are bad. I can see how crazy she’s going, but the doctor can’t see it, no one can, not even Jacqueline. If Papa was here, he’d see it. He knows her like I do. She whispers in my ear the whole time, all blibber-blobber language about how it wasn’t his fault and I mustn’t blame Papa. She sings me baby songs.

  —Blame him for what? says Gustave.

  —I don’t know. But he must’ve done a bad thing. He must’ve let us down very badly.

  Did I say that or did I just think it? You can never tell, when you’re with Gustave. Then maybe we both go to sleep, because when I wake up he’s talking in this whisper I can hardly hear.