by Liz Jensen
The door had been left on the latch and as soon as I entered, I could hear muffled sobbing. Natalie Drax was on the floor of the kitchen, clutching the telephone and an envelope: a huge Alsatian stood over her, pawing the ground. It barked again as I entered, and she tried to calm it.
—It’s OK, Jojo. Quiet now, he’s a friend.
She put her arm round the creature and patted it. I don’t like dogs, but I did the same. I guessed she had not moved from where she was when she phoned me. I checked her pulse, then hauled her up – she weighed nothing – and walked her out of the kitchen and into the small simple living-room. The dog followed us, its huge bright eyes looking anxious. There was a cage on the side-table containing a hamster which was running madly on its little exercise wheel. It must have belonged to Louis.
—What happened? You haven’t taken anything, have you?
—What?
I was relieved to see that she looked genuinely confused by my question.
—I thought–
—Just read this, she said, thrusting the envelope at me. The postmark was local, and her name and address were scrawled on it in the most bizarre handwriting I have ever seen – huge and irregular and so splayed across the page that it could almost have been written by someone blind. There was a childishness about it, a primitivism that sent something cold running up and down my neck.
—I came home and ...
She broke off, eyeing the letter with fear and disgust. Her shallow, tight breaths were matched by the dog’s raucous panting. I wondered how long she had been in this state. I pulled her down to sit next to me on the sofa, and drew out the single sheet of badly folded paper from the envelope. It was plain white, and covered in the same huge handwriting; the effect across a whole page was lopsided, drunken-looking. Whoever had written it had gone to almost comic pains to disguise their real handwriting. And to cause the maximum grief possible.
Dear Maman,
I miss you and I miss Papa too. But I’ll be needing a new dad, won’t I? Dr Dannachet would like to sex you. But you know what I think? I think you should stay away from him and he should stay away from you. You should stay away from men e.g. Dr Dannachet. I am warning you, Maman. Don’t let them come near you. Don’t let them kiss you. The danger will come, and bad things will happen.
I love you, Maman.
Louis
I can’t have been thinking straight, because my first reaction was one of surprise and bafflement. How could he have done it? How could he possibly have sat up, got hold of pen and paper, and written a letter to his mother, without anyone on the ward being aware of his movements? Even though he’d had that seizure, it was absurd, unthinkable. And yet for the first few seconds after I had read it, I could think of no other explanation. My heart surged with hope – until I caught sight of Natalie’s face.
—I thought it was from him too, she said simply. —At first. And then when I realised it couldn’t be – there was no way he could get up and do it and post a letter with no one seeing him ... but I still kidded myself he’d done it. Somehow. For a couple of minutes I was happy. Overjoyed. But it isn’t him, is it?
—Is it his handwriting? I asked gently. —Is it anything like it?
—No. Nothing like.
—So ...
—It isn’t from him. Her voice was flat and dead. —Because it can’t be. It’s from someone else. There was a long silence as I struggled with my own confusion. —God, can you imagine how sick he is? she whispered at last, burying her face in the dog’s fur. —To do something like that? To pretend to be Louis?
I identified misery, fear and disgust in her voice. It was indeed sick. But whoever had chosen to perform this distressing practical joke had read some of my baser thoughts uncannily well. Dr Dannachet would like to sex you ... It was deeply embarrassing. I felt panicky. What the hell was going on?
—But who? I began, and then stopped.
Natalie’s hair fell around her face like a pale waterfall, shrouding it. Her small hands were shaking uncontrollably. I noticed that the artificial nails had gone. The real ones looked ragged and chipped.
—There’s been no trace of Pierre for three months, she blurted. —Not since the picnic. Back in Vichy I saw him everywhere – well I thought I did. I was in a terrible state back then, quite paranoid. But then after a while ... it seemed he really had just disappeared off the face of the earth. I was beginning to hope he’d left the country. I even thought he might have committed suicide. She paused. —Well, hoped, actually. But only someone who knows Louis really well would know the kind of thing he’d say.
And yet, why on earth would a man bother to warn his wife off other men by masquerading as his comatose son? Why not threaten her directly? He obviously knew where she lived. Then a strange sensation crawled up my spine as it dawned on me that maybe that’s exactly what would happen next. He could be watching us right now.
My heart started to trip over itself in panic. Quickly I glanced at the window; it looked out on to the front garden, beyond which lay the narrow, cobbled village road. I realised with some relief that anyone who wanted to spy on the cottage would have trouble hiding himself. Nevertheless, I stood up and drew the curtains. I was suddenly glad that the dog was with us.
—But I don’t understand it. What can he possibly want?
She just sat there for a moment, rocking rhythmically to and fro in her chair. You could see the bones of her jaw working.
—He wants to scare me, she said finally, stroking Jojo and pulling him to her. He licked her hand. —And he wants to scare you too. He must have been spying on us.
—Have you rung Charvillefort?
—Of course not! She’s worse than useless!
—What?
—Look, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the police can’t find Pierre! They’re no closer to it now than they ever were. He’s playing with them. Stephanie Charvillefort’s inquiry into Louis’ accident has been a complete disaster. They’ve bungled everything. All Charvillefort did was interrogate me, and then practically accuse me of pushing Louis over the edge myself. Knowing her, she’s going to accuse me of doing this. That’s how mistrustful she is.
And she slapped the letter in disgust.
—You mean you called no one but me?
She nodded defiantly.
—Get me her number anyway. We have to let her know.
With the kind of numb obedience that comes from shock, Natalie left the room, Jojo padding after her. Sensible of her to get a dog, I thought. She knew the score in a way that others perhaps didn’t. She returned with a red address-book filled with phone numbers in small efficient writing. As she handed it to me, the dog growled.
—Good boy, I said nervously, patting his head.
Despite an attempt to appear composed, Natalie was clearly too shaken to make the call, so I did. When I eventually got through to the Vichy police, it turned out that Detective Charvillefort was giving evidence at a trial, and would not be in until later in the day, but I could leave a message on her mobile. Which I did, before ringing the local police in Layrac. I had met Inspector Navarra on several occasions, at local functions; when I told him about the letter, and its background, I could hear from his voice that he was excited. This isn’t a big crime spot, exactly. Apart from seasonal arson attacks, he’d be dealing with drugs, traffic violations, the odd illegal gun, a spot of house theft. But now, suddenly, there was a murderous fugitive on his patch.
—And you’re quite sure it couldn’t have been written by the boy? By Louis?
—He’s been in a coma for over three months. He can’t speak, let alone write letters. But it’s written in his style, apparently. So whoever wrote it knows him well.
—Does it contain any threats?
Briefly, I explained the content.
—I’ll find a way of getting hold of Detective Charvillefort, said Navarra. —But until we know for sure that it’s Pierre Drax who wrote it, we have to treat it as a separate case.
When I told Natalie that Navarra was on his way, and a gendarme would be keeping an eye on the clinic too, she looked relieved, but distracted. While we waited for Navarra, I tried to get Natalie to tell me more about her husband. But she recoiled from the idea. It was clear she loathed the subject; when she spoke of him, it was with a mixture of fear, revulsion and contempt. She had met him at a difficult time in her life; she had just moved to Lyon from her native Paris – she’d had to get away, something went very badly wrong in her life there. He had seemed like a good man, but he turned out to be selfish and narcissistic. He and Louis never bonded properly. He had an alcohol problem, which – being a pilot – he tried to beat, but when he couldn’t, found clever ways to control and hide. He was sometimes violent.
I flushed, remembering the bruise. I edged my eyes towards Natalie’s bare left arm. The mark seemed bigger than before, a dark, rancid purple.
Natalie remained distracted when Georges Navarra – a pleasant man with sharp brown eyes – turned up to look at the letter. He greeted us both, and declared it to be very hot. There was a fire burning near Cannes, he said. If you listened, you could hear the helicopters. He patted the dog and asked its name. Funny, the way it seemed to take an instant liking to him. Navarra then sat at the table and spent a long time looking at the envelope.
—Local postmark, he murmured.
He read the letter through, then studied it with intense concentration, in the same way I might inspect a brain scan. All the while he stroked the dog which wagged its tail enthusiastically.
—Very strange, he said, once again holding it up to the light. —And written in ink, too. Who writes in ink nowadays?
—Plenty of doctors do, I said.
—Does your husband own a fountain pen? he asked Natalie. I saw him notice her bruise, and squirmed inwardly.
—What? She sounded far away. —I don’t know. Yes, maybe. He never wrote much.
He had more questions, which Natalie answered in the same distracted way; her mind was clearly racing off elsewhere. Yes, she suspected it was written by her missing husband, because he was the only person who could possibly have done it, or wanted to. No, it was nothing like his handwriting and nor was it anything like her son’s. Navarra slipped the letter into a plastic bag as he spoke, and then started jotting down notes. While he did this, I thought about the line that Navarra had been discreet enough not to mention.
Dr Dannachet would like to sex you.
It was as uncanny as it was excruciating. The fact was, I had indeed dared to imagine – But now the idea seemed unthinkable. Criminally inappropriate. Obscenely unethical. Could it be that Pierre Drax’s insight into my psychology (perhaps the psychology of any man, or the psychology of embarrassment) was part of his cunning? His way of stopping something from happening between his wife and other men? This made sense to me, if nothing else did. Painfully, he began to rise in my estimation. Was he manipulating me? Watching and laughing?
Navarra finished writing, then sat silent for a moment, tapping his teeth with his biro.
—Best not to sleep here tonight, I think, he told Natalie.
I felt relief at this, and I could see that she did too. Of course she couldn’t be left alone if her husband was stalking her. I suggested the clinic. It has two bedrooms set aside for relatives; one was currently occupied by Isabelle’s father, but Madame Drax could have the other. We agreed that I would take her there as soon as she had packed a bag, and that she would return to the cottage the next morning to feed the dog. By which time Detective Charvillefort would have been alerted to what had happened, and be on her way from Vichy. When Georges Navarra had gone, Natalie shuddered and sighed.
—I still can’t quite believe he did it. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t hang together. But if it is him ... I mean, who else could it be?
She didn’t need to continue. He was probably here, now, in the village, or staying in Layrac. It was unsettling to realise it was a possibility. And even more unsettling to realise that I, too, was being watched. How much did Drax know about me and Natalie?
—I’ll pack a bag, she said.
I nearly rang Sophie to say I wouldn’t be home for dinner, but resisted because I knew she would put me in the position of making up a lie that didn’t hold water, and give me grief. So I let it go. While Natalie was upstairs, I watched the hamster doing something complex to its nest. It seemed to be moving all its bedding from one side of the cage to another. For some reason this bothered me. Why would a small creature take it into its head to rearrange the furniture like that? I glanced at the pile of books on the table. They were mostly the standard texts on coma, but there were a couple of others, of the kind Sophie bought in bulk for the library: Les Hommes viennent de Mars, les femmes viennent de Vénus, Affirmez-vous!, Le Complexe de Cendrillon. They looked well-thumbed. Clearly they mattered enough to Natalie for her to have brought them in her luggage. There were photographs of Louis everywhere. A whole wall of them. Maybe too many, I thought. Was she a little obsessional about her son? Or was it just maternal pride? There was something else too: a half-completed model aeroplane. The construction looked quite complicated for a nine-year-old boy. Perhaps it was something he’d done with his father.
—The hamster’s called Mohammed, she said, coming back and finding me peering into the cage. —And his home’s Alcatraz. That was Pierre’s name for it. Louis liked it. She laughed. —Mohammed in Alcatraz.
She left food for the dog, then we got into her Renault. The air was heavy; I wound down my window to try and catch a breeze. Faintly, you could smell smoke. We drove in silence for a while.
—If he wakes up – she said suddenly.
—It’s only an if. Don’t hope too hard.
I watched her profile.
—But I have to know, she said, changing gear. She drove nervously – a city driver who has found herself in the country and can’t gauge its ways. —If he wakes up and remembers what happened, what will it do to him? You must have heard of that American case a year or so ago. The man who went into a coma when he was a child, and came out of it twenty years later. He woke up, and he was able to name his attackers, and they were jailed.
She was speaking with an unusual animation, which made her features seem to come alive.
—But that would be a triumph surely?
—But at what cost? Don’t you see? She glanced at me, then back at the road. —His own father?
I said nothing. We reached the clinic car-park, where we pulled in. She turned off the engine and we sat in silence for a moment, looking out of the windscreen at the luminous whiteness of the clinic’s faµade. Mingled in with the evening air and the smoke and the smell of resin from the pine forest, there was the sweet scent of tobacco flowers and jasmine wafting up through the evening heat. The cicadas shrieked and the air felt oppressive with the threat of an imminent storm. You could feel it hatching in your bones, like passion, or dread.
—Look, she said, —I know I overreacted the other day when he sat up and asked for Pierre. And I apologise. But my first thought was to protect him. How can he live with what happened?
Secretly, I had to admit that she had a point – but I saw no use in agreeing with her openly. I looked up at the gathering clouds.
—As I said, it’s unlikely he will emerge with his memory intact. And if he does, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
—Let’s go in, she said abruptly. —I don’t think we should be sitting here.
Just as Inspector Navarra had promised, there was a policeman in Reception, replacing the usual security guard who was now, he told us, patrolling the building. We went straight to the ward; Louis had not moved all evening, according to Marianne, the nurse on night duty. She said that the policeman had already looked in, and would be visiting at half-hourly intervals.
Marianne looked anxious. —Poor Louis, she whispered. I didn’t know.
—Pierre Drax may phone, I warned her. —But if it’s him,
or if anyone calls and hangs up, or doesn’t want to give their name, ring Georges Navarra, and then me. But you’ll be quite safe.
The guest rooms were on the fourth floor of the building; I got the key from Reception and we took the lift in silence. The room was large but bare. Seeing the kettle, she offered coffee. I hesitated, and then accepted. She went to fill the kettle from the tap in the bathroom.
—Natalie, I said slowly, when she emerged. —I’d like you to tell me what happened on the mountain.
She turned to me, flushed, and instantly miserable.
—I don’t really like to talk about it, she said quietly, switching on the kettle and sitting down in the armchair opposite me. She looked up and met my eyes frankly. —It’s very painful.
—I know. It must be. Forgive me. But – well. You’ve already told the police. Surely you can tell me? I think I should know, as his doctor. There might be more going on inside his head than we realise. If he does emerge from the coma, his state of mind could affect his recovery.
I could see she was struggling to fight back tears. The kettle began to growl in accompaniment to the gathering wind outside. I breathed in and exhaled slowly, waiting.
—We had an argument. Me and Pierre. Louis hated us arguing, he was trying to stop it.
—How did it start?
—Louis had sweets in his pocket. Pierre saw him eating one. He got furious. He didn’t like Louis eating sweets. He said I wasn’t bringing him up properly. I didn’t even know he’d brought sweets. It was a simple mistake. But Pierre wouldn’t let it drop. He went on and on. He was accusing me of all sorts of things. Being a bad mother. Louis couldn’t stand it, and he ran off towards the ravine. We both ran after him. Pierre got to him first. He’s very strong. He grabbed Louis and started dragging him to the car, saying he was taking him to Paris. Louis managed to get free and run off. But Pierre caught up with him again just by the ravine, and they struggled and ... I didn’t get there in time.