by Liz Jensen
Her eyes met mine, shocked with pain.
—I saw his face as he was falling. His mouth was open like he wanted to tell me something but–
She broke off, and I shut my eyes. I could picture it: the father yelling at his son; Natalie screaming; the boy panicking. But did Louis stumble in the struggle, or was he pushed by a man so angry that he simply hit out at anything that came in his way? I waited for more, but she had fallen into silence. We listened to the thunder, each lost in our own thoughts.
—Louis always sided with me, she said eventually. —Never with Pierre. I told you, they never bonded.
—Why not?
The kettle came to the boil and clicked off. A crack of thunder sounded outside, drowning the cicadas. Natalie shut her eyes and kept them closed as she spoke.
—Maybe they would have done, if Pierre were Louis’ natural father. But he isn’t.
—What? I asked, incredulous. There was a long pause before she spoke again. Her eyes were still closed, as though she couldn’t face seeing my reaction to her words.
—Someone else was.
—But who?
—Another man. Jean-Luc. Who’s out of the picture, thankfully. It wasn’t meant to happen.
—Oh. I’m sorry. So–
—I met Pierre when Louis was just a few weeks old, and we married and Pierre adopted him. But it didn’t work. There were problems. It was very difficult for Pierre to accept Louis as his son. He had ... well, very mixed feelings. Some very negative ones. All these accidents Louis kept having – well, I began to think they might have been Louis’ way of somehow pleasing Pierre. I think Marcel Perez was beginning to think the same thing. The therapy was a slow process. It had its ups and downs, and then – well. It got cut short.
It was now my turn to stay silent, as I absorbed what she’d just told me. It made sense. There was no reason why she should have divulged any of this before, but now she had, a lot began to fall into place. Pierre Drax’s negative feelings towards Louis, for a start.
—The police are aware of this? I asked eventually.
—Of course.
But there was still something that didn’t fit. It wasn’t just that a row that erupted over a packet of sweets – sweets, for goodness’ sake! – had led to such a catastrophe.
—If Pierre resented Louis so much, I don’t see why on earth he’d want to abduct him. What was that all about?
She opened her eyes, almost in surprise, as though it were an absurd question.
—He wanted to punish me. To punish us both. For being so close. For loving each other more than we loved him. For not needing him. For all sorts of reasons that don’t even sound like reasons to sane people. But they were reasons to Pierre. Some people need hostages.
I wanted to ask her more about Louis’ relationship with Pierre, and indeed about his real father, but I held back. She couldn’t take any more, at least not now. She made the coffee, which we drank in silence. I wondered whether she had ever taken the Prozac that Philippe Meunier had prescribed, but I felt I’d probed her enough for one evening. She sat straight-backed and tense, staring at nothing, like someone lost to the world. And to themselves. When I questioned her gently about her family, she said she would phone her mother in Guadeloupe tomorrow, and let her know what had happened without getting her too alarmed.
—I must go now, I told her. —You’ll be safe here.
We both stood up, and I went to the door, where I kissed her on both cheeks.
—I feel safe with you, she murmured, and the atmosphere seemed to change colour. She gave me a small sad smile, and in the half-light, the tension seemed ironed out of her. It wasn’t conventional beauty that she had. It was an innocence that seemed, at that moment, to be child-like, almost angelic. Suddenly the unspoken feelings between us were too much to bear, and I tore myself away. But after I left, I had the feeling that a huge, delicate cloud, invisible and lighter than air, was sheltering us both.
By the time I got home the storm had broken. It was after midnight, but the air was still stiflingly hot. I made myself a sandwich in the kitchen, but I didn’t have much appetite. I showered and then, not wanting to wake Sophie, padded quietly past our bedroom towards the spare room, but she must have heard me, because the bedroom door opened. She wore an ancient cotton kimono and I could see she had been crying. She took a white square from her pocket and held it up silently, like a flag of surrender. A letter.
—This came for you today, she said. —I opened it. I drew in a breath.
—You opened a letter addressed to me?
—It looked interesting, she said. —Shouldn’t I have? You’re behaving like you’ve got something to hide. Have you, Pascal?
That’s when I noticed she was drunk.
—Let me see it, I said, snatching it from her.
The envelope was identical to the one Natalie had received. My address, and the same insane handwriting as before. I read it in silence, my heart clenching and unclenching like a panicked fist.
Dear Dr Dannachet,
You should be looking after me, but all you want to do is sex my maman. Stay away from her. Bad things will happen if you don’t, I promise you. This is a warning. Keep right away from her.
Louis Drax
I shut my eyes and tried to get my breathing under control.
—I thought you said Louis Drax was in a coma, said Sophie, her voice slurred and nasty with alcohol. I felt myself swaying. Yes, I thought faintly. He is supposed to be. —You’ve been with her, she said, not waiting for an answer. —You’ve been with the kid’s mother.
I didn’t deny it. I didn’t care what she thought, frankly.
—I can see it. I can feel it. I know you, Pascal. She’s wormed her way into that stupid bleeding heart of yours. Look at you. It’s so ... it’s so undignified. For both of us. We can’t go on like this. I can’t. I won’t. I’m going to Montpellier to stay with the girls for a few days. While you sort yourself out.
I couldn’t be kind to her, although I knew that the moment called for it. There was too much distance between us. It had been growing, a centimetre at a time. Now it was a chasm and I could see no way of reaching across it. Nor did I want to. Her drunkenness disgusted me.
—We’ll talk in the morning, I said, turning my back on her. —You’d better get some sleep. That’s quite a hangover you’re headed for.
I left a message on Navarra’s phone at the police station. I kept it brief, suggesting we meet in the morning. Afterwards, as I lay in bed under a single sheet in the spare room, I heard Sophie sobbing, but I didn’t go to her. I was too tired, and too haunted by the picture of Pierre Drax and the letter he’d sent me. But the hammering rain kept me awake and in the end, almost reluctantly, my thoughts turned to my marriage. The fact was that Sophie and I had lost whatever it was we once shared. We didn’t make each other happy any more, not the way we used to in the days when we would dance around the living room, kissing, then pull one another to the floor and make love while the girls slept upstairs. Melanie and Oriane were twenty and twenty-one now, they’d left home. When I applied my mind to it, I realised I admired Sophie, liked her even. But did I love her? It was a question that seemed irrelevant, a question I couldn’t answer any more. Something had surely died between us. But it had died so slowly and quietly that it was hard to pinpoint when or even how. Neglect, I suppose. Neglect does that. It makes you go blind.
And besides, I was in love with another woman.
I slept fitfully, haunted by a sense that something was horribly awry, both without and within. Unconscious, I saw scenes that related to my childhood in Bretagne but the dream broke into fragments as soon as I emerged from its grip. I felt strangely powerless, as though emptied of energy. I realised, with dismay, that I had no desire to go to the clinic, despite the pull of Louis and his mother. It was a failure of nerve. The thought of my coma ward and the work I did there suddenly repelled me. Why, I asked myself shakily, was I so committed to coaxing life o
ut of these human husks? And who was the most disconnected from reality, my patients or their doctor? Something inside me crumpled as I considered this. Looking back, I see now that the indefinable dread that swamped me that morning was a premonition of what was to come. But I was on a track, and there was no way off.
I went in to the bedroom where Sophie was still sleeping, clutching a pillow. She looked sweet and crumpled. I was sorry for her, and ashamed of the disgust I had felt the night before. I knew I should wake her before I left, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Instead I kissed her lightly on the cheek and was just closing the door when she spoke.
—I’m still going to Montpellier.
—I won’t try and stop you.
—Why not?
—Because you want to go. Why waste energy arguing with you? The girls will be glad to see you. I’ll call you tonight.
—No. Don’t. Don’t call me until you know what you want, Pascal. I take it you haven’t got a clue what you want?
I didn’t say anything. As usual, she was right.
It was only eight, but already the cool brought by last night’s storm had dissipated and the sun’s heat was piercing. Even the gulls were silent. As I climbed the hill I sniffed the air. Could I smell smoke through the scent of pine and lavender, or was my paranoia making me sense disaster everywhere? It was a relief to enter the reception hall of the clinic. Its whiteness calmed me and gave me a feeling of detachment, the way whiteness always does. I spent a couple of moments watching the TV news; it turned out I had not imagined smoke in the air. Despite last night’s downpour, the forest fires were still burning, and the wind was now blowing inland from the sea, spreading the blaze in our direction. But the outside world seemed as unreal as a moonscape. I shivered involuntarily. The air conditioning – too sharply refrigerated after the heat outside – was playing havoc with my blood.
Hoping to ease myself into the day with something non-demanding, I looked in on my new physiotherapist, Karine, who was working with Isabelle. I stood in the doorway and watched for a while, trying to settle. Karine was effortlessly efficient in her role, keeping up a steady flow of conversation and encouragement as she manipulated Isabelle’s limbs and demonstrated different features of the equipment to her assistant, Félix. Karine had spent a year in the United States and returned with some interesting ideas. Her predecessor had been a sour-faced man whom I’d never liked. He’d pushed the patients too hard, almost as though his secret aim was to produce a team of comatose body-builders. I’d been glad when he retired to spend more time with his own muscles and left those of my patients alone.
When she saw me, Karine came over and began talking animatedly about the extra equipment she wanted to order. We were discussing the pros and cons of a new jacuzzi system when we were cut short by the arrival of Isabelle’s father, Eric Masserot. Hardly glancing at his daughter, whose arms and shoulders were being massaged, he made his way towards me with a determined step. I had neglected him. I had neglected everyone. I excused myself from Karine, and went to shake his hand, apologising as I did so for not having yet found room in my schedule for him. But we could talk now, I reassured him. The poor man was close to tears. He told me how troubled he was by the state in which he found his daughter. He had been led to believe that when her weight was back to normal, she might stand a better chance of recovery, but although she was moving more than usual, nothing had happened for several months. He worried about her feeding tube. Was she getting enough nutrition? I answered as best I could, and suggested that he talk to his ex-wife about the atmosphere between them. Might it be hampering Isabelle’s recovery? Is that what I meant? It was possible, I said. It was an awkward issue to raise, and the encounter – which I did not handle well – distressed me intensely. It highlighted how lax I had become lately. I’d been too preoccupied with Louis and his mother to give the others the attention they deserved; Jacqueline had been picking up the slack, as always, but I needed to start pulling my weight again, before Vaudin or any of the others noticed how absent I had been from the daily life of my patients and their relatives in the week since Louis arrived.
I left Eric Masserot staring out of the window and headed for the ward, where Louis remained under observation in the wake of his sudden spasm. But I didn’t go to him. Despite my good intentions towards the boy, he seemed tainted now; it was as if the letters had made me doubt everyone – including him. Absurd, that I couldn’t even trust a comatose child. But that’s how I felt.
I sat at the ward desk, doing some routine paperwork and hastily assembling some notes on Isabelle Masserot. But the same question kept nudging at me with an unnerving insistence: Was I losing it? Five minutes later, as if in answer to that very question, Guy Vaudin turned up, looking haggard and anxious. I was immediately on the alert.
—Glad to catch you, he said, taking a chair at the other end of the desk. —I think we need a word. Look, Pascal, he said, scratching the back of his hand. —This is a bit awkward, but – well, Sophie rang Danielle last night. She was very upset. She seems to think you’re having an affair with Madame Drax. He sighed heavily. —Should I assume she’s right?
—For God’s sake, Guy! No!
I felt furious at the misunderstanding. (Christ, we’d kissed once. What’s a kiss? Nothing!) What was happening was grotesque, I told him. I explained about the threatening letter sent by Pierre Drax in Louis’ name.
—So whatever’s happening, it’s happening in the head of Pierre Drax. Who has now passed the delusion on to my wife. Who clearly didn’t hesitate to ring yours. The police will be here soon; you’ll probably need to increase security.
—Yes, he said distractedly. —I know about that. But look, is there anything in what Sophie had to say? She seemed pretty sure about it.
—This is an inquisition!
—It’s for your own sake, he said, dropping his voice. We both turned our heads at that moment to check no staff were within earshot. —It doesn’t look good, and you know it. It lowers morale, and the other relatives have already noticed that your head’s elsewhere. There have been some rumblings, you know. Even Jessica Favrot’s had a word, and I know how devoted she is to you. And Masserot isn’t happy either. He’s come all the way from Spain. This could be a crucial week for Isabelle.
At that moment, Jacqueline came back in, saw the look on Vaudin’s face, and immediately turned on her heel and busied herself with something at the far end of the ward. She probably knew about this too. When the phone rang, I was glad of the interruption. Indicating that I must answer it, I signalled to Guy that we would continue the conversation later.
—Think about it, he said as he left.
—It’s Detective Charvillefort, Vichy Police. I hear from Georges Navarra that you received a letter too?
Her voice was harried and clipped; she seemed to be clattering on a keyboard as we spoke. I replied in the affirmative.
—If you’ve spoken to Natalie Drax, you’ve probably heard that he surprised us again just the other day, I told her. I started to doodle the name ‘Charvillefort’ on a notepad.
—Yes, I gather. Very interesting. Tell the nurses, extra vigilance, and round-the-clock surveillance. Now are you sure there’s no way Louis could have written these letters?
—It’s unthinkable.
—But he sat up and spoke, I gather? Asked for his father? So why can’t he write a letter?
—Look, we don’t understand his seizure. But believe me, with so many people about, he’d never have moved without someone seeing him.
—You say you have properly operative CCTV on the ward?
Damn; my pen was leaking. I felt beleaguered.
Jacqueline had prepared the wheelchairs and was encouraging the relatives to take the patients out for a walk in the garden. I took Louis, who was plugged into a Walkman playing a tape of his mother. The air smelled scorched and drenched at the same time.
Jessica Favrot, spotting my presence, hurried towards me.
—I�
�m very worried about Natalie Drax, she said.
—In what way? I asked.
—She won’t mix. It’s strange. She won’t let any of us get through. It’s so painful for her to suffer like that alone, but it seems like–
—That’s what she wants?
—Yes.
—Well, perhaps for now we should respect that, I said. But I could hear the doubt in my voice and so could Jessica. There was something wrong, something that rankled, something I suddenly felt I didn’t have time to investigate. Excusing myself, I pushed the wheelchair towards the ornamental pond where the fountain was playing tricks with the light, sending tiny rainbows shooting in all directions. Louis and I circled it twice before stopping at a bench where I read a few pages from La Planète bleue. I don’t know how long I sat there with Louis, just staring at the fountain. It could have been minutes, or hours. My mind felt drained. I tried to imagine what Pierre Drax was thinking now. What his next move would be. Was it really possible he had been watching me and Natalie?
If so, how close was he now?
Suddenly I imagined I felt his eyes on my back, and I hastened back inside with Louis.
After an hour’s work back in my office, Jacqueline called to let me know the detective had arrived and was on the ward. And there she was, inspecting Louis like a specimen on a slab. I hovered at a distance, watching her: she wore a mushroom-coloured linen suit, whose jacket she was now removing, to reveal a white shirt and big unwieldy breasts that seemed to steer her movements.
Having hung her jacket over the back of the chair, Stephanie Charvillefort was continuing to give Louis a thorough going-over, not in any medical way, but as one would inspect an object that was deemed to be a piece of evidence. Which I suppose he was, in a manner of speaking. She lifted his hand tentatively, let it drop to see what happened. Someone in a deep coma has no reflexes; perhaps at least she discovered that much then. I quelled my instinct to intervene and watched as she proceeded to blow air on to Louis’ face and register the lack of response. Then, lowering her mouth to his ear she asked, quite loudly: