The Ninth Life of Louis Drax

by Liz Jensen

  —Louis? Are you awake? Detective Charvillefort here. Can you hear me? I’d like to ask you some questions.

  I sped over, cleared my throat, held out my hand. She stood up from her chair and I was struck again by her very bright blue eyes, clean and piercing.

  —Do you think Drax is stalking her, then? I asked as we shook hands. She looked up at me coolly, appraising me with those strangely astonishing eyes.

  —I’m here to ask you questions, Dr Dannachet. Not the other way round.

  She was as unlike Natalie Drax as it was possible to be. No wonder they clashed.

  —So fire away, I said politely.

  —What do you make of Madame Drax’s state of mind?

  I motioned to her that we should move; we walked down the ward and stood by the French windows, overlooking the garden.

  —She’s understandably distraught, I told her. I could hear the annoyance and yes, a certain pomposity, in my own voice. But I couldn’t seem to quash either. —I think that her reaction is the normal response of someone who has been under extreme pressure for a number of months, and who is now faced with what may be the final straw.

  She looked at me closely. —Do you think she’s heading for a breakdown?

  —No. I just mean she’s in a vulnerable state.

  —But might she be breakdown material?

  Yesterday morning, when I was running through the olive groves, I’d feared she was suicidal, and I certainly agreed with Philippe’s diagnosis that she was a strong candidate for Prozac. But I wasn’t going to tell Stephanie Charvillefort that. Not in those words.

  —I can’t see how she can stay under this kind of pressure much longer.

  —I’m doing all I can to solve this crime, believe me, Dr Dannachet.

  —So where have you got to?

  —It’s not our policy to disclose details of the investigation to members of the public. I’m afraid.

  —I’m aware of that. Nevertheless, if Natalie’s life’s in danger – if Drax makes his way into my clinic, for example, and tries to attack her, or Louis – or me ...

  She and her colleagues were seeing to the security side of things, she replied. She’d talked to Dr Vaudin. There were posters of Pierre Drax up everywhere, and the whole regional police force had been alerted; they had relaunched the man-hunt. It was just a matter of time now. I wasn’t to worry; they’d get Pierre Drax. Meanwhile his mother Lucille was on her way down from Paris: they’d had to re-interview her after the letters and she wanted to see Louis. But best to keep her and Natalie apart, if that could be organised. According to Madame Drax senior, Pierre Drax should never have left his first wife. Natalie was the worst thing that ever happened to her son, and Natalie returned the compliment. As a result, the grandmother barely ever got to see Louis.

  —But she’s determined to see him now, Charvillefort finished.

  —Pierre Drax was married before? I asked, puzzled that Natalie hadn’t told me. What else hadn’t she mentioned? But Charvillefort didn’t elaborate. Instead she wanted to hear what I knew about Louis’ fall into the ravine.

  —The version that Natalie Drax told you, she specified carefully.

  —Why?

  —To make sure it’s consistent with what she told us. Madame Drax was at the scene of the crime, and there are no other eye-witnesses unless we catch Drax, or unless by some miracle Louis wakes up and somehow remembers what happened. What are the chances of that in your opinion, Dr Dannachet? As an expert?

  —Very small.

  —And yet during this seizure ...

  —The seizure was a fluke. I can’t pretend to explain it. A strong muscle spasm maybe, a brief return to apparent consciousness – but a very atypical one. Don’t hold your breath waiting for Louis to wake up and supply you with a statement. It’s not going to happen.

  We stand in silence for a moment, pondering the poor boy’s plight, and then she resumes.

  —So. What did Natalie Drax tell you about her son’s accident?

  —Very little. There was an argument about a packet of sweets. Then a struggle between her husband and son. Louis was resisting because Pierre suddenly wanted to take him to Paris and he didn’t want to go.

  —Did she describe where she was standing, in relation to the two of them?

  I shook my head. —Should I have asked her to draw me a diagram? I’m sorry, Detective, but it strikes me that this is your work, not mine.

  Detective Charvillefort tapped her shoe on the floor.

  —I spoke to Guy Vaudin earlier. Your wife rang his, I gather. In a bit of a state. Worried about you and Madame Drax being ... well, rather close?

  I started, horrified. Why the hell had Guy felt the need to reveal that?

  —Don’t worry, Dr Dannachet. It’s not for me to pass judgement.

  I broke into a sweat. —I don’t think you could say we’re close, I muttered eventually.

  —Perhaps not. But – well, since you have a certain friendship with her, and you’re also the doctor of her son, I was hoping that you might have some kind of insight which might help us?

  —No, I said firmly. —I don’t think I have.

  There was a small pause. —I would like to ask you to keep an open mind, she said slowly. —If Natalie Drax tells you anything that seems odd or unusual, or if she contradicts something she said earlier, I’d like you to call me. The sweets, for example.

  —Sweets?

  —The row began over a packet of sweets. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit unusual?

  —Not if the man’s unhinged, no. Lots of family rows begin with the most absurd things, I said stiffly.

  —Did you know that Louis is not in fact Pierre Drax’s natural son? Detective Charvillefort asked slowly, scrutinising my face as she did so. I thought – fleetingly – of telling her that I didn’t know. I don’t know why; I can’t fathom myself sometimes.

  —Yes I did, I said eventually. My voice sounded quiet and far away and a huge, greedy worm of anxiety shifted inside me. Charvillefort was still looking at me closely to see how I reacted. And not bothering to hide it. She might as well have brought out a magnifying glass and thrust it right in my face.

  —So who’s his real father? I asked, in what I hoped was a breezy voice. She smiled.

  —You’re getting to know Madame Drax, she said. —Perhaps that’s a question you should ask her yourself.

  —Are you suggesting I spy on her or something? I said with a sudden wash of anger. —Do your work for you?

  —No. But you expressed a wish to know more, did you not? There was a small silence. —If she told you Pierre wasn’t his real father, she probably also told you that when Louis was a baby, she put him up for adoption, and then changed her mind.

  I crossed my arms and immediately regretted letting my body language betray me.

  —No. I didn’t know that. But I’m not surprised she didn’t tell me. It’s rather a private thing, don’t you think?

  —Yes. Of course it is.

  —This man Perez, I said. —The psychologist. I’d be interested in talking to him.

  —You’re very welcome to, she said. —Ring my office and someone will give you his number. But he may say no.

  —Why?

  —Perez isn’t in the best shape, she said. —Louis’s therapy didn’t work out. It seemed to be fine in the beginning. But Madame Drax wasn’t happy, and she ended up firing Perez. After the accident, she went to see him, and accused him of failing Louis. He took it very badly, and gave up practising altogether.

  —So what’s he doing now?

  —Drinking.

  My God, I thought. It gets uglier and uglier. I stood up and took my leave of Detective Charvillefort, claiming a heavy workload. As I walked away I could feel her eyes pierce the flesh of my back like lasers.

  When I got back to my office, Noelle told me that Georges Navarra had dropped by wanting a handwriting sample from everyone who had been in contact with Louis – all the nurses who worked on the wa
rd, and even Karine, who had only seen him once. Noelle had given her a photocopy of a letter I’d written, and also a New Year’s card sent by Philippe Meunier. Everything was going to a police graphologist in Lyon. Oh well, I thought. At least Detective Stephanie Charvillefort was being thorough. I found myself wondering about Sophie. She must have arrived in Montpellier by now. She’d probably be having lunch with Melanie and Oriane at one of their favourite restaurants on the seafront. I pictured the three of them sharing one of their treats: a big platter of shellfish, all claws and shells and wedges of lemon. There’d be white wine, gossip, and to begin with, laughter. The sun on their faces. I wondered when Sophie would tell them, and how much. Everything, I guessed. They didn’t have secrets.

  I decided to work from home that afternoon to finish my paper there. With Sophie away, I’d have the place to myself and could concentrate better than at the clinic. But that wasn’t my only reason for wanting to get out. I took the road that leads through the village rather than the short cut. It was blisteringly hot. As soon as I came to the main square, I headed for the notice-board outside the mairie. The air was fierce, making the square buzz with mirages. The wanted poster showed the face of the man Natalie had loved and married. Dark-haired, in his early forties, with the ruins of good looks: strong cheekbones, a high forehead, deep-set eyes. There was power in that face, a power I’d not anticipated. My heart caught. He looked back at me steadily. For a moment I felt a sudden, irrational envy, followed swiftly by a very precise distaste. No, loathing is a better word. This was the man I now loathed, the man who had tried to kill his son, and was now threatening me. Who might be stalking Natalie at this very moment, or contemplating more damage to Louis, or both. Who knew who I was, and understood some of my feelings towards his wife. Who wanted those feelings stopped. I broke into a sweat and turned away, shamed by the sudden fear that swamped me.

  Natalie was to spend another night at the clinic; we had agreed that I would drop in to see her after my last ward round. Her hair was once again coiled into a chignon, emphasising the clear, clean oval of her face. She wore the same dark lipstick she had worn once before, and a green dress made of Chinese silk. She looked at me warily, as though slightly embarassed, and smiled nervously. She seemed to have dressed up for me, but although I was aware of it, at least on some level, I was too distracted to feel flattered, or to feel any of the usual attraction. In fact, I felt deeply unsettled. Unsettled by what she hadn’t told me, and even by the things she had. Disturbed by the memory of Pierre Drax’s face, which seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in my head. And angry: angry with Natalie about things that weren’t really her fault, like Sophie confiding in Danielle Vaudin – the direct consequence of which had been to make my interest in her a painfully public matter. I knew I was being unreasonable but I couldn’t help it. Much of this must have been visible the moment she saw me, because I hide my emotions badly. She gestured to me to sit in the chair, then settled herself on the bed and began talking at speed. Her tone was apologetic.

  —I’m sorry, Pascal. I should have told you more, I know. It’s just – well. It was a very difficult time.

  —So who is Louis’ real father? The question shot out from me, freighted with a blunt anger that took us both by suprise. She turned her head away and twisted her necklace. False nails again. Glass beads, green like the dress. Why had she dressed up for me? For some reason, I found this both puzzling and irritating, like a crossword clue you can’t solve.

  —He was an ex-boyfriend, she said. Her voice seemed to shake. —I told you his name before. Jean-Luc. After we split up I didn’t want anything to do with him but he kept–

  She stopped and twisted fully away so that her whole back was to me. Such a small frame, she had, so vulnerable. What was I doing? There was no foundation to my anger, no reason why she should tell me painful things about her past. I felt myself soften.

  —It might help to tell me.

  —It won’t. You have to trust me.

  —But if other people know–

  —Other people don’t know, she said sharply. —And there’s a reason for that.

  —But as his doctor, I began feebly. —As your friend, I hope ...

  —Look, do I really have to spell it out for you? she blurted, turning to face me. Her eyes looked scorched with pain.

  —Yes, I said simply. —Maybe you do. She took a breath, and her face reddened.

  —I was raped, OK? Are you happy now? she whispered hoarsely, then collapsed, head bent, her shoulders shaking helplessly. What an insensitive fool I was, not to have figured it out on my own, not to have spotted that her fragility could bring out the worst in a man, as well as the best.

  —I’m so sorry, I said, reaching across and squeezing her hand.

  —Now you know why I don’t want to talk about it. Afterwards, it didn’t occur to me that I might be pregnant, she said in a flat voice. Her head was still lowered. —Or maybe it did, and I couldn’t face the idea, and ignored the signs. By the time I realised, it was too late for an abortion.

  —You never reported it?

  —There’d have been no point. There never is, not if it’s someone you know, someone you once thought you loved. I just wanted to get on with my life. So I went to live in Lyon. I had Louis there. All alone. My mother was in Guadeloupe and my sister didn’t want to know.

  —It was very brave of you to keep Louis, I ventured gently. —Given what ... I trailed off, unable to find the right words. Her shoulders shifted and I heard her exhale, as though exhausted.

  —Who told you about that?

  —Detective Charvillefort.

  —She had no right to.

  It was obvious that recalling all this was agonising for her. She was almost doubled up in front of me, her hair hanging over her face. I saw goose-pimples appear on her thin bare arms. The bruise was now a sick yellowish-blue, and the sight of it made me shudder with self-disgust.

  —So what happened? I whispered.

  She sat up slowly and looked me in the face, brushing her hair away from her eyes, which were now red and streaked with make-up. She looked terrible. I felt a huge flood of pity. Or was it love? I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter.

  —I was all ready to hand him over, when he was just three weeks old. But then the couple who were going to take him – She stopped for a moment, unable to continue. Gently, I reached out and stroked her hair. Thin hair, brittle and fine as mesh. —I changed my mind about it, OK? That’s all. Look, this isn’t something I can really bear to–

  Tentatively, I leaned over and embraced her. She didn’t push me off. She had lost weight; I could feel it. She was no more than a skeleton.

  —You didn’t like them?

  —No, it wasn’t that. They were very happy, she whispered. —They were a happy couple, or that’s how they seemed. Happy with each other. Happy to be getting my baby. Her voice caught. —Happy happy happy, she said. —They had everything I wanted.

  I held her tighter.

  —I hadn’t really looked at Louis before, she said. —Not in that way. But that’s when I started to – I mean as my son. Something that was mine. Someone I could be nice to. Someone I could learn to love in spite of the way I got him. I could be as happy as that woman was to have a baby. And perhaps I’d meet a man who could be happy to be Louis’ father. I realised I didn’t have to think about how Louis came to be born. I thought, I’ll be like them. I’ll just love him anyway. And that’s what I did. I decided to keep him.

  —So when you met Pierre ...

  —I told him everything. And he treated Louis just like his own son – at first. He’d always wanted children.

  —None from his first marriage?

  She stiffened.

  —I suppose it was Charvillefort who told you about Catherine?

  —Yes.

  —What did she say?

  —Nothing. Just that Pierre had been married before.

  —Nothing else?

  —No. Why?


  —Oh, it just feels like my whole life’s at the mercy of ... predators. She looked up then, and her eyes met mine steadily. There was a patch of silence.

  —Including me? I asked slowly. —Is that what you’re saying? Surely you don’t think I would ever–

  —I saw the way you looked at me, she said. —When I arrived with Louis. You saw how – broken – I was.

  I felt slapped. Was there a tiny splinter of truth in what she’d said? Had I really been a predator? —I’m sorry that’s what you think, I mustered, flushing painfully. —Because that’s the last thing I meant to be, and it’s the last thing I feel I am.

  She closed her eyes.

  —It’s OK. I may be doing you an injustice. If I am, I apologise. I’ve ... had a hard time with men, that’s all.

  Of course she had.

  Then suddenly she was smiling, giving me that brisk, false smile I had come to know, the smile that tried to put a brave face on her misery, but failed. My heart hurt for her. There was a short silence as I felt for my next question, unsure of how far I could press her.

  —So ... I mean, when did things start to go wrong? With Pierre and Louis?

  —Quite early on. Louis kept having all these illnesses and accidents, he was a difficult baby, and a difficult toddler – he’s always been – well, he’s been difficult. It meant I couldn’t go out to work. Then Pierre started to wonder if Louis’ behavioural problems were genetic. He started to resent Louis, and the more he resented him, the more he tried to cover it up by doing boy things together with him. Anyone who saw them together thought he was a wonderful father. And in some ways he was. But under the surface it was a lot more volatile. Then I thought – well, I thought I should get pregnant as soon as possible. Make a baby of our own, to put things right. But we couldn’t.

  She seemed so sad, and so lost, so needy. I could not resist reaching for her then. And kissing her. I simply could not. And doing so, I sensed that I was giving myself to this woman in a new way, a way I had never known before – for who had ever needed me as she did? I wanted – I was desperate – to make up for all the bad things that men, myself included, had done to her. All the injustices she had borne so bravely. I wanted to make her world a happy one, I wanted to see her smile, and I knew that if I tried hard enough, if I loved her enough, then I could save her. She must have felt it too, because she allowed me to embrace her and she seemed, in her way, to embrace me back. We lay on the bed, kissing and clinging to one another. I ran my hands through her hair and buried my face in its thin gold mesh. Over and over again, I kissed her arm where I had bruised it, and vowed to myself that this woman would never be bruised again, by me or any other man. Ever. I would make her happiness my mission.