The Ninth Life of Louis Drax

by Liz Jensen

  —I’ve moved Kevin, Isabelle and Henri to the physio room; they’re listening to music.

  —Is she OK?

  —Just very shocked, I think. A few cuts from the glass; Berthe’s cleaning her up.

  —What happened? How did he get in?

  —It wasn’t him, she whispered. —It was his mother. Lucille Drax.

  Relief swamped me, and I shut my eyes briefly.

  —She came into the ward but when she saw Natalie she started yelling at her to get away from her grandson. Natalie was sitting with Louis, holding his hand, and she had her back to her; she didn’t really understand what was happening until she was attacked.

  I listened, first in bafflement and then in anger as Jacqueline described how the older woman had grabbed Natalie by the shoulders from behind, and hauled her to her feet, screaming abuse at her. Natalie had tried to break loose, knocking over the table in the process, and smashing the vase. The policeman had managed to separate them, but it had been quite a struggle.

  —And Louis? Any reaction?

  —Not a flicker, said Jacqueline.

  —Thank Christ.

  I shook my head in disbelief, stepping aside for Fatima who had just arrived with a mop. Detective Charvillefort came and joined us.

  —Where’s Natalie? How is she?

  —Georges has taken her back to her room. She’s very shocked, of course. But no serious injury.

  —It seems violence runs in the family, I said, as we left Jacqueline and headed, by silent mutual agreement, for the French windows.

  Charvillefort shrugged. —I don’t know. It’s more complicated than it looks.

  —What do you mean?

  —Dr Dannachet, the detective said quietly as we stepped out on to the balcony into the fierce sun. —What I need to convey to you at this point is that when it comes to Natalie Drax, the truth is rather hard to pin down. You don’t have all the facts at your disposal.

  —And you do, I suppose? Listen, in my experience – I began.

  But she cut me off. —Dr Dannachet, I have to tell you that as of yesterday, we have a very interesting new lead. One that we hadn’t foreseen. Natalie Drax is being informed of it now.

  —What?

  —We’re waiting for more tests on a piece of evidence, she said, putting on her sunglasses and looking out across the garden. —It may be nothing, Dr Dannachet. But if it’s something, I should know in an hour or so.

  The graphologist’s report. I flushed, and my stomach whirlpooled slowly. Now was the time to come clean about what I had done, and how I had discovered it. Perez would back me up. But I didn’t. Instead, I excused myself, claiming I had a deadline. I left her standing on the balcony, gazing into a landscape flooded by sun. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance.

  I sat with Louis.

  —I don’t know what you’re up to, Louis, I said quietly in his ear. —But I’m listening. Talk to me again. OK? I know you’re trying to. I’m in trouble. I can help you, but you have to help me too. We have to help each other out of this.

  But he just lay there, lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks, the mouth slightly parted, the shallow breathing in and out.

  Back in my office, I rang Natalie’s room but got put straight through to voicemail. I couldn’t blame her for that. I left a brief message saying how sorry I was to hear of the attack, and that I had something I needed to discuss with her, urgently. I left my mobile number for her to ring me back.

  —And please take care, I finished.

  —I want you to–

  I shut my eyes and squeezed tight. Hung up. What did I want her to do, exactly? Love the man who’d written her hate mail in his sleep?

  Madame Lucille Drax was in her seventies, with frank eyes and an intelligent face, a physical image quite disconcertingly at odds with the screaming madwoman I had pictured. I felt disturbed by her presence in my office, and a little treacherous for agreeing to a meeting with her, or even allowing her to sit down. But she had every right to visit her grandson and speak to his doctor. She had come all the way from Paris to see Louis. It would have been churlish – and unprofessional – to refuse her a meeting.

  —I heard about the incident with your daughter-in-law, I said, as soon as we had shaken hands. I spoke gently but with firmness. —I have to tell you that this kind of behaviour is totally unacceptable on a coma ward. On any ward for that matter.

  —I know. I do apologise to you, said Madame Drax. —It was a very stressful encounter to say the least. Natalie tried to stop me seeing my grandson, I do hope you realise that? She told me she didn’t want me anywhere near him after Pierre ... disappeared.

  I didn’t quite know what to say. I could see that the woman must be under huge personal pressure. —You haven’t seen him?

  —Of course I haven’t, she snapped. I could see she was on the edge of tears. —No one has. And now there’s this new evidence ... I’m sorry. She stopped abruptly and pressed her hands to her mouth. —I’m not meant to say. It’s probably a false lead, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’ve been very worried about Pierre. And now I’m even more worried. It isn’t like him.

  —But given what he did ...

  At this point she stood up and spoke with great dignity and anger. Her voice trembled, but it was strong and utterly convinced. —My son did not try to kill my grandson, Dr Dannachet. He’d be incapable of it. Pierre loved Louis far more than Natalie ever did. You simply have to believe me.

  Then she choked. I reached across the desk, put my hand on her arm. I felt immensely sorry for her.

  —Please stay, I said, indicating that she should sit down again. I didn’t want to argue with her. I felt exhausted. —Let’s talk about Louis.

  I prepared more coffee – by now I was quivering with caffeine – and we made small talk to clear the air, before I briefed her on the prognosis. Her questions were intelligent and to-the-point. I asked her about the letters. The idea that Pierre might have written them was absurd, she said.

  —I agree, I said. I felt guilty. I would have to tell her. But how could I? What words would I use? She’d think I was insane. And so I held my tongue. She would know soon enough. The ‘new evidence’ could mean only one thing: that the graphologists had found me out. Like Marcel Perez, she confirmed that the letters were typical of Louis. It was ‘uncanny’. Only someone who knew Louis very well could parody him like that. He would write to her a couple of times a year, she said. A very idiosyncratic boy, a little eccentric. Loveable, but difficult. —They were thank-you letters but often he’d write about other things – bats and other creatures, or what he thought about school, or the state of the world. A precocious boy, it was no wonder he didn’t fit in anywhere. I often wondered what his real father was like.

  I nearly choked on my coffee. Clearly she did not know the story. But she thought she did.

  —A nice, very bright young man, according to Natalie’s sister.

  —I thought she and her sister were estranged.

  —They are. But I was curious to know a bit more about the woman my son had married. So I looked up her sister.

  —When?

  —Four months ago, when Pierre was living with me in Paris.

  —So what else did she say about this man?

  —Francine? Nothing much. Just that he was nice, and it wasn’t fair what happened. I agreed with that. But anyway, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have a grandson would I? So I can’t exactly complain.

  —What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t fair what happened’? That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think? She looked at me: a long, narrow look.

  —There are different versions of that story, Dr Dannachet. The version I heard from Francine didn’t tally with the one Natalie told my son. Not at all. She told me – and frankly I never doubted her – that Natalie and Jean-Luc had a relationship, and that–

  There was a sharp knock at the door, and it opened swiftly. Detective Charvillefort entered, looking pale and serio
us.

  —Excuse me, she said. —I have to speak to Madame Drax urgently. Dr Dannachet, would you mind if we used your office for a moment? In private?

  It was bad timing, and I was annoyed. I’d felt that Madame Drax was about to tell me something important. Something that I might not like, but maybe needed to know. I stepped outside into Noelle’s reception area. Noelle was in a talkative mood, clearly fascinated by what was going on.

  —The poor boy, she said. —All this fuss, it can’t be easy for him.

  —He’s in a coma, I reminded her.

  —Yes, but even so.

  Realising she wasn’t going to get any information out of me, she proceeded to tell me about her family and their small triumphs. Her younger grandson had just won a swimming medal. I congratulated her. Her older grandson was nearly at the top of his class. Her elder son had just been promoted. I congratulated her again. She thought her daughter-in-law might feel ready to get pregnant again, now their future was looking more secure. I made what I thought were the right noises, but I could barely concentrate on a word she was saying. Just then a terrible wail came from my office, followed by a dead silence and then another wail. Noelle and I looked at one another as we strained our ears for clues. You could just make out the quiet murmur of Detective Charvillefort’s voice.

  Then the door opened, and Detective Charvillefort stepped out.

  —Could I take some tissues? she asked.

  Noelle handed her the box in silence.

  —What’s happened? I asked. But she just gave me a distressed look and went back in.

  Five minutes later both women emerged from the room. Madame Drax seemed to be having trouble walking. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wild. When Detective Charvillefort offered her hand for support, she grappled for it and then clutched it as though she were drowning.

  —I have to take Madame Drax to Vichy, said Detective Charvillefort quietly. —Georges Navarra will be in touch with you very shortly, Dr Dannachet. I think you know what it’s about.

  And they were gone.

  What happened over the next twenty-four hours remains in my memory as a blur of images and conversations, fragments of an anxiety dream I once had but from which I have yet to recover. I mean, really recover, as in heal, forget, forgive, understand, move on. A strange smudge of time whose colour in my mind is the colour of a bloody evening sky, an unhealthy sunset that puts the lid on a day of vexation.

  Soon after Detective Charvillefort and Madame Drax senior had left, Georges Navarra turned up looking uncomfortable. He held his body oddly, as though trying to be formal. Which I soon realised he was. When Noelle showed him in he coughed – the kind of cough you make to break the silence rather than to clear your throat – but said nothing. I stood to greet him and shook his hand. Finally he spoke. I was to accompany him to the police station in Layrac for questioning, he said. Noelle, who had been filing some papers in my cabinet, gave a little hiccup of surprise. Excusing herself, she left hurriedly, leaving me alone with Navarra.

  —I’m sorry, he said.

  I had known, fatalistically, that it would be only a matter of time. But like any theoretical notion that takes sudden, concrete form, the reality of it shocked me. I wasn’t being charged with anything, Navarra reassured me. But there was ‘an issue’ that needed to be cleared up. Concerning the letters. The graphologist’s report had arrived; it indicated that it was I who had written the two letters purporting to be from Louis Drax: one to Madame Drax, and one to myself.

  —It was done in innocence, I told him. —I mean, when I did it, I wasn’t aware. Do you understand what I’m saying? I did it in a state of physical unawareness.

  Georges looked at me blankly for a second, before his face creased in worry.

  —I don’t think you’d better say any more for now, Doctor, he murmured. —Let’s just get you to the station.

  On the way out, I told Noelle to phone Sophie in Montpellier and tell her I was being questioned. Then I had second thoughts, and told her not to. Then third thoughts. —But don’t alarm her, OK?

  Noelle winced and gave me a look of indignant despair. It was all too much for her to cope with. She reached for her moisturiser.

  We left the clinic. As Navarra drove slowly down the white gravel drive, I saw the gardener, Monsieur Girardeau, surveying the lavender border; as we passed, he plucked a head of lavender and crushed it between his fingers, pensively, then brought it to his face to smell. How I envied him in that moment. When he spotted me in the car as we drove past, he smiled and waved.

  —I have to admit I’m surprised, Dr Dannachet, said Navarra, changing gear. —That was quite an act you put on, when you called me about the first letter.

  —It wasn’t an act. Look, this may be hard for you to grasp, but I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. If it was me, I mean. Which still has to be proved, doesn’t it? Look, I have a history of sleepwalking. But I mean, why would I write a threatening letter to myself? That’s what I can’t fathom.

  —Sleepwalking, eh? said Navarra. He drove for a while in silence, thinking this through.

  —But what about Drax? I asked him eventually. —Surely you’re still looking for him?

  —No, he said. —No need now, is there?

  He turned left on to the road to Layrac, then speeded up to overtake a tractor loaded with logs.

  —Of course there is! He’s still on the loose, isn’t he?

  —As a matter of fact, no, he said, turning to look at me as he drove. A sharp, searching look. —Pierre Drax has been found. That’s why Detective Charvillefort had to fetch his mother. She’s taken her to Vichy to identify him.

  —He’s been found? But surely that’s good news! Surely that–

  He interrupted me. —It’s a body we’re talking about. Pierre Drax’s body.

  I watched his neat, intelligent profile as we drove on in silence. There seemed nothing more to say. Pierre Drax was dead. Ergo he was not stalking anyone. Was not writing any letters. Was not–

  Finally I said, —Suicide?

  —I have no idea, he said. —And for now, nor does anyone else.

  Layrac police station was small and sleepy, with notices flapping on the notice-board and an air of controlled ruin. In an interview room, Navarra told me, in a stiff, official way, that the police graphologist had identified that the handwriting was written by a right-handed person with their left hand.

  —Unfortunately both the CCTV tapes relating to those days have gone missing, he said slowly. Then he stopped and sighed, lowering his voice. —Would you like to speak to your lawyer, Dr Dannachet, or do you think you might be able to lay your hands on them?

  I could see he wanted to help me, but I didn’t know how to let him; what was the etiquette of my situation? Should I just blurt out the truth? That yes, I had taken the tapes because I knew I had written the letters. But that I had written them in my sleep, guided by Louis? Perez would back me up; he’d said as much in Lyon that night. But could I trust Perez to react the same way sober? Had he even remembered my visit? Might it not be better just to sit tight, talk to my lawyer? Stalled by my own indecision, I said nothing, until Georges Navarra sighed and excused himself, saying he would leave me to think about things. At one point I heard a dog barking; I looked through the small window and saw Natalie with Jojo; she was walking along the corridor on the arm of a policewoman. She looked red-eyed and broken, smaller and more fragile than ever. I remembered the thinness of her body against mine – skin and bone – and a lump came to my throat. Then the sudden hot jab of tears. I wanted to call out to her, but I knew I couldn’t. What would I say? They would have told her about finding her husband’s body, I supposed. And they would have told her that I had written the letters, perhaps asked if she wanted to press charges. She’d think I was sick. Unless like Perez, she believed it was Louis communicating. Surely she would. I think my son’s a kind of angel. Did she realise I loved her? Couldn’t she feel it?

  See Louis as
just another case, Meunier had warned me.

  But I hadn’t been able to. Then a thought struck me. Philippe must have seen something odd in Louis, for him to warn me off in the way he did. I’d suspected that it was because he had fallen for Natalie. But what if it was something else? I had to speak to him.

  —You need to take some time off, said Guy Vaudin, breezing into the interview room and planting his hand firmly on my shoulder. —I spoke to Navarra. I’m sorry, Pascal. I honestly had no idea you were under so much pressure. And with Sophie going off to Montpellier ...

  He didn’t need to clarify to me that in his mind, I was having a breakdown.

  —It’s not what you think, I protested. But I knew it was hopeless.

  —Navarra told me your theory. The sleepwalking story. But I’m sorry, I don’t buy it, Vaudin said, sighing heavily. —I admire your work, but you’ve taken a wrong turn here. It’s unprofessional in the extreme. Look, I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. Can’t stop and talk. But why don’t you just take a few days’ holiday and write the whole thing up when you get back? Get a bit of perspective on it.

  Jacqueline was my next visitor. She arrived with a bag of black grapes and planted them before me. She’d met Vaudin in the street outside and he’d told her about our conversation.

  —Louis made you do it, she announced, selecting the best grape and handing it to me with a tin ashtray for the pips. She watched me eat it as though supervising medication. I felt like a grateful invalid.

  —But Guy – I began.

  —She snorted. —You know what Guy’s like. He just wants a quiet life.

  —Tell Natalie, I said. —Natalie will believe it. Do it, Jacqueline. Please.

  She smiled, but looked doubtful. —Of course, she said, quickly, plucking another grape from the bunch and handing it to me. It was as dark as blood. —The more people who think the same thing, the better. In the meantime, I’ve been busy. Sophie called me from Montpellier. She’d heard from Noelle. She was quite distressed. I got the feeling she was torn between staying in Montpellier and coming back. What should I tell her, if we speak again?