by Liz Jensen
—Though it may not be enough to get a conviction. In the meantime, I have bad news, said Charvillefort.
—I don’t think I can take any more.
—Well I’m sorry. It’s Marcel Perez. He’s in hospital with alcohol poisoning. He went on a huge binge. I’m on my way there now, but he may not make it.
You can’t see anything in the cave, just the white stone, and Gustave’s bloody bandages on the floor like we’re standing in spaghetti Bolognese. His hand’s growing more and more cold and more and more like bones. But I’m holding it anyway because there’s nothing else to hold. I must’ve always known it was him even when he scared me, even when he said weird things and I could feel the danger all around me. His voice is just a croak now, like it’s in my head.
—Once upon a time there was a boy whose mother and father loved him, and one day–
—Blah blah blah.
—And one day–
—I don’t want to hear that one, I’m not a baby and I don’t want to hear stupid fairy stories for babies cos they suck! I’m shouting but he doesn’t shout back. He’s quiet.
—How do you know what the story is?
—Cos I’ve heard it before. It’s The Strange Mystery of Louis Drax, the Amazing Accident-Prone Boy, blah blah blah. Tell me one that doesn’t suck.
—OK. Once upon a time there were two princesses.
—I don’t want princesses. I want bats.
—OK. Bats. Once upon a time there were two bats. No, three. Three bats, a male and two females. And one of the female bats was always laughing and the other female bat was always crying, and the male bat had to choose between them.
—To mate with?
—Yes. So he chose the laughing one, but then he had second thoughts. He felt sorry for the crying bat. She seemed to need him more. He thought if he loved her enough, he could stop her crying. But he was wrong.
—Why was she crying?
—Because it made people feel sorry for her, and she liked that feeling, more than she liked jokes or stories or love.
—What happened to her?
—She ended up all alone.
—And the laughing bat?
—She fell in love with another male bat, and they had three bat babies and lived happily ever after.
—And what happened to the male bat?
But Gustave doesn’t say anything because I guess the story – which sucked – is finished. He probably knows it sucked, and that I thought it sucked, because most stories suck, if they’re about stupid love stuff, even if it’s bats. So we just sit there in the cold cave that’s like a creepy skull and I’m still holding his hand that’s made of bones but there’s a warm feeling, like a fizzing fire in your chest, like the pine cones in the forest whooshing up, because you can love someone, even if they’re dead, and they can love you too, that’s the thing I just found out.
—I have to go soon, Young Sir, he says. —There’s going to be a funeral.
I left Lucille on the ward with Louis and went to my office, where I called Jacqueline and asked her to join me. Noelle had already gone home for the day. While I was waiting for Jacqueline, I rang the girls’ apartment in Montpellier hoping to reach Sophie, but I got the answerphone. I didn’t know what to say so I hesitated and hung up. That felt cowardly, so I rang back and left the briefest message I could.
—Sophie, it’s Pascal. We need to talk.
Then, at a loss, I watered my bonsais. They looked dusty and neglected. I wiped a few leaves and sprayed them, but I suddenly couldn’t seem to care if they lived or died. Jacqueline knocked, came in, and told me that I looked terrible, and that I shouldn’t even be here.
—So where should I be?
—In Montpellier, with Sophie, she answered, rather too quickly. —Have you spoken to her?
—I don’t know what to say. I’m in a mess, Jacqueline.
She didn’t reply to that, but patted me on the arm in such a quiet, human way that I felt like breaking down there and then. I didn’t. Instead, with a painful effort of will, I told her about my trip to Vichy, and what I had learned from Philippe Meunier and Lucille Drax. It wrenched my heart to confess the core of the matter: that I now feared that Natalie Drax – the woman I loved – might have harmed her own child. ‘Might have harmed’: saying it aloud made me feel sick, but it had a different effect on Jacqueline. And an instantaneous one.
—Might have harmed? Pascal, what you’re saying is that she tried to kill him.
I’d never seen her angry before, hadn’t known how it looked: her mouth went a different shape, the shape I imagined she might use for crying. I’d never seen her cry either. She walked over to the window and looked out.
—There’s more, I told her heavily. —Lucille Drax thinks Natalie killed Pierre. I put a laugh into my voice, to show how absurd the idea was. But it sounded forced.
—There’s always been something strange about her, Jacqueline said eventually, almost to herself. —She never wanted any contact. Jessica Favrot said it was like she thought she had a monopoly on grief. But I guess she was just scared we’d see through her. It’s not something that crosses your mind though, is it? Why would it cross anyone’s mind?
—Charvillefort mentioned it, I said, slowly remembering. —Right at the beginning. When we were in Vaudin’s office, she said that one of Louis’ parents could have harmed him.
—But we didn’t want to think about it being her, did we? said Jacqueline. Her back was still to me, I could hear that she was angry with herself. —Everything pointed to her husband. We believed what we wanted to.
But now we had to swivel our thoughts a hundred and eighty degrees. When Jacqueline turned to face me, her eyes were glittering. I could tell she was thinking of her own son, Paul.
—If Natalie’s determined to lie about about her role in Louis’ accident – and possibly also the death of her husband – then what can we do? she asked simply. —What on earth can we do, Pascal?
I stared at my phrenological chart, losing myself in the chambers of the brain. Where quietly, from nowhere, a very clear and very obvious thought hatched.
Although I wasn’t officially at work, I spent the next hour with Isabelle and her parents. Madame Masserot had come down from Paris, at the request of her ex-husband, and it appeared that they had finally reached a shaky truce. Isabelle had responded well to the encouraging atmosphere and there had been a few more small, hopeful signals that she was coming back to consciousness. She had opened her eyes again, and cleared her throat as though preparing to speak. Her mother had combed her hair, and she had protested.
—Like she always did, said Madame Masserot, smiling.
It was good to see her smile at last. I had only sensed that she was a person overloaded by the weight of her own anger, but now I felt a sudden warmth towards her. I congratulated both parents on their decision to put the past behind them, and outlined the ways in which Isabelle’s treatment could now be stepped up, then left them by the bedside. Just then Stephanie Charvillefort walked in. She looked exhausted and drained, having spent the last few hours at Marcel Perez’s bedside, arguing with the doctors about how soon he was free to leave.
—What? Leave? asked Jacqueline, her eyes widening. —But surely he’s too ill to–
– I’ve brought him with me, because I think we need him here, said Detective Charvillefort. —In case Louis wakes up. He wanted to come.
She sounded triumphant, but I detected a quiver in her voice. I wondered how long it had been since she had slept, or eaten anything. By silent agreement, we all headed out of the ward.
—Where is he? I asked.
—In the lobby. I was hoping you could find him a bed.
—I’ll see to it, said Jacqueline, and left swiftly.
—About all this, I said to Charvillefort as we walked along the white corridor. —The lack of evidence. I have an idea. Jacqueline thinks it’s a good one, and I think Vaudin could be persuaded. And now Marcel Perez is here, he can help
too. He’ll be useful.
But when I told her what I was thinking of, she looked at me as though I had lost my mind.
—No, she said, stopping to look me full in the face. —Absolutely not.
I was immediately angry. —Why the hell not?
She continued to look at me with those very piercing eyes.
—Because it’s insane, Dr Dannachet.
—Surely by now you’re willing to try anything? I was feeling desperate. —You don’t have many options at this point. We have a boy in a coma, one man dead, and no concrete proof of the slightest wrongdoing on anyone’s part. Nothing.
—I can’t stop you doing what you want to do, Dr Dannachet, she said finally. —But I can’t be part of it. If you go ahead, then I wish you luck.
—Do you have a better idea? I snapped.
—As a matter of fact yes. I’m going to question Natalie Drax again, for as long as it takes. We have new information now. Philippe Meunier’s new version of events in the hospital in Vichy, and your account of what Natalie Drax told you about Louis’ fall. Two inconsistencies. I think if I confront her with them, she might crack.
I went to find Jacqueline; I found her sitting in the lobby with Lucille Drax and Marcel Perez. The three of them were deep in conversation, I knew that Jacqueline had been telling them what I was planning. Perez looked terrible. He was still attached to a portable drip; he clearly hadn’t shaved in days, and his skin exhaled a rancid alcoholic reek. I guessed it would be a long time leaving his system.
—Glad to see you, said Perez.
—Will you help us? I asked.
—We both will, said Lucille Drax.
—Detective Charvillefort says it’s insane.
—Maybe she’s right, said Marcel Perez. —But what is there to lose?
We all exchanged a nervous smile, and then went in to see Vaudin. He was on the point of leaving for home, and we caught him off guard.
—You’re not even supposed to be here, Pascal, he grumbled, ushering us in. —Didn’t I tell you to take some leave?
—I will, I said. —But there’s something I have to do first.
Jacqueline, Marcel Perez and I each addressed him, but it was Lucille Drax who did the real persuading.
—I’ve lost my son, she finished. —My grandson’s in a coma. If there’s a way of getting him to communicate again, I want to try it. I don’t think you can refuse me, Dr Vaudin.
Guy was embarrassed, but gave in to letting us go ahead with what he called ‘your experiment’. He would turn a blind eye if it were done while he was off the premises. But there were conditions. It was to be properly supervised. Jacqueline and Lucille Drax were both to be present at Louis’ bedside. It must all be recorded on camera, and come to a swift halt in the event of a fire threat. We must do it that night. Leave things any later, and the circumstances would become too chaotic. The forest fires were sweeping closer by the hour, and we might all be forced to evacuate the building whether we wanted to or not. There was no denying the increasingly pervasive smell of smoke that wafted towards us from the forest.
—And remember, he finished. —This isn’t officially happening. You’re not here, Pascal; you’re on sick leave.
So it was agreed: I was to spend the night on the ward with Louis, in the company of Jacqueline Duval, Marcel Perez – who was soon installed, shuffling around in pyjamas – and Lucille Drax.
Georges Navarra called by and told me Detective Charville fort was still interrogating Natalie Drax.
—Stephanie’s very tough, he said. —But so far Natalie Drax is sticking to the version of the story she originally gave the police. She completely denies telling you she saw Louis’ face as he fell. She says you invented it.
I felt myself flush with rage. She had said it. I remembered it so clearly. Remembered her misery, the tears she’d shed, the brave face she’d tried to put on, the way I’d melted with pity.
—She’s lying.
Then I remembered the firm gentleness of her voice on the phone when I had called her from Vichy. I never tried to hurt Louis. She loved him. That was enough for me. Wasn’t it? I felt sick at the thought that a part of me had ever doubted her. But sicker still to realise that the doubt lingered, and was deepening, despite everything.
—Good luck with it, said Georges. —For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea. Perhaps if Stephanie Charvillefort doesn’t get any further with Madame Drax, she’ll change her mind.
But he didn’t sound convinced.
We began at six o’clock, as soon as Vaudin had left. I was anxious, even though my role was to be a passive one. I took a 20mg tablet of temazepam, which hit me in a queasy rush, then soaked me up. I lay on the bed that had been installed next to Louis, letting the euphoria wash over me. There was no noise except for the hum of the two respirators that serviced Kevin and Henri; the noise soothed me, and for a beautiful, crystalline moment before sleep overcame me, everything seemed simple and clear and perfect.
The temazepam did its work efficiently; I was fully unconscious, according to Jacqueline, by half past six, when she set the CCTV camera and the tape recorder in motion, and summoned Lucille Drax and Marcel Perez to join her at my bedside. Together the three of them sat in chairs next to the beds where Louis and I lay, and waited. I’d been supplied with paper, a pen and a clipboard. But nothing happened.
Nothing and more nothing. An hour passed, and then two, and the plan that had seemed so inspired began to look like a hopeless act of folly. But they stayed anyway. What choice did they have? More hours limped by, and they fell asleep in turns. By midnight they had sunk into a state of despondency that weighed on them like a cold, unhappy blanket. I had barely stirred, and Louis had remained still, his breathing so shallow it was scarcely detectable, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, his hand curled around the toy moose.
Then at one o’clock, Detective Charvillefort and Georges Navarra returned to the clinic – bringing an exhausted but defiant Natalie Drax with them. She had revealed nothing, and they were quietly desperate. Georges Navarra had persuaded Charvillefort that if Louis was to yield up any information through me, then they should be present, and observe the reaction of his mother. Faced with her own failure to make Natalie confess, Stephanie Charvillefort had finally agreed. Natalie would watch the CCTV link from a separate room, supervised by Georges Navarra, who would stay with her throughout and monitor her reactions – with a CCTV camera for back-up. God only knows what Natalie was going through at that point. Maybe just surviving. I can picture how she might simply shut something off inside her, suffocating any urge towards introspection. When I imagine her eyes – as I do, in those times when a tidal wave of memory washes through me, stripping my thoughts to the bone – I feel myself crumbling. Because her eyes, as I remember them, show nothing: nothing.
I slept on. Perez, Lucille, Jacqueline and Charvillefort sat on chairs next to the bed. Natalie Drax, as agreed, was in a side-room with Georges Navarra.
Then at four o’clock, Marcel Perez, who had dozed off by the bedside, woke up. He had been dreaming about Louis, he told me later. Louis had come to see him in Gratte-Ciel, and they’d talked. He couldn’t remember what about, but they had been glad to see one another. Piecing the dream back together from the fragments it left around him when he woke, he had an idea – an idea so simple that when he voiced it, it struck him as bizarre that he’d not thought of it before. There was no need for pen and paper. Marcel Perez would simply address Louis the way he always did. He cleared his throat.
—Tell me, Louis, he said softly. —What happened on the mountain?
And I opened my eyes and began to talk.
Mohammed came, in Alcatraz, but we kept him in the boot while we ate the picnic.
—What did you eat? asks Fat Perez, because he’s into eating, which is how he got so fat and called Fat Perez instead of Monsieur.
—Food, duh! Has your brain shrunk to the size of a pea or something?
; —What kind of food? he asks. (See what I mean?) —Can you remember?
—You want a list? OK, here’s what was in the picnic basket, Monsieur Perez. I bet it makes you hungry. There was bread and pâté and cheese and saucisson sec secretly called donkey dick, and wine for them and Coke for me. And lots of non-harmful bacteria, cos food’s always swarming with non-harmful bacteria and sometimes the harmful kind too, that’s how I got salmonella once. And Maman said I should slow down or I’d get tummy ache, that’s what she’s always on about, scared I might puke up, or swallow a screw by accident, that can happen. I once ate a three-centimetre screw by accident, you ask her. She’ll tell you I’m not a liar.
—I know you’re not a liar, Louis. Tell me more.
—About food? You want more food?
—About anything.
—There was birthday cake. Chocolate. And you had to make a wish. Maman’s wish was that I’d be hers for ever and that nothing bad would happen to me.
—And your wish?
—That Papa was my real dad, so he’d stay with us.
—Aha. And did you tell them your wish, Louis, or did you keep it to yourself?
—Blah blah blah.
—What does that mean?
—It means blah blah blah.
—Does that mean–
—It means I wasn’t going to say it. But I did cos Papa told me off about the sweets.
—The sweets?
—They weren’t sweets. He thought they were. I had them in my pocket. I only ate one.
—What were they, Louis, if they weren’t sweets?
—Blah blah blah.
—Something that made Papa cross?
—Lady-pills don’t even look like sweets. They don’t taste like sweets either, you just swallow them. He wanted to know why I had them in my pocket and why I ate one. So I told him I ate one every day.
—You ate a lady-pill every day, Louis?
—Of course.
—But why?
—So I’d turn into a girl.
—And why did you want that?
—So I wouldn’t be a rapist. And when I told Papa that he started shouting at Maman about being a pathological liar and look what it’s led to and blah blah blah, so I tried to stop them by saying the wish aloud. The one I didn’t say before, about him being my real dad. If he was my real dad I wouldn’t have needed the lady-pills, would I? So it was Papa’s fault, not Maman’s.