Abduction

by Simon Pare

  “I… I… How dare you? You bastard, you think the army’s got time to waste on your personal quest for vengeance! I don’t give a damn if someone bumped off your father and mother, or how many hairs you’ve got on your arse. What I expected was information about the rebels, you son of a…”

  Crimson-faced by now, the lieutenant advanced towards the young man and threw a punch at him, followed by a kick when the man collapsed to the floor. Slightly put out by having lost his cool in front of the privates, the lieutenant wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Consider yourself lucky just to get punched, you little shit, because it might have crossed my mind that you were – who knows? – an informer sent by the fells to see if their man had caved in or not! Now get this liar out of here!”

  Then, turning to the prisoner as if he was telling him a secret, he said, “So, my lovely little faggot, seen what you’ve gone and done? Now you’ve really got it coming. You’re not a prisoner of war, just some second-rate murderer who’s cost us a lot of time. I’m sick and tired of you, so now the fun’s really going to start and if you haven’t talked by the time the fun’s stopped, well, too bad, I’ll make sure I shut you up for good, with or without orders from HQ!”

  And, pointing his index finger upwards, he enjoined them to hang the rebel from one of the hooks on the ceiling.

  Before dawn the next day, having asked the prisoner if he still wanted to die (and the man, incapable of speaking, nodded almost incredulously at this godsend),Mathieu dressed him and then led him out of the camp in full view. The courtyard was still empty and the stunned sentry asked him where he was going this early with the battered Arab prisoner who had to lean on his shoulder.

  “To the wadi,” replied Mathieu, casually readjusting the strap of a haversack containing civilian clothes. “The lieutenant hasn’t got enough fuel for his morning coffee. He ordered me to fetch some with a little help from… our old friend here.”

  “Fuel, sergeant?”

  “Come on, soldier. What do you make a fire with in the countryside?”

  “Oh!” said the sentry in embarrassment, finally grasping the allusion to ‘fire’ duty. “Erm… Watch out for yourself, sergeant, it’s still dark and there’s some dangerous cover here.”

  The young squaddie’s tone was hesitant and perhaps even slightly disapproving.

  “Thanks,” Mathieu replied simply, suddenly brimming with affection for the last French soldier in whose eyes he wasn’t yet a traitor.

  He fought a stupid temptation to explain himself, then just said, “Watch out for yourself too, soldier. Think of your loved ones; there’s no point dying too soon.”

  Aziz gazes wide-eyed at the man who is suggesting that he knows his daughter’s kidnapper and that all this horror might be somehow connected to the distant past.

  He is about to get up and grab the old man by the collar to make him cough up more than the scraps he has revealed until now when his phone starts to vibrate.

  Mathieu sees him tense up and reach for his pocket.

  “The phone?” he whispers in a very old voice.

  Aziz rushes to the bathroom. He shuts the door carefully before opening his mobile phone and at the same time turning on the cold tap.

  “Is that you, Aziz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Aziz feels the same icy pick driving into his chest. He feels like sinking to his knees and begging; he feels his whole body turning into a mountain that is suddenly about to crumble.

  “So have you done my little errand?”

  “Errand? Um… yes.”

  “You took the photo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Send it to me now.”

  “But I don’t have a telephone number…”

  The voice burst into a high-pitched laugh – ridiculous, thinks the father in terror.

  “Oh yes you do, my boy. Take a look at your screen.”

  Aziz holds the telephone up to look at the luminous rectangle. On it, instead of the ‘Caller unknown’ message he was expecting to find, are displayed the nine figures of an Algerian telephone number.

  “Don’t get too excited, my friend. I’ll only use this number once. I’ve already told you: there’s no shortage of anonymous chips in this country. Anyway, if you tip the police off in any way, your daughter will go straight to the paradise reserved for murder victims after some, let’s say, special treatment in this hell on earth of which I am a humble servant.”

  “I want to talk to my daughter,” said Aziz.

  His throat is so tight that he is afraid the other man didn’t hear him.

  “Send me that fucking photo first!” the latter snapped back. “And stay where you are!”

  “My daughter… my…”

  The line went dead and Shehera’s father had the very precise sensation that a vein, an artery or some vital organ had burst inside him, like an overstretched elastic band made of flesh.

  After several unsuccessful attempts (Aziz realises that he has never done this operation before, since sending files from a mobile telephone is ruinously expensive in Algeria), he sees the flashing icon appear and then go out, signalling that the photograph has been successfully sent.

  He only has to wait a couple of minutes – interminable though they are, as he now has a stomach ache, unbearable colic pains – until his telephone vibrates again. This time the screen displays the usual ‘Caller unknown’.

  “Nice photo, very expressive. Who is it?”

  “A neighbour.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I think he was working for the army. An informer, or a hired man, something like that.”

  “So you’ve performed a good deed there and certainly done society a favour. One small criticism, though: I would have preferred an innocent person. The sacrifice is so much more precious when the person’s thoroughly innocent, the genuine article. Can you imagine for a second sacrificing a depraved pig at Eid rather than an angelic sheep? Having said that, I do like the photo of your victim a lot, but… but…”

  Aziz can sense the man savouring the feel of the word but on his tongue, first holding it up against his palate like a sweet, before turning it to spit.

  “But nothing tells me that you were the one who carried out the job… that this photo hasn’t been taken from the Internet, for example. Eh? In all seriousness, what proof do I have that you are really the creator of this, let’s say, work of art?”

  The kidnapper let out a short, amused laugh. In his terror, Aziz hears himself – but it’s so obscene it can’t possibly be him! – protesting in a profoundly shocked voice: “But I’m honest, I am! I swear that I killed that man! I fulfilled my part of the deal…”

  Silence followed. Aziz crushed the sweaty phone against his ear, hoping to make out the man’s breathing – and maybe his mood. In vain. He turned the tap to halt the sound of running water.

  “If I say I did it, then I did it!” Aziz implores. “You’re not going to tell me I’ve murdered a man for nothing? I want my daughter…”

  He is struggling not to cry.

  “I,” the cursed voice suddenly intones, “am not honest. I do not have to keep my word, I can lie if I feel like it. Or churn out little slices of truth and boil them in acid before forcing every last one of them down your throat, if I so wish.”

  Aziz is bent over the washbasin. The man’s cheerfulness terrifies him.

  “You claim that you’ve obeyed me, and I’m not saying that you’ve disobeyed me. It’s just that that’s no longer enough. There is no deal between us, my friend, only obligations for you. I am your God and you are my subject. Maybe it’s a whim, but then God is whimsical.”

  Aziz feels like lumps of flesh are sticking to his tongue, weighing it down as it attempts the curious exercise of trying to convince a total nutter to see a little sense.

  “Silence gives consent, my dear Aziz. So get ready to make me another gift.”

  “Anoth
er gift?”

  “Yes. Now that you’ve got a taste for it, you’re going to kill someone else for me.”

  “Kill someone else? But that’s impossible! No way… I don’t want to go through something that awful ever again… Money – do you want money? We’ll sell everything we have. Even my parents-in-law are ready to sell their flat.”

  “Money? You think I’d have gone to these lengths to get your wretched money? You insult me and now you’re grumbling too. No way you’ll kill someone else? Oh well… oh well…”

  He puffed.

  “Don’t hang up whatever you do!” he ordered. “Give me just a few seconds, my shitty old friend who refuses to make me a tiny little gift!”

  Aziz feels as if he is experiencing a series of nightmares stacked in the opposite order to Russian nesting dolls, each matryoshka giving birth to a worse nightmare than the one before.

  “Can you hear me?”

  He feels his hair suddenly stand on end, like a multitude of needles stabbing into his skull.

  “Da… Da… ow… are… you li… ste…a hh… ning?”

  It is Shehera, her voice almost unrecognisable, spitting out her words like splinters.

  “…He’s hol… ding a kni… fe… oww… to my thro… at… Dad… he… lp… He’s go… ing to… kill… me…”

  “I can hear you, my love, but not very well. (He is trying to convince himself that his good-for-nothing brain is misinterpreting his daughter’s moans!) How are you? Are your fingers…?”

  “Funny questions you’re asking!” the man shouts into the phone. “Allow me to describe the situation to you. Your daughter is lying tied up on the floor, and I’m kneeling on her belly holding a knife to her throat. The knife is as sharp as can be and it’s already made a mark. My word, I can see a few droplets of blood peeking through. If your sweet kid were to move or even so much as fart, my knife would plunge into her throat like sliding into a pat of butter. So, if you choose not to say yes, yes, yes immediately to all my demands, your daughter’s life will cease this very instant, my fucking moron friend. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Aziz whispers, floundering in the horror of it all. “Take the knife away, for the love of all that is most sacred to you, I beg you… Sorry, sorry… She’s only a child…”

  He clings to the washbasin, choking on his sobs.

  “Stop snivelling. You sound like a barrel of tears. And don’t talk about sacred – nothing is sacred on this planet! You’re checkmate, matey, checkmate like no one has ever been before, and even God, the greatest chess player in the universe, can’t do anything about that. So, are we agreed? You do as I say and your daughter’s life will be saved.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here we go then. You will kill someone for me by tomorrow morning.”

  “Another stranger? I can’t do it! It’s… it’s so hard… And I’ll never have time to find someone!… It’s dark and…”

  “Who said this one’s going to be hard to find? The first one was so you’d get the hang of it, in a word so you’d learn to dirty your hands with another man’s blood. I wanted to initiate you, like they initiated novice maquisards who wanted to join the FLN during the war. This time I’ll make your job easy for you, so you won’t have to go on a random hunt. I want you to kill your father-in-law.”

  “What? My father-in-law? Mathieu? He’s never done anything to me…”

  “Are you refusing to do it?”

  The man must have pressed down on the blade, for Shehera let out a high-pitched whine.

  “No!”moaned her father. “Stop!”

  “Will you do it? Say yes clearly!”

  “Yes… yes… But why… why my father-in-law? He’s so old, so useless…”

  “Ask him… before you do away with him, of course. If his memory’s as good as mine, maybe he’ll explain.”

  “He knows you?”

  “Ha ha, would you like to know? Torture him – he’ll tell you everything eventually.”

  “What are you gibbering on about? Torture him? You’re… you’re…”

  “Hey, shut that sewer mouth of yours before your daughter pays the price! But before that, apologise – fast.”

  “Sorry… sorry.”

  He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in satisfaction.

  “Actually, we’re having some fun, you and me. One day you’ll tell me how you went about killing your first victim. Did he cry for mercy? Did he lie dying for long? Were you really scared? And did remorse come crashing down on you like a mountain of garbage? I’m dying to hear you hold forth on the subject of the torments of remorse now you’re a specialist! Unfortunately, neither you nor I are really in the mood for talking right now. Work comes first, eh? Talk to you tomorrow morning then, Aziz. But take care not to get nicked by the police. A guy like you would need to keep a stock of Ventolin in one of our jails…”

  “Ventolin?” squeaked the father. “But I’m not asthmatic.”

  “I know, my boy. Asthmatics use Ventolin because it dilates the vessels in the lungs. In jail, Ventolin is used to enlarge the anus of rebellious types like you to make them more hospitable, if you see what I mean. So don’t get yourself nabbed by the cops, especially as it would also spell death for missie here. It’s one of the basic laws of nature: you can carry on living with your fingers cut off; you can’t if your throat is in the same state. OK?… OK?”

  “OK,” Aziz agreed in his most servile voice.“Just don’t touch Shehera.”

  “I’m not bluffing, young man. I even bet you’d be horrified to learn how little I actually have to lose in this. Do you want me to prove it?”

  “No… please.”

  “Good, so you’ve seen reason.”

  In the mirror in front of him the father contemplates a grey, diabolically ugly face that is petrified by his fear of the kidnapper’s mad verbal outpourings. This is the face I will have when I am just a corpse, he has time to remark before his interlocutor utters some strange words that, this time, bear no trace of boastfulness or mockery: “I like you, brother, I really like you. You’ve brought meaning back to my life.”

  “Pass me my daughter, please. Just one word.”

  “No. All that would do is unsettle you even more and waste our time. Well, I’ll be off. Keep your spirits up, my friend.”

  The father stands there motionlessly with the phone stuck to his ear. The line has been dead for several seconds already. The connections between his neurones seem to have gone dead too; there is not the slightest twitch of the slightest emotion…

  …apart, that is, from the germ of a question. A black swirl of a question approaching from the distant horizon of his closed eyes…

  And afterwards? What else will you demand of me?

  He raises his hand to his forehead; he has fallen into his own ambush. And meanwhile, the monstrous wormlike thing introducing the idea of killing his father-in-law is set in motion, crawling and sniffing its way through the winding passages of his brain, surprised, though not unduly, at the new task being asked of it!

  “My daughter,” he now groans, “my daughter.”

  Tipsy without having drunk, the man tries to take a step forward before toppling over, just managing to catch hold of the tap in time. Someone knocks on the bathroom door and implores him: “Open the door, Aziz. Open up.”

  “Aziz, your wife needs you. She’s in a complete panic.”

  Mathieu pretends not to notice the red eyes of the man who opens the bathroom door to him.

  “Wash your face, put a comb through your hair, and come and join us.”

  Aziz takes his wife in his arms. Meriem’s whole body is trembling. Her breasts touch Aziz’s chest, transmitting some of her warmth to him. He reflects that this woman is the most wonderful thing in his life. Then, as though his heart had been fitted with a pain gauge, he wonders which gradation the needle of suffering would reach were he to lose Meriem.

  She stares her husband straight in the eye, but her overly
dilated pupils do not appear to see him. It looks as if a vital part of her soul were escaping through these dark holes.

  She stammers, “I’m sure he’s killing her at the moment… Dead… our daughter…”

  Barely able to choke back his tears, Aziz pats her on the back.

  “No, she’s alive… You’ll see, she’ll come through this… she’s alive…”

  She tries to struggle free.

  “Don’t treat me like a half-wit! You don’t know a thing about it… You… you… my God… I can’t believe what’s happening to us… And you… you’ve done nothing… for our daughter…”

  Pushing Aziz away as if he were giving off some pestilential stench, she moans, “You’re twiddling your thumbs in the kitchen while our daughter is being… is being…”

  With a stifled gasp, she breaks free of her husband’s embrace. She throws him one last hostile, disgusted glance. For a few seconds he stands there stupidly, his arms stretched out in front of him, his brows knit in disbelief, gradually overwhelmed by anger and a fresh wave of utter despair.

  Mathieu holds out a glass to his daughter-in-law.

  “Drink it. It’s just a sedative,” her mother insists, “it’ll help you cope. I’m going to take some as well.”

  Meriem shrugs, muttering that she doesn’t need a sedative before finally giving in to her mother’s request. Draining her glass, she bursts into tears.

  “Come here, my love,” the old woman implores her, “you’re shattered, you haven’t slept since yesterday. Mathieu will wake us up if there’s any news.”

  “We need to have a chat, you and me. But first of all, forgive your wife, Aziz. She doesn’t know, she can’t imagine for a second what you’ve had to do to save her daughter.” Mathieu has taken him decisively by the arm and leads him back into the kitchen. The older man watches the younger man with a certain indifference. “So you, my lad, are the instrument of fate?” he thinks with dark irony that triggers a shooting pain in his ribcage. He lights a cigarette, inhales a first drag, then a second, before deciding that it is time to finish things off and that the end of the world might as well begin in an ordinary kitchen with Formica fittings.