Blood Wedding

by Pierre Lemaitre

  She stands on the threshold, the door yawning wide: at no point did it occur to her she might have miscalculated. That the police might already be waiting for her. The hallway is silent. The familiar light from her apartment falls at her feet. She stands there petrified, but all she can hear is the beating of her heart. Suddenly she flinches, a key turns in another door. Along the landing on the right. Her neighbour. Without thinking, she hurries into her apartment. The door slams behind her before she has time to catch it. She freezes and listens intently. The empty silence, so often depressing, is reassuring now. She moves slowly about the only room. One eye on her alarm clock: 11.40. More or less. Her alarm has never been exactly accurate. But is it slow or fast? She seems to remember it runs fast. But she is not certain.

  Everything happens at once. She pulls a suitcase from the wardrobe, opens the dresser drawers, stuffs clothes higgledy-piggledy into the case, then runs to the bathroom, sweeps her arm along the shelf and everything tumbles into a sponge-bag. A glance around. Her papers. She runs to the desk: passport, money. How much does she have? 200 euros. Her cheque book! Where is the damn chequebook? In my handbag. She makes sure. Another quick look around. Jacket. Handbag. The photos! She retraces her steps, opens the top drawer of the writing desk, snatches up the album. Her eyes fall on the framed wedding photograph on top of the dresser. She grabs it, tosses it into the suitcase and snaps it shut.

  Frazzled, she presses her ear to the door. Once again the only sound is that of her heart beating. She presses both hands flat against the door. Concentrate. Still she can hear nothing. She grips the handle of the suitcase, throws the door wide: there is no-one on the landing. She shuts the door behind her, not bothering to lock it. She races down the stairs. There is a taxi passing. She hails it. The driver wants to put the suitcase in the boot. No time! She lifts it onto the back seat and gets in.

  The driver says: “Where to?”

  She has no idea. She thinks for a moment.

  “Gare de Lyon.”

  As the taxi pulls away, she looks through the rear window. Nothing unusual, a few cars, pedestrians. She takes a breath. She must look like a lunatic. In the rear-view mirror, the driver is eyeing her suspiciously.

  4

  It is curious how, in emergency situations, one idea leads to another almost spontaneously. She cries out:

  “Stop!”

  Startled by the command, the driver brakes. They have not even gone a hundred metres. By the time the driver has turned around, she is already out of the car.

  “I’ll be right back. Can you wait here for me?”

  “Actually, love, it’s not exactly convenient . . .” mutters the driver.

  He looks at the suitcase she tossed on the back seat. Neither it nor his customer inspire confidence. She hesitates. She needs him, and everything is already so complicated . . . She opens her bag, takes out a fifty-euro note and proffers it.

  “Does this help?”

  The driver looks at the banknote, but he does not take it.

  “Oh, alright, go on then,” he says. “But be quick . . .”

  She dashes across the street and goes into the local branch of her bank. The place is almost empty. At the counter is a face she does not recognise, a woman. But she rarely comes in. She takes out her chequebook and sets it in front of her.

  “I’d like know the balance of my account, please . . .”

  The clerk pointedly looks up at the clock on the wall, takes the chequebook, keys numbers into the terminal and studies her nails while the printer clatters and whirrs. Her nails and her wristwatch. The printer seems to be performing a Herculean task, it takes almost a minute to spit out ten lines of text and numbers. The only number Sophie is interested in is the one at the bottom.

  “And my savings account?”

  The cashier heaves a sigh.

  “You have the account number?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know it by heart.”

  She does look sorry. And she is. The clocks reads 11.56. She is now the only customer. The other cashier, a tall man, gets to his feet, walks out from behind the counter and begins to roll down the shutters. Gradually, daylight is replaced by the clinical glow of fluorescent tubes. With this dim, clammy light comes a throbbing, muffled silence. Sophie does not feel well. Not well at all. The printer clatters again. She scans the figures.

  “I’d like to withdraw six hundred from the current account and . . . let’s say . . . five thousand from the savings . . .?”

  Her tone rises as she ends the sentence, as though asking for permission. She does this deliberately. It offers reassurance.

  A breath of panic on the other side of the counter.

  “You’d like to close your accounts?” the cashier says.

  “Er, no . . . [No, you are the customer, you get to decide] I just need a little temporary liquidity.” That’s good. The word “liquidity” makes her sound serious, grown up.

  “It’s just that . . .”

  The clerk glances in turn at Sophie, the chequebook she is holding, the wall clock ticking remorselessly towards midday, the colleague crouching by the glass entrance doors to lock them, rolling down the last of the window shutters and staring at the two women with obvious impatience. Sophie hesitates.

  The whole thing is more complicated than she expected. The branch is closing, it is noon, the taxi driver has probably seen the shutters being lowered.

  Flashing a faint smile, she says:

  “The thing is, I’m in a hurry myself.”

  “Just a minute, let me check.”

  There is no time to stop her, the clerk has already stepped from behind the counter and is knocking on the door of the office opposite. Behind her, Sophie feels the eyes of the other clerk who is standing idly by the door and would no doubt rather be sitting idly at a café table waiting for his lunch. It is unsettling, having someone behind you. But everything about this situation is unsettling, especially the man who now appears with the cashier.

  This is someone she knows. She cannot remember his name, but it was he who dealt with her when she opened the account. Thirty-something, thickset, with a slightly brutish face, he looks the type to spend his holidays with the family, play pétanque with his mates and make off-colour jokes, wear socks with sandals, put on twenty kilos over the next five years, see his mistresses during his lunch break and make sure all his colleagues know, the sort of middle-management pick-up artist who wears a yellow shirt and lingers on the word “Mademoiselle”. In other words, an arsehole.

  The arsehole is now standing in front of her. Next to him, the small cashier seems even smaller. It is a mark of his authority. Sophie has a clear idea of what the man is like. She can smell his pheromones. She realises that she has stumbled into a hornet’s nest.

  “My colleague informs me that you wish to withdraw . . . [He leans towards the computer screen as though only now becoming aware of the details] . . . almost the entire balance of your accounts.”

  “Is there a law against that?”

  As she says it, she realises she has adopted the wrong tactic. With a guy like this, a direct approach means all-out war.

  “No, no, there’s no law against it, it’s just that . . .”

  He turns and shoots a paternal look at the cashier who is standing by the coat rack:

  “You can go to lunch, Juliette, I’ll close up, don’t worry.”

  The mis-named Juliette does not have to be told twice.

  “Are you unhappy with the services offered by our branch, Madame Duguet?”

  Doors bang at the far end of the bank, the silence is even more oppressive than before. Sophie tries to think fast.

  “Oh, no . . . It’s just that . . . I’m going away for a while. I need a little liquidity.”

  The word liquidity no longer seems as apt as it did earlier, it sounds rash, hasty, unsavoury, slightly suspicious.

  “‘Need a little liquidity’,” the man repeats. “You should know that under normal circumstances,
when dealing with sums of this magnitude, we prefer to meet with customers in private. During regular office hours . . . A matter of security, you understand.”

  The insinuation is so blatant, so in keeping with his character, that she feels like slapping him. But she reminds herself that she needs this money, needs it desperately, that the taxi will not wait all day, that she has to get out, that she has to get herself out of this.

  “The trip became necessary at the last minute. The very last minute. I need to leave immediately, and I need to have the requisite funds.”

  She stares at the man and, inside her, something snaps, a little of her dignity. She sighs, she will do what she needs to do, she feels a little disgusted with herself, but only a little.

  “I entirely understand your reservations, Monsieur Musain [The man’s name has come to her in a flash, a small sign that her confidence has returned]. If I had had the time to phone you, to give you some notice, I would have done so. Had I been in a position to choose when to leave, I would not have come here at lunchtime. If I did not urgently need the money, I would not be troubling you. But I do need it. I need the full amount. Right now.”

  Musain flashes her a smug smile. She can tell the game is now on a more equal footing.

  “There is also the matter of whether we have such a sum available in cash . . .” Sophie feels a wave of cold sweat. “But I can check,” Musain says.

  He disappears into his office. To telephone someone? Why should he need to go into his office to find out how much cash is available?

  She looks helplessly at the entrance, the metal shutters now closed, then glances at the rear door through which the two clerks went to lunch and remembers the dull clack of reinforced steel. There is silence once again, but it feels slower, more menacing now. The guy is calling someone, she is convinced of it. But who? All of a sudden he reappears. He walks towards her but does not go behind the counter; he stops next to her and smiles winningly. He is standing close, very close.

  “I think we should be able to accommodate you, Madame Duguet,” he says in a breathy whisper.

  She manages a tense smile. The man does not move. He smiles and stares into her eyes. She does not move either, she carries on smiling. This is what she needs to do. Smile. Respond in kind. He turns and walks away.

  Alone again. 12.06 p.m. She hurries to the door, peers through the metal slats, her taxi is still waiting. She cannot see the driver. The taxi is there, that is all she can be sure of. But she needs to move quickly. Very quickly.

  She has resumed her pose as a customer, leaning casually on the counter, by the time the man re-emerges from his lair. He counts out 5,600 euros. He settles himself in the cashier’s chair, taps at the keyboard. The printer resumes its arduous task. In the meantime, Musain looks at her and smiles. She feels naked. Eventually she signs the withdrawal slip.

  Musain feels the need to offer her a word of advice as he slips the money into a plain brown envelope and proffers it with a self-important air.

  “A young woman like you, a slip of a girl, wandering the streets with all this money, I really shouldn’t let you go alone . . . It’s very dangerous . . .”

  “A slip of a girl”! She cannot believe this man.

  She takes the envelope. It is thick. She is not quite sure what to do with it, stuffs it into the inside pocket of her jacket. Musain looks at her doubtfully.

  “The taxi,” she stammers. “The driver will be waiting outside, he’s probably worried . . . I’ll put it somewhere safe later.”

  “Of course,” Musain says.

  She makes to leave.

  “Wait!”

  She turns back, prepared for anything, prepared to lash out, but she sees that he is still smiling.

  “When we’ve locked up you have to go out this way.” He gestures to the door behind him.

  She follows him through the building, down a long narrow corridor to the exit at the end. He fiddles with the locks, the reinforced door slides sideways but does not open fully. Musain is standing in front of her. He’s practically blocking the exit.

  “There you go,” he says.

  “Thank you so much.”

  She does not know what she should do. He is still standing there, smiling.

  “Where are you going, exactly? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Think of something, quickly, anything. She can tell she is taking too long, that she should have had an answer prepared, but nothing comes.

  “The Midi . . .”

  Her jacket is not quite closed. When she took the money, she zipped it half-way. Musain is staring at her neck.

  “The south . . . Very nice.”

  As he says this, he reaches one hand towards her and gingerly pushes the corner of the envelope a little further inside her jacket. His hand grazes her breast. He says nothing, but his hand lingers. She feels an urge, an overpowering urge, to slap him, but something absolute, something terrible, prevents her. Fear. For a moment it occurs to her that the man could grope her as she stands here, paralysed, and she would say nothing. She desperately needs this money. Is it so obvious?

  ‘Yeah . . .” Musain says, “I’ve always liked the Midi.”

  He has withdrawn his hand and is now smoothing the lapel of his jacket.

  “I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry . . .”

  As she says this she side-steps, making for the door.

  “I understand,” Musain says, inching a fraction to one side.

  She tries to slip past him.

  “Well, have a nice trip, Madame Duguet.” He shakes her hand, holding it a little too long. “See you soon, perhaps?”

  “Thank you.”

  She bursts out onto the street.

  This is the price of fear, being trapped there, unable to move, at the mercy of this slimy bank manager. She feels blind hatred coursing through her. Now that she is outside, now that it is all done with, she could gladly slam his head into a wall. As she runs to the taxi, she feels his fingers brush against her again and the almost physical relief of grabbing his ears and pounding his head against a wall. Because it is the ugly fucker’s face she cannot bear. It triggers a blast of black fury . . . She can picture herself digging her nails into his ears, smashing his head against the wall. It makes an eerie noise, a deep, dull clang. The guy looks at her as though this was the most absurd thing in the world, but that look gives way to a rictus of pain. She goes on pounding, three, four, five, six times and gradually the rictus gives way to a frozen stare, his glazed eyes become blank, vacant. She stops, relieved, her hands covered in the blood that is streaming from his ears. His eyes are fixed, unmoving, like a dead body in a movie.

  Suddenly the image of Léo rises up before her, but the child’s eyes are truly dead. They are nothing like a movie.

  Her head is spinning, a darkness descends.

  5

  “Hey, love, are we going or what?”

  She looks up. She is standing, frozen, next to the taxi.

  “You feeling O.K.? At least promise me you’re not going to throw up?”

  No, everything will be fine, Sophie. Just get into the taxi. Get the hell out of here. You need to calm down, everything is fine. You’re just tired, this whole thing has been a terrible ordeal, that’s all, you’ll be fine, just focus.

  As they drive to the station, the driver doesn’t take his eyes off her in the rear-view mirror. She tries to calm herself, staring out at the landmarks she knows so well, République, the banks of the Seine, the pont d’Austerlitz in the distance. She concentrates on her breathing. Her heart begins to slow. The most important thing is to stay calm, get some distance, think.

  The taxi draws up in front of Gare de Lyon. She gets out and pays the fare, standing at the driver’s window. He looks at her again, worried, fascinated, afraid, perhaps a bit of everything, but he is also relieved. She lifts out her suitcase and goes towards the departures board.

  She needs a cigarette. Feverishly, she delves into her pockets. She needs one
badly. At the tobacconist’s there are three people queuing. When it is her turn she asks for a pack of cigarettes, no two. The girl turns, takes two packs, sets them on the counter.

  “Actually, make it three . . .”

  “So how many do you want, one, two or three?”

  “Give me a whole carton.”

  “Final answer?”

  “Give me a fucking break. Oh, and a lighter.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t care, any lighter.”

  She grabs the carton of cigarettes, dips a hand into her pocket and takes out a fistful of notes. Her hands are shaking so much that the money scatters over the piles of magazines laid out in front of the kiosk. She looks behind her, then left and right as she gathers up the fifty-euro notes and crams them into various pockets. You’re losing it, you’re really starting to lose it, Sophie. A couple stares at her. They are standing a few feet away, obviously embarrassed for her; a fat man pretends to look elsewhere.

  She re-emerges from the tobacconist’s with the carton of cigarettes. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a red sign warning travellers to beware of pickpockets . . . What should she do now? She would scream if she could, but, curiously, she feels something else, something she has often felt after these incidents, a strange, almost comforting feeling, like a child in the midst of a harrowing night terror who, at the height of her fear, feels a faint but unshakeable intuition that what she is experiencing is not entirely real, that in spite of the fear, something, somewhere, is protecting her. Some unknown force protects us all . . . The image of her father flickers for a moment, then vanishes.

  Magical thinking.

  Deep down, Sophie knows this is simply a child’s way of feeling safe.

  Find the toilets, comb her hair, compose herself, put the money in a safe place, decide where she is going to go, come up with a plan, this is what she needs to do. But before anything she has to smoke.