‘She’s gone shopping. What’s the matter, Olivier? Calm down! How about a drink? I managed to save a bottle of brandy from last night’s carnage. It’s a good one; it would have been a waste. It’ll perk you up. Have a seat in the armchair and tell me what’s up.’
Olivier slumped into the chair with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Rodolphe may not have been the person he was hoping to confide in, but better this than be left alone with his thoughts.
‘There you go. Get that down you.’
Olivier downed the brandy in one. A rush of warmth ran from his head to his feet and the tremors racking his body abruptly ceased. Rodolphe poured him another glass, which he drained in the same way as the first. He was starting to breathe almost normally. He sat back and closed his eyes, arms dangling either side of the chair.
‘He’s dead.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He’s in the bathroom, dead.’
‘Dead how?’
‘Strangled.’
‘What! You mean hanged? Is that it, he’s hanged himself in the bathroom? Committed suicide?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know anything about it! I found him slumped against the bathtub this morning with sick everywhere and my tie round his neck. I can’t remember any of it! This is a nightmare!’
A wave swept over him. Olivier curled up, tears streaming over his hands, his back heaving with sobs. Rodolphe pulled up a chair alongside him, holding the brandy bottle in his hands. He had put his black glasses on and kept repeating, ‘With your tie … with your tie …’ until they heard a key in the door.
Jeanne appeared holding a basket with a bunch of leeks sticking out of it, emanating a haze of chill carried in from outside. Olivier kept his head down.
‘What’s going on here? Rodolphe?’
‘It seems our friend here has a problem. A very big problem.’
Jeanne put her basket on the table, took off her coat and knelt down in front of Olivier.
‘Olivier? … What is it? Is something wrong? … Olivier, answer me.’
Olivier went on hiding his face and shaking his head. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Besides, even if he tried to speak, no words would come out, as his Adam’s apple appeared to have swollen to the size of a pétanque ball.
‘Rodolphe, what’s happened? Tell me!’
‘When he woke up this morning, he found Roland dead in his bathroom, strangled with his tie.’
‘What are you talking about? What do you—?’
‘Calm down, Jeanne, I’m only repeating what he’s just told me. The two of them left here last night pretty well pissed and went across the hall for one final drink. That’s the last thing he remembers. Total blackout.’
Jeanne stood up and took a few steps over to the window, parting the curtain slightly. It had snowed during the night but the road was already dirty, covered in crossings-out. She slowly made her way back across the room, sat on the arm of Olivier’s chair and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.
‘Is it true, Olivier? Is that what happened?’
With his hand covering his mouth, he lifted his head and nodded. His eyes and nose were streaming. The hair slicked to his forehead made him look as if he had been pulled from the sea.
‘Can you really not remember anything?’
‘No, nothing. I don’t understand …’
He didn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. It was breaking like that of an adolescent, veering from low to high from one syllable to the next. Rodolphe poured himself a brandy and cleared his throat.
‘Maybe he hanged himself and the tie came unhooked. We should go and have a look.’
‘No! I don’t want to go back there!’
Olivier’s hand gripped Jeanne’s knee beside him on the armrest.
‘Rodolphe’s right, Olivier. That’s bound to be what happened. The guy was clearly at the end of his rope. He must have been feeling low after a few drinks … And anyway, why on earth would you have killed him? It’s ridiculous!’
Olivier was slowly coming round to this idea. It made sense. The mental blackout had made him panic. Roland had killed himself; that was the only possible explanation. A glimmer of hope had sprung from the depths of the abyss. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, sniffing.
‘OK, let’s go over there. Rodolphe, can I have another glass?’
As they went deeper into the flat, the smell of vomit intensified until, approaching the bathroom, it became unbearable. Olivier pushed open the door but could not stand to look.
‘Oh my God!’
Jeanne froze in the doorway, her shoulders shuddering as she retched. Then she took a step inside. She struggled to turn her eyes from Roland’s broken-doll body in order to study the ceiling. There was nothing remotely like a hook, not even a light fitting. The room’s only illumination was provided by a strip light on the wall above the cabinet. The two ends of the tie were hanging either side of the neck, and there was no slipknot to be seen. Hovering just outside the door, Rodolphe was becoming agitated.
‘What can you see, Jeanne?’
‘Nothing. Nothing that helps. Olivier, was he like this when you found him?’
‘No, he was kneeling against the bath with his head and arms dangling into the tub.’
‘Did you undo the tie?’
‘No, I didn’t touch anything. I thought he was asleep so I pulled him backwards. I let go when I realised he was dead.’
Jeanne scoured the walls for clues that might back up the theory of suicide, but she drew a blank. Rodolphe kept pressing her.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing on the ceiling?’
‘I told you, there’s nothing there!’
‘Well then, he can’t have hanged himself.’
Olivier went back out into the corridor, threw himself against the wall and slid to the floor. The tiny flicker of hope had been extinguished. Clenching his jaw, he muttered, ‘It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!’ but even he was not convinced. He would almost prefer to have killed the man and remember doing it than not know either way. He could slap himself as many times as he liked, nothing was coming back to him. Jeanne and Rodolphe were trying to calm him down when two rings at the door made all three of them freeze.
‘Shit! It’s Madeleine … I can’t, I can’t!’
‘You have to, Olivier. Tell her you’re ill, make her go away, but you must answer the door.’
His legs could barely hold him. They seemed to be working independently of one another and he could not get them to move in sync. The door seemed to be miles away. The little old lady looked even more wizened than she had done that morning.
‘Ah, you’re in, jolly good. Oh, but I must say you’re not looking any better! Would you like me to call a doctor?’
‘No, thank you, Madeleine. I’ve taken an aspirin. I just need to keep warm.’
‘Suit yourself, but you must be careful in this deathly cold. Personally, I get the flu jab at the first sign of winter. If you like, I could warm up some broth for you. I’ve got some left over from—’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
‘OK, OK. Right then, I did as we discussed, I’ve got a lovely wreath with the message “To my dear maman”. It’s more affectionate, don’t you think? I picked up a chrysanthemum to give from me, just the one but it’s a good size and—’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m very tired. How much do I owe you?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand. Here’s the receipt then … They had cheaper ones, but for your maman …’
‘Just a second, I’ll write you a cheque.’
Olivier was filling in the amount when he heard Madeleine entering the flat.
‘Goodness, there’s a funny smell in here …’
‘Don’t come in! I’ve been sick and I haven’t had a chance to clean up. Here’s your cheque, thanks again, goodbye.’
Before the old woman could draw breath, Olivier had closed the door on her. He heard her mutteri
ng to herself before hobbling off down the stairs. Hundreds of tiny stars were dancing before his eyes. He was thirsty.
Times like these called for leek soup. In fact, perhaps making soup was the best thing to do. Olivier’s snores travelled from the armchair where he was slumped in the lounge to the kitchen where Jeanne was peeling vegetables. The alcohol and sleeping pills had finally overcome his nerves. Rodolphe had gone for a walk around the block, calm was restored and she felt at home again.
After leaving the flat opposite, Olivier had gone through every stage of hysteria, from absolute dejection, convinced his only option was suicide, to almost mystical bursts of elation which made him want to run naked through the streets, banging his fists against his chest, blaming himself for all the wrong in the world and briefly hearing the voice of reason telling him to hand himself in at the nearest police station. Only after the two Mogadon pills had kicked in could a more pragmatic solution be considered. With Olivier out for the count, Rodolphe had stretched out his limbs and sighed.
‘Well, here we go again!’
‘What?’
‘The two of you, with the body of an innocent victim on your hands. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t suppose you’re planning on calling the emergency services, are you?’
‘No more than you are.’
‘Ah, but it would suit me just fine to see the back of that arsehole. One quick phone call and it’s timber for Olivier the olive tree!’
‘You wouldn’t do it.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you love playing the game, and it’s not over yet. And because there’s nothing to say you didn’t go with them last night or decide to join them later.’
‘Ah, come on! Have pity on a poor blind man! Would you really point the finger at your own brother? Anyway, what makes you so sure you’d escape the blame?’
‘I’m not pointing the finger at anyone. I don’t care who did it. The police, on the other hand … You’re the one who brought the guy home. People will have seen you together all around town.’
‘So what? It’s not my flat he died in.’
‘No, the one directly opposite. Give it a rest. I know exactly where you’re trying to go with this, and you can stop it now.’
‘Fine. So what do you suggest? Fausses-Reposes forest?’
Jeanne had gone back to the flat. She had a hell of a job getting Roland’s already stiffened limbs to lie straight against his body. It was like grappling with a partially defrosted chicken. Then she got on with cleaning the bathroom. Later on, when it was dark and Olivier had woken up, they would take the body down to the car and dump it in the woods. Just another settling of scores between rough-sleepers …
Jeanne undid her apron. The pressure-cooker valve was beginning to whisper, puffing out steam which condensed in fine droplets on the dirty windowpanes. It smelt good, like sweat after making love. She and Olivier had only done it once, in the cabin deep in the woods. It was in August when everyone was away on holiday. They had made love because it needed to be done, like getting a passport or a vaccination. They were both virgins. Nature had done its best to help things along. It wasn’t good or bad; they didn’t know what it was. The air was heavy. Pulling their underwear back on afterwards, they felt damp, sticky and strangely sad. Later, when they brought little Luc there, they recognised the small brown bloodstain on the makeshift sofa, formed of the back seat of a Peugeot 203. It looked like an official seal.
From the moment she opened the door to Olivier, she had known for certain their destinies would be entwined again. It was like opening a book on the page it had been left at the night before. They had been asleep for twenty-five years and now they were waking up again, side by side, the stuff of fairy tales. Never mind that he had aged, that he was an alcoholic; their real life had always gone on in parallel to the life other people led. They had their own ways, their own language which made them constant. This deep conviction gave rise to a quiet strength that nothing in the world could undermine.
The valve began to whistle loudly: the soup was ready.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know …’
Olivier was stirring his spoon around the bowl like a child reluctant to eat his soup.
‘You should listen to Jeanne, Olivier. She’s right, there’s no risk of getting caught.’
‘But a man’s dead, for God’s sake!’
‘Yes and what about your life? Do you really want to throw it away because of one stupid mistake? Dozens of people like Roland die every day of cold or hunger or in fights, and no one even bothers to write about it. Anyway, trust me, Roland didn’t give a shit about life.’
Olivier didn’t know what to think. His brain was still dulled by booze and Mogadon pills. Jeanne had laid out her plan with disconcerting matter-of-factness. He had sat listening open-mouthed, as if she was telling him about the last film she had seen. It seemed crazy to him, utterly crazy. He had reached that stage of hangover between delirium and lucidity when the guilt and shame set in and you feel torn in every direction, all roads leading to disaster. One glass, just one glass of the Scotch Rodolphe had brought home with him and he would be able to make a decision.
‘But, Jeanne, have you really thought about what I’m dragging you into?’
‘What about you? Have you thought about what you’ll drag me into if you don’t accept my help? This is no one’s fault, Olivier. No one’s to blame.’
Rodolphe got up from the table and placed the bottle of Scotch in front of Olivier.
‘Shall I pour you a glass?’
Around one in the morning, the bottle was almost empty and Olivier’s bowl remained untouched, the soup long cold. For the last hour he had been checking his watch every five minutes.
‘Shall we go then? Can we go now?’
Jeanne replied calmly that it was still too early and there was a chance they might pass someone on the stairs. Liberated by having made a decision, Olivier was no longer afraid of anything. How could he have considered handing himself in? Even if he had strangled Roland, it was only an accident or rather, as Rodolphe had explained, he had merely been the instrument of destiny, of Roland’s destiny, which was always going to play out the same way. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he had done him a favour, but it was getting there. And then there was Jeanne, who had come running the moment he needed her, ready to do whatever it took, just like the old days. He was ashamed he had ever doubted her. It was not just a coincidence; not for nothing were they being brought together again under such similar circumstances. There was another way to look at things than the nice ordered way we were taught. One day, a long time ago, he had sold out, given in, put on the starchy suit he had been handed, and that was why he started drinking, to cauterise this ugly wound. Tonight, he could have drunk enough to float an ocean liner and he still wouldn’t feel pissed. His head was perfectly clear.
Jeanne stood up and glanced out of the window. There was no one around. As luck would have it, she had found a space to park her car right outside the building.
‘I think we can go. How do you feel?’
‘Fine, absolutely fine. I’m ready.’
Jeanne shook her brother, who was dozing with his hands resting on his stomach and his legs outstretched.
‘Rodolphe, we’re going.’
‘Huh? Oh, right, yes. I’ll send you a signal if I hear anything on the stairs.’
There was no longer anything frightening about Roland’s body. It was just a cumbersome object that Jeanne and Olivier were wrapping up and tying inside a rug. A great big Christmas present. The telephone began to ring as they were heading out of the door. Jeanne and Olivier looked at one another, each bending over and holding one end of the rug. For a fraction of a second Olivier pictured Odile in her nightdress, biting her thumbnail in the pink light of the bedside lamp. It was such a bizarre image that he had to hold back a laugh.
‘Is that your wife?’
He nodded.
‘Let’s go. On three.�
�
Rodolphe was waiting for them on the landing, warmly wrapped up and with a ridiculous red woolly hat on his head.
‘Are you coming with us?’
‘Of course! Who wouldn’t trust a blind person?’
The telephone was still ringing when they reached the floor below.
The pushchair was rattling along the dusty path, the front right wheel squeaking as it turned. It was Jeanne pushing it, humming a tune that made little Luc laugh. Olivier was walking ahead carrying a rucksack. Inside there was enough baby food, milk and nappies to last several days. Tucked in his breast pocket, the ransom letter was burning against his chest like a poultice. His parents had gone away for a few days to stay with friends in the country. He had had to fight hard to be allowed to stay behind. He was sixteen, almost seventeen, and perfectly capable of being left home alone. He clinched it with a promise to call them every day.
Later, when Jeanne left him alone with Luc in the cabin, the die would be cast. She would return with the empty pushchair, telling them she had nodded off and woken to find him gone. The following day, the parents would receive the anonymous letter. She would come back to the cabin once a day while he went off to call his parents, until he picked up the money. At that point they would leave Luc at an agreed location and disappear, never to be seen again. It was the price they had to pay to reach the island. It was hot, as hot then as it was bitterly cold tonight.
Every detail of that day came back to Olivier as he waded up to his ankles through crisp snow. He could not see Jeanne but heard her breathing behind him. The woods became denser the further in they went. The branches snatched at their clothes and scratched their cheeks and hands. They fell over several times. Breathless, they came to a halt beside a place where the earth dipped into a kind of ditch.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, we’ve come far enough.’
They cut the ropes securing the rug and rolled the body into the bottom of the hole before covering it in twigs, dry leaves, and snow. It was falling again now. The heavens were smiling on them; tomorrow there would be no trace of their steps. They gathered up the ropes and rug and went back the way they had come. They took a couple of wrong turns but eventually made it back to the car in which Rodolphe was waiting for them, frozen rigid.
The Islanders Page 6