The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1)

by Anna Jaquiery

  He didn’t finish his sentence. He was far away, experiencing the same terror and humiliation all over again.

  ‘And then?’ Lila prodded.

  ‘And then nothing. I left in a hurry. The next day Armand didn’t return to school. He didn’t come back all week. I realized shortly afterwards that his mother was keeping him out of school. I didn’t hear from him again. Not till he came back.’

  ‘Did you try to contact him?’

  Charles hung his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Charles’s head shot back up. ‘What was I supposed to do? I was frightened of her and what would happen if it got out. What Armand and I had been up to.’

  ‘But you loved him. Didn’t it occur to you that he might need you?’ Lila said, a sharp edge to her voice.

  ‘I was sixteen,’ Charles said.

  ‘Did your parents find out?’

  ‘No.’ A slight hesitation in Charles’s voice.

  ‘But your mother suspected, didn’t she?’ Lila said.

  Charles nodded. ‘I think she knew all along. I don’t know why she chose to keep quiet about it. Maybe she didn’t want to face it. Or she hoped it would go away.’

  ‘What happened when Armand returned to school?’ Morel asked.

  ‘It was like we had never been friends. Armand never once spoke to me. He barely looked my way. I tried to approach him a couple of times but he would walk away from me every time. So after a while I gave up.’

  ‘What happened to him, Charles?’ Morel asked.

  Charles shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All I know is that when he came back to school, he was a different person.’ He looked at them in turn. ‘Whatever happened while he was away, it changed him radically. The way I saw it, the Armand I knew no longer existed.’

  They watched Charles drive off, late for work. Then they both got into Morel’s cherry-red car. It occurred to Morel that the whole village must be aware of their presence. The Volvo wasn’t the sort of car that went unnoticed.

  ‘What now?’ Lila said. She looked thoughtful.

  They sat in silence for a while thinking of the things they had just heard. All of a sudden Morel felt drained.

  He started the car and drove out of the village.

  After several minutes Lila looked at him. ‘Weren’t you supposed to turn off back there?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re taking a little detour,’ Morel said.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Have you ever been to Saint-Malo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought we might stop there before we go back. Never mind if we’re running a bit late.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? Perrin’s expecting us to brief him this afternoon. He’ll be furious.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Morel said.

  They reached Saint-Malo in less than an hour. The town was overrun by tourists. They were everywhere, filling the cafes and restaurants and walking in groups through the cobble-stoned streets, talking and laughing loudly. What a contrast to the Saint-Malo he remembered, Morel thought. Quiet and self-contained.

  After a twenty-minute wait they were shown to a table at a restaurant where they ate mussels in a white-wine sauce and grilled sardines, with a carafe of Muscadet. All around them people were speaking English, Italian, Russian – everything but French.

  ‘I haven’t been here in years,’ Morel said. The tension in his shoulders made his back ache and he stretched, willing his muscles to relax.

  ‘It looks like all of Europe is here,’ Lila said. She had finished her drink and poured another. For a while neither of them spoke.

  Morel gulped the last of his Muscadet. He looked at Lila. The sun emerged briefly to light up her face, and her eyes were sparkling from the wine. She gave him a questioning look and he shook his head.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

  They left the jammed town centre and headed towards the walled jetty, curving into the harbour like some giant prehistoric tail. A man and a boy were fishing from it, a bucket at their feet. In a state of quiet watchfulness, oblivious to everything but each other and any sign of life at the end of their fishing rods. Morel thought of his father, cooped up in his bedroom in the same dressing-gown he’d been wearing for at least the past decade.

  I must bring him here, he thought. Maybe when this case was over he could take a few days off and he and his father could rent a place up here. Bring plenty of books and good wine. Take walks along the beach and read. Eat well. His parents had always loved to eat out.

  Morel breathed in and out, letting the events of the past weeks ebb from him like the water below. Slowly the tide was going out, leaving clumps of seaweed in its wake. The air smelled of fish and sea and the rain-soaked clouds that were threatening to spill even as they stood there with their faces looking out to the distant horizon.

  ‘I’m so glad we did this,’ Lila said after a while.

  He had almost forgotten her presence but now he looked over at her and found himself glad she was there with him.

  They stayed for a while longer, watching the boats. A pair of red and yellow canoes out on the horizon. A giant white cruise ship. A yacht was coming into the harbour, its sail tugging at the mast in cheerful surrender. The clouds that had threatened to open up went on their way and the sun came out quietly again. The sky was a cool and watery shade of blue, the wind frisky, ruffling their clothes.

  ‘This is almost like being on holiday, isn’t it?’ Lila said.

  Morel looked at her again. She was wearing her Puffa jacket and jeans again but she appeared like a softer version of herself, standing there with her elbows up on the parapet, her hair blowing about her head. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears were pink and her eyes clear when she met his gaze.

  ‘Being almost on holiday seems to suit you,’ he said. ‘You look different.’

  Lila looked carefully at him, as though she were trying to figure him out, then she laughed.

  ‘What?’

  She moved closer and with her hand brushed some dirt from his suit. It would have come from the wall which they had been leaning against. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. For a minute he remained absorbed, rubbing at a stain that wasn’t there.

  She grinned at him.

  ‘What?’ he said again, annoyed now.

  ‘You. You still look exactly like you.’

  Charles looked at his watch. He would probably still make it to his meeting. Either way, it didn’t matter.

  The kids had been clingy that morning. There had been whining and tantrums and in the end he’d had to shout. At his mother’s house, and at school, they had insisted on multiple hugs before he left.

  Maybe it wasn’t just that their mother had been gone for a week. Maybe they were worried about him. Chloé, the eldest, had always acted as though she was the parent. Ever since she was four or five. It made him sad at times to think that she felt she needed to look out for her parents. It should be the other way round. It should be him making her feel safe, guarding her against anything harmful that might come her way.

  He didn’t want to think about Armand, but driving to Rennes in slow traffic he found the conversation with the police had brought everything back. It was like an avalanche. A road sign warned him to slow down to forty kilometres an hour. He passed orange traffic cones and workers in sleeveless shirts and Day-Glo vests.

  It is a story he knows by heart. He has played it in his head over and over again, as though somehow he might discover a way to change the outcome. If not that, then at least he might learn to live with it better. There is still that hope.

  Armand is fifteen, Charles is a year older. Fourteen months and two days older, Armand likes to say. He says it half jokingly but the truth is that he is always this literal. Charles knows it and accepts this is part of who Armand is. This is the strange thing. He can accept most things about Armand. Why is that? Is it because Armand is everything Charles is
n’t? Armand seems oblivious to what people think. He doesn’t seem to need anyone’s backing. This is probably what draws Charles to him. Later, there is something else too: Armand’s neediness, which Charles finds both repellent and attractive.

  When Charles asks, ‘How long is it we’ve been best friends?’ Armand is prepared with an answer. Three years, eight months, six days. He could add the hours, minutes and seconds but Charles places a finger on his lips and that shuts him up.

  At school they are always together. When the bell rings they catch the bus back to the village. The last two kids to get dropped home. The ones who live furthest from the school. Armand doesn’t get invited to other children’s houses and, besides, his mother wouldn’t allow him to go. As for Charles, he is more popular. But he turns down invitations and doesn’t tell Armand about them. They spend long afternoons at Charles’s house, listening to music and making up games that most of the other boys in their class would probably find childish if they knew. Hiding deep in Charles’s closet, they are on their way. The closet, like the one in the Narnia tales, is a doorway into other worlds. In the dark, Armand’s face is grave and composed. With his arm around Charles’s shoulder he gives life to a cast of characters that make Charles forget everything else but this cramped corner in the cupboard with its jumble of old toys and discarded clothes.

  They never play at Armand’s house. Armand’s mother doesn’t let her boy out of her sight, except when he is with Charles. It isn’t clear why that is but Charles suspects it is snobbery on her part. It’s because Charles’s parents own the nicest house in the village.

  Armand’s fear is something other people will never understand. Armand’s mother possesses a presence that will live beyond the grave. She has a way of knowing things she can’t possibly know. Things that are never spoken out loud. She burrows into Armand’s head and sniffs around in there for anything she might be able to use against him.

  Charles’s father has a boat moored in Saint-Malo. One weekend they offer to take Armand sailing with them. To everyone’s surprise, Armand’s mother agrees to the trip.

  The weather is unbelievable. They sail out of the harbour with just the right amount of wind to carry them through. There are no clouds in the sky and it is warm enough to sit out on deck and enjoy the sunshine. Charles is wearing the sailor shirt that Armand gave him for his birthday. Armand is wearing a frayed shirt and jeans that he has outgrown. The cuffs stop above his ankles and the sole is coming off one of his shoes. Charles’s mother has suggested she hand over his old clothes to Armand as he is now bigger and taller than his friend, but Charles has pleaded with her not to. He knows Armand is too proud to accept any cast-offs from them.

  They arrive at Île de Ré in the early part of the evening, sailing into a spectacular sunset that feels as if it’s been put on just for them, though other boats are heading in. For a moment Charles feels as if he and Armand are one person, experiencing the same mystical moment.

  ‘Look at you two!’ Charles’s mother says. Charles turns to Armand. He is tanned and his eyes are burning bright like the luminous sea and the sun-tinted clouds. Everything is suffused with evening light. Charles’s pretty mother in her green two-piece bathing suit that matches the colour of her eyes, and his father in red, white and blue bathing shorts hold each other tight and kiss with their lips open. The boys look away and at each other. Charles winks at Armand and they both laugh.

  ‘What – you’ve never seen anyone kiss before?’ Charles’s dad says, cuffing them lightly. He places a hand on his wife’s bottom and grins.

  Charles’s father pulls the boat up alongside a yacht so large that theirs seems puny in comparison. Charles’s mother is wearing a long T-shirt over her bikini now. She cooks lamb chops and mashed potatoes and Charles helps her without being asked, by washing and preparing the salad. The four of them eat together below deck. It is cramped and after an afternoon of sailing and being exposed to the wind and the sun, they are all too tired to speak.

  Afterwards Charles and Armand pile the dirty dishes into a bucket and carry it ashore to a sink near the toilets, where they set about washing them as best they can. The owner of the big boat comes along. He is German and he is smoking a cigar. He stands close, puffing away and watching them rinse the bucket, rinse the dishes and pile them back inside. His grey shorts ride so high up his legs you can see his balls. His chest is hairy and his stomach sags over the shorts.

  ‘Want a puff?’ he asks in heavily accented French. They say no and return to the boat, their feet thudding across the wooden planks of the pontoon. There is a rotting smell in the air, and the lingering odour of the German’s cigar, acrid and mildly addictive. Though neither will admit it, the encounter has unsettled them. There is something in the man’s manner that they can’t identify but which causes a stir. Both unpleasant and titillating, in a strange kind of way.

  ‘What a creep,’ Charles says, and Armand agrees.

  When they climb back on board, they sit for a short while with Charles’s parents who are leaning back on deck chairs, drinking wine. But they soon grow bored and decide to go below deck. The parents wave them away, content. They murmur goodnight to the boys.

  Charles and Armand don’t bother brushing their teeth. They strip down to their T-shirts and shorts and climb into adjoining bunks. Their conversation is a whisper among the waves. Charles has rarely felt as happy as he does now. He feels deeply connected to Armand. Feels that somehow he has found his soul mate. How lucky he is. How many people ever have that experience? They lie still, listening to the murmur of voices up on deck.

  ‘What’s the story with the German millionaire?’ Armand whispers.

  ‘He’s a bit of a pervert, I reckon. Did you see the way he looked at you?’ Charles says.

  ‘Hardly. It was you he was lusting after.’

  ‘Errgh, gross. Stop it.’

  ‘Really. He was staring at you. He was practically dribbling.’

  ‘I mean it. Stop it.’

  ‘Who can blame him, though?’ Armand says lightly.

  Charles doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead he turns to look at Armand, who is lying on his back. He has taken his shirt off and closed his eyes. He is all skin and bones. Wrists and ankles as narrow as a girl’s. Whereas Charles is strong and muscular. In the dark Charles can just make out the outline of Armand’s chest and the shape of his arms crossed behind his head. He likes Armand in profile, with his broad forehead and long lashes. There is something noble about him. This isn’t something he’s ever likely to say to Armand, though he often thinks it.

  They talk and doze off, and talk some more. At some point, their hands meet. It isn’t clear who makes the first move, and anyway does it really matter? What is clear is that it’s Armand who untangles his fingers from Charles’s and rests his hand on his stomach. Moves his fingers lower, so casually it’s like it is happening without him guiding them. Moves his hand under the elastic waistline and wraps his hand around Charles’s penis, which twitches and comes to life. It is Armand who raises himself on an elbow and lowers his face until they can feel each other’s breath.

  It is Charles, breathing heavily, who raises his head so that their lips can touch, and who parts his just enough to encourage Armand to do the same. Their tongues come together, charging the air with electricity.

  Charles can still remember every beat of that moment. The feel of Armand’s lips, the salty taste of his skin. The hot, musky smell of his own body. He’s tried hard to forget it, but no matter how hard he tries, his life is forever split in two. There is his life before Armand, and then there is his life after.

  Everything after is a lie.

  Charles stared at the truck bearing down the opposite lane. Just a quick turn of the steering-wheel and it would all be over. He probably wouldn’t even have time to feel pain. Screeching of tyres, impact of metal on metal, followed by silence.

  He must have been driving too close. As the truck passed him, the driver tooted his
horn and gave him the finger.

  He pulled over. Waited ten, twenty minutes till the shaking stopped.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was late and most people had left the building. The light was still on in the fourth-floor office where Morel’s team sat. A warm summer breeze floated through the open windows. Outside, lights had come on along the quays and bridges.

  Morel had just checked his phone messages and he returned to the others, triumphant.

  ‘We’ve got him,’ he said. ‘I just got a call, from the head at a school in Denfert-Rochereau. One of his staff members recognized Armand from the composite sketch in an article in Libération. He’s been working under the name Antoine Leroy.’

  ‘That explains why my friend at the ministry couldn’t find him,’ Lila said.

  Morel nodded.

  ‘Apparently he hasn’t been in for a couple of weeks. The listed address he gave the school is a two-bedroom flat in Clichy. It’s actually under his real name but he doesn’t live there. It’s being rented out to a couple of teachers who haven’t heard from him in months.’

  After Saint-Malo, Morel would have gladly driven home and poured himself a solitary and well-deserved drink in the privacy of his study. But he and Lila still needed to brief the others about their trip.

  At least Perrin wasn’t in. According to Jean, he’d waited all afternoon for Morel, striding in every half-hour to see whether he and Lila had returned from Brittany yet. But then he’d been called to a murder scene by one of the other team leaders, one that had nothing to do with Morel’s investigation. Morel couldn’t help feeling just a little bit grateful.

  He was bone-tired and unsteady from the long drive – the lunchtime Muscadet hadn’t helped – but to alleviate everyone’s mood he opened a bottle of red: the best one from his father’s cellar, which he kept in his bottom desk drawer.

  ‘Just because we have to work doesn’t mean we have to forgo the apéritif,’ he said, handing glasses out. Only Akil declined.