The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1)

by Anna Jaquiery

  He was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. And by how much her words stung.

  ‘I know how it looks and I’m truly sorry. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.’

  She looked at him carefully. ‘You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been busy with work.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’

  She looked at her watch and sighed. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. She put her glass down.

  ‘Goodbye, Serge,’ she said.

  Morel waited a while, as though she might come back.

  After five minutes, he took the bowl from the microwave and emptied the contents into the rubbish bin. Then he went to his room, taking the open bottle of wine and a glass with him.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When it happens he is two weeks short of his fourth birthday. One minute he is living with his grandmother in the village, playing in the street, chasing the chickens and dogs with the other children. The next he is whisked away to a place where he is deprived of everything he knows.

  He likes his life. At mealtimes he sits by the stove with his babulya. She rarely speaks but the silence between them is comfortable. There is no need for words. The house is very small with only one bedroom and Dima has to sleep in the kitchen by the stove at night. He doesn’t mind it because this is the warmest room in the house. He likes the house, even though he’s heard his babulya say that it could do with some renovation because it sinks into the ground a bit further each spring. What they need is a pair of strong arms to take on some of the manual work. But there is no one to ask. The men in the village are useless, his grandmother says, in a rare fit of anger. When she speaks like this it’s like she is addressing an invisible presence in the room.

  He has no idea where his mother and father are, or whether they are alive. And his grandmother has never spoken about them. If he had lived with her longer, if she hadn’t died, then maybe he would have asked. But he is three and a half years old. This is all he knows and he is not fully conscious yet that it might be less than what other children have.

  One day in the middle of summer his babulya dies. He doesn’t remember when he realizes that she is gone. And when he does he doesn’t tell anyone straight away. Not until the smell drives him out of the house.

  He doesn’t remember how he got to the dom rebyonka, the baby house. This is where they put the children who have no one to look after them. He is one of the lucky ones in a way, because his grandmother is dead. There are those whose parents and grandparents are still alive but who’ve given them up anyway. He doesn’t know this yet but he learns a great deal as the years go by.

  For example, he doesn’t understand yet that because of his muteness, he is classified as an idiot. Medically this transcribes as someone with the most profound degree of mental retardation. Someone who is helpless and requires supervision. Again this is something he will understand later. That’s when he will realize the extent to which the label has branded him.

  There is no reason for him to be bedridden but despite this they assign him to the lying-down room, with the other bedridden children. What else are they to do with this child who never says a word and instead stares at them with great unblinking eyes? He never smiles. Later, he understands that he makes the adults uncomfortable.

  Many of the other children in the baby house are younger. Most of them in fact are infants. It is always noisy and always smelly. There is nowhere to escape from the incessant presence of others.

  Here at the dom rebyonka, he learns to soundproof his mind.

  It takes a long time. Many weeks go by during which he lives in a state of fear and incomprehension. Sometimes, when he is lying in the dark on his filthy cot, his terror builds to a point where he thinks he might not be able to draw another breath. He is convinced he will die.

  Later he will come to experience the same terror when he is baptized.

  He is desperately lonely. But then gradually he adjusts. He does this by chipping away at himself, the way a sculptor might chisel a block of limestone, until all feeling is carved out and only a grey stillness remains.

  He builds a wall of silence around himself. The only trouble with that is that the more he isolates himself, the harder it is to re-enter the real world. Soon the world of his thoughts, this silent, sterile world, is the one he is most familiar with. The one he would call real, if anyone were to ask and if he knew how to respond.

  Shortly after his fourth birthday they move him to the internat. It is full of bigger and older kids. Some of them make a habit of taunting and abusing the young arrivals. But Dima is left to himself. In the lying-down room here it is mostly quiet.

  Most of the time he has no idea what time it is. He dozes through the day and sometimes when he wakes he is only partially aware of where he is. Sometimes they come and feed him. Usually with a bottle, even though he is too big for it. Sometimes they come and change his cloth nappy. Every once in a while they have to lift him to turn the rubber-covered mattress underneath. He does not notice how bad the smell is, though sometimes his eyes sting from the disinfectant they use.

  There is one person who lifts him more gently than the others. Who talks to him even though he can’t talk back. When it is dark and the others are asleep she leans over him and strokes his forehead. Her fingers are cool and gentle. There are times when she leans in further and takes him in her arms. He is not a baby any more but she lifts him without effort. Sits by his cot and cradles him in her arms. He feels her warm breath against his cheek.

  After she goes he feels a sadness that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t know which is worse, the state of numbness he is used to or the emotions she stirs within him. The tenderness she gives comes at a price.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The school bell sounded and still there were kids arriving. Pimply, self-conscious boys with long and straggly hair; painfully thin girls decked out like Christmas trees. All piercings and beady scarves, bracelets and black-painted nails.

  ‘If this is human evolution, we’re screwed as a species,’ Jean said. He was sitting in the front of the car with Morel, while Lila and Akil sat in the back. They were waiting outside the school for the deputy head to give them the go-ahead. ‘Somewhere down the track, not far from here, we will face complete degeneration and the world will self-implode.’

  ‘What the hell have you been smoking?’ Lila asked.

  A few latecomers appeared, looking pretty relaxed about whether they would make it to their classrooms on time.

  ‘I was incredibly punctual as a schoolkid,’ Lila said.

  ‘Miss Goody Two-Shoes, were you?’ Jean said.

  ‘Yes, I was. A straight-A student and the teacher’s pet.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  They laughed at that while Lila cuffed Jean on the head.

  ‘The other kids must have loved you,’ Morel said, shaking his head.

  They waited in the car opposite the school for several minutes more. Akil sat without saying anything. Lila sighed loudly and started rolling a cigarette.

  ‘How long is she going to be?’ Lila said.

  The deputy head had called at eight that morning to say that Antoine Leroy, aka Armand Le Bellec, was back. He hadn’t given any further explanation for his long absence, which he’d initially taken for health reasons, and had simply said that he was ready to go back to work.

  ‘What’s he playing at? Turning up like that,’ Lila had said when the four of them had turned up at the school half an hour ago. They’d taken pains to park discreetly, some distance away but near enough to be able to observe the school grounds. ‘Surely he knows we’re on to him. His face has been plastered all over the news.’

  ‘I agree. It’s not what I expected,’ Morel said. ‘We’ll need to move carefully.’

  Now a woman came across the grounds to where they were parked.

  ‘You can come in now,’ she said. ‘The children are in t
heir classrooms.’

  ‘Right. Well, where can we find him?’ Jean asked.

  ‘How are you going to do this?’ the woman said. She seemed agitated. ‘I would rather the students weren’t upset.’

  ‘Maybe you could call him to the head teacher’s office. Tell him it’s an administrative matter. Make something up. We’ll take it from there,’ Morel said soothingly. ‘The students won’t be bothered. Is there someone who can take over the class?’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to be me at this stage. I haven’t had time to call in a replacement teacher. I’ll take care of that, though. As long as you can manage your end.’

  Morel and Jean waited in the head’s office. Outside, Lila and Akil watched the school’s entrance, on the off-chance that Le Bellec decided to make a run for it. The head was away and only the secretary was there. She kept on working, pretending to be oblivious to the presence of two police officers in her work space.

  When the deputy head returned with Le Bellec, Morel and Jean stood up. Morel moved towards the man, who was a good deal shorter than him. He looked at Morel with questioning eyes. Morel had a feeling, though, that he wasn’t surprised.

  ‘Armand Le Bellec, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Isabelle Dufour, Elisabeth Guillou and Marie Latour.’

  While the secretary gaped, Morel read Le Bellec his rights.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Fingers snap before his eyes and Armand is reminded of where he is.

  The air in this room is stale. With every breath he wonders whether he will be able to take another. The young female officer, the one wearing a man’s shirt and black lace-up Doc Martens, is looking at him with distaste. He finds it offensive, to be judged in this way. You know nothing about me, he wants to tell her. But he is not a brave man. He can see by the expression on her face that she knows this.

  ‘Do you understand what we’re saying? Why you’re here?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And that you have the right to a lawyer? Do you want a lawyer?’ Lila says.

  Armand shakes his head.

  ‘Right, then.’

  At that moment the door opens and the man, the tall one who arrested him, walks in. He gestures to the woman to move away and takes her place across from Armand. The woman remains in the room but sits further back. Armand can’t see her face but he knows she is watching him closely.

  ‘I’m Commandant Serge Morel and this is my colleague Lila Markov. We’ve been looking for you for a while,’ the man says. He has a quiet, gentle manner. Unlike the woman. ‘I’m glad to finally meet you.’

  Armand doesn’t say anything. Just looks at the door through which the man entered. For some reason he wonders whether it’s locked. Whether anyone else is watching them. He raises his eyes and searches for a camera. There is one in the corner of the room. He lowers his eyes and tries not to think about it.

  ‘You’ve been away from work for, what, three weeks?’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘For three weeks?’ Morel asks.

  Armand nods. What does it matter whether they believe him or not?

  ‘How long have you been a teacher there?’

  ‘Quite a long time actually. Seven or eight years.’

  ‘That is a long time. Can you explain to me why you were teaching under a different name? You do realize that taking on a false identity is a serious offence?’

  ‘I wanted a fresh start.’ Amir’s face looms before him. He can hear the head teacher at the Lycée in Moscow carefully telling him that, regretfully, she has to let him go. He clears his throat and rests his eyes on Morel. ‘My life hasn’t always been easy.’

  Morel crosses his legs and then folds his arms. Armand notices his shoes. Everything about the man is expensive. He looks perfectly relaxed. He could be at a dinner party, waiting for coffee to be served.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  Armand shakes his head.

  ‘Three women have died,’ Morel says. ‘I was hoping that maybe you could help me figure out how, and why.’ He pauses. ‘Isabelle Dufour. Elisabeth Guillou. Marie Latour. Do you know these names?’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  Morel takes three photographs from a folder and places them before Armand.

  ‘Maybe it will help if you see their faces.’

  He has been waiting for this moment. Now that it’s here, he is prepared.

  Armand takes his time looking at them and finally nods. ‘Yes. I have delivered pamphlets to them.’

  ‘Tell us about these pamphlets.’

  ‘They are what I believe.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  ‘That it is possible to be born again.’

  He hears the woman snort. Morel’s expression is cool and measured. He looks like he’s thinking about what Armand has just said. He nods slowly, like he gets it.

  ‘To be given a second chance, you mean.’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  Morel’s questions meander. At times he is direct, asking Armand about the murders. Other times he seems to veer off track. He wants to know what Armand thought of Moscow. Whether he thinks times have truly changed in the former Soviet Union. In a different context, Armand would enjoy talking to this man.

  He loses track of time. Morel is still talking. He looks like he could sit there forever on the metal chair, conversing.

  ‘What made you convert to the Baptist faith, Armand? I mean, why not something else? I understand your mother was a Catholic.’

  ‘How do you explain these things?’

  ‘I’d like you to try.’

  ‘Faith is a matter between God and the individual.’

  ‘I agree,’ the detective says. ‘I have always thought too that it was a personal matter. Which is why I’ve always struggled with the idea of institutionalized religion.’

  Armand nods. ‘The Baptist faith rejects human authority over spiritual matters,’ he says. ‘It allows a direct link with God. If a Church’s hierarchy is too entrenched then that connection with God is lost. There are too many intermediaries, you see. The words we send up to God become garbled. The message is completely misinterpreted.’

  ‘Like Chinese whispers,’ Morel says.

  Armand smiles. ‘Exactly like Chinese whispers.’

  ‘Do you feel that you have a direct link to God?’

  ‘I believe I don’t need anyone to help me have a conversation with him.’

  ‘What does it mean to you, to believe in God?’

  ‘God helps me make sense of the world.’

  ‘Because the world doesn’t make any sense?’

  Armand doesn’t answer.

  ‘Tell me about your mother, Armand.’

  ‘She died a long time ago.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘Did you two get on?’

  ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

  ‘We had a long chat with Charles, your old childhood friend. Remember him?’

  Armand nods. He’s been prepared for this question for some time, too. ‘We were friends at school. We went our own ways eventually, and lost touch.’

  Morel’s voice is gentle. ‘Charles spoke a great deal about you. He told us how much he loved you then. Were you in love with Charles, Armand?’

  For the first time Armand wavers. If it weren’t for the woman sitting in the corner of the room he doesn’t know whether he could maintain his composure.

  Halfway through the day Morel steps out of the room with Lila, leaving Le Bellec alone.

  ‘Let’s get some food in. And coffees. Can I let you take care of that?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lila’s eyes are blazing. ‘He knows a lot more than what he’s telling us,’ she says. ‘When are you going to ask him about the deaths? I mean, the philosophical debate is interesting and all that but—’

  Morel cuts her off. ‘In my own time.’

  As she turns to leave, he stops
her.

  ‘This afternoon I want you to focus on trying to find the boy.’

  ‘But I thought I was sitting in—’

  ‘I want Akil to sit in this time.’

  Lila stares at him blankly.

  ‘It’ll be a good experience for him.’

  He sees her face close up while she struggles to rein in her feelings.

  ‘Fine.’

  How many hours is it since he was brought into this room? At some point food is delivered. Sandwiches and coffee. There is a jug of water before him. Morel is eating. Armand can’t even remember whether he accepted any food or not. But he does have a coffee before him.

  There is another cop in the room. This time it’s not the woman. It’s a man who looks a great deal like Amir. He smells of cigarettes and a zesty fragrance, just like Amir used to. It is disorienting and Armand struggles to keep his mind sharp and clear. He can’t afford to make any mistakes.

  He wonders whether they know about Amir, that he died in a car crash some years ago. He is glad in a way. At least he can’t be ridiculed.

  It is late in the afternoon, he thinks. Surely they will let him go now. He feels an intense urge to lie down and close his eyes. Where will he go after this? He doesn’t much care, as long as there is a mattress to lie on. As long as he is here, he thinks, the boy will be left alone.

  ‘Tell us again about your stay in Russia,’ Morel says. The other police officer isn’t looking at Armand. He is sipping at his coffee and looking at the floor. It means Armand can observe him. He isn’t tall but he is broad-shouldered, with closely cropped hair.

  ‘Does my colleague remind you of someone, Armand?’ Morel’s voice cuts across his thoughts like a razor blade. Sharp and painful. Armand blinks. He is acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on him.

  ‘No.’

  He looks straight at Morel, keeping his gaze steady. He has always been good at concealing his feelings.

  ‘What can you tell us about the boy?’ Morel asks.

  He hates to hear the boy mentioned, the way they speak about him even though they don’t know him in the slightest. At the same time, he is grateful. They don’t know either of César’s names. His anonymity is a shield, it protects the boy and it protects Armand.