After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  Linda put the baby monitor next to the blender and began peeling carrots. She liked this moment of silence. It reassured her. The shadow moved past the kitchen and pushed open the door to Léonce de Carville’s bedroom. Cautiously, it entered. Linda saw and heard nothing.

  The old man stared at the advancing figure, his eyes wide open.

  He looked petrified, as if he understood the figure’s intention. The shadow hesitated. The look in the old man’s eyes seemed unreal, almost menacing. But the shadow’s hesitation lasted only a second or so. It moved forward again. It felt no pity for the inert body of the old man, only hatred and contempt.

  The shadow noticed a pillow sitting on a chair near the bed. It smiled. The perfect solution. Quick, silent. The shadow walked towards it. The old man’s gaze remained fixed on the open door. The shadow felt relieved. So, the man’s apparent fear was merely an illusion. Léonce de Carville had not recognised the intruder; he no longer recognised anyone or anything. Under the intruder’s feet, the floorboards creaked quietly.

  The blade of Linda’s knife hung suspended in the air. The nurse had distinctly heard a noise in Léonce’s bedroom. A creak. Still holding the knife, Linda went out into the hallway and headed towards the old man’s room. The creaking noise could not have been made by Léonce, after all.

  Her fingers tightened around the knife handle. This afternoon was taking a strange turn. First, the shooting in the forest. Police everywhere. Then the motorcycle courier, with the envelope. The door banging earlier, and now this creak in the bedroom of a man who could not move.

  Linda held the knife out in front of her, her entire arm trembling. This house had always frightened her, like a haunted house from a horror film. Usually, she managed to avoid thinking about it, but she had always felt uneasy here. Her legs felt like jelly beneath her and she shivered.

  Still holding the blade in front of her, Linda entered the bedroom. Léonce de Carville was staring at her. His gaze was empty, but so was the rest of the room – there was nobody there. The tension left Linda in a burst of nervous laughter. This house and its family of weirdos were driving her crazy! She had to find another job elsewhere. There was no lack of rich families to choose from, here by the Marne. It would be tough on the old man, but she would just have to forget about the strange tenderness she felt towards him. She had Hugo to think of now.

  Time to get back to work, Linda thought; she had to finish making the soup, and then she’d go home. The shadow heard the sound of the blender in the kitchen, and sighed with relief. It had been careless before. Impatient. This time, the nurse would not hear a thing. Cautiously, it opened the door of the piano room where it had been hiding, and went back to the old man’s bedroom. It picked up the pillow from the chair, then laid the soft fabric over Léonce de Carville’s face. He did not react at all. It was so easy. Too easy. How long would it take to suffocate a paraplegic? There would be no way of knowing when all the life had left this body, as it would not kick out or struggle. Should the pillow be held over the old man’s face for a minute? Two? Three?

  The intruder did not count the seconds. It merely waited as long as possible.

  Suddenly, the impossible happened. Impossible according to the doctors, anyway. Léonce’s arm suddenly stiffened. Was this the final twitch of a dying body? A hopeless attempt to save itself? The intruder kept pressing down. Léonce’s left arm went into spasm. It jerked across the bedside table, knocking off the glass and the carafe, which fell to the floor and smashed.

  Linda screamed. This time, she knew she was not hallucinating – she had definitely heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the bedroom. Without stopping to think, she grabbed the kitchen knife again and rushed into the bedroom.

  Broken glass and pools of water at her feet.

  But there was nobody else there. Nobody except Léonce de Carville, his eyes still wide open, his skin white, and his mouth twisted like the mask from Scream.

  He was not breathing.

  Linda recognised death when she saw it. She had been working with old people for nearly twelve years now.

  He was dead. Suffocated.

  The pillow was still lying on the bed.

  In that moment, Linda felt no sadness or pity for the dead man in front of her. In that moment, the only emotion she felt, overpowering all the others, was fear.

  36

  2 October, 1998, 3.22 p.m. On the concourse of the Gare Saint-Lazare, Malvina de Carville calmed down as quickly as she had lost her temper. Grumbling, she walked away from the queue for the ticket machine. The man behind her shrugged and nobody paid her any more attention.

  Nobody except Marc.

  So, Malvina de Carville had followed him. This mad bitch had decided to tail him all the way to Dieppe, had she? Right now, though, he had the advantage, because they were in a public place. She couldn’t do anything with so many people around. He had to seize his chance.

  Marc jumped up, shoving Grand-Duc’s notebook into his backpack. Without waiting for a response, he handed the bag to the waiter and said: ‘Could you look after this for a few minutes? I’ll be back. Be careful, though, it’s very precious . . . it contains my entire year’s coursework.’

  Too shocked to speak, the waiter clutched the bag to his chest. Marc was gone before he had time to protest.

  Malvina was standing about a hundred feet away. She seemed to be hesitating between queueing for another ticket machine, joining the intimidatingly long line for the manned ticket counters, or not buying a ticket at all. Her back was to him. Marc could not believe his luck.

  He slalomed through the passengers, heading straight for her. He felt an almost animal need to release the pressure that had built up inside him. His fingers grabbed her wool jumper and he almost lifted her off the ground. Marc was a foot taller than Malvina and twice as heavy. He dragged her unceremoniously towards a vending machine, away from the densest part of the crowd.

  Malvina smiled. She did not look very surprised.

  ‘Can’t keep away from me, can you, Vitral?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Take a wild guess . . .’

  Marc moved his hand towards Malvina’s neck. It was a slender little neck and his fingers could easily go round it. He pulled Malvina closer to him. None of the other passengers were paying any attention to them – they probably looked like a couple embracing before they said goodbye.

  ‘Did you follow me? How did you know I was going to Saint-Lazare?’

  ‘It’s not exactly rocket science, Vitral. Where would poor little Marc go if he was upset? To his loving grandma, of course!’

  ‘All right, so you’re very clever. But listen, I’m warning you now, if I see you on the same train as me, I will throw you out the door.’ Marc tightened his grip. ‘Understood?’

  Malvina was having trouble breathing but the smirk still didn’t leave her face.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he demanded again.

  Malvina was choking. Marc wondered how far he could go. He wasn’t panicking now. His hatred for this girl seemed to give him an almost superhuman power.

  But he did not have long to consider this question, because almost immediately he felt the barrel of a gun pressing between his legs. Instinctively, he loosened his grip.

  ‘Stay close to me, Vitral,’ Malvina whispered, ‘so people will think we’re lovers. That way, they won’t see my Mauser aimed at your bollocks. But take your hands off my neck right now.’

  Marc looked out into the vast concourse. Nobody was taking any notice of them. They might be brother and sister. Perhaps that wasn’t far from the truth.

  ‘Where’s your bag?’ Malvina hissed.

  ‘I don’t have it, sorry. I suppose you want me to take off all my clothes again. In front of everyone . . .’

  Marc was clumsily playing for time. Inwardly, he cursed his own stupidity. He had known this crazy bitch was armed.

  ‘Well, maybe you should strip off. Why not? You’re not bad-lo
oking. Not very bright, but cute. And, in the circumstances, you have to do as I say.’

  Drops of sweat clung to the back of Marc’s neck. Malvina’s left hand stroked his thigh, while her right hand continued to press the Mauser against his crotch. She withdrew the gun barrel a few inches and her fingers caressed the bulge in his jeans. She pressed more tightly against him. ‘Move and I’ll shoot.’

  The image of Grand-Duc’s corpse flashed through Marc’s mind. A bullet in the chest. She wasn’t bluffing. This madwoman was perfectly capable of shooting him in the middle of a crowded train station.

  ‘Why aren’t you going hard, Vitral?’ Malvina asked. ‘Don’t you find me attractive?’

  Marc had run out of sarcastic rejoinders. The girl’s fingers crawled over him like a lizard. Clumsily, she caressed his cock, her tiny hand applying too much pressure.

  ‘Can’t get it up, eh? Maybe you just prefer my sister?’

  Marc tried to take deep breaths. He wanted to push this crazy bitch away from him, even it meant risking his life. Maybe she wouldn’t dare shoot, after all?

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Vitral? Don’t pretend you’re not turned on by my sister. It’s all right, I’m not jealous. I know how beautiful she is, and how ugly I am. We’re like beauty and the beast, the two of us.’

  With her left hand, Malvina caressed Marc’s balls. Or rather, she kneaded them, like bread, as if this were the first time she had ever touched a man’s genitals.

  ‘Still no erection, I see . . . Shall I tell you why I’m not jealous? Can you guess?’

  Apparently, Malvina was a quick learner. Her fingers were stroking him more gently now. Marc felt violated. He’d had enough. He was going to have to push her away, shove her against the station wall. As if Malvina had read his thoughts, she pressed the gun against his testicles once more. He grimaced with pain.

  ‘Don’t you understand? Listen to me: if I’m a monster, it’s not Lyse-Rose’s fault, it’s yours. It’s the Vitral family’s fault. You’re the ones who stole my sister. I used to be as pretty as Lyse-Rose, you know. And I would still be as pretty now, and as tall, and as sexy. But I refused to grow up – that’s what the doctors said – because your family took my little sister away. We would have had the same hairstyles, worn the same clothes, the same make-up . . . Maybe we would have shared boyfriends too. But you stole all that from me, Vitral. So who should I try to look beautiful for? Tell me! Who?’

  Malvina’s hand released its grip on his penis. She leaned in close to his ear and whispered: ‘Have you fucked my sister? Come on, you can tell me . . .’

  What should he say? Was Malvina even expecting a response?

  Her fingers began probing and stroking him again.

  ‘You’re a handsome boy, Vitral. I bet you get a lot of girls, don’t you? I bet you could have any girl you wanted. So why do you have to screw my sister? Are you a pervert, or what?’

  The Mauser pressed harder against his crotch.

  ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t get a hard-on soon, Vitral. Lyse-Rose is going to come home now. To our house, I mean. To her true home. All this craziness is over. It was that little bitch Emilie who died in the plane crash: you told me so yourself. You’re not going to steal my sister from me a second time.’

  It was time to stop thinking, and to act. Even if he couldn’t move, Marc could still provoke Malvina. He forced himself to speak, his voice soaked in irony.

  ‘So you’re looking for a little sister, are you?’

  It had been so long since Marc had spoken that Malvina seemed surprised. She even backed away from him slightly.

  ‘Believe me, Malvina, you have plenty of little sisters. And little brothers, for that matter. There are probably dozens of them, scattered all over the Bosphorus. Your dad, Alexandre, put it about all over Turkey before he died in that crash. From what I’ve heard, daddy dearest had no problem at all getting it up.’

  The Mauser was no longer touching him. Malvina’s face had collapsed. Marc kept going: ‘You weren’t that young, you probably remember, don’t you? All those floozies your dad fucked in Istanbul. In his office. All over the place. Do you remember your mum crying? Do you remember her fucking other men? Men with blue eyes . . .’

  Malvina seemed to be shrinking with every word.

  Marc went for the kill: ‘Chances are, Lyse-Rose is not even your sister!’

  Malvina screamed. Everyone in the concourse must have turned to watch. Her little hand crushed Marc’s testicles. Marc collapsed, stunned by the pain.

  Malvina hid the Mauser in her pocket and disappeared quickly into the crowd.

  37

  2 October, 1998, 4.13 p.m. Marc walked through the fifth carriage. He still had not found a free seat. He hated the Paris–Rouen train, particularly on a Friday evening. It seemed as if the train company sold twice as many tickets as there were seats.

  His balls still ached, although the pain had dulled now. He had stayed on his knees for almost ten minutes in the station concourse, surrounded by concerned faces.

  ‘Are you all right? Looks like she got you right where it hurts . . .’ Their tone was half-worried, half-amused. How were people supposed to react when faced with a guy bent double because the girl he had been embracing had just crushed his bollocks?

  Marc had collected his backpack from the waiter and limped as quickly as he could to the platform for his train, which had finally been announced.

  In the seventh carriage, Marc gave up looking for a seat. The train was a double-decker, so he sat on a stairway between the two floors. He was not the only one: other steps were already occupied by a mother with three children, a businessman going through some reports, and a dozing teenager. It was an uncomfortable place to sit, but it was better than standing up.

  Marc wedged his backpack between his knees and checked his phone again. Still no message.

  He called Lylie’s number. Straight to voicemail.

  ‘Lylie, this is Marc. Please answer me! Where are you? I listened to your last message, and I could hear ambulance sirens in the background. It’s driving me crazy. I’ve been calling all the hospitals in Paris, trying to find you. Please call me back.’

  So far Marc had contacted about twenty hospitals – the largest ones. He had to keep going. He decided to do this for half an hour, then read some more of Grand-Duc’s notebook.

  It was the same story, over and over again: ‘Hello, madame. Has a young woman by the name of Emilie Vitral been admitted to your hospital today? No, I don’t know which department . . . Accident and Emergency, perhaps?’

  The train was so noisy that Marc could hardly hear what the receptionists were saying. Not that it varied very much.

  There was no Emilie Vitral listed in their registers.

  After thirty minutes, he had contacted another twenty-two hospitals. They were mostly private clinics and specialised medical centres now. He began to despair. There was no way he was going to find Lylie this way. Not before tomorrow anyway . . .

  He had to think. He had to find a way to make all of the pieces of the puzzle fit together. First of all, he had to finish reading GrandDuc’s notebook. He should have time for that before his train reached Dieppe. There were only about thirty pages left.

  Marc put away his mobile phone then took out the pages that he had previously torn from Grand-Duc’s notebook. The back of the last page was blank. Marc grabbed a biro from his bag and scribbled:

  WHERE IS LYLIE?

  Then, below this, in a small, cramped hand, he added:

  In a hospital? One-way trip?

  He underlined the last phrase and added three exclamation marks.

  Suicide?

  Murder?

  Revenge?

  Without thinking about why he did it, Marc underlined the word ‘Revenge’. Then he wrote:

  WHO KILLED GRAND-DUC?

  Malvina de Carville

  For a few seconds, Marc sucked on his biro, then added a question mark after her name. The train was shakin
g, so his handwriting was far from neat, but at least he could read it. That was all that mattered.

  Then, feverishly, he wrote:

  Why didn’t Grand-Duc kill himself three days ago?

  What did he discover that night, just before midnight?

  What could he have discovered that would make someone want to

  kill him?

  MY GRANDFATHER’S ACCIDENT – WHAT IS WRONG

  WITH GRAND-DUC’S ACCOUNT?

  Search your old bedroom in Dieppe. Take your time. It will come to

  you.

  Marc read through what he had written. The number of question

  marks made him give a wry smile. And he hadn’t finished yet. He

  touched the blue envelope in his jacket pocket.

  DNA TEST. MYSTERY SOLVED?

  Open the envelope?

  Should he betray his promise to Nicole in order to find the

  solution?

  No. That would not get him anywhere. Marc already knew what

  the envelope contained. Lylie was not his sister. Lylie was Mathilde

  de Carville’s granddaughter. Malvina’s sister. Everything pointed to

  this: from Grand-Duc’s investigation to the ring that Lylie had been

  wearing that morning. And his feelings for her, of course . . . TALK TO NICOLE

  Marc added a final question mark, for good measure.

  The train was due to arrive in Dieppe at 6.24 p.m. Less than three hours . . . When it stopped at Mantes-la-Jolie, nearly half of the passengers got off, freeing up seats. Marc got up and sat near the window in the lower part of the train. He was still in some pain, but the extra leg space helped to ease his discomfort. Malvina was nowhere to be seen, and he was grateful for that small mercy, although there was no way of knowing if she might be on board. Marc sighed and took out Grand-Duc’s notebook.