After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  The train to Dieppe was practically empty. Marc sat next to the window. There were only two other passengers in the carriage: a teenager, listening to music on an MP3, and a tall guy who was asleep, sprawled over two seats.

  Marc pulled down the small grey table from the seatback in front of him, put his bag on it, then took out the notebook. Only another twenty pages to go.

  On the platform, the stationmaster blew his whistle. Instinctively, Marc looked up. And he froze, his forehead to the window.

  It was her.

  The scrawny figure gave the stationmaster a nasty look, hissed a few insults at him, then jumped on to the train just as it was about to move.

  Malvina de Carville.

  *

  For a long time, Marc fearfully watched the two doors at either end of the carriage. Malvina must be hiding somewhere on the train, but Marc had no desire to seek her out. He was not going to let her corner him again so easily. Right now, his priority was to finish reading Grand-Duc’s notebook.

  He would deal with the lunatic girl after that.

  Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal I left Zoran Radjic at the Espadon bar, almost certain that he had been telling me the truth. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Georges Pelletier, living in the hut on the mountainside, had been an eyewitness to the crash on 23 December, 1980. He had been the first person to reach the scene of the accident. He had seen the miracle child, and he had stolen the gold bracelet, like the pathetic scavenger he was, before the emergency services arrived.

  So, that meant the miracle child was Lyse-Rose de Carville. I was now practically sure of it. Practically, but not absolutely. Because, however unlikely it seemed, Zoran Radjic might just have invented his story. And for the moment, all I had was conjecture and supposition. There was still no concrete proof.

  Assumptions, suspicions, coincidences . . . call it what you want. I’ve told you everything; you know as much as I do about the case now, so work it out for yourself.

  Well, there is actually one thing I haven’t mentioned yet. A feeling, more than a fact. It is so much more complicated to explain a feeling than it is to describe a search of Mont Terri or an interview with a witness. To be perfectly honest, I reached the point where I believed that all the evidence I had accumulated – the bracelet, the grave, the clothes from the Turkish market, the child’s eye colour, her musical talent – was essentially irrelevant.

  The truth was to be found elsewhere. The truth was to be found in a feeling. Or, to be more accurate, in a relationship.

  Marc and Emilie.

  It is time now, I think, to touch upon their strange bond. They couldn’t do anything about it, poor kids. Fate had made the decision for them.

  For all her good intentions, Nicole was too distant from them. She worked such long hours, including weekends, and the age difference was a factor too. Marc and Emilie did not have a mother and a father to raise them; they no longer even had a grandfather. So, inevitably, the two of them grew closer. With their blonde hair and their angelic faces, they looked so similar. And yet, they were so different . . .

  All right, I am going to bite the bullet. I know that Lylie and Marc will read these words. I will try to be worthy of their expectations. In any case, I won’t be there to see their reactions.

  Marc . . . pale blue eyes that often seemed lost in contemplation of distant horizons, perhaps the glorious past of Dieppe and its pirates. And yet, deep down, Marc was a simple soul. The things he loved best were his home, his neighbourhood, his friends, his grandmother . . . and, most of all, Emilie.

  Marc’s love for Emilie grew steadily over time, warmed by his generosity of spirit and his love of home. His was a shy, discreet, almost silent presence.

  The girls in his school idolised him, but Marc was indifferent to their sighs and wide eyes. His only ambition, from the time I first met him, was to be utterly devoted to Emilie: to be her brother, her father, her grandfather. To be everything she needed. To shelter her from the world.

  Emilie made him happy. She was so full of life, she made everyone happy. In a place that lacked beauty – with its abandoned factories, its grey brick walls, its filthy gutters – she shone like the sun on the beach at Dieppe, was radiant as a rainbow over the sea.

  Like a lost butterfly. Or a dragonfly, if you prefer . . . The music she played – airs by Chopin and Satie – turned the cramped little house on Rue Pocholle into a castle, a cathedral. And her laughter lit up the home with brightness and warmth.

  When she was sad, she consoled herself with music.

  She was not haughty. She was just different. Alone. And even then, not always. Emilie would cheer every muddy tackle Marc made at the rugby stadium. She would put on a pair of trainers and run seven miles with him, over a succession of hills and valleys. Dieppe–Pourville–Varengeville–Puys.

  Like a big sun, she made everyone melt, including me.

  Crédule-la-Bascule.

  She had come too close to losing her life at three months old to let a single moment of it go to waste. And she was so proud of her Marc, just as he was of her. Her tall, strong, guardian angel.

  Marc and Emilie realised early on that they were not brother and sister. Not really, anyway. Not like other brothers and sisters. The secret, so jealously guarded by Nicole Vitral, was out as soon as they set foot in the playground at the local nursery. Parents talk, and their children repeat those words, getting their facts mixed up in the process.

  The children at the Paul-Langevin school invented a game: they would run around Emilie, heads lowered, arms spread wide, making aeroplane noises, buzzing around her before crashing close to where she stood. And Marc would stand next to her, like King Kong on the Empire State Building, swatting them away angrily. Sometimes he would get punished for it, but he never stopped protecting her.

  Marc and Emilie were never truly brother and sister. They grew up in the shadow of a doubt.

  The other kids in the playground would make fun of them, calling them boyfriend and girlfriend. And yes, they did love each other. That was very, very obvious. But what kind of love was it?

  I think Marc must have begun to wonder about this when he was ten years of age. He and Emilie had been sharing a room ever since the verdict. They slept in a bunk bed: him below and Emilie on top. When Marc turned ten, he remained in the little bedroom, while Emilie shared her grandmother’s room.

  Nicole did the best she could with the resources she had.

  What kind of love . . .?

  I have a confession to make. Not only did I wonder about this, I tried to find out for myself. I spied on them. I armed Nazim with a telephoto lens and told him to take pictures.

  It made no difference. Feelings are not always visible. What kind of love?

  Only they know the answer to that question. I certainly don’t.

  Even science could not help me. This was later, when Lylie was fifteen. I am talking about the DNA test, of course. I knew Mathilde de Carville would ask me to take care of that for her eventually. In spite of her principles, her faith. She wanted to know. It is only human. Actually, it seemed miraculous to me that she had managed to resist the temptation for so long.

  I was fearful of the results. Fifteen years of investigation . . . what would that count for, against three drops of blood in a test tube? Grand-Duc’s words danced in front of Marc’s eyes.

  ‘What kind of love? Only they know the answer to that

  question.’

  The Pays de Caux undulated outside the window. Above,

  high-tension lines from the nuclear power station, which the train

  would follow all the way to Dieppe.

  ‘What kind of love?’

  What could he possibly have understood, that old detective with

  his telephoto lens? Who could possibly have understood? ‘Marc loves Emilie! Emilie loves Marc!’

  The children’s taunts still echoed in Marc’s ears. Like their poor

  imitations of a plane cras
hing.

  Lylie, where are you?

  Marc didn’t feel like calling any more hospitals. Just one more perhaps. Another failure.

  ‘Marc loves Emilie . . .’

  Who knew the truth, apart from the two of them? Who knew their secret?

  Nobody.

  It had only begun two months before. On the sixteenth of August.

  Lylie was still seventeen. Marc closed his eyes. Only two months.

  43

  16 August, 1998, 6.00 p.m. This is madness, thought Marc. Going for a run in the middle of August! It was late afternoon, but still nearly thirty degrees. Normandy in a heatwave.

  But Lylie would not give up on the idea. She was crouched in the front doorway, tying the laces of her trainers, as if she couldn’t wait to get out. Marc sighed. Reluctantly, he took off his espadrilles and went to look for his running shoes.

  ‘Hurry up, slacker!’ Lylie teased him cheerfully. Her blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail with a pale blue ribbon. Marc loved her hair like that. It made her face look bigger, exposing her forehead. She looked like a princess. A bouncing, impatient princess . . .

  ‘Come on, let’s go!’

  ‘All right, all right . . .’

  Ever since she had won a cross-country race at school, Lylie had

  been running regularly. All through the spring, she had been putting in five hours a week, with Marc acting as her coach. Marc was cursing; he could not find his left shoe.

  ‘If you don’t want to come with me . . .’

  ‘I do!’

  Lylie picked up a bottle of mineral water and took a swig. A drop of water rolled down her lips, her chin, her neck. Confused, Marc looked away.

  He found his trainer at last and tied the laces. Lylie was wearing a tight-fitting, super-expensive Sergio Tacchini sports outfit which flattened her breasts but exposed her flat stomach and the tops of her hips. Her skin was soft and slightly tanned.

  ‘Are we ready?’

  Marc grudgingly followed her out of the door.

  Why was he so unenthusiastic about running today? Was it just the heat, the absence of a breeze? Or did he have a bad feeling about something? Lylie seemed almost too happy.

  They ran through Pollet, crossed the ferry bridge, went along the sea wall and then climbed the steep hill to the castle.

  Lylie always ran in front. Marc adapted his stride to hers. They passed the golf course and then the Ango school, with its futurist architecture, at the foot of the cliffs. Lylie mischievously waved goodbye to the school.

  They now had half a mile of flat road until they reached Pourville, so they could lengthen their stride. As they rounded a bend, the view opened up before them: the hanging valley of Pourville, dazzling in the sunlight. Lylie sped up as they descended. People watched as they ran past. Men especially. They were hypnotised by the regular movement of Lylie’s long bare legs. Marc acted like a bodyguard, with 360-degree vision, as they ran.

  He was used to men ogling Lylie, but that did not make him any less jealous. They had crossed Pourville beach and were now climbing the Varengeville hill, the steepest and most sheltered on their run. Along this slope the most beautiful houses were hidden, with stunning views and shielded from the west wind.

  Lylie toiled up the steep hill. Marc followed her without any difficulty. He stared out at the wild Scie valley in the distance. Above all, he did his best not to spend too long looking directly ahead, as Lylie’s bottom bounced pertly in front of his eyes.

  He was turned on, in spite of himself. Did Lylie have any idea of the effect her body had on him? One last bend and the road finally flattened out. Marc accelerated until he was running alongside her. She turned to smile at him. Radiant.

  So beautiful.

  Marc felt an emotion rising within him. It was far from new, but it was more intense, more powerful than ever before.

  For the next two or three miles, all the way to Varengeville, the road was flat. Varengeville was the most densely wooded village on this coastline, and the shade it offered would be welcome. They ran past the Manoir d’Ango, the floral gardens in Moûtiers, in single file, for fear of cars trying to overtake them from behind.

  Two hundred yards from their destination, Lylie looked as if she was about to sprint. Marc gave her a short headstart. That was a mistake. Sweat was running down Lylie’s bare back. The drops glistened as they ran into her shorts. Marc wished he could run his tongue up that naked flesh, taste that salty sweat.

  Calm down. Jesus, calm down!

  Marc accelerated, laughing as he overtook Lylie, then slowed down so that they would finish together. Lylie collapsed on the grass, exhausted. Again, Marc looked away from that beautiful body, stretched out in the sun.

  He walked to the gate of the sailors’ cemetery, and pushed it open. Lylie caught up with him a few seconds later. They were not alone there. There must have been about twenty tourists walking around the tiny graveyard, some of them looking for Georges Braque’s tombstone, and for his stained-glass window in the church. Others posed for photographs in front of the dazzling view: Dieppe, Criel, Le Tréport . . . all the way up the coastline to Ault, in Picardie.

  How many lovers dreamed of marrying here, in this sublime little sandstone church, set amid greenery, between sea and sky?

  Did Marc dream of that?

  He shook his head to rid his mind of such ridiculous thoughts.

  ‘Shall we go back?’

  He’d heard somewhere that the cliff here was receding more than anywhere else. Beneath them, the rock was crumbling. The chalk was soaked with water. One day, it would all collapse into the sea. The church. The gravestones. The sandstone cross.

  All of it. Into the water, then swept away by the tide.

  Lylie had drunk some water from the tap near the cemetery gates, and was already on her way.

  Marc followed, like a faithful dog.

  They passed a line of cars coming the other way. The narrow

  roadside was bordered by a carefully maintained hedge, so it was impossible to run side by side. Marc had to follow in Lylie’s footsteps once more, watching her glistening back, her rounded buttocks, the nape of her neck with its tiny soft blonde hairs.

  Impossible.

  Or was it?

  Don’t even think about it! screamed a voice inside his head. Don’t look at her anymore. Concentrate on your breathing, the length

  of your stride. They were on their way back down towards Pourville. They passed a series of belle époque mansions, each of them a baroque fantasy. Suddenly, Lylie turned left in the direction of the Gorge du Petit Ailly, a little beach at the end of the hanging valley. Only the locals knew about this place. And yet surely there would be plenty of them there, in the middle of August. Marc caught up with Lylie again.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Lylie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Bet you can’t catch me!’

  She turned again, to the right this time. They were in a forest of

  willows now, no longer following a path. Barely two hundred yards further on, they emerged from the woods and passed a little pond to their right. Lylie kept running.

  They ran down towards the sea along a steep path. Cows stared at them from a meadow. It seemed as if they were on a farm, although there was no sign of any farmer. Lylie ran alongside an electric fence. Clearly, she knew where she was going. Marc concentrated and the map of the local area unfurled inside his mind. They had turned off to the north of the Gorge du Petit Ailly, so they must have crossed the farm at Pin-Brûlé and then the one at Morval. Now he felt sure he could guess where they were headed: Morval harbour. He had never been there, but had heard about it. It was one of those little coves inaccessible to tourists. A private beach reserved for the use of the local landowner, who probably never went there.

  In the last twenty yards before they reached the sea, the land was crumbling. You could see the clay on the surface, running in ochre lines towards the sea. They had to cross a crater ten yards long, but it was easy
to climb down and it had the distinct advantage of making the beach invisible from the field.

  Lylie’s feet slipped on the clay. Her legs and expensive outfit were covered in red mud. Laughing triumphantly, she stood up on the shingle.

  The tide was going out now, and there was a sandy space of about ten feet beyond the line of pebbles.

  Lylie pulled the blue ribbon from her hair and it fell like a blonde cascade. Marc shivered.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Lylie asked, frowning sweetly as if asking for forgiveness.

  Marc did not reply. He was worried. That bad feeling had not left him.

  ‘Come on!’ Lylie teased. ‘I’m covered in sweat. And the weather is so nice for a change. It’s the most beautiful day of the summer.’

  Lylie was right, at least from a strictly meteorological point of view.

  The calm sea. The heat. The sand. The silence.

  Their closeness.

  How could he resist?

  Anyway, Lylie had not waited for a reply. Her trainers were sent flying onto the pebbles, and she dived into the water. Her running outfit worked equally well as a swimsuit. Marc was wearing a baggy red-and-black T-shirt and a pair of long canvas shorts. He threw his T-shirt and trainers next to Lylie’s on the shingle.

  They swam for nearly an hour. And that was all they did. Marc began to snap out of his mood. Lylie’s body was invisible beneath the grey waters of the English Channel. They swam breaststroke and crawl, side by side, happy and at ease.

  Lylie had been right, as always. This had been a wonderful idea. So what had he been worried about?