After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  A jet of water startled him from his thoughts. Lylie laughed and splashed Marc again. He splashed her back. Lylie let him swim away, and then nimbly climbed on top of his back and pushed his head under the water. Marc did not resist. He resurfaced and took a breath of air. Lylie was six feet away from him now, still laughing.

  Marc reached out and managed to grab Lylie’s foot. She protested: ‘Hey, that’s not fair!’

  He pulled her towards him. When they were young, he and Lylie used to play like this every night, in a soapy bath. Marc’s strong hand gripped Lylie’s waist. She was as light as a feather.

  ‘Cheat!’

  Still laughing, Lylie turned around so she was facing him.

  Marc’s hand slid upward, to her arm, her shoulder. Gently he pushed her down, using her as a support to lift himself out of the water. Lylie’s chest rubbed against Marc’s stomach. Then her shoulders did the same. And then her face, eyes closed to protect them from the salt water.

  Deeper underwater. Lylie’s face touched the soaked cloth of Marc’s shorts. By accident, almost, her mouth touched his penis.

  He went hard. How could he do otherwise?

  Far off, a ferry was leaving the port in Dieppe, headed towards Newhaven. A few white triangles followed in its wake – seagulls, probably, or small sailing boats. It was difficult to be sure from this distance.

  Lylie and Marc said nothing. They swam slowly towards the beach. The sand was nearly dry. Lylie lay face down.

  ‘Shall we dry off for a bit before we go home?’

  She sounded embarrassed. There was a new timbre to her voice, an adult timbre. Marc sat with his arms round his knees, staring out towards the horizon.

  How long did they stay like that? A few minutes? Hours?

  The ferry had disappeared long ago, and the seagulls – or yachts – had returned to the port. The sea lay flat and featureless. Suddenly, Lylie stood up. She didn’t say a word. Marc could see only her shadow on the sand. She crossed her arms and, in one single movement, removed her top. She placed it delicately on the sand, stretched out flat, as if to make it dry quicker. When she bent down, Marc could see the shadow of her small, firm breasts on the sand.

  Lylie then slid her hands slowly down her waist, inch by inch as if she were dancing, and stripped off the lower part of her outfit. It fell to the ground, like a shed skin.

  Marc looked at her shadow, pigmented by millions of grains of sand. It was the same as before – same waist, same hips, same thighs, with or without the second skin – and yet . . .

  Lylie lay down on her stomach again.

  Marc waited for hours. Or minutes. He couldn’t tell. Nobody came to their aid. There was not a sail on the horizon,

  not a single stray tourist or angry farmer to disturb them. Lylie felt Marc’s warm hand on her lower back. It felt rough from the sand stuck to his palm. She shivered, and turned onto her back. Who else could she give her eighteen years to?

  Marc opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat. Through the window of the train, an endless line of pylons was rushing past. Instinctively, he recoiled. Was he a monster?

  Marc felt the weight of the blue envelope in his jacket pocket. It probably only weighed twenty grammes, but it seemed much heavier somehow.

  Were they monsters?

  If he opened the envelope, he would know.

  The carriage door opened, and Malvina de Carville appeared.

  44

  2 October, 1998, 5.49 p.m. The hot water rained down over Lylie’s naked body. She closed her eyes under the shower, hoping to find some kind of serenity. Or calm, at least. Blindly, she reached out and squeezed liquid soap from the dispenser. She rubbed it against her skin: breasts, stomach, pubis. Then she rinsed off the soap, remaining under the shower for a long time. She was desperate to feel clean. On the surface, if not underneath.

  Finally, she emerged from the cubicle, wrapped in a large white bath towel. Her wet hair dripped onto the floor. Lylie wiped the steam from the mirror with the back of her hand. She felt frightened by her own blurred reflection, as if her face had been replaced by that of a stranger. She brushed her teeth so hard that her gums bled.

  She had thrown up, an hour ago, outside on the street. A young policeman had helped her up from her knees and handed her a tissue. She had wiped her face while a mother pushed a pram through her puke. The policeman could have arrested her. He probably would have done, had she not implored him with her doe-like eyes.

  ‘It’s the first time, officer.’

  He let her go.

  She threw up again half an hour later. In her room, at the foot

  of her bed. There was nothing left to bring up now. She felt as sick as a dog.

  *

  Lylie came out of the bathroom. The girl lying on the other bed in the room was obviously waiting for her to come back.

  ‘They came and cleaned up while you were in the shower.’

  The girl was not even sixteen. She had short-cropped red hair and her teeth were already yellow.

  ‘You’re lucky in a way. I can’t throw up. I feel like I’m rotting inside. I’d give anything to be able to puke.’

  This was not a conversation Lylie wanted to have right now. But Yellow Teeth didn’t seem to care about that; she just wanted someone to listen to her.

  ‘This is my second time here,’ she went on. ‘I’m a reoffender! So they’re pissed off with me. They were preaching at me for three hours yesterday, the bastards.’

  Lylie walked to the window, and looked out. The girl was annoyed: ‘Don’t get all hoity-toity with me. You’re no different than I am.’

  Lylie watched the ambulances come and go in the car park below. She had walked the streets for three hours before she finally entered. She had even followed a funeral procession for a while. She could see the bell tower of the church of Saint-Hippolyte, but the playground of the nursery next to it was obscured by a row of houses. The laughing of the children was submerged beneath the roar of traffic. Unless they had gone back into the classroom, or gone home. Lylie was unsure what time it was. She felt so confused. What was she doing here? How was she going to endure all the hours of waiting?

  ‘I was like you, the first time . . .’

  Oh, please just shut up! Lylie screamed inwardly.

  She had left her telephone on a shelf in the bathroom. Switched off. If only she could talk to Marc. If only he were here, to protect her, as he always had done, to keep the bastards away from her.

  All she had to do was pick up the phone. Marc would be there in no time.

  Yellow Teeth would not shut up. ‘You mustn’t feel bad about it. Who cares what those bastards think? If they try to make you feel guilty, just tell them to fuck off.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lylie managed to say.

  She stared at the large cedar tree in front of the window, hoping to see a bird or some other sign of life. But there was nothing.

  No, Marc would not come. She would not call him. No one could find her here. Anonymity was one of the few things they could guarantee you in a place like this. She would not call him, no matter how desperately she wanted to. She had to leave Marc out of this.

  At least until tomorrow.

  Lylie turned towards Yellow Teeth. The girl could at least do one thing for her. Lylie attempted a smile.

  ‘Could I scrounge a fag?’

  But Lylie never got a reply, because the door opened and a nurse with the body of a prison warden entered the room.

  ‘Miss Emilie Vitral?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The psychiatrist will see you now.’

  45

  2 October, 1998, 5.57 p.m. Malvina de Carville gave Marc her inimitable rich-little-mad-girl stare, her aristocratic-serial-killer smile. She sat down at the far end of the carriage, facing him. Outside, the dull landscape of the Caux sped past.

  Marc did not move. Malvina undoubtedly had her Mauser to hand. The best thing to do was wait. All Marc wanted, at that moment, was to finish reading G
rand-Duc’s notebook. He was only five pages from the end.

  The memory of Lylie, lying naked on Morval beach, came back to him. Then he thought of the list of hospitals and suppressed a shiver. He must not allow himself to be sidetracked. He should read the last pages while keeping one eye on Malvina . . . and disarm the crazy bitch at the first opportunity he got.

  Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal You’re beginning to panic now, aren’t you? You’ve counted the pages left in this notebook and you’re beginning to wonder when you’ll reach the solution to the mystery. I did warn you not to expect a happy ending. I am no Hercule Poirot, able to tie up all the loose ends in a few theatrical minutes. I know you’ve had enough of me rambling on. You’re sick of my methods, the endless descriptions of my moods, all these clues that lead nowhere. You have listened very politely to my story, but now you are interested in only one thing. All you want to know is the results of the DNA test. Oh yes, Science with a capital S. The miracle of genetics. Don’t worry, I’m getting there. There’s no need to panic. That was Lylie’s fifteenth birthday present: three drops of blood.

  But first, there are a few minor details to be dealt with. Nazim and I continued our search for the famous Georges Pelletier, the homeless junkie wandering around with – perhaps – a bracelet worth seventy-five thousand francs in his pocket. It was Nazim who finally found him, almost by accident. For several months, we had been combing through the list of tramps, drunks and drop-outs who had been found dead in the streets. Then, one misty morning in July 1993, Nazim showed a photograph of Georges to a community police officer in the Neiges district of Le Havre. The guy remembered Georges vaguely. We dug up the local archives, and found a file on our man at the police station.

  On 23 January, 1991, an unknown man had been found drowned in a lake. Temperatures had been below zero for a week before that so the guy would not have survived more than five minutes in the freezing water, even with more than two grammes of alcohol in his bloodstream. No ID had been found on his person, but the police had taken a picture of the corpse. There was no doubt whatsoever: it was definitely Georges Pelletier. Nothing in his hands or pockets: no will, no dog, and no bracelet.

  The deadest of dead ends.

  I told Pelletier’s brother, Augustin, myself. He seemed almost relieved. His quest was finally at an end, and he could turn the page. I was not so lucky.

  Georges Pelletier had taken his secret with him. What had he done, that night, on Mont Terri? What had he seen?

  Malvina’s eyes were closing. The rolling landscape of the Caux seemed to be sending her to sleep. Marc guessed she wasn’t used to long journeys. She kept dozing off, then suddenly waking up, searching for Marc’s face in a panic. But this time, her eyes had been closed for more than thirty seconds.

  Without a sound, Marc stood up and crept stealthily towards her. She was less than twenty yards away. If only she would stay asleep, for just a little bit longer . . .

  Malvina’s head was still leaning, motionless, against the blue-andyellow headrest, her mouth curved in an almost angelic smile. Marc remembered being a child in the leisure centre in Dieppe, playing a game called The King of Silence, in which he had to rescue a princess tied to a chair without being clawed by the blind dragon (some child in a blindfold). Lylie had always been his princess, of course.

  Only five yards to go now. The train veered to the right, and Malvina’s head tipped over slightly. Marc froze. He even stopped breathing.

  Malvina opened her eyes. She was looking straight at him. But she did not have time to move a muscle: one second later, Marc’s thirteen-stone body smashed into her. His right hand covered her mouth while his left pinned both her arms together. Malvina could do nothing but roll her eyes and feebly kick her feet. The two other passengers in the carriage – the teenager wearing earphones and the sleeping man – had not noticed a thing.

  Marc pushed Malvina towards the window. A fake crocodile handbag, like something an old biddy would own, was placed on the seat next to her. Marc’s plan was simple: get the gun. After that, they could talk . . .

  Holding Malvina down with the weight of his body, he rummaged around in her handbag.

  All it took was a few seconds. He pulled the Mauser L110 from the bag and pointed it at her. Then he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.

  ‘So you wanted to visit Dieppe?’

  Malvina pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I’m just crazy about kites. What will you do if I scream?’

  ‘I’ll kill you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that! Not to your beloved sister-in-law.’

  ‘You think? I’m a Vitral, remember. One of the bad guys.’

  Malvina sighed. Clearly, she had no desire to draw any attention to herself.

  ‘You know this is the last train of the day, Malvina? Are you planning to stay the night in Dieppe?’

  ‘Who cares? I’m a de Carville, remember. I’m not exactly short of cash.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much cash you have. My grandmother will still chop you into tiny pieces and feed you to the seagulls if she gets hold of you.’

  ‘Are you ever going to stop cracking stupid jokes?’

  Marc was irritated by Malvina’s self-assurance. He wanted to wipe the smirk from her face. He had to make her talk. He needed to find some way of disturbing her, cracking her arrogant façade.

  He put his hand on her thigh. Malvina recoiled, banging her head against the window.

  ‘You’re planning to stay with us, aren’t you? You want to share my room . . .’

  He moved his hand up her thigh.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie, but my balls are off limits tonight.’

  ‘Stop that, or I’ll scream.’

  Marc’s hand moved up to her mauve jumper, just below her breasts.

  ‘You’d be decent-looking, you know, if you dressed better.’

  ‘Take your hands off me . . .’

  Malvina’s voice sounded as if it were cracking.

  ‘Sexier, I mean,’ Marc went on. ‘If you wore something that showed off your nice little titties . . .’

  His hand caressed one of them. He could feel Malvina’s heart pounding.

  ‘And you’ve got enough money to pay to have bigger ones, of course . . .’

  Malvina’s fingers tightened around Marc’s right arm. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, incapable of scratching him.

  He moved his face close to Malvina’s and breathed into her neck. The girl’s body stiffened, and her fingers gripped him convulsively. Then Malvina suddenly went limp, as if her skeleton had melted.

  Marc pushed her hand away and hissed: ‘Never touch me again, Malvina! Understand? Never again.’

  Just then, the carriage door opened and a female ticket inspector entered. She walked past them without stopping, merely glanced at their intertwined bodies and smiled before she went through into the next carriage.

  Marc relaxed his grip and pointed the Mauser at Malvina.

  ‘All right, enough messing around. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  Marc smiled.

  ‘You make me laugh, Malvina. You’re like the crazy little sister I never had.’

  ‘I’m older than you, dickhead.’

  ‘I know. Weird, isn’t it? Everyone goes on about you as if you’re mad, bad and dangerous to know, but I just can’t bring myself to believe it.’

  ‘Who’s everyone? Grand-Duc?’

  ‘Well, he’s not the only one, but yes . . .’

  ‘Surely you don’t believe all that crap he spouts . . .’

  Malvina appeared to be feeling better. Marc told himself not to get sucked in by the instinctive lack of fear he felt for her. Brandishing the Mauser in front of her, he said: ‘Well, he won’t be spouting any more crap about you, that’s for sure. But shooting him in the chest seems a little over the top. Did you kill him just because he hated you?’

  As before, Malvina’s body went momentarily limp. Her brown eyes opened wide. ‘Wh
at are you on about, Vitral? I . . . I didn’t kill Grand-Duc!’ Then as the shock passed, her voice regained its usual irony: ‘I would have liked to, admittedly. But the job had already been done by the time I got there.’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid? His corpse fell out of a kitchen cupboard! Your Mini was parked in front of his house!’

  Malvina’s pupils dilated and her eyes darted about frantically. ‘He was dead when I got there! I swear it! I entered his house two hours before you did, and his body was already cold. As were the embers in the hearth where his head had been resting.’

  Marc bit his lip. He had the feeling she was telling the truth.

  Grand-Duc had clearly been dead for several hours when Marc found him. Malvina seemed sincere, and her version of events was plausible. Was he being naïve, trusting this madwoman? And if not Malvina, then who had killed the detective? Lylie’s face suddenly appeared in his mind.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if you do or don’t.’

  ‘All right. So what were you doing at Grand-Duc’s house?’

  ‘I like dragonflies. I was there to admire his collection. Just like you, right?’

  Marc smiled, in spite of himself, but he kept the barrel of the Mauser firmly pointed at Malvina.

  ‘Anyway, maybe you killed Grand-Duc? Your fingerprints are the ones the police will find, not mine.’

  What a bitch! But maybe not so mad . . . Disconcerted, Marc stammered: ‘Are you . . . do you know what actually happened? According to his notebook, Grand-Duc was intending to commit suicide. A shot to the head, with an old newspaper to soak up the blood . . .’

  ‘No . . .’ Malvina hesitated for a few seconds, then went on: ‘The old bastard probably just couldn’t aim straight.’

  She was lying. On this point at least, Marc did not trust her word at all. Had Grand-Duc contacted the de Carvilles before he was killed? Had he revealed more to them than what was written in the notebook?

  ‘Grand-Duc had discovered something!’ Marc said, almost shouting in his excitement. ‘He must have told your grandmother about it. What was it?’

  ‘Stick it up your arse!’