BED OF NAILS
BED OF NAILS
Antonin Varenne
Translated from the French by Siân Reynolds
First published in the French language as Fakirs by Éditions Viviane Hamy, Paris, in 2009
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
MacLehose Press
an imprint of Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London W1U 8EW
Copyright © Éditions Viviane Hamy, Paris, 2008
English translation copyright © 2012 by Siân Reynolds
This book is supported by the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs as part of the Burgess Programme run by the Cultural Department of the French Embassy in London.
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The moral right of Antonin Varenne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
The translator asserts her moral right to be identified as the translator of the work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eBook ISBN 9780 8573 8103 3
ISBN (HB) 978 0 85705 037 3
ISBN (TPB) 978 0 85705 038 0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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[…] So it is as if the torturer had let the victim take over the job of continuing his work of annihilation. But the case of this man, a former torturer who has become his own victim – both physically in his own person and representatively of others – is a striking illustration of what I have called the Saint Sebastian Syndrome: the inversion of the object and subject of torture and its behavioural consequences. This case study will be both the object and the subject of this study on war-related trauma, from the point of view of the torturer. So among the questions to be considered will be whether other forms of torture exist, separately from the “institutionalised” form […] We shall see clearly that the answer is no. Like suicide, chosen as a subject of study by the earliest sociologists, torture is a social phenomenon. To paraphrase Durkheim and his famous demonstration on voluntary death, we may conclude this introduction as follows: every society is predisposed to produce a given contingent of torturers.
John P. Nichols, Ph.D. thesis
The burned hand was heroism pure and simple; as for cutting off his ear, it was entirely logical, and I repeat: a world that day and night, and increasingly, eats the uneatable, in order that its ill will may achieve its ends can, on this point, simply shut up.
Antonin Artaud
Van Gogh, Suicide and Society
1
Lambert was gnawing at his fingernails.
The half-light shrouded the three other policemen in a shadowy space and time, neither day nor night. The cramped office reeked of alcohol and stale tobacco. Their fatigue could be heard in their voices, still hoarse and unprepared for the day, although it was already late morning. Huddled round the T.V. screen, they were chain-smoking, but no-one in Paris Police H.Q. was about to quote the rules at them.
“What the fuck’s he doing?”
“Taking his kit off.”
“Is that it? Where’s this come from anyway?”
“It’s one of Guérin’s files. Lambert’s treating us to a film show.”
Berlion, grinding a cigarette between his teeth, turned to the back of the room. “Hey Lambert, don’t you want to watch it again?”
Lambert glanced at the door. The cigarette shifted to the corner of Berlion’s mouth and the filter tip scrunched under his pre-molars.
“Don’t worry, Guérin’s not around!”
They guffawed with scornful laughter.
“Look, look!”
The three of them were now glued to the small screen, breathing out thick clouds of cigarette smoke.
“Bloody hell, he’s running through the traffic!”
“Where is this?”
“Porte Maillot, under the bridge. C.C.T.V.”
“Hey, it’s like he’s looking up at the camera!”
“Get away, he doesn’t even know he’s being filmed.”
“Hung like a horse, eh?”
“Don’t get too excited, Roman.”
Roman elbowed Savane.
“Piss off.”
Lambert was working out the damage. Not difficult. The worse ideas he had, the more he blamed himself. If Guérin turned up now, he was for it.
“Oh my God, that Peugeot nearly wiped him out.”
“He won’t make it.”
“Jeez, look at the pile-up, ten cars, more!”
“And this nutcase galloping up the road.”
On the black-and-white screen, a young man, naked and waving his arms in the air, was running up the inside lane of the périphéri-que, the inner ring road round Paris. Cars were swerving to avoid him, scooters were smashing into the crash barriers. Privates on parade, the man was running towards the oncoming traffic with a beatific smile on his face. Shouting something that couldn’t be heard, and looking unmistakably joyous, he was exposing his bare flesh to the hurtling metal bodies. At the foot of the screen, a digital display recorded the date and time: 9.37 a.m. After the minutes, the seconds crept by, much more slowly than the man’s running steps. He was thin and pale-skinned, with the elegant profile of a heron taking off across a pool of oil. The crashes, shocks and broken glass were all happening in total silence.
“He’s shouting, what’s he saying?”
“Lambert, what was the guy shouting?”
Lambert didn’t reply. Why had he been such a fucking moron as to try to curry favour with these three brutes?
According to a witness, the runner had been shouting “I’m on my way!” That was all. Lambert thought it was quite enough. Not for these three though. By not replying, he was redeeming himself slightly in his own eyes.
“Ah, what’s happened, where’s he gone?”
“Wait, it’ll be on the next camera.”
The camera angle changed. Now they were viewing the man from behind, and could see the cars coming towards him. He emerged from under the bridge while the traffic, like a black stream, flowed around this white pebble, with its hairy backside.
“Doesn’t give a damn, does he?”
“He’s been going, oh, two hundred metres now, must be a world record!”
Savane nudged Roman, his darker alter ego.
“Easy to tell: got a stopwatch going!”
Another burst of throaty laughs. Lambert opened his mouth to protest, but the three of them intimidated him.
“Shut the fuck up, look at the screen!”
“Berlion doesn’t like people talking when he’s watching a film.”
“Shut it.”
Roman, Savane and Berlion. If you were in Homicide, you could do a good job and still be a complete cretin. As they amply demonstrated, three times over. They fell silent now, sensing the end approaching, their gallows instinct awakened. Ash from their forgotten cigarettes fell on the tiled floor, and the only sound was the whirring of the tape in the video recorder.
A large saloon car headed straight for the kamikaze, centre screen. The young man spread out his arms as if in crucifixion, thrusting out
his chest, like an athlete breasting the tape. The car swerved at the last moment and missed him. But behind it, an H.G.V. was thundering along.
Soundlessly, the runner was drawn under the truck, his insane race stopped short. Then absurdly, it began running in reverse. The radiator of the truck was now spattered with a circular bloodstain from the man’s pulverised skull, and the rest of the body had entirely disappeared under the cabin, as the trailer, its wheels locked, started to slide across the road.
The video squeaked, the tape stopped, freezing on a final image of the truck skidding sideways and the driver’s horrified face. At the bottom of the screen, the numbers of the digital clock had stopped.
Berlion stubbed out his cigarette, burned to the filter, on the tiled floor.
“Eeurgh, that’s gross.”
“I told you it was crazy as hell.”
They went on staring at the screen, caught in mid-breath, sickened and disappointed.
Savane turned towards the dark corner where Lambert had taken refuge.
“Hey, Lambert, what’s the verdict then, suicide or a serial killer?”
They all collapsed laughing, and Savane, gasping for breath, piled it on further.
“Think your boss has arrested the truck driver?”
They were practically pissing themselves at this when the door of the T.V. room opened. Lambert drew up his tall body, as if guiltily standing to attention.
Guérin switched on the light. His three colleagues, emerging from the smoke-filled twilight, were wiping their eyes. He glanced at the screen, then more slowly at Lambert. The anger almost immediately faded from his big brown eyes, dissolving into weariness.
The expressions of Berlion and his sidekicks moved from laughter to aggression, with the facility of men used to questioning suspects.
They filed slowly out of the room, passing in front of Guérin. Savane, probably the most vicious of the three, snarled quietly as he went past:
“Hey Colombo, your mac’s dragging on the floor.”
As he went off down the corridor, he added more loudly,
“Don’t drag it in the shit your little mutt leaves around!”
Lambert blushed crimson, and stared down at his shoes.
Guérin ejected the tape from the machine, put it in his pocket and walked out. Lambert, like a lamp post with no bulb, stood without moving. Guérin put his head back round the door.
“Coming? We’ve got a job to do.”
He almost said “I’m on my way”, in a jokey voice, but something stopped him. Dragging his feet, he followed the boss along the corridors. He tried to guess from the figure in front of him whether it expressed rage, but could only discern the eternal fatigue in which the raincoat draped it. A dog that needed no lead to follow its master. Unlike Savane, he didn’t find the idea degrading. Lambert considered it rather as a sign of trust.
The boss had carried on as if nothing had happened, without a word, but Lambert knew what to think. Being nice wasn’t a quality required in this building. Indeed, one had to admit in the end that it was of little use. Any niceness you had, you got rid of as fast as possible, feeling a bit ashamed, like losing your virginity to some raddled hooker. Lambert wondered if the boss – forty-two years old, thirteen of them in the job – was perhaps making this unnatural exception in his case only. Another reason, he told himself, not to act like a complete dickhead. One, it was a privilege, and two, Guérin was certainly capable of the opposite.
Trainee officer Lambert, who sometimes pursued his thought to its exact limits, wondered whether the boss wasn’t in fact using him as a sort of lifebelt, a refuge for his feelings. When he lost himself in these hypothetical ramblings, generally after a few beers, the image of the dog and its master came back every time. In the end, it summed up their relationship pretty clearly. For the humble, humiliation is the first step towards recognition.
Lambert pushed open the door of their office, meditating on self-esteem. That delicate thing the boss was trying to get him to cultivate.
Guérin, silent and inscrutable, had sat down and plunged straight into the file on the man from the ring road. His ancient raincoat flopped round his shoulders like a sagging and discoloured scout tent.
What was the name of that character on the périphérique? Lambert had already forgotten. A complicated name, double-barrelled. Impossible to remember.
“So, young Lambert, what would you say about him? I agree with you, it wasn’t a very user-friendly way to commit suicide.” Guérin smiled to himself. “You saw it too, did you, how he was waving at the cameras?”
There was no sound or movement in the office. Looking up at his junior encouragingly, Guérin was waiting for some word, some approval. Lambert was busy picking his beaky nose. He looked fascinated by what he was extracting and sticking on the underside of the chair.
“Lambert?”
The big fair-haired junior jumped, slipping his hands under the desk.
“Yessir!”
“Could you go and fetch us some coffee, please.”
Lambert trailed off down the corridor, hoping not to meet too many people. On the way, he once more wondered why in the quai des Orfèvres no-one ever used first names. They said things like “Roman’s divorced again”, “Lefranc’s depressed”, “That dope Savane is in trouble”, “Guérin is completely nuts”, and so on. No first names. To his mind, it was odd to talk in such a detached way among supposed friends.
Guérin listened as the trailing footsteps of his colleague died away, and stared into the distance. Invariably, the sound of old trainers dragging along on the floor reminded him of holidays and the luxury hotel for middle-income tourists in Morocco where he had once booked himself into a room. A palace with unreliable plumbing, where the waiters, with drowsy zeal, walked around slowly, dragging their feet, as they brought trays of mint tea. A week spent sitting on the hotel terrace, looking at the sea, into which he had not once dipped a toe, just listening to the waiters’ footsteps. Lambert’s shoes, echoing in the corridor of H.Q. reminded him of the sound of the waves washing over the beach. There was a direct link between his junior and the Atlantic tide. A link, one of many, that nobody had ever made. As the sound of the sea grew fainter, he wondered why Lambert went on calling him “boss” or sometimes “sir”, like the Moroccan waiters, whereas he had told him a hundred times just to call him Guérin.
He suddenly realised that there was another undeniable link between people being called “sir” and holidays. Hadn’t it been his own boss, Barnier, who had advised him to take that break? “Guérin, why don’t you just get away from Paris and the squad for a bit? Things will have calmed down by the time you get back. Are you listening, Guérin, just take some leave, go away somewhere, anywhere.” So the words “sir” or “boss” really had no business in the workplace. Guérin plunged into the file again, but was distracted by these exotic images and the direct connection he would always make from now on between disciplinary leave and Islam.
Lambert came back with two plastic cups of coffee: he put one on his boss’s desk: black, no sugar. The other one, frothy and heaped with half a ton of demerara, he put on his own desk. Before sitting down, he went over to the wall and smartly tore a little sheet off the calendar. In red figures and letters, it now said: 14 April 2008. He went back to his seat and started to drink his coffee, still looking at the date.
Two years earlier, when he got back from Morocco, Guérin had been directed to this poky office. Two desks, a strip-light, two chairs, a few electric sockets and two doors, as if the way in and the way out were not the same. In fact, there wasn’t really a way out of this office. Behind one of the tables, a long thin strand of white coral with a human head sat facing a wall without a window, calmly contemplating the future. Since that day, it had seemed as if Lambert had never budged from his seat and that the future had definitely postponed its arrival until some later date.
The office was at the very end of the building, at the western point of the Ile d
e la Cité, in central Paris. To reach it you had to go through half of No. 36, or use a side entrance and an old service staircase. Barnier had handed Guérin the keys, giving him to understand that going through the other offices to get there would be a wasted effort. “Your new assistant,” Barnier had said. “Your new office. Your new job. Suicides. Guérin. From now on, you’re Suicides and Suicides is you.”
The second door opened into a much bigger room, of which their office was the antechamber. The archives of all the suicides in Paris. Or part of them anyway, the ones that ended up in the prefecture of police. Why they had been chosen, he and Lambert, as guard dogs for this endless vista of shelves and files, was a sign he had not yet interpreted. But he was a patient man.
The archives were no longer consulted these days; they were the anachronistic remains of files now kept on computer, the paper copies made for insurance companies and rarely requested. Almost every month the question arose of chucking them out onto a rubbish dump. Guérin was now the only person who added to them or spent hours looking at them, apart from the odd sociology student who came from time to time to investigate social behaviour. It was these students who allowed the archive to survive. The University of Paris had declared the deposit a research resource, and getting rid of it would cause a row. The oldest files went back to the industrial revolution, a time when suicide, as a sort of counterbalance to progress, had embarked on its golden age. Guérin, during the two years since he had listened to the waves on the beach, had become something of a specialist on voluntary death. Ten or so cases a week, hundreds of hours in the archives. He had become a walking encyclopedia on Parisian suicides. Any aspect you could think of: methods, social categories, seasons, family situation, time of day, trends, legislation, influence of religion, age, district – you name it. After the first week spent riffling through these dusty box-files, he had almost forgotten why he had ended up in this dead-end job.
Suicides was a dreaded chore at the Criminal Investigation Department. Not really an established service, but an aspect of police work that had a natural tendency to be separated from the other kinds of case. Every presumed suicide was the subject of a report, confirming or contesting the facts. Where there was any doubt, an investigation was opened: in almost every case, it was simply a matter of ticking boxes. If there was an investigation, it was taken out of Guérin’s hands and fetched up with characters like Berlion and Savane. The hierarchical powers that sent you to Suicides could only be overturned by even more powerful forces, of whose existence nobody was certain. The only exit paths out of Suicides were retirement, resignation on account of depression, committal to an institution – or even, and these cases were more frequent in this branch of the police force than any other – ending it all with a service revolver in the mouth. All these options, with varying orders of preference, had been wished on Guérin. The only one no-one had anticipated was that he would take to it like a duck to water.
Bed of Nails Page 1