Pray, Zac mouthed to himself in repetition. Pray? A sense of anti-climax washed over him.
He felt as if he were standing outside his own body, looking down at himself crouching behind the pillar like an outcast. Pray and hide, he thought. Pray and hide. His legs were becoming painfully stiff with crouching.
“Let us say a prayer together Maurice,” said the priest. “Our Father…”
“Who art in heaven,” Maurice said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Hallowed by thy name,” continued the priest.
“They will be done,” said Maurice but his voice broke again and he began to sob.
“On earth as it is in heaven.” The priest raised his voice above Maurice’s sobs.
Behind the pillar, Zac straightened up stiffly.
There was nothing here for him, he thought. Nothing. And there was nothing for Maurice either. He moved from the pillar to the door and let himself out noiselessly. Perhaps, he thought, he should call Abbie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marianne
The grave was in the shelter of a tree, its branches weeping over the small neat stone protectively. A calm spot, dimly cool and shaded, that seemed too safe somehow for Patrice’s final resting place. A good place, perhaps, for the village schoolteacher, or the registrar of births marriages and deaths. But Patrice?
Rae is so upset she seems oblivious to the irony.
“Have you been before?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“I needed you. I could not come alone.”
I reach up from my chair to take her hand.
“I am here now. It has taken a long time.”
“Our whole life has been lived in here,” Rae says suddenly. “In the confines of this cemetery. We might as well have been buried in the grave with him.”
“’Our life’ has not been one life!” I retort, before I can think of the effect my words will have on her. But it is true. We have lived separately for so many years.
Rae’s head drops slightly. She is wearing a scarf of vibrant blues and lavenders that normally suits her very well, but today she seems very pale, drained by the vivacity of the colour.
“I let you down. Both you and Patrice.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“It was not your fault,” I tell Rae.
“In a way, it was.”
“You loved him.”
“Yes.” Her voice is like the whisper of a breeze, barely audible.
“Love makes you do strange things.”
She looks at me with a kind of compassion.
“Just as it did you.”
“Just as it did me.”
“Shall we pray?” asks Rae doubtfully.
“Pray? Why would we pray?”
“For his soul. For ours.”
It is a little late to start believing in redemption.”
“Perhaps.”
“It is not the next life I care about but this one. There is so little left.”
“Perhaps redemption does not need God,” whispers Rae. “Perhaps we need to redeem ourselves for ourselves.”
She seems confused by the fact that I cannot answer, continues to look at me expectantly.
“It feels as if we should say something now we are here,” she says. “It has taken so long to get to this moment.”
“What? What can we say?”
“Sorry?”
“What good is that?”
“Well, why are we here?”
Questions, questions but no answers.
I push myself forward in the chair. I do not want to be confined in this place in front of Patrice. Perhaps I am just asserting the fact that I am still alive. Still claiming victory over the dead.
“I want to stand with you again.”
“No Marianne, the ground is too uneven here.”
“Yes! I insist I stand with you.”
Reluctantly, Rae helps heave me to my feet where I sway a little until I gradually straighten and steady. Strangely, Zac has always reminded me of Raymond when he has helped me from the chair, but Rae seems uncertain of her strength. I feel vulnerable, as though I might fall.
“There.” My arm is looped through hers now. For a moment, we stand together before Patrice. I wonder what Rae is thinking. For myself, I did not like Patrice enough to feel much sadness, but there is regret. Of course there is regret. I would not be human otherwise.
“Don’t leave,” says Rae suddenly.
Her words run through me like an electric volt.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t return with Zac. Stay here. I will look after you. I should never have left you.”
A large splodge of rain drips onto my cheek and the branches of the weeping tree above, begin to rustle slightly as a wind whips up.
Guilt, I think. An attack of guilt. A shot at redemption. A small shower of leaves drifts down from the branches above onto my hair. I cannot remove my arm from Rae’s to remove them and stay balanced. Can I live with Rae, knowing that she pities me? Almost immediately the question is formed, the answer comes. Old age is not a time for pride. There is no space left either for ego or for selflessness. Of course I can live with her pity.
The freshness of the breeze on my cheek makes me think again of the stuffiness of the home. To remain here… Not to return to Shona and her creeping, rubber-soled, pasty-faced intrusion… or Annie and her psychotic warblings. Not to be locked in timetables and uniform, or confined by the unchanging view from the bay window, the glorious, vibrant rhododendron bushes with their promise of another life that never materialises. I breathe deeply. Besides, it will be for such a short time. I will not be a burden for long.
I glance at Rae. I wonder if she hopes I will say no. But there is something else at work here. The same thing that kept us glued together after Patrice died. A glue of love and guilt and recrimination and one unanswered question: what had any of it been for - the pain, the jealousy, the desire, the violence, the guilt - if we did not stay together? But then other things, other desires, other needs had taken over. Life took over.
Here, in front of Patrice’s grave, Rae is reminded that I am her last bond with him. How ironic!
“You cannot manage me, Rae.”
“We will get a nurse.”
“It would not be for long.”
“Shh, Marianne. Stop!”
“Why? Why would you do this?”
The rain is dropping more insistently now.
“Why not?”
“Look at me!” The anguish is sudden, intense, and it feels as if it might kill me. “Look at me Raymond!” I cannot help that verbal slip. “Look at me! My wrecked body, these stupid… stupid… trembling limbs! What is uglier than this monstrosity?” I lift my arms to indicate my own body, turning awkwardly in Rae’s arms. “I cannot move without help, cannot eat without drooling, cannot sleep without twitching, cannot control my bodily functions, cannot… cannot… cannot…. and inside I am that girl still. That girl you held. The one who wore high heels and perfume. She is in here, buried under plaster and rubble. She was never beautiful but she was me… ME!”
I can scarcely breathe for trembling. Raindrops are running with tears and I do not know the difference, my face wet in the wind, and all I can think is that I cannot wipe it myself. My twisting movement has unsteadied Rae. We rock slightly. In the confusion of the movement, I hear footsteps running towards us, a screaming cry for help. I twist further and see a tall, wiry dark figure flying through the graveyard.
“Zac!” I exclaim before losing balance completely.
Even in that moment I can recognise his distress, despite my own.
“Maurice, Maurice, Maurice,” he is screaming before I hit the ground. “Maurice is dead!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Zac
Zac barely recognised Marianne. Her face seemed buried inside the pillow and it was hooded and angry, her eyes glittering feverishly like black lights. Something h
ad changed, been lost in the fall. There was a feral quality to the way she assessed him, staring as if oblivious to the normal rules of convention, as if unaware that he was watching her back. Still, at least she was conscious now.
“Raymond,” she hissed suddenly at him, and Zac started at the peculiar intonation of her voice. One wrist was strapped and immobile in a plaster cast, but her other hand snaked out of the bedclothes and she crooked a finger to beckon him. She was too frail to be menacing, he thought, and yet somehow the movement gave him the creeps.
“We have to get out of here.”
“Marianne, it’s Zac,” he murmured.
Marianne stared.
“Not you too,” she said. She looked at him suspiciously. “Have they got to you, too, Raymond?”
Zac wondered if he should tell her what had happened to Maurice.
“You remember Maurice, Marianne?”
Marianne’s eyes seemed to be fixed somewhere beyond him.
“Marianne?”
She dragged her eyes to his.
“You remember Maurice?”
“Maurice who?”
Zac gave up. What was the point in trying to explain to her? As well as her broken wrist, she must be concussed. “It doesn’t matter. Everything is fine, Marianne.”
“No Raymond, it is not.” She tried to push herself up.
“Shh, Marianne, stay still.” Zac placed a hand on her arm, soothingly. “Stay still.” He stroked her arm gently, tentatively, like he would pat a dog. She seemed different after the fall, but he supposed it was to be expected.
“Charpentier has been here.”
“Who?”
“Charpentier,” repeated Marianne exasperatedly. “Charpentier!”
“I see.” Zac sat wearily down in a chair beside the hospital bed. Who was Charpentier? He smiled half-heartedly as a nurse bustled by. Marianne’s eyes followed the nurse.
“She will kill me that one,” she said in a low voice to Zac. “She tried to give me polluted water earlier. Thought I would not know. I was too clever for her.”
“Good, Marianne,” said Zac closing his eyes and seeing only Maurice’s slumped figure again, face down, the grey wrists of his off-white shirt stained with fresh, red blood. So red, so vibrant, it was hard to believe such a colour seeped out of a dead man.
“Charpentier knows, Raymond.”
“Knows what?”
“About Patrice of course! You… me… Patrice…”
Zac did not open his eyes. He wished he was home, even with his father. He wanted normality: to see Conchetta again, and Elicia, and the pecking wagtails in the garden, and the sight of washing pegged on the back green. He wanted to open the front door and smell his mother’s Spanish fish stew, a smell he normally complained about. He wanted to speak to Abbie.
After hearing Fr Michel speak to Maurice, Zac had tiptoed out of the back of the church. He had used his mobile to try to phone Abbie but could not reach her. Huddled in the quiet of a back street, he listened to her voice on her answering machine and felt both disturbed and reassured by its familiarity. He had gone for a walk round town then, a long absorbed walk, trying to settle himself before going to look for Maurice. Poor Maurice. How would he be coping? He would no doubt be back home by now, Zac had thought, turning up past the delicatessen on the Rue de Cheval where Maurice lived. Drowning his sorrows in that wine he’d seen him buying. Perhaps he should call and check on him.
He rang the doorbell. No answer. Perhaps Maurice wasn’t back. Just as he had turned away, he had noticed a narrow chink of light from the side of the door. It had seemed closed but instinctively, he reached out a hand and pushed. The door swung open.
“Maurice?” he called.
Nothing.
Tentatively, he had stepped into the narrow hallway. There was no natural light and it was made all the darker with a heavy, old fashioned, patterned wallpaper. The atmosphere felt oppressive to Zac. The place seemed eerily quiet and he found himself tiptoeing for a reason he could not understand. The unexpectedly open door made him anxious. Had someone broken in? Was someone still in the flat?
As he pushed open the door of the sitting room, he was aware of a crucifix on the wall, a wooden cross with a gold figure of Christ, before he saw Maurice crumpled on the floor beneath.
“Jesus!” Zac shouted, jumping back.
Maurice was lying in a pool of blood, one leg bent awkwardly beneath him. He wasn’t moving. Should he touch him? Heart thumping, Zac moved hesitantly towards him, saw the pool of blood round his body, noticed the staining round his shirt cuffs, the pale, marbled look of his skin, and knew without question that he was dead. Who had been in here? Had Maurice been attacked?
Then he noticed an empty wine bottle, the painkillers Maurice had picked up from the chemist earlier in the day and a pack of razor blades. Maurice had removed any possibility of failure in his attempt. Zac turned in panic and ran, trembling, through the open door and fled to the next apartment, hammering on the door with his clenched fist and screaming, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. It could be him lying on that floor. Him or Raymond or Jasmine. But it was Maurice. Sweet Maurice.
By the time the ambulance arrived, a crowd of neighbours had gathered on the landing and Zac sat on a step forlornly, listening to the furore of French words that seemed to come from somewhere far away, the thump of footsteps on the stairs, a wail of another siren in the distance. He should never have let Maurice go earlier. He had let him down. It was when they brought Maurice out, a sheet covering his face, that Zac broke. The ignominy of it, a life reduced to this circus, a collection of gawpers and hangers-on, gossiping on the stairs about a pain they could only guess at.
“Raymond!”
Zac opened his eyes to see Marianne gazing at him with unnerving focus.
“Are you listening, Raymond? Charpentier knows!”
The evening air felt cold, the sky still grey streaked with rain, but Zac felt relieved to be out of the stale heat of the hospital. Out of Marianne’s company, if he were being brutally honest. He breathed deeply, felt his lungs fill, wished he could inflate his spirits as easily. As he passed Sainte Maria church, Zac could see the flurries of confetti on the ground, pinks and yellows and purples that were trampled underfoot and smudged with mud and rain. A carnation head floated in a puddle. Through the railings, and the open door of the church, he could see extravagant vases of yellow and white chrysanthemums, and cascades of yellow ribbon fluttering in the breeze of the open door. The bride had been and gone, the remnants of her presence lingering like stale perfume.
Francine.
Zac wondered if she knew.
He put his hands on the iron railings and stared into the grounds. The light was fading fast. A flashing image of Maurice assaulted him, the pool of blood round his wrists, the waxy… no, he would not think of it. His fingers gripped the wet railings. From the church house at the side, a figure in a black soutane emerged. Fr Michel. Zac watched as he ran lightly down the front steps and headed for the church. The lights flicked off. He heard the thump of the wooden door closing over. The priest took a set of keys hooked to his waist and locked the door, then turned, catching sight suddenly of Zac.
Zac’s hands remained on the railings as he met the priest’s eye. Fr Michel smiled. Zac felt a thump of anger in his chest, a surge of adrenaline. He recognised something of that smile. It was coquettish.
“Puis-je vous aider?” asked Fr Michel, walking towards him.
Zac looked at him without replying, translating silently in his head. Can I help you? He doubted there was anyone in the world who could help. Fr Michel moved towards him. As he walked, Zac felt a sudden surge of awareness. Fr Michel transmitted something to him. It was in his walk, in his demeanour, but especially in his gaze. Zac knew that look. Whatever superficial piety it was hidden under, there was something worldly that he recognised: a suggestion; a silent proposal; an attraction; an invitation. He only had to respond to the possibility and it would
become certainty.
“Quelque chose ne va pas? Je peux vous aider?” he repeated softly.
Something wrong? Zac shook his head.
“Non,” he said. His hands dropped from the railings.
“Anglais?” Fr Michel said. His thin lips curved into a smile.
“Oui.”
“You would like to see the church?” he said in English. His accent was accomplished, Zac thought.
“Non,” he replied and he turned away before changing his mind.
The priest must know, surely, about Maurice. “Maurice?”
The priest nodded. “Ah, yes,” he said, shaking his head. “Very sad. Are you a friend?”
Zac looked at his black garments and his cold eyes and burned inside.
“Well if I can do anything for you while you are here…” said Fr Michel, filling the silence. “Anything?” Zac repeated. Another invitation. Another silent proposal. “You can do nothing for me,” he muttered.
“God can always help you.”
Zac walked a few feet and turned back. Fr Michel was still watching.
“YOU CAN DO NOTHING FOR ME!” he yelled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marianne
I can see Charpentier, smell him. The smell of garlic and tobacco. His hair is still cut into the wood like a military man and his face is impenetrably hard. I have never liked the French much. I have certainly never liked Charpentier.
Questions, questions, always asking questions. He stands by my bed with his notebook and a silver pen that catches the light and bombards me with queries about Patrice and Raymond and the blonde woman and my movements that night. He is sly, Charpentier. He always comes when I am alone, often late at night or first thing in the morning. He tries to trick me but I am a lawyer and therefore no fool.
I think he might be connected to that nurse who is trying to give me the poisoned water. They are doing a line, I’m sure. I think she is acting on Charpentier’s instructions. They think they will get me so weak that I will crack and confess. I refuse to take anything she gives me.
I want out of here. It was only my wrist that I broke in the fall and it is set in plaster now. I keep asking Raymond to take me home but he says I must be patient. They have tests to do. They must make sure I am fit. But I don’t think that Raymond realises that getting out of here is the only way to escape Charpentier.
The Chrysalis Page 20