Never Forget
Page 1
Copyright © Martin Michaud, 2020
Originally published in French under the title Je me souviens, © Martin Michaud, 2014, Les Éditions Goélette.
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All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Publisher: Scott Fraser | Editor: Allison Hirst
Cover designer: Sophie Paas-Lang
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Never forget / Martin Michaud; translated by Arthur Holden.
Other titles: Je me souviens. English
Names: Michaud, Martin, 1970- author. | Holden, Arthur, 1959- translator.
Description: Series statement: A Victor Lessard thriller; 1 | Translation of: Je me souviens.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190117400 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190117409 | ISBN 9781459742734 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459742741 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459742758 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8626.I21173 J413 2020 | DDC C843/.6—dc23
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To Guy,
after more than twenty years
I remember
To my own
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MAY 20TH, 1980: REFERENDUM
THE FUNNEL OF TIME
1 THE YOKE
2 SNOWSTORM
3 HANGMAN
4 WALLET MAN
5 JANE DOE
6 ROOM 50
7 DEPOSITION
8 AIR BUBBLE
9 RESIDUE
10 IDENTIFICATION
SEPTEMBER 1964: YOU WON’T GO TO HEAVEN
11 WARRANTS AND SEARCHES
12 NEWSPAPER CLIPPING
13 THE BIG BOARD
14 GOING HOME
15 THE THIRD MAN
16 INTERROGATIONS
17 COLLAR
18 EVIL
NOVEMBER 1981: THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES
READ-ONLY MEMORY
19 LOUIS-H. LAFONTAINE
20 BAD SON
21 FORTUNE TELLER
22 PRESS CONFERENCE
SEPTEMBER 1964: HONOUR
23 SLEEPLESS
24 FIVE ROSES
25 CORPSES IN THE CLOSET
26 NORTHERN INDUSTRIAL TEXTILES
27 VETERINARIAN
28 SUMMIT WOODS
29 SOUNDTRACK
30 LAURENTIANS
31 LOOKING-GLASS GAMES
32 DEBRIEFING
33 THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
34 BURGERS
35 MIDDLE AGES
36 HERETIC’S FORK
37 FOR JUDITH, WITH LOVE AND SQUALOR
38 REVOLVING DOOR SYNDROME
39 INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT
OCTOBER 26TH, 1992: MEECH LAKE AND CHARLOTTETOWN
MEMORY THIEVES
40 MY KETCHUP UNCLE LARRY TRUMAN RELISHES APPLES
SEPTEMBER 1964: TWO DAYS
41 CO-AUTHORS
42 ICE RING
43 NEVER DO ANYTHING AGAINST YOUR CONSCIENCE,EVEN IF YOUR CONSCIENCE DEMANDS IT
44 IN FRONT OF THE ALLAN MEMORIAL INSTITUTE, IN THE SUNSHINE
45 BLACKJACK
46 PAY PHONE
47 CELEBRATION
48 HOCHELAGA
49 ARREST WARRANT
OCTOBER 30TH, 1995: MONEY AND THE ETHNIC VOTE
WATERMELON MAN
50 I ALWAYS CALLED HIM “SIR”
51 PARC MAISONNEUVE
52 VIDEO CLIP
53 A QUESTION OF PROFILE
54 GROUND SEARCH
55 PURSE CALL
56 LAST-MINUTE GIFTS
57 CHRISTMAS EVE
58 OPERATING TABLE
59 MERRY CHRISTMAS
60 R.I.P.
61 ANTI-TERRORISM UNIT
62 CONFRONTATIONS
63 LE CONFESSIONNAL
64 ARCHIVES
65 PRESS RELEASE
66 JOE BEANS
OCTOBER 23RD, 1964: IN A WOODED AREA, NOT FAR FROM JOLIETTE
67 SURPRISE GIFT
68 VIRGINIE
69 TDK CASSETTE
70 WHAT IS THAT BEEPING NOISE?
NOVEMBER 1ST, 2005: THE SPONSORSHIP SCANDAL
EVERGREEN
71 GARBAGE AND REMOVAL
72 EXHIBITS
73 PILLOW TALK
74 SUSPECT
75 PURSUIT
76 DEAD LETTER
MARCH 1981: THE MAN WITH THE DIRTY CLOTHES
77 BRIEFLY REUNITED
78 BUSINESS TRIP
79 AN X ON THE ASPHALT
80 BLACK OPERATIONS
81 A BIT OF SIGHTSEEING
82 BABY FACE
83 SOMETHING DOESN’T QUITE FIT
APRIL 5TH, 2010: NAUSEA
THE MAN IN THE EXPOS CAP
84 I DIDN’T SHOOT ANYBODY, NO SIR!
MAY 16TH, 1980: IF I’VE UNDERSTOOD CORRECTLY
85 I’VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE
86 SHOULD HAVE BEEN A BOY
87 CHARLIE
88 THE END OF THE SHOW
89 THE ASSAULT
90 THE RED LINE
91 STRUCK DOWN
92 THE RIVER
93 DIARY
94 SAD SONGS
95 NEWS FROM TROIS-PISTOLES
FRIDAY, JANUARY 6TH: UNTIL NEXT TIME
AUTHOR’S NOTE
MATERIALS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
COMING OCTOBER 2020
MARCH 31ST, 2005: QUEBEC CITY
To make war upon fortune is the heroes’ will.
— Victor Hugo
The best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.
— Robert Burns
MAY 20TH, 1980
REFERENDUM
I just saw René giving his speech on TV, the eternal cigarette between his lips: “If I’ve understood correctly, what you’re saying is, ‘Until next time.’”
The fact that he used my words made me smile. I won’t see him again. I suppose I should feel some kind of emotion about the situation, or about the result of the vote, but I feel nothing. What’s really important?
Is it what I am, or my impression of what I am?
Is it what’s going on in my life, or what I tell myself is going on?
I’m just a void, an abstraction. I’m nothing like what I thought I was.
I am without identity. A little like Quebec today.
One day, perhaps, someone will come along who can read between these lines an
d tell me who I am.
THE FUNNEL OF TIME
1
THE YOKE
Montreal
Thursday, December 15th, 11:57 p.m.
Broken, emptied, reprogrammed, recovered.
The woman with the frizzy grey hair knew everything there was to know about the workings of the brain, but she’d never dealt with one more twisted than her own. The time for terror, for shouting and weeping, had passed. The pain was numbing her.
The yoke that had been fastened to her was piercing her flesh, impaling the bones of her sternum and chin, forcing her to tilt her head back in full extension. Her clothes had been removed, to humiliate her. Her feet were bare, her hands manacled behind her back, her legs immobilized so she couldn’t bend them.
The moon, coming in through the window, projected a rectangle onto the cement.
The woman knew she was being watched. She relieved herself one last time and felt the satisfying sensation of urine running down her thighs. “Fu … fuck you!” she stuttered, struggling to swallow.
One thought etched a grimace onto her face: the brightly coloured plastic numbers …
The woman crossed the red line and, after many failed attempts, was able to seize the key, laughing wildly. The laugh of a madwoman.
After an arduous effort to insert the key into the lock, she turned it. For a fraction of a second, she thought the impossible had happened: she’d managed to free her wrists.
Then the dart whistled through the air, pierced the back of her neck, and came out her throat. Blood welled up, seething, gushing from the wound, spurting between her teeth.
2
SNOWSTORM
Montreal
Thursday, December 15th, earlier that day
The weather girl cocked her head to one side, pressing two fingers to her ear, a glum expression on her face. When the voice in her earpiece barked that she was on the air, her face lit up and she began confidently declaiming her prophecy: “Winter storm. Thirty centimetres expected. Blowing snow. High winds.”
The woman got up and turned off the TV. An impetuous, almost savage smile crossed her deeply lined face. She rinsed her cereal bowl in the sink and put it on the counter. The liquid crystal on the stove showed 6:00 a.m. There was no better moment to go for a walk than during a morning blizzard, when time stood still, and, under the milky dome that purified it of its filth, the city caught its breath.
The woman always followed the same route. Bundled up in a down coat, she left her building on Sherbrooke Street, near the Museum of Fine Arts, and headed south on Crescent. Here, on summer nights, urban wildlife, laden with bling and eager to be seen, pressed up against the bar entrances. Now the woman met only her reflection in the storefronts. She turned onto De Maisonneuve Boulevard and passed by Wanda’s strip club. Crossing Peel at the traffic light, she watched, amused, as a car fishtailed its way around the icy corner.
Snow was piling up on the sidewalk. The wind howled in her ears; flakes whirled in the air.
She stopped on the esplanade at 1981 McGill College, where the trees, strung with lights, were contending with the gale. She was admiring the sculpture — The Illuminated Crowd — when the touch of a hand on her shoulder made her start.
Fleece jacket, combat pants tucked into fourteen-hole Doc Martens, multiple piercings, black-shadowed eyes, dreadlocks spilling out from under a skull-and-crossbones beanie: the young punk looked like she’d just stepped out of a Sex Pistols show.
Terrified, the woman staggered back as this angel of death cupped her hands around black lips, drew close, and spoke into her ear: “I didn’t shoot anybody, no sir!”
Wondering if she’d heard correctly, the woman wanted to ask the vampire to repeat herself, but before she could, the punk straddled a bicycle and was swallowed up by the storm. The woman stood for a moment, staring down the street, eyes wide, body buffeted by the squall.
The woman got home at 11:22 a.m. Hurriedly, she left her boots on the hall rug, threw her hat and mittens onto the couch, and dropped her coat on the bathroom tiles. She relieved herself in the darkness with a long sigh.
Pressing the light switch, she looked at her face in the mirror, smiling broadly. Her lips were tinted blue from the cold. From downtown she had walked to Mount Royal, where she had spent hours wandering the park paths, admiring the conifers bent under the weight of the snow, observing, from the elevated vantage point, the city in its transparency.
She hummed as she went to the kitchen to make tea.
As the kettle was whistling, a feeling came over her that something wasn’t right. She had a sense of some object being out of place. Her gaze moved along the cluttered counter, dipped into the sink, and traced the line of cupboards. Seeing the date spelled out in colourful number magnets on the refrigerator, she jumped. When she’d taken out the milk five minutes earlier, the magnets hadn’t been there.
She’d given no further thought to the incident that morning, but now her whole body was trembling, sounding the alarm.
She froze at the sound of a voice behind her; the hair on her scalp rose.
“I didn’t shoot anybody, no sir!”
She turned, saw the Taser’s threatening mouth, and screamed. The barbs burst through the air, penetrating her skin. The force of the charge knocked her down. As she fell to the floor, her body gripped by convulsions, she couldn’t help but be haunted by that voice — a voice she had recognized without difficulty. The delicate voice of President Kennedy’s assassin.
The voice of Lee Harvey Oswald.
3
HANGMAN
Friday, December 16th
With surprising agility for a person in his seventies, the man mounted the stairs leading to the Stock Exchange Tower. Without a glance at the decorative wreath draped in red ribbon hanging over the entrance, he pulled open the glass door and, preceded by a screech of wind, plunged inside.
Winter had sunk its hooks into the tatters of Montreal. While Jesus shuddered on his cross, Christmas and the merchants of the temple were jostling at the gate. Snow fell from his overshoes and twirled across the mirror of marble.
In the empty elevator, the man barely heard Bing Crosby’s smooth voice crooning about a marshmallow world. On the forty-eighth floor, he greeted the receptionist with a winning half smile of the sort that had once made Walter Cronkite the most trusted man in America.
“Good morning, Mr. Lawson.”
He had encountered no one in the submarine.
Every morning, the secretaries’ desks and the piles of boxes blocking the hallway gave Nathan R. Lawson the suffocating impression of moving through the cramped entrails of an underwater vessel. Baker Lawson Watkins, the law firm at which he was one of the principal partners, had undergone many changes since he’d joined it in the early sixties. Numbering fewer than twenty lawyers when he’d arrived, the firm had grown exponentially. At the turn of the new century, a series of shrewd mergers had transformed it into a nationwide partnership. Now it employed more than 600 lawyers, 174 of whom practised in Montreal.
Over the years, palatial offices had given way to more austere workspaces. The tiny cubicles with yellowed partitions in which the associates now toiled were at odds with the firm’s high-end image. But clients, whose only wish was to be pampered, had no access to the bowels of the submarine; they were confined to the luxurious conference rooms on the forty-ninth floor, where they could enjoy the panoramic river views and admire the art collection.
Nathan Lawson removed his coat and brushed himself off in front of his assistant’s workspace. She was wearing headphones, transcribing the memos he had dictated the day before. Other secretaries were available to work evenings and overnight, but he trusted no one except her.
“Have a nice night, Adèle?”
“Not bad.”
For twenty-six years they’d been repeating the ritual, willingly engaging in this daily charade. For twenty-six years they’d been lying to each other every morning: Lawson couldn’t care less how
his secretary’s night had been; Adèle had spent it, once again, contemplating the cracks in her ceiling. Following their custom, they would exchange no further civilities for the rest of the day, their interactions being limited to a few work-related monosyllables.
In a couple of seconds, he would step into his office to go through his mail, while she, during the next half hour, would bring him a cup of steaming coffee and two sugar cubes.
Nathan Lawson was often the first lawyer to set foot on the floor, but he never arrived before Adèle. This rule had been broken only once — the day, eight years ago, that she had buried her mother. Over the years, by a sort of involuntary osmosis, they had come to a complete understanding of each other’s lives, without ever talking about them.
“Did you put this in my correspondence?”
Standing in the doorway, Lawson held up a sheet of paper.
He’d just found it, stuck between the Bar newsletter and the billable hours report for the month of November. Waiting for Adèle’s answer, he flicked a speck of dust from the lapel of his jacket.
Absorbed in her work, eyes fixed on her screen, Adèle continued to tap at her keyboard. “Lucian handles the mail, not me.”
Mystified, Lawson returned to his office. Leaning back in his chair, he stared for a moment at the row of Christmas cards on the corner of the table as his thoughts spun idly. Suddenly, an idea came to him, erasing the puzzlement from his features.
No one else in the firm could have imagined a practical joke like this. Smiling, he recalled that Louis-Charles Rivard had struck again just last week. The prank on that occasion had consisted of switching family photos between the offices of two litigators.
The numerous deficiencies in Rivard’s level of professional competence hadn’t prevented Lawson from opposing several attempts to fire his protégé. Sexy and entertaining, Rivard made up in social skill what he lacked in lawyerly ability.
The ringing telephone roused Lawson from his reverie. “Your clients have arrived,” announced the forty-ninth-floor receptionist.