Talking to Ghosts Read online

  And, sticking out from the other side of the bed, his mother’s bare feet. He felt a stabbing pain and something inside him shrivelled and ran dry instead of bleeding out. It was not his heart or his brain, but something deep and vital, some secret life force unknown to science. He took another step and saw her lying on her back, completely naked, one arm lying across her stomach, a silver ring glittering on the slim fingers that rested on the curve of her hip. He called to her again softly, but she did not answer, and he moved closer the better to see her now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

  He knelt down.

  Her face had a blueish tinge, the whole right-hand side swollen from temple to jawbone. Her cheek was cut and puffy, one eye swollen shut and almost black. Her brow bone had been shattered, and the blood that had trickled down was drying on her jaw, around her ear, on her neck. Blood had clotted in her ear, hardening to form an ugly black scab. There was blood on the pillowcase and on the sheets. Her lips were swollen and slashed and hung open to reveal her tongue poking through shattered teeth.

  Victor searched in this ruined visage for his mother’s face, but he recognised only her left eye, the long curling lashes, the pupil cloudy and unmoving, staring but now sightless.

  He could barely bring himself to look at her body, which was a constellation of bruises. On her breasts, on her ribs. One leg was black from knee to groin.

  He got to his feet again and stood there for a few seconds, hands clasped behind his neck. Now and then he could hear a car passing in the street, and the silence that followed was all the more devastating. He crouched down, grasped his mother’s body under the armpits and lifted her, staggering back with the weight and bumping into the wall behind him. He stayed leaning against it to catch his breath and summoned all his strength. He adjusted his grip and the mutilated head lolled against his arm and in that moment he almost screamed, but gritted his teeth and shed silent tears as, step by step, he dragged the body to the bed, her heels scraping across the carpet with a dull rasp. He grunted and grimaced from the effort and from grief, then finally felt the edge of the mattress against his legs and collapsed onto it, the body falling on top of him, his dead mother’s head between his thighs; he wriggled out, contorting himself so that he could pull the legs onto the bed, then, finally, got to his feet again and pulled her arms, managing to lay her out more or less naturally and prop a pillow under her head.

  He tried to catch his breath, his heart pounding, sweat dripping from his chin, and took deep breaths, bent double, his hands on his legs, a trickle of snot hanging from his nose because every breath came out as a sob.

  He stood up straight, wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand and drew a sheet over his mother who now looked as though she were asleep, then wiped the sweat from his neck, leaned over the body and stroked this mother’s face; he pressed his fingertips to her eyelids but could not bring himself to close them because there was a fixedness in her stare that he could not comprehend, so he traced a finger over her battered lips, over her teeth, then, holding his breath, he gently kissed her forehead. He stepped back from the bed and stood for a moment, arms dangling by his sides in the middle of the room, listening to the buzzing of an invisible fly. Standing stock-still, his mouth open, he tried to take a deep breath, struggling to swell his scrawny chest.

  A car passing outside made him start and shook him from his trance. He went and sat on the swivel stool in front of the dressing table, stared at the lifeless body, the glistening eyes, then turned to look in the mirror, hoping to see his mother’s image come alive again. He stared at the dressing table, cluttered with women’s things, perfumed and gleaming: brushes, bottles, tubes, expensive-looking packages, jewellery that glittered like gold. He pressed his palms to his cheeks, pulled his eyelids downwards, distorting his face, in an effort to make it seem grotesque or monstrous. Gurning into the mirror, he seemed ageless. Already too old, or forever trapped in this day, imprisoned in this grim moment. He took the rings lying on the dressing table and slipped them on his fingers, stretching his hand out to admire the effect, but the half-light of the room dulled any sparkle so he took them off, having to tug at the ones that were too tight. Then he trailed his fingers over the pots of creams, the lipsticks, brought the soft makeup brushes to his face and the feeling – like small docile animals – made him shudder. He sat for a long time staring at this collection of beauty products, carefully, painstakingly going through the vanity cases and soundlessly replacing everything, spraying perfumes at the mirror which mingled in the sultry heat to form a mist of heady scents.

  He opened drawers, rummaging in them at random, aimlessly taking out brushes, combs, tweezers, hair slides, a whole paraphernalia, then sat for several minutes absorbed in untangling the hair caught in them and winding it gently around his fingers, then unwinding it and trying to shake it off, but the auburn threads clung to his damp skin and for a moment he struggled in silence, almost breathless from the effort. Eventually he rubbed his hands vigorously and went on exploring the contents of the drawers. He unearthed a tube of tablets and made out the words “DO NOT EXCEED THE PRESCRIBED DOSE” in red letters, and slipped the tube into his pocket.

  He spun around to face the empty darkness, almost falling off the stool as he did so. He stared at the body laid on the bed, lying tangled and bloody in the pale sheets. He got up and ran to the kitchen, filled a large glass with water, and in three goes gulped down the tablets in the tube, shaking his flushed face after each swallow. Then he closed the windows and shutters tight, shot home the bolts, ripped the phone out of the wall and, putting a pillow under his head, he lay on the floor next to the bed in the place where he had found her. He reached up, slid a hand under the sheet and clasped his mother’s hand. He quickly drifted into unconsciousness, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and did not feel the blowflies that landed on his skin, rubbing their front legs together and flying off again, heavy and buzzing, towards what really attracted them.

  *

  A face loomed over him, shining with sweat, eyes wide, the nose and mouth covered with a white mask. Someone slapped his cheeks, he heard voices, then saw the faces around him, all wearing masks, and imagined he was in hospital on an operating table. The voices were muffled, indistinct, and the faces of these people circled around, a languid merry-go-round with him floating at the centre, weightless and unreal. He closed his eyes again, but a blue dazzle played on his closed eyelids, a lightning flash that burned into his brain. A hoarse cry brought him round and he saw the sunlight spilling over the bright white ceiling, on which amorphous shadows danced.

  The man was still bent over him, raising his eyelids to inspect the pupils. He shone the harsh beam of a tiny flashlight into his eyes. “He’s coming round,” a voice said. Victor tried to turn his head, but immediately felt a cold stiffness in his neck, and the merry-go-round of shadowy figures whirled before his eyes. He felt a blood-pressure cuff press against his skin, to be almost immediately removed again. He felt someone grab him under the armpits and watched as the room righted itself, everything suddenly stopped spinning, and the scene froze into a tableau, men peered down at him in pity or in shock, and he looked from face to face at their masks and their huge eyes all turned on him, seeming to hold him upright like invisible poles held out to a drowning man. He heard a voice whisper in his ear, asking if he was alright, if everything was alright, but he didn’t know what to say because in that moment he was not sure he would ever again be able to speak to anyone, would ever be able to utter anything other than a groan or a wail. But the voice was insistent, and a face surged up from behind him, moving into his field of vision, and then he turned his head, or rather bowed it, and managed to shrug.

  The memories flooded back just as the stench of decomposition reached his nerve endings, as one by one they reawakened, and he stumbled hesitantly towards the bed hidden behind three men in surgical masks, wearing latex rubber gloves and white overalls. He stumbled and had to stop, and fel
t hands at his sides ready to hold him upright. Bewildered he stared down at the tube from the drip attached to his arm, then walked one, two, three steps, seeming to defy the bustling officers who had not moved. Once more a brutal silence fell over the room, the only sounds were ragged breaths and coughs, and as a car passed in a deafening roar that streamed through the window half open against the heat of the day, the boy lurched forward and fell at the foot of the bed on which lay a woman he no longer recognised, her skin mottled and blue, her face swollen, her lips curled into a rictus of horror, as though aware of what she had become. He had fallen on his knees and now raised himself to the height of the mattress, staring directly between the slightly parted legs, leaning against the foot of the bed, and his stomach lurched uselessly, unable to vomit up this dread which would be forever lodged inside him like some bird of prey. The men pulled him back, advising him to come away, but he struggled, grabbing the sheets so tightly they had to prise his fingers open one by one and drag him from the room in a soft murmur of soothing words and reassurances until, as he reached the front doorstep bathed in sunlight, he passed out, scratching his arms on the climbing rose.

  *

  Everything was white. The ceiling, the walls. A woman in a white coat was staring at him, her hands in her pockets. She smiled and told him he had been asleep for two days, that he was much better now, then she asked if he needed anything. When he said nothing, she came over and sat on the bed, listened to his chest, tested his reflexes with a small round hammer. The boy simply lay there, watching her perform these tests, and his eyes betrayed nothing, they simply shimmered, wide-eyed, taking in everything that he covered up in unfathomable depths. The woman got to her feet and looked down at him for a few seconds, still smiling, until he turned away, looking out of the window where the tips of poplar trees glinted in the sun.

  “There’s someone who wants to talk to you. He’s with the police. He wants to ask you some questions about what happened. Is that O.K.?”

  Since he remained silent, the woman turned and signalled to someone to come in. A man stepped into the room and said hello, but the boy did not react. Victor looked him up and down, not daring to meet the policeman’s curious or astonished gaze. He had dark hair and was wearing a black sweatshirt, a jacket and light trousers. He quickly settled himself in a heavy chrome and faux-leather chair that scraped the floor unpleasantly.

  The boy ignored him, allowing his gaze to wander to a corner of the room, as though he were looking for dust.

  “Victor? Can we talk for a bit? I’m Commandant Vilar. I’m here to find out who …”

  He trailed off as the boy looked up at him, his eyes black and glistening, blinking more quickly now.

  “Can we talk? Is that O.K.?”

  The boy nodded, then started to rub the scratches on his arm from the rose bush, idly ripping off the tiny scabs with his fingernails.

  At first the policeman said nothing: he simply looked at the boy who was studying him out of the corner of an eye. They could hear a muted hum of activity from the hospital, a creak of doors, muffled shouts, laughter too, sudden bursts of women’s laughter that quickly died away into a grave chorus of deep voices. From his jacket pocket the man took a small notebook and a ballpoint that he clicked. Then, in a low, sometimes hesitant voice, he explained that he needed to find out more about his mother so that he could catch the person who had done this to her (this was how he put it, as though he were talking about a mugging, unable to bring himself to mention death, to mention the stench or the horror they had stumbled into two days before, choking back the urge to retch, swallowing their bile), maybe it was someone who knew her, someone the boy had met, or overheard, someone whose name might be familiar. He asked the boy to rack his brains, to go through every face, every name, anything the dead woman might have said, they really needed his help, he was their main witness, it was important that he make an effort, even if it wasn’t easy. He repeated his questions, rephrased them, weighing them down with superfluous words and convoluted phrases, interwoven with unspoken warnings, coughs and conciliatory gestures. Victor watched the man’s hands, like strange animals, puppets vainly waved about in order to distract him, but when at last the policeman fell silent, slightly out of breath, the boy said nothing, only let this invisible clock, humid and halting, mark out the time.

  So the policeman reeled off the questions once more, in a low voice rephrasing them, leaning over the boy like a priest taking confession.

  A quarter of an hour later the doctor came back, still smiling, and found herself mired in this oppressive rhythm of murmured questions that went unanswered, and that was more uncomfortable than if noone had spoken at all. After a short while, in the same low voice, she suggested to the policeman that he stop the questioning now because the boy was tired. Reluctantly, Vilar got to his feet and said goodbye. He held out his hand to Victor and, lifting a skinny arm, the boy shook it, his hand as limp as a spray of withered flowers.

  2

  The body lay huddled at the foot of a wall, the head resting on an arm, as though asleep. It had fallen in front of a sex shop whose brash neon colours turned the faces all around into shifting, sickly masks. The dead man had his back to the police, to the onlookers, to the cars that passed, slowing in the glare of the strobing blue lights, to the pool of blood trickling across the sloping pavement into the gutter which reflected the seedy, squalid lighting. The body had not yet been covered and, under the jacket and the rucked up T-shirt, the pale skin of the man’s lower back was visible. On the far side of the street passers-by hurrying towards the nearby train station lugging heavy bags and suitcases craned their heads, hoping for a glimpse of something in the scrum of police cars and the uniformed officers patrolling the crime scene.

  Vilar pulled on a pair of latex gloves and crouched down in order to make out the man’s features, examine the wounds and determine cause of death. He noted a shallow gash below the right ear a few millimetres wide, which had not bled significantly. Lifting away the front of the stained denim jacket, he could see only a black Johnny Hallyday T-shirt, slashed in three places across the chest and soaked in blood that had already begun to clot. There was a stab wound to the left of the sternum. Vilar moved a latex-gloved finger tentatively over the gash, then withdrew it with a sigh.

  The face was that of a man of maybe twenty-five. Short dark brown hair. Three days’ stubble. Delicate features. As he always did when he examined a body, Vilar watched intently for several seconds – motionless, holding his breath – for some shudder that might indicate that the victim was not quite dead, that there was yet something to be done, but of course nothing happened. Once again he cursed the illogical stubbornness that made him EJECT the evidence of his own eyes, the refusal to accept the inevitable that, some years earlier in a morgue, had made him scream at the pathologist to stop just as he was about to make an incision because he thought he noticed the pale fingers trembling on the stainless steel table. The pathologist had not seemed surprised and – out of kindness or pity – had smiled and explained that it sometimes happened to him too.

  Vilar was the sort of man who did not resign himself to death, who felt that it could be conquered, could be eliminated. By force of will, through memory, or by summoning ghosts.

  “Kevin Labrousse, born 8 July, 1979 in Villeneuve-sur-Lot,” a voice above his head said.

  An officer from the brigade anti-criminalité who had been first on the scene was waving a wallet and a plastic I.D. card.

  “Someone found it on the street, not far away. There’s some cash, forty euros, and a couple of photos, social security card, bank card, that kind of thing. We had a scout about for the knife, but we didn’t find anything.”

  Vilar stared at the photograph the brigadier was holding, but the face smiling defiantly into the camera, chin slightly raised, no longer resembled the dead man. He gently pushed the hand away, got to his feet and took a small plastic bag from his pocket, into which the officer dropped the victim’s
effects.

  “There was someone with him, wasn’t there?”

  “Some friend from work. He’s in shock. Over there in the ambulance.”

  Vilar peeled off his gloves and walked over to the ambulance. He looked around for his partner, Laurent Pradeau, and saw him questioning a weeping girl. Two forensics officers from l’Identité judiciaire appeared, weighed down by their cases. As they shook hands, Vilar racked his brain to remember their names. He had worked with them before, particularly on the Dejean case in which a girl had been doused in petrol and burned alive right outside her house, by an ex-boyfriend who couldn’t bear the fact he had been dumped. Vilar could still picture the girl’s body slumped against a metal door, half her face bloated and contorted, the other half charred to the bone. He felt a chill run down his spine. He remembered the arrest, too, remembered hurtling down the stairs, gun in hand, chasing a lunatic with a sword. In the lobby of the building, the ex-boyfriend tripped over a pushchair and lay, still struggling, arms flailing, spewing obscenities about the dead girl; it had taken two or three well-placed kicks to persuade him to shut up and be still. Vilar had pistol-whipped him, breaking his nose, and would have pounded his skull against the floor if the other officers had not pulled him off. Vilar could still picture the suspect sprawled on the ground, his face covered in blood, sobbing convulsively like a small child. Even now he could felt a twinge of anger, felt his heart beat a little faster at the memory of that arsehole wallowing in self pity while a team of firemen gritted their teeth as they carried away the charred body of his girlfriend. He remembered the details so clearly, it was almost physically painful: the sweltering heat of that early June morning, the exact address where it had happened and yet the names of the two forensics officers at the scene were buried in some remote corner of his brain. It didn’t matter. Vilar handed the evidence bag to the younger of the two officers, who slipped the dead man’s possessions into his case and asked what the story was.