The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (10 page)

     I ruffle the boy’s hair (how thick it is!), tell everyone to take care of our new arrival, and repeat my daily message to them all: that their chances of recovery are excellent, and that my faith in them is endless. Jacqueline chuckles, and Jessica Favrot smiles wryly. We all talk to them like this. Such one-sided conversations are an inevitability with coma patients. Jacqueline is unstoppable, recounting funny anecdotes about her home life or oddball stories from the newspaper or sometimes, on her more whimsical days, singing old Piaf songs, or Franµoise Hardy. I think she maintains a fantasy that her son Paul is still alive, in a secret, invisible bed somewhere on the ward. I can sense it in her. I have even been aware of colluding in it myself. Such are our mechanisms for generating and sustaining hope. I’ve thought a lot about hope and come to the conclusion that either it’s there or it isn’t. No in between. You need oceans of it in a place like this, and that is why Jacqueline and I are here.

     —Is it really true his father tried to kill him? I heard Jessica Favrot murmur to Jacqueline as I approached her. Jacqueline nodded in the affirmative. —Poor woman, whispered Jessica. —Is she ready to talk?

     —I don’t think so, said Jacqueline in a low voice, as I ushered her out to the meeting. —I had a try. But there was no getting through.

     I wondered, as Jacqueline and I made our way along the cool corridors to Vaudin’s office, what Madame Drax made of the clinic. Of the new building so cleverly grafted on to the old, the landscaped garden, the chrome and glass, the muted, quietly luminous colours. Everything designed to induce a state of calm, of acceptance. Could someone like her ever be ready for acceptance?

     When we entered Vaudin’s smoke-filled office, he was in the middle of devising a flow chart about evacuation procedures in the event of a forest fire encroaching on us. He signalled us to come and admire his handiwork. It was an impressive page of interconnected boxes, colour-coded and packed with detail.

     —You’d have thought you could download a thing like this, he said, his eyes gleaming under bushy eyebrows. —Just key in an architectural plan of the building and a local map. But nothing doing. Had to work it out with a pencil.

     Jacqueline stifled a laugh. A moment later Detective Stephanie Charvillefort entered. She was a short, heavily built, surprisingly young woman with an open, no-nonsense face, free of make-up. Her eyes were a very bright blue. An intelligent air about her. She reminded me of a magpie. Vaudin introduced himself and then us.

     —Louis Drax was technically dead when I first became involved in this case, said Detective Charvillefort, trying to settle into one of Guy Vaudin’s uncomfortable designer chairs. —I actually saw the body myself. Medically very unusual, I gather. Mind if I smoke?

     —Be my guest, said Guy before I could object, indicating that he would join her. —No point being the boss if you can’t break the rules.

     Together they lit up and exhaled in unison. I have tried to make the entire clinic a no-smoking zone but Guy has insisted on his office being exempt.

     —You’re all familiar with the story? she asked. Guy replied that he had read something of it in the paper but had forgotten the details. I confessed I had not, and that all I knew was what I’d heard from Philippe Meunier, which was mostly medical. Jacqueline said she had only heard rumours.

     —The reason I’m here is to tell you that if anything unusual should happen – strangers turning up at Reception, or any odd behaviour on the part of any visitors, I want you to ring me immediately. I’ll give you my mobile and my home number too. The concern is that Pierre Drax may reappear. Meanwhile, is there a member of staff on duty on the ward at all times?

     —Yes, I replied.

     —Sometimes two, said Jacqueline.

     —When visitors come to see their relatives, what’s the procedure for checking them into the premises?

     —We have a register, said Guy, and explained the system. Detective Charvillefort tapped her ash into the ashtray before she spoke, and looked out of the window. —I hear you’re in for some forest fires, she said. Guy groaned and indicated his flow chart: and she smiled in sympathy.

     —So, she said. —The Drax family. I can’t go into everything for you, but I can outline what’s known publicly, at least. The parents were separated at the time of Louis’ accident but were ostensibly trying to make an effort for the kid’s sake. Pierre Drax was a pilot with Air France. According to his wife, he was a heavy drinker but hid it well.

     —Which he’d have to, if he was a pilot, mused Guy. But I could tell his mind was still on his flow charts. He surreptitiously looked at his watch.

     —Anyway, Louis was a bit disturbed, continued Detective Charvillefort, blowing out smoke. —By the way I won’t keep you long, Dr Vaudin. Louis was being seen by a psychologist. He’s disruptive at school. No friends, doesn’t fit in. They call him Wacko Boy. Anyway it’s his ninth birthday, so the father comes down from Paris where he’s been living with his mother, and they go on a family outing in the mountains. Now, Madame Drax is the only witness we have. So what comes next – I’m sorry to tell you this – can’t be seen as proof of what happened. It’s her version. There may be others.

     —Guy Vaudin nodded and inhaled, eyes narrowed against the cloud of smoke he’d created. —Of course.

     —Anyway, according to Madame Drax, she and Pierre have an argument about Louis. In front of the child. It gets out of hand, and suddenly Pierre’s trying to get the kid in the car. Wants to take him to Paris.

     —You mean abduct him? asked Jacqueline.

     —So it seems, yes. Then when Louis realises what’s happening he puts up a struggle, and runs off towards the ravine. The father chases after him and grabs him. Louis tries to fight him off. Pierre Drax becomes furious and sends him over the edge. According to Madame Drax, there was no way it was an accident. It may have been done in the heat of the moment, but we’re still looking at an attempted murder.

     I really felt quite winded hearing this. Slightly queasy even. I couldn’t imagine it at all. A horrible image came to my mind of Madame Drax standing on a mountain peak, screaming into nothingness. I shut my eyes for a moment.

     —So my next point is that if Louis should start to show any signs of recovery–

     —Unlikely, for now, I interrupted, glad to snap out of my unpleasant trance. —The prognosis isn’t good.

     —But if he should, we’ll need to interview him. He may remember something vital.

     —Eventually he may, I said. —But not right away. Some people lose their memories completely, others only ever get it back partially.

     —Which is sometimes for the best, added Jacqueline. —In cases where there might be psychological trauma. We have a boy on the ward who tried to commit suicide. Quite frankly we’d all prefer it if he didn’t remember that, if he comes back.

     Detective Charvillefort nodded and looked thoughtful. Guy Vaudin was looking at her a little quizzically and I knew that he was trying to guess her age. She didn’t look much older than my daughters, but she must have been thirty. Her manner was a little brusque, but she seemed competent.

     —What about his history of accidents? I asked.

     —Difficult to get to the bottom of that one, she said, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray and reaching for another. I wanted to tell her to stop smoking. Give her a medical lecture on lung cancer and emphysema, order her to nip this habit in the bud. She was too young to die. —His psychologist thought he might be self-harming as a way of seeking attention. But some of the injuries go too far back for that. Louis would have been too young. He may have heard the stories – very dramatic stories, some of them – of the accidents and illnesses he had as an infant, and latched on to the idea of somehow repeating that pattern. But there’s also the possibility that one or both of his parents was involved in harming him physically.

     She paused for this to sink in. Jacqueline nodded slowly and Vaudin gave an unhappy grunt. I knew that none of us wanted to contemplate this thought. I just continued to stare at the detective. I’d heard what she said but somehow it hadn’t got through to the part of my brain that reacts. I needed time to absorb it. I’m slow that way.

     —If we’re looking at physical abuse, I’m afraid we have to see Madame Drax as a possible suspect too. In the silence that followed, I felt slightly sick, as though the air in the room was too tightly squeezed around us. Vaudin shook his head in disbelief, and Jacqueline looked upset. I got up and opened the window, letting in the cries of distant gulls and the faint roar of traffic from the valley. —It’s purely procedural, said Charvillefort, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette next to Vaudin’s and standing up to leave. —We have to stick to protocol in our job. Just as I’m sure you do in yours.

     But as she took her leave of us, I felt uneasy. She had actually told us more about Louis Drax’s case than I had expected to hear. Much more. But what was she holding back?

In an unsettled mood, I headed back to the ward with Jacqueline. We didn’t talk about what Detective Charvillefort had said. Instead we discussed Isabelle, and her father’s arrival. He loved his daughter, it was clear, but his visits had become few and far between. Isabelle’s mother was bitter and tense, always keen to take you aside and report on how neglectful her ex-husband was. I sometimes wondered whether Isabelle was hiding from both of them, in her coma. It was a delicate matter to raise with either parent – but Monsieur Masserot, we thought, might be more responsive to the suggestion that as parents they should attempt a semblance of unity.

     Jacqueline opened the French windows and allowed the breeze to enter, billowing the white curtains around the beds. Several of the relatives were around and the air buzzed with chatter. I exchanged greetings with Jessica Favrot and Mathilde Mulhouse’s sister, Yvette, then introduced myself to Monsieur Masserot, a bullish-looking man who seemed ill-at-ease, over-awed by the whiteness of the place. He sat next to Isabelle, stroking her hair: dark red curls that spread out across the white pillow like the leaves of an exotic fern.

     —Her hair was always so alive, he said softly. —However ill she was, her hair resisted it. It was never affected. Isn’t that strange, when it’s so close to the brain?

     I smiled. I didn’t want to talk about anything delicate within earshot of Isabelle, so after suggesting he make an appointment with me to discuss his daughter’s progress, I rolled my swivel chair next to Louis’ bed, where I took hold of his small, clean hand, squeezing it in greeting. He was wearing headphones attached to a Walkman. According to Jacqueline, Madame Drax had been keen to record some new cassettes for him and had prepared one within hours of her arrival. Most of the relatives talked to the patients on cassette as well as at the bedside; all, I think, hated the thought that they might feel lonely and abandoned. Madame Drax had clearly put some music on Louis’ tape, because I could hear its tinny rhythm through the headset. As I let it tap against my consciousness, I remembered what Madame Drax had said about her son.
I think he’s a kind of angel
. Perhaps you need to be slightly delusional to cope with horrors on this scale. It’s hard, I thought, to reproach anyone in Madame Drax’s position for choosing to sugar-coat the truth by concocting a fairy tale around it. But maybe it’s more than that – not just with her, but the others too. Strategy or superstition, or a combination. It’s the same impulse that tells you not to speak ill of the dead. Criticise your child when he is at his most vulnerable, and you might kill him. Tell yourself he is an angel, and he might just become immortal.

     But it was still puzzling, this talk of angels. The fact was, before his accident, Louis was an actively disturbed child. Behavioural problems, disruptiveness at school, a history of accidents. I tried to picture the small family going on a picnic, and the father suddenly taking it into his head to abduct the boy. I had to shut my eyes, briefly, as I thought of what Drax ended up doing – through pure rage – to his own son. The moral vertigo of it. Imagine his remorse. How immediate, how total, how crushing. We have all had those nightmares in which we do something monstrous, then wake, skin clammy with revulsion. Then comes the wash of pure relief that it was only a dream – followed by an undertow of guilt for having imagined it in the first place. Wasn’t it, after all, the unconscious expression of a real desire? It’s a shameful thing for any parent to have to admit, but there are moments when the flesh of our flesh, the creatures we love most in the world, can fill us with passionate fury. Loathing, even. Is this what happened with Louis’ father? A sudden, uncontrollable slam of rage at his son’s rejection of him, that blasted the boy off the cliff edge?

     Madame Drax entered, wearing her pale, strawberry hair piled high in a chignon and dark lipstick that gave her face a certain drama. She acknowledged the other relatives with a small smile and a brief nod of the head, but no more. Yes, this woman had presence. A certain aloof aura, an
hauteur
that one might think was simply class, if one did not have the suspicion – as I did, for I felt I was beginning to know her a little – that it was actually just pure, agonising loneliness that set her apart from the others. That she needed to tie up her hair and apply that blood-dark lipstick to stop herself from falling to pieces, losing her sanity. She was not ready for the world yet.