The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (13 page)

     —But who was she?

     —Nobody. There’s nothing to say about her. He left her. It was a long time ago. They got divorced. OK?

     —So why does he feel bad about it?

     She looks at me for a long time, like I’m Wacko Boy.

     —Did I say he felt bad about it?

     —No.

     —So why do you say it?

     —I don’t know.

     I’m still feeling like Wacko Boy. You can’t see what’s going on in her eyes. They always look the same, like there’s nothing inside them. That’s how she hides from you.

     —Well if he still feels so bad, he should go back to her, shouldn’t he? He can’t cope with us, and he can’t cope with his guilt. You have a father who can’t cope.

     And she starts flicking through her magazine again and we don’t say anything for a while and I’m thinking,
he can’t go back to her anyway, because she’s married to another man now and they have Chinese girls who are adopted and a fat baby they made all by themselves
. But I don’t dare say that to Maman because boys shouldn’t make their mothers cry and then
Astérix
finishes and
Tom and Jerry
comes on. It’s the one where Tom tries to catch Jerry but Jerry gets away. Ha ha.

     —Did you love anyone else before Papa?

     Then she stops smiling, so maybe it’s not OK, and she gives me a look.

     —I thought I did. But I was wrong.

     —Why?

     —Because he let me down very badly.

     Tom’s uncle has written him a letter saying he would like to come and stay for a few days. But there’s one thing he must warn Tom about: he’s scared of mice. So he hopes there aren’t any mice where Tom lives.

     —How did he let you down very badly?

     She sighs. —Have you heard of honour, Lou-Lou? Honour’s doing the right thing. But he did the wrong thing. A terrible thing.

     Tom has to try and get rid of Jerry before his uncle comes. But as soon as Jerry realises Tom’s uncle is scared of mice, he does everything he can to be scary. And on and on in the usual way, Tom getting burnt with the iron and going through the wall and leaving a cat-shape in the plaster. I want to ask her what the terrible thing is that isn’t
honour
but I can’t because she’s looking at me like I might make her cry again, and boys shouldn’t make their mums cry, it lets them down very badly. And then Jerry laughs and laughs and laughs, because he has won again. And then the circle comes and inside it says in English,
That’s all Folks!

     The Death Game’s a good game for an only child to play. Only children need to be
self-sufficient
if they haven’t got any friends and their maman’s very busy in the apartment reading magazines about how to make it even more beautiful, and what clothes to wear in it, and crying because Papa’s abandoned us again.
Some families are too different and too special to be like other people. It doesn’t mean they’re worse than them though. Actually – this is a big secret, it’s not the kind of thing you should go round saying to anyone at school and especially not your teacher – it might mean they are just a little bit better
.

     So
shhh
.

     Fat Perez says it’s normal to have mixed feelings about your parents and it’s OK to hate your papa for not being there any more.
Hating people is part of loving them. Everything a child feels, it’s OK to feel. All feelings are allowed because the world’s a safe place for children. But deep down you know how much your maman and papa both love you
. That’s why they decide to spend a weekend together being a family again, and take you on a picnic, isn’t it?

     A picnic with a surprise.

It was a shame what happened there because maybe I’d nearly finished my miniature spiral staircase from balsa wood, and maybe my teacher Monsieur Zidane was going to reward me for how good it was by taking me out to play a bit of football in playtime. He still kicks a ball about for fun sometimes, he says. It’s not just the money he’s into, see.

     That was going to happen but it never did because we got stuck.

     It was a cool place on the mountain. With bushes and a drop to a great big sort of ravine that you mustn’t go near. We all sang happy birthday and Maman and me cut the cake and Papa took a photo and we both made a secret wish. I know what her wish was. Her wish was probably that I would be her little boy for ever. My wish was that Papa was my real dad, because if he was, I’d get to keep him.

     And then things happened very fast. Something about my secret sweets. Papa saw me eating one and I tried to hide it but I couldn’t and he kept shouting questions at me and then they had a row, not a normal row, a much worse one, and it’s all my fault because of the secret sweets and they’re talking blibber-blobber language and then they’re shouting and Maman’s doing Emotional Work. She’s screaming like mad, and screaming and screaming,
Let him go! Don’t you dare touch my son!
And then I’ve got free and I’m running and running but then–

     But then.

     Seeing and thinking’s the same if your eyes are shut. A room full of bright lights and doctors yelling, and people gliding about like they’re on wheels and sometimes you see the sun or the moon or a clock, and sometimes photos of Maman and Papa being happy and pipistrelle bats and sometimes you remember bits of the seven times table, e.g. seven sevens are forty-nine, and Fat Perez’s binoculars, and the sound of them sexing in the night
uh-uh-uh
and Youqui in the photo who got run over by a tractor and chewing-gum and the frères Lumières and seven eights are fifty-six and Jacques Cousteau and the Power Puff Girls and the stars and seven nines are sixty-three and then you think of a building that’s white and looks like Lego and there’s forests all around and you’re high up like in a balloon floating above and seven tens are seventy, floating above the land and looking down on this white gravelly road and along it comes an ambulance that makes the dust fly up all around, white dust. And when it stops there’s a stretcher and a boy on it who looks dead, and his maman who’s trying not to cry, and then there are some voices that sound like they’re underwater, and then you see white clouds that are curtains blowing in the wind, and more voices–

     —We do our best to manufacture it here.

     —Ten millilitres should do it–

     —L’Hôpital des Incurables.

     —The boys send their love–

     —One big, one small ... I’m screaming at them. Screaming. But they can’t hear me or they’re not listening ... Completely powerless. And then he’s falling ... he just left me there. Screaming for help  ...

     —
You see what a coward I was married to?

     And then you sit up.
He isn’t a coward
, you want to scream, but you can’t. And you open your eyes and you know that there she was, just then, kissing a man. A man who isn’t Papa. They’re far away and it’s like they’re on TV and the sun’s too bright. He’s holding her. She’s holding him. Then he pushes her away.

     —Maman! you yell, but no noise comes out because you’re stuck. Stuck watching them until you go blind. And suddenly there’s a thousand voices exploding right in your ear and someone’s hand’s holding the back of your head and you open your eyes but you’re still blind and Maman’s screaming. —It wasn’t his fault! He didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident!

   
Screaming too loud, right in my ear
.

     —Louis, can you hear me? I’m Dr Dannachet. You’re in hospital.

   
Hospitals suck. You kissed my maman
.

     —You had an accident. You’ve been in a coma. Like sleeping, but deeper.

   
Go away. Stop kissing her
.

     —But you pulled through. And here you are.

   
No I’m not. I’m somewhere else. Get away from me, you creep sucker arsehole. Where’s my papa? I want my papa
.

     His hand feels like a million volts of electricity. He’s electric-shocking me, and I want to yell
Get the hell off me, you pervert, just leave me alone
but there’s no sound. My head’s gone like a heavy ball, gravity’s made it too heavy for my neck, it might roll off and break my neck and then I’ll be in even more trouble. Do you think my maman enjoys having a kid like me?

     —I said Louis, can you hear me? You’re in hospital. In Provence.

   
No. No, I can’t hear you because I’ve found the Off button. And Off is best
.

     And I press it and they’re gone.

     All except one.

     —Hello, Young Sir, he says. —Welcome to your ninth life.

     His head’s all wrapped in bandages and his voice is croaky like he’s swallowed gravel.

Louis’ bizarre seizure changed nothing on the surface of things – but somehow, like a seismic shudder, it rocked us all in unforeseen ways. The worst part of the whole episode, I thought afterwards, was the reaction of his mother. It should have told me instantly that things weren’t fitting together the way they should. That something was fundamentally and irredeemably amiss, that an appalling truth was trapped inside her, insisting on release. But I was blind. We all were.

     When I caught sight of Louis sitting up in bed, before I even had time to register the fact that he might be waking, I felt a rush of superstitious guilt.
He heard us
.
He saw us
.
He knows
. I raced across the garden, up the path – white gravel and dust spitting beneath me – and up the stone steps to the balcony. I was aware of Natalie following somewhere behind, calling out to me to wait, to please explain what was–

     But there was no time. I stormed through the French windows to find chaos. The nurses had come running and everyone was crowded round the bed, including several visitors, Isabelle’s father among them. They cleared the way as I arrived. When I saw that Louis was still sitting up, I felt a surge of hope.

     His small, pinched face was enamel-white and glistened with a marshy, feverish sweat. His dark eyes – huger than I could have imagined – stared straight ahead. I sat on the bed and gently took his face in my hands, levelling my eyes with his. But as I looked into the dark pools of his enlarged pupils, it felt as if I were looking at holes to darkness, no more. Whatever Louis could see, it was not of the here and now. His fixed gaze was pure, unblinking blindness, like the introversion of insanity or the deep alienation you see in torture victims. A massive, involuntary shiver ran through me. Nothing could have prepared us for Louis Drax being capable of such a big, decisive, movement. Or for what happened next.

     The child spoke. In a tiny voice, almost a whisper.

     —Where’s my papa?

     The words seemed to echo silently for a moment and then his mother screamed. It was a delayed shock reaction I suppose. There was barely time for anyone to register that the voice we had heard came from Louis, when suddenly Natalie Drax had hurled herself at him, flinging her arms around the child’s torso in a frenzied embrace.

     —It wasn’t Papa’s fault! He didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident! she wailed.

     —Get off! Do you want to kill him? I yelled, wrenching her off. —He has head injuries! Don’t touch him!

     I gripped her by the upper arm and shoved her – quite violently – down into the chair next to the bed, where she cowered, covering her head with her hands and shuddering like a creature electrocuted. I felt a stab of regret at having acted so harshly, but this was not a time for subtleties. Louis required my attention; his mother would have to fend for herself. Jacqueline had by now quickly assessed the situation and had come to the same conclusion as me: that Natalie Drax, in her current state of hysteria, was a liability, and had to be removed from the ward. Somehow, in the interim, she and Berthe persuaded her to come with them and stand at some distance from Louis’ bed.

     —Louis, can you hear me? I asked, still unable to believe he had spoken. —I’m Dr Dannachet. You’re in hospital.

     The boy was still sitting bolt upright on the bed, surrounded by the clutter of bedside furniture and monitors; I held my breath as I waited for more words to come. But nothing did. There was no sign at all to indicate that he had spoken, except that his lips remained slightly parted. They looked dry. I moved to take his face in my hands to look properly into his eyes. For a split second they seemed to flicker with life.

     —Yes, Louis! I breathed.

     But when I felt the weight of his head become denser, my flash of hope evaporated. Quickly I changed position to protect the back of his skull, and as I did so, I sensed – very distinctly – a swift series of muscle spasms in the neck region as the energy that had flooded into him ebbed out again, like sea water swallowed into sand. He slumped back, his eyes sweeping shut. It was over. He had gone back to wherever he had come from. The whole episode had lasted no more than two minutes, I estimated. Whatever the unexplained seizure that had animated his body was, it had run its course. I felt total defeat. It seemed that something had so nearly happened, and then had not. And then guilt ploughed through me again. If I had been a professional, spending time with Louis on the ward, instead of kissing the child’s mother out in the garden –
kissing his mother, for Christ’s sake
– would things have been different?