The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (16 page)

     —I’m not like that, I blurted. —You have to believe me.

     —I know, she said gently. I was grateful for the delicacy with which she moved on. —Look, I’ve made another cassette for him, she said, showing me. The title
Maman 3
was written on it in neat handwriting.

     —Good, I said. I was trying to sound normal, but inside I was heaving with panic at the sight of that bruise. —Play it to him. Speak, too. You never know what might happen.

     She put the headphones on Louis’ ears, pressed the start button, and sat holding his hand, and stroking his hair. All the mothers tend to be very physical. I wondered if it had always been that way between them. Just as I was thinking this, the boy’s face gave a small twitch. It probably meant nothing, but Natalie Drax chose to think otherwise because she smiled at me with a hesitant kind of triumph. And despite myself, despite my self-revulsion and the residual rage I still felt over her reaction the day before, I felt some returning warmth towards her. In that brief second I remembered our kiss and her vulnerability in that tiny, explosive moment in the garden, and I forgave her everything and inwardly begged her to forgive me my own disconnected impulses, for an uneasy thought was beginning to stir within me: had I meant to hurt her? Might something small and sick within me be wondering, at this very moment, what her smooth freckled skin would look like with more bruises? I felt cold.

     —Thank you, she murmured. —Thank you for all you’ve done for Louis.

     —It isn’t much, I said. I still felt contaminated by my own thoughts.

     —It’s more than you know, she said, and touched my arm lightly with her hand, as she rose to leave.

     That small gesture touched me deeply, going straight to the core of my guilt. She had reached out to me at last, on her own initiative, just as I had recognised my own capacity to abuse her trust. As I watched her slight figure moving down the ward and into the corridor, and thought of the bruise on her arm, I realised that it was impossible not to feel an immense sense of pity – and what is pity if not a skewed admiration? – for a woman who asked for nothing. Who appeared, I should say, to ask for nothing. Whose pride perhaps prevented her from articulating her need, but whose whole psyche was screaming to be saved from her own internal hell. Isn’t pity one of the higher forms of love? My heart yearned for her, yearned to take away her pain, including the pain I myself might have caused. Call me a middle-aged fool, but what I felt for her, in that moment, seemed sacred.

The heat escalated unbearably over the weekend. We have dangerous summers in Provence, sparked by human madness, fuelled by tinder-dry forests. Two years ago, the whole hillside just a kilometre from the clinic was scorched to blackness; the smoke took days to lift and the fire helicopters circled endlessly above the devastation like furious mosquitoes. By this stage in the summer the heat had become so intense it was almost unbearable to be outside in the daytime. I wondered how Natalie was managing in her cottage. Perhaps she had made friends with some of the other relatives. I hoped so, but could not picture it. Although I hadn’t kept a firm eye on her visits, I had the feeling she was spending more time than was healthy with her son. Maybe that’s why things had got so out of hand. They were very close, she’d said. The way she touched him – the obsessive stroking of his hair, the way she flung herself at him after his fit – confirmed it.
I don’t know how I could live without him
. Touching, but worrying, too. It’s all too easy for relatives to identify so closely with their loved ones that they forget about their own needs completely.

     All weekend I went about the chores of leisure-time in a trance, counting the hours before I could be back at work and see Natalie Drax again. In the meantime, Sophie and I reached a quiet truce. We ate meals together, discussing domestic topics but otherwise avoided one another. An electrician came to fix the air conditioning. I had a haircut which my barber assured me made me look younger. Sophie tended to the plants, had lengthy conversations with the girls in Montpellier, and read novels, while I thought about Natalie. About what she had gone through and must still be suffering. I saw the bruise on her arm again and again. Its image hovered in my mind like a filthy secret.

     I spent Monday working my way through a pile of paperwork and preparing my slides for the talk I was giving in Lyon on Wednesday. I’d asked Noelle not to disturb me, but around four o’clock there was a hesitant knock on my door.

     —There’s a phone call for you that sounds very urgent, she said. —The mother of Louis Drax. Immediately I told Noelle she had done the right thing to interrupt me, and took the call. Natalie was in tears and could barely speak. She sounded frantic.

     —Pascal, I’m at my house. I – her voice choked. —Look, I absolutely I need your help. Can you–

     And then she abandoned all semblance of control and broke down completely.

     —Please, Pascal! she shrieked. —Something terrible’s happened. You’ve got to come, now! I need you!

     I grabbed my keys and flew out.

     A dog was barking madly as I opened the front gate. All the way, as I ran through the blisteringly hot olive groves down to the village, I’d been filled with a sense of dread that I would arrive too late. Perhaps Natalie was even more vulnerable than I had imagined. If you are alone in the world, you reach breaking point faster and by simpler routes than those who are surrounded by family, friends, colleagues. And she had none of these. She had a son in a coma and an abusive husband who was on the run from the police. Had she done something stupid? And if so, should I have spotted it coming?

     The door had been left on the latch and as soon as I entered, I could hear muffled sobbing. Natalie Drax was on the floor of the kitchen, clutching the telephone and an envelope: a huge Alsatian stood over her, pawing the ground. It barked again as I entered, and she tried to calm it.

     —It’s OK, Jojo. Quiet now, he’s a friend.

     She put her arm round the creature and patted it. I don’t like dogs, but I did the same. I guessed she had not moved from where she was when she phoned me. I checked her pulse, then hauled her up – she weighed nothing – and walked her out of the kitchen and into the small simple living-room. The dog followed us, its huge bright eyes looking anxious. There was a cage on the side-table containing a hamster which was running madly on its little exercise wheel. It must have belonged to Louis.

     —What happened? You haven’t taken anything, have you?

     —What?

     I was relieved to see that she looked genuinely confused by my question.

     —I thought–

     —Just read this, she said, thrusting the envelope at me. The postmark was local, and her name and address were scrawled on it in the most bizarre handwriting I have ever seen – huge and irregular and so splayed across the page that it could almost have been written by someone blind. There was a childishness about it, a primitivism that sent something cold running up and down my neck.

     —I came home and  ...

     She broke off, eyeing the letter with fear and disgust. Her shallow, tight breaths were matched by the dog’s raucous panting. I wondered how long she had been in this state. I pulled her down to sit next to me on the sofa, and drew out the single sheet of badly folded paper from the envelope. It was plain white, and covered in the same huge handwriting; the effect across a whole page was lopsided, drunken-looking. Whoever had written it had gone to almost comic pains to disguise their real handwriting. And to cause the maximum grief possible.

Dear Maman,

     I miss you and I miss Papa too. But I’ll be needing a new dad, won’t I? Dr Dannachet would like to sex you. But you know what I think? I think you should stay away from him and he should stay away from you. You should stay away from men e.g. Dr Dannachet. I am warning you, Maman. Don’t let them come near you. Don’t let them kiss you. The danger will come, and bad things will happen.

   
I love you, Maman.

   
Louis

     I can’t have been thinking straight, because my first reaction was one of surprise and bafflement. How could he have done it? How could he possibly have sat up, got hold of pen and paper, and written a letter to his mother, without anyone on the ward being aware of his movements? Even though he’d had that seizure, it was absurd, unthinkable. And yet for the first few seconds after I had read it, I could think of no other explanation. My heart surged with hope – until I caught sight of Natalie’s face.

     —I thought it was from him too, she said simply. —At first. And then when I realised it couldn’t be – there was no way he could get up and do it and post a letter with no one seeing him ... but I still kidded myself he’d done it. Somehow. For a couple of minutes I was happy. Overjoyed. But it isn’t him, is it?

     —Is it his handwriting? I asked gently. —Is it anything like it?

     —No. Nothing like.

     —So  ...

     —It isn’t from him. Her voice was flat and dead. —Because it can’t be. It’s from someone else. There was a long silence as I struggled with my own confusion. —God, can you imagine how sick he is? she whispered at last, burying her face in the dog’s fur. —To do something like that? To pretend to be Louis?

     I identified misery, fear and disgust in her voice. It was indeed sick. But whoever had chosen to perform this distressing practical joke had read some of my baser thoughts uncannily well.
Dr Dannachet would like to sex you
... It was deeply embarrassing. I felt panicky. What the hell was going on?

     —But who? I began, and then stopped.

     Natalie’s hair fell around her face like a pale waterfall, shrouding it. Her small hands were shaking uncontrollably. I noticed that the artificial nails had gone. The real ones looked ragged and chipped.

     —There’s been no trace of Pierre for three months, she blurted. —Not since the picnic. Back in Vichy I saw him everywhere – well I thought I did. I was in a terrible state back then, quite paranoid. But then after a while ... it seemed he really had just disappeared off the face of the earth. I was beginning to hope he’d left the country. I even thought he might have committed suicide. She paused. —Well, hoped, actually. But only someone who knows Louis really well would know the kind of thing he’d say.

     And yet, why on earth would a man bother to warn his wife off other men by masquerading as his comatose son? Why not threaten her directly? He obviously knew where she lived. Then a strange sensation crawled up my spine as it dawned on me that maybe that’s exactly what would happen next. He could be watching us right now.

     My heart started to trip over itself in panic. Quickly I glanced at the window; it looked out on to the front garden, beyond which lay the narrow, cobbled village road. I realised with some relief that anyone who wanted to spy on the cottage would have trouble hiding himself. Nevertheless, I stood up and drew the curtains. I was suddenly glad that the dog was with us.

     —But I don’t understand it. What can he possibly want?

     She just sat there for a moment, rocking rhythmically to and fro in her chair. You could see the bones of her jaw working.

     —He wants to scare me, she said finally, stroking Jojo and pulling him to her. He licked her hand. —And he wants to scare you too. He must have been spying on us.

     —Have you rung Charvillefort?

     —Of course not! She’s worse than useless!

     —What?

     —Look, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the police can’t find Pierre! They’re no closer to it now than they ever were. He’s playing with them. Stephanie Charvillefort’s inquiry into Louis’ accident has been a complete disaster. They’ve bungled everything. All Charvillefort did was interrogate me, and then practically accuse me of pushing Louis over the edge myself. Knowing her, she’s going to accuse
me
of doing this. That’s how mistrustful she is.

     And she slapped the letter in disgust.

     —You mean you called no one but me?

     She nodded defiantly.

     —Get me her number anyway. We have to let her know.

     With the kind of numb obedience that comes from shock, Natalie left the room, Jojo padding after her. Sensible of her to get a dog, I thought. She knew the score in a way that others perhaps didn’t. She returned with a red address-book filled with phone numbers in small efficient writing. As she handed it to me, the dog growled.

     —Good boy, I said nervously, patting his head.

     Despite an attempt to appear composed, Natalie was clearly too shaken to make the call, so I did. When I eventually got through to the Vichy police, it turned out that Detective Charvillefort was giving evidence at a trial, and would not be in until later in the day, but I could leave a message on her mobile. Which I did, before ringing the local police in Layrac. I had met Inspector Navarra on several occasions, at local functions; when I told him about the letter, and its background, I could hear from his voice that he was excited. This isn’t a big crime spot, exactly. Apart from seasonal arson attacks, he’d be dealing with drugs, traffic violations, the odd illegal gun, a spot of house theft. But now, suddenly, there was a murderous fugitive on his patch.