The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (23 page)

     He paused and seemed to be thinking furiously.

     —So what do I do?

     —You go back. You spend as much time with him as you can. Sleep on the ward, and wait for him to do it again. He might be closer to consciousness than you thought. And watch Natalie.

     —Watch her?

     —Yes. Watch her. Even though you’ve fallen in love with her, he said softly. It was a statement rather than a question. Quickly, I stood up to leave. —That’s the other reason you’re here, he continued. —Isn’t it? Wasn’t Louis right about that?

     —That’s quite absurd, I said, reaching for my jacket.

     But he didn’t buy it. He just looked mournful.

     —Well, it’s not my business, he said with a sigh. —But you need to know that she’s more complicated than you think. She needed therapy more than her son did. The parents often do. Natalie came across as someone who had their act together, but – well. She was in a lot of denial. It was her who broke the contract, not me. She was the one who decided to stop Louis coming here. Just when we were really getting somewhere. Looking back, I guess she was terrified that Louis had intuited something that connected him with rape. She didn’t want him guessing any more. That’s what I think now. At the time I was just puzzled by the whole thing.

     —Can you blame her?

     —I can understand. But look, he said eventually. —Whatever I think about Natalie Drax and her state of mind, there’s one thing you must know. Louis died – nearly died – because of me.

     —Is that what Natalie told you?

     —Yes. That’s what she told me. And she was right.

     —Do you really think his father pushed him?

     —I got things all wrong, he said slowly. —Louis seemed to have a good relationship with his father. But it was more complicated than I thought. Because of what I didn’t know. I’ve spent hours thinking about it. I always took the view that Louis was causing the accidents himself.

     —Do you think he was abused by his father? By either of them?

     —I only saw him for a year. I can’t say how things might have been before that time. But at the time I was seeing him, I got the clear impression that Louis was doing it to himself. As a way of getting attention from his parents. But I don’t know any more. And I don’t see any way we’re going to find out. Unless Louis wants to tell us.

     As we said goodbye he gave a sad alcoholic smile.

     —Let me know what happens, he said. —I’ll back you up over the letters, if that might make a difference to the police.

     I thanked him, and left for the station where I caught the late train to Provence and dropped like a stone into sleep.

I must have been reliving the conversation with Perez in my dreams, because when I woke a couple of hours later, in the cool of the half-empty carriage, I was left with a residue of excitement. Perez had given me optimism, and now I was excited, rather than fearful, about the prospect of finding out more. Of getting through to the boy, and working out what he was really trying to say, and somehow vindicating myself in the process. It would sound mad, far-fetched to my colleagues. I would have trouble convincing Vaudin. But I would have to find a way. Jacqueline would be on my side; of that I was sure. Perez would back me up. By the time the train pulled in at Layrac I had also made another decision. It had made itself, actually, in the wake of my conversation with Perez. For the time being, I shouldn’t see any more of Natalie than was necessary professionally. For now, she needed my protection – no more and no less. Before taking it any further, I had to confront my own feelings. Square things with my wife.

     I pictured Sophie down in Montpellier, sharing a bottle of wine with the girls, reading Tolstoy in bed and falling asleep with her glasses on. My heart lurched.

     When I came home, the house felt empty without her. I thought about phoning the girls again, then stopped myself.

     What would I tell Sophie, if I did get to speak to her?

     That I was going mad? That a nine-year-old boy was telepathically communicating with me? That I was hopelessly obsessed with Natalie Drax?

I rose early the next morning, and was in my office by seven, having resolved to see no one, put my head down, stay out of trouble and try to diminish, somehow, that strange hold Natalie had on me, which would do neither of us any good. But every time I remembered our lovemaking – the way she had held me and sobbed like a child – I felt faint. I shut myself in my office and told Noelle I was writing a paper, and wouldn’t take any calls unless there was an emergency. I actually had a deadline for an article I was submitting to a neurology journal in the States.

     And so I wrote. I’ve always been good at losing myself in work. It was already ten o’clock when Noelle knocked on my door. She looked flustered and shocked.

     —It wasn’t an emergency exactly, and I didn’t want to disturb you. But I thought you’d better know.

     —What?

     —Well there’s been a bit of an incident on the ward. It might still be going on. Jacqueline called; she says you should come. It’s one of the relatives. Madame Drax. It seems she’s been attacked.

     A sudden violence in my chest; I ran. When I arrived, breathless, the ward was in chaos. Vaudin was there, and Charvillefort, and the policeman who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Louis. There was no sign of Natalie. Louis’ bedside table had been overturned and a vase of flowers – huge lily and ginger blooms – lay smashed in a puddle of water on the floor, their petals mangled as though trodden underfoot in the skirmish. Jacqueline came and stood next to me by Louis’ bed.

     —I’ve moved Kevin, Isabelle and Henri to the physio room; they’re listening to music.

     —Is she OK?

     —Just very shocked, I think. A few cuts from the glass; Berthe’s cleaning her up.

     —What happened? How did he get in?

     —It wasn’t him, she whispered. —It was his mother. Lucille Drax.

     Relief swamped me, and I shut my eyes briefly.

     —She came into the ward but when she saw Natalie she started yelling at her to get away from her grandson. Natalie was sitting with Louis, holding his hand, and she had her back to her; she didn’t really understand what was happening until she was attacked.

     I listened, first in bafflement and then in anger as Jacqueline described how the older woman had grabbed Natalie by the shoulders from behind, and hauled her to her feet, screaming abuse at her. Natalie had tried to break loose, knocking over the table in the process, and smashing the vase. The policeman had managed to separate them, but it had been quite a struggle.

     —And Louis? Any reaction?

     —Not a flicker, said Jacqueline.

     —Thank Christ.

     I shook my head in disbelief, stepping aside for Fatima who had just arrived with a mop. Detective Charvillefort came and joined us.

     —Where’s Natalie? How is she?

     —Georges has taken her back to her room. She’s very shocked, of course. But no serious injury.

     —It seems violence runs in the family, I said, as we left Jacqueline and headed, by silent mutual agreement, for the French windows.

     Charvillefort shrugged. —I don’t know. It’s more complicated than it looks.

     —What do you mean?

     —Dr Dannachet, the detective said quietly as we stepped out on to the balcony into the fierce sun. —What I need to convey to you at this point is that when it comes to Natalie Drax, the truth is rather hard to pin down. You don’t have all the facts at your disposal.

     —And you do, I suppose? Listen, in my experience – I began.

     But she cut me off. —Dr Dannachet, I have to tell you that as of yesterday, we have a very interesting new lead. One that we hadn’t foreseen. Natalie Drax is being informed of it now.

     —What?

     —We’re waiting for more tests on a piece of evidence, she said, putting on her sunglasses and looking out across the garden. —It may be nothing, Dr Dannachet. But if it’s something, I should know in an hour or so.

     The graphologist’s report. I flushed, and my stomach whirlpooled slowly. Now was the time to come clean about what I had done, and how I had discovered it. Perez would back me up. But I didn’t. Instead, I excused myself, claiming I had a deadline. I left her standing on the balcony, gazing into a landscape flooded by sun. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance.

     I sat with Louis.

     —I don’t know what you’re up to, Louis, I said quietly in his ear. —But I’m listening. Talk to me again. OK? I know you’re trying to. I’m in trouble. I can help you, but you have to help me too. We have to help each other out of this.

     But he just lay there, lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks, the mouth slightly parted, the shallow breathing in and out.

     Back in my office, I rang Natalie’s room but got put straight through to voicemail. I couldn’t blame her for that. I left a brief message saying how sorry I was to hear of the attack, and that I had something I needed to discuss with her, urgently. I left my mobile number for her to ring me back.

     —And please take care, I finished.

     —I want you to–

     I shut my eyes and squeezed tight. Hung up. What did I want her to do, exactly? Love the man who’d written her hate mail in his sleep?

Madame Lucille Drax was in her seventies, with frank eyes and an intelligent face, a physical image quite disconcertingly at odds with the screaming madwoman I had pictured. I felt disturbed by her presence in my office, and a little treacherous for agreeing to a meeting with her, or even allowing her to sit down. But she had every right to visit her grandson and speak to his doctor. She had come all the way from Paris to see Louis. It would have been churlish – and unprofessional – to refuse her a meeting.

     —I heard about the incident with your daughter-in-law, I said, as soon as we had shaken hands. I spoke gently but with firmness. —I have to tell you that this kind of behaviour is totally unacceptable on a coma ward. On any ward for that matter.

     —I know. I do apologise to you, said Madame Drax. —It was a very stressful encounter to say the least. Natalie tried to stop me seeing my grandson, I do hope you realise that? She told me she didn’t want me anywhere near him after Pierre ... disappeared.

     I didn’t quite know what to say. I could see that the woman must be under huge personal pressure. —You haven’t seen him?

     —Of course I haven’t, she snapped. I could see she was on the edge of tears. —No one has. And now there’s this new evidence ... I’m sorry. She stopped abruptly and pressed her hands to her mouth. —I’m not meant to say. It’s probably a false lead, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’ve been very worried about Pierre. And now I’m even more worried. It isn’t like him.

     —But given what he did  ...

     At this point she stood up and spoke with great dignity and anger. Her voice trembled, but it was strong and utterly convinced. —My son did not try to kill my grandson, Dr Dannachet. He’d be incapable of it. Pierre loved Louis far more than Natalie ever did. You simply have to believe me.

     Then she choked. I reached across the desk, put my hand on her arm. I felt immensely sorry for her.

     —Please stay, I said, indicating that she should sit down again. I didn’t want to argue with her. I felt exhausted. —Let’s talk about Louis.

     I prepared more coffee – by now I was quivering with caffeine – and we made small talk to clear the air, before I briefed her on the prognosis. Her questions were intelligent and to-the-point. I asked her about the letters. The idea that Pierre might have written them was absurd, she said.

     —I agree, I said. I felt guilty. I would have to tell her. But how could I? What words would I use? She’d think I was insane. And so I held my tongue. She would know soon enough. The ‘new evidence’ could mean only one thing: that the graphologists had found me out. Like Marcel Perez, she confirmed that the letters were typical of Louis. It was ‘uncanny’. Only someone who knew Louis very well could parody him like that. He would write to her a couple of times a year, she said. A very idiosyncratic boy, a little eccentric. Loveable, but difficult. —They were thank-you letters but often he’d write about other things – bats and other creatures, or what he thought about school, or the state of the world. A precocious boy, it was no wonder he didn’t fit in anywhere. I often wondered what his real father was like.

     I nearly choked on my coffee. Clearly she did not know the story. But she thought she did.

     —A nice, very bright young man, according to Natalie’s sister.

     —I thought she and her sister were estranged.

     —They are. But I was curious to know a bit more about the woman my son had married. So I looked up her sister.

     —When?

     —Four months ago, when Pierre was living with me in Paris.

     —So what else did she say about this man?

     —Francine? Nothing much. Just that he was nice, and it wasn’t fair what happened. I agreed with that. But anyway, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have a grandson would I? So I can’t exactly complain.