The Frozen Dead (9 page)

5

‘Have you read
The Time Machine?
'

They were walking down long, deserted corridors. The sound of their footsteps rang out and filled Diane's ears, together with the psychiatrist's chatter.

‘No,' she replied.

‘H. G. Wells, a socialist. He was interested in technological progress, social justice and the class struggle. He was the first to explore themes like genetic engineering in
The Island of Doctor Moreau
or mad scientists in
The Invisible Man.
In
The Time Machine
he imagined his narrator travelling into the future, where he discovers that England has become a sort of earthly paradise inhabited by a peaceful, carefree population, the Eloi.' Never taking his eyes from her, he slotted his card into yet another box. ‘The Eloi are the descendants of the privileged members of the bourgeoisie. Over thousands of years, they have attained such a degree of comfort and stability that their intelligence has withered, to the point where they have the intellectual wherewithal of a five-year-old. As they haven't had to make the slightest effort for centuries, they tire very easily. Sweet, cheerful creatures, but also terrifyingly indifferent: when one of their kind is drowning in plain sight of the others, not one of them raises a finger to try and help.'

Diane was only half listening; she was trying to pick up a sign of life, of human presence – and to remember her way through this labyrinth.

‘When night falls, the narrator discovers another, even more terrifying reality: the Eloi are not alone. Beneath the earth there lives a second race, hideous, dreadful people, the Morlocks. They are the descendants of the proletariat. Little by little, because of their masters' greed, they have evolved away from the upper classes to become a distinct race, as ugly as the others are gracious. They are forced to live deep in tunnels and shafts. They have grown so unaccustomed to the light that they only leave their lair after nightfall. That is why the minute the sun sets, the Eloi flee their idyllic countryside in fear to huddle together in their ruined palaces. Because the Morlocks, in order to survive, have become cannibals…'

Diane was beginning to feel exasperated by the psychiatrist's incessant chatter. What was he driving at? Clearly, he loved to hear himself talk.

‘Is that not a fairly accurate description of our own society, Mademoiselle Berg? On the one hand, the Eloi, whose intelligence and will have been diminished by well-being and the absence of danger, while their selfishness and indifference have increased. On the other hand, there are predators to remind them of the old lesson: fear. You and I are Eloi, Mademoiselle Berg … and our residents are Morlocks.'

‘Isn't that a rather simplistic view?'

He ignored her remark.

‘Would you like to know the moral of this story? For of course there is one. Wells thought that diminishing intelligence was a natural consequence of the … disappearance of danger. An animal living in perfect harmony with its environment is a pure mechanism. Nature only calls upon intelligence if habit and instinct do not suffice. It can only develop where there is change –
and where there is danger.
'

He gave her a long look, with a grin on his face.

‘Tell me about the staff,' she said. ‘We haven't come across very many people up to now. Is everything automatic?'

‘We employ thirty or so nursing auxiliaries. Along with six nurses, a doctor, a sexologist, a head cook, seven kitchen and dining-room staff and nine maintenance men – all of them part-time, of course, due to budget restrictions, with the exception of three night-time nursing auxiliaries, the head nurse, the cook … and myself. So there are six of us who sleep on site. In addition to the guards, who, I hope, do not sleep.' He gave a curt little laugh. ‘With you, it will make seven.'

‘Six, for … eighty-eight patients?'

How many guards?
she immediately wondered. She thought of this immense building at night, emptied of its staff, with eighty-eight dangerous psychotics locked up along its deserted corridors, and shuddered.

Xavier seemed to notice her uneasiness. His smile spread at the same time as his gaze wrapped itself round her, as black and slimy as a puddle of oil.

‘As I explained, our security systems are not only numerous, they are superfluous. The Wargnier Institute has not had a single escape or even an incident of note since its foundation.'

‘What sort of medicines do you use?'

‘The use of anti-obsessional agents has proven more efficient than classical substances, as you know. Our basic treatment consists in associating a hormone-based medication of the LHRH variety with an SSRI antidepressant. This treatment directly impacts the production of sexual hormones and reduces obsessive disorders. Of course, it's a treatment that is totally ineffective with our seven residents in Unit A…'

They had just come out into a big hall, at the foot of a staircase through whose slatted stairs a rough stone wall could be seen. Diane assumed these were the impressive walls she had seen on arriving, with their rows of tiny windows like those of a prison. The stone walls, the concrete stairway, the cement floor: Diane wondered what the building had originally been designed for. Yet there was a picture window looking out onto the mountains slowly being swallowed by the night. She was surprised by how quickly it was growing dark beyond the window. She had not noticed the time go by. Suddenly a silent shadow fell upon her and she swallowed a gasp of surprise.

‘Mademoiselle Berg, may I introduce our head nurse, Élisabeth Ferney. How are our “champions” this evening, Lisa?'

‘They're rather nervous. I don't know how, but they've already heard about the power plant.'

A cold, authoritarian voice. The head nurse was a tall woman in her forties with features that were rather severe but not altogether unpleasant. Chestnut hair, a superior air, a direct but defensive gaze. On hearing her words Diane remembered the roadblock as she drove up there.

‘I was stopped by the gendarmerie on my way,' she said. ‘What happened?'

Xavier did not even bother to reply. Diane hardly seemed to matter to him. Lisa Ferney focused her brown eyes on her, then turned to stare at the psychiatrist.

‘You don't actually intend to take her to Unit A this evening, do you?'

‘Mademoiselle Berg is our new …
psychologist,
Lisa. She will be here for a while. And she will have access to everything.'

Once again the nurse's gaze lingered on Diane.

‘In that case, I suppose we will be seeing a fair amount of each other,' said Lisa Ferney as she climbed up the stairs.

The concrete stairway led to a new door at the very top of the building. This one was not made of glass but of very thick steel with a rectangular porthole. Through the porthole Diane saw a second, identical door. A double-entrance security door – like the ones in submarines or in bank vaults. Above the steel doorway a camera was filming them.

‘Good evening, Lucas,' said Xavier, looking up at the lens. ‘Open up.'

A dual LED lamp went from red to green and Xavier opened the heavy armoured door. Once they were inside, they waited in silence for the first door to lock again. In this confined space, above the mineral, metallic odour, Diane could smell the head nurse's perfume. Suddenly, coming from beyond the second door, a long scream startled her. A sound which took a long time to fade.

‘With the seven residents of Unit A,' said Xavier, who did not seem to have noticed the scream, ‘as I told you, we practise a particular kind of aversion therapy. A sort of “behavioural reconditioning”.' It was the second time he had mentioned this, and once again Diane stiffened. ‘I'll say it again, these individuals are pure sociopaths: no remorse, no empathy, no hope of a cure. Other than this reconditioning, we go no further than a minimal therapy, such as regularly checking their serotonin levels: too little serotonin in the blood is an indicator of violence and impulsiveness. Otherwise, our goal is never to give them the opportunity to cause harm. These monsters are afraid of nothing. They know they will never get out. No amount of threats, no authority can reach them.'

There was a bleep and Xavier placed his manicured fingers on the second armoured door.

‘
Welcome to hell, Mademoiselle Berg.
But not this evening. No, Lisa is right, not this evening. Tonight I'll go in alone: Lisa will walk you back.'

*   *   *

Servaz stared at the second watchman.

‘So, you didn't hear a thing?'

‘No.'

‘Because of the telly?'

‘Or the radio,' replied the man. ‘If we're not watching the telly, we've got the radio on.'

‘Full volume?'

‘Fairly loud, yeah.'

‘And what were you watching or listening to last night?'

The watchman sighed. Between the gendarmes and this copper, this was the third time he'd had to tell his version of the facts.

‘A football match, Marseille versus Atlético Madrid.'

‘And after the match you put on a DVD, is that right?'

‘Yes.'

The neon light caused his skull to shine. His hair was close-shaven and Servaz could see a big scar through it. The moment he'd come into the room he'd decided to adopt a casual, friendly manner with the man. With this sort of person you had to get into his space right away, make it clear to him who was in charge.

‘What film did you watch?'

‘Some horror B-movie:
The Night Has Eyes.
'

‘And how was the volume?'

‘Loud, I said.'

Servaz's silences were unnerving the watchman. He felt he had to explain: ‘My colleague is kind of deaf. Besides, we're all alone here. So who's to care?'

Servaz nodded understandingly. Almost word for word what his co-worker had said.

‘A football match lasts how long, as a rule?'

The watchman looked at him as if he'd just landed from another planet.

‘Forty-five minutes, times two … Plus half-time and stoppages … Two hours. Give or take.'

‘And the film?'

‘Dunno … Hour and a half, two hours…'

‘What time did the match start?'

‘It was the Europa League – eight forty-five.'

‘Hmm … Which would take us to around half past midnight … And did you do the rounds after that?'

The watchman looked down, sheepish.

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘We watched another film.'

Servaz leaned closer. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Outside it was pitch black. The temperature must have fallen well below zero.

‘Another horror film?'

‘No…'

‘What, then?'

‘A porn flick…'

Servaz raised an eyebrow and put on his best cruel, depraved smile. For a split second he looked like a cartoon character.

‘Hmm, I see … Until what time?'

‘Dunno. Two in the morning, I suppose.'

‘Blimey! And then?'

‘Then what?'

‘Then did you do your rounds?'

This time the watchman's shoulders drooped noticeably.

‘No.'

‘Another film?'

‘No, we went to sleep.'

‘Aren't you supposed to do night rounds?'

‘Yes.'

‘How often?'

‘Every two or three hours.'

‘And last night you didn't do a single one, is that correct?'

The watchman was staring at the toes of his shoes. He seemed completely absorbed in the contemplation of a tiny mark.

‘No…'

‘I didn't hear you.'

‘
No.
'

‘Why not?'

This time the watchman raised his head.

‘Listen, who … who would think of coming up here in the middle of winter? There's never a soul … It's deserted … So what's the point of doing any rounds?'

‘But that's what you're paid for, after all? What about the graffiti on the walls?'

‘Kids who come up here now and again … But only when the weather's fine.'

Servaz leaned a little closer, his face a few inches from the watchman's.

‘So, if a car had come up during the film, you wouldn't have heard it?'

‘No.'

‘And the cable car?'

The watchman hesitated for a split second. Servaz caught it.

‘Same.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Uh … yeah.'

‘And the vibrations?'

‘What vibrations?'

‘The cable car vibrates. I felt it. You didn't feel it last night?'

Another hesitation.

‘We were caught up in the film.'

He was lying. Servaz was absolutely sure of it. A fabric of lies they'd woven, together, before the gendarmes arrived. The same answers, the same hesitations.

‘One match plus two films, that takes about five hours,' calculated Servaz, as if he were a restaurant owner working out the bill. ‘But when you watch a film, it's not noisy all the time, right? You've got silent stretches in a film. Even a horror film …
especially
a horror film … When the tension rises, when the suspense is at a peak…' Servaz leaned even closer. His face was practically touching the watchman's. He could smell his bad breath – and his fear. ‘The actors don't spend the whole time screaming and getting their throats cut, do they? And the cable car, how long does it take to get up there? Fifteen minutes, twenty? Same on the way down. You see what I'm getting at? It would be one hell of a coincidence if the racket the cable car makes were completely drowned out by the film, no? What d'you think?'

The watchman looked at him, a hunted beast.

‘I dunno,' he said. ‘Maybe it was before … or during the match … Either way we didn't hear anything.'