The Stone Boy (16 page)

Laurie and Kévin were the first out of the house, wrapped up in fur-lined parkas. Laurie picked up a ball and threw it smack in her brother’s face, producing the first cries. Kévin ran after his sister, seeking revenge, but she surprised him, suddenly pushing him away, hard. He fell on his bottom and howled, his trousers covered in mud. The cruel game continued for ten minutes, and their indifferent parents stayed inside the house. Finally, Mr. Desmoulins showed his nasty face on the porch. Lighting a cigarette, he told Kévin to go back inside. Whining, covered with dirt, the child trudged toward his father, who slapped him on the back of the head to hurry him back indoors. Visibly satisfied, Laurie had taken over the swing and lifted her legs up high to get the most out of the upswing, giving a nod to her dad. Madame Préau sighed. She would have loved to have straightened out the brat. But, after all, it was up to Kévin to learn how to fight back, to rebel against his sister’s authoritarianism. In time, he would grow up and eventually smack her back.

Suddenly, the boy appeared behind Mr. Desmoulins. Almost a shadow, a ghostly apparition. He stood stooped, his face bent over his dirty trainers, and he was swimming in his jacket. A red cap had been pushed onto his head that was too narrow, and it stood up, cone-shaped, à la Jacques Cousteau. Madame Préau put down the binoculars and snatched up the camera. The child was partly hidden by his father. He had to come forward for her to take his picture. But he did not move. It looked like he was waiting for something. The sound of Madame Préau’s piano? After what seemed like an infinitely long time, the boy took a few steps forward, dragging his feet. He was now alone in the viewfinder. The old lady moved the forefinger of her right hand and released the shutter. That was when something incredible happened. The child looked up abruptly, staring toward Madame Préau’s window, and made a sound. The most terrifying sound the retired teacher had ever heard. Like a pig having its throat cut, shrill and guttural. Appalled, Madame Préau staggered, almost losing her balance. She caught onto the headboard and put a hand to her heart. It only took her a few seconds to regain her composure, but when she returned to the window, the father had thrown down his cigarette and was dragging the stone boy along the ground by the collar of his jacket. The boy was writhing, struggling fiercely to free himself from being strangled by his clothing. From the swing, Laurie witnessed the scene impassively. Madame Préau had a world of trouble to take a picture she was trembling so much. The boy’s back jolted as it made contact with the steps leading up to the front door, and then the father grabbed the child and threw him inside the house, swearing.

There wasn’t another noise to be heard in the Desmoulins’ garden.

Then, little by little, Laurie signaled her presence with the creak of the swing. There she was, oblivious to what had happened.

Madame Préau sat on the bed. She held out a hand to the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a box of pills and tried to swallow one. But her hand missed her mouth and the medicine fell to the floor. The old lady got down on all fours to find it, then collapsed, sobbing.

Save me, Granny Elsa. They’ll kill me!

“What is going on?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on?”

“You told me to come as soon as possible, that it was a matter of life or death.”

“Don’t you want to sit down?”

Martin hadn’t removed his coat. He paced the hall, furious at having been worried about his mother.

“No, I do not want to sit down! I want to know what’s going on here! First, I want to know why I can never reach you on the phone. Don’t tell me you’ve unplugged it again…”

Madame Préau shrugged.

“I leave it off the hook on the weekend as a precaution. I’m tired of being disturbed by the neighbor. I made tea, you want some?”

“The neighbor? What neighbor?”

The old lady went to the kitchen, turning her back on Martin.

“He works for Lapeyre. Oh, I know what they want! Under the pretext of selling me double glazing, they try to get me to fall into their trap. But I wasn’t born yesterday. Milk and sugar?”

Martin’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He sighed before answering. The conversation was short.

“No, she’s fine… I don’t know… I said I don’t know! I’ll call you back… no. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Love you too.”

A moment later, he was watching his mother drink her tea in the lounge, refusing to drink even a glass of water. Fairly annoyed, he put his Nokia on the tablecloth.

“I promise you, everything is fine, Martin.”

“No, it is not fine. You cannot call me for help, and a quarter of an hour later behave as if nothing has happened. What happened at about four o’clock today? You had a psychotic episode, is that it?”

Hesitating, Madame Préau stroked her teacup with her fingertips. She regretted having called her son before waiting for the half a Stilnox to be absorbed.

“Look, I didn’t want to tell you about it before, because I didn’t want to worry you. But terrible things are happening in the house across the street, Martin.”

The man clapped his hands over his face.

“Oh, that’s all I need.”

“But it’s the truth. I’ve been watching them for months. There’s a child who—”

“Shut up, Mum. That’s enough!”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say? Why would I have called you for help? Or rather, for whom? There’s a little fellow who looks exactly like Bastien, who—”

“Are you not taking it anymore?” he barked. “Tell me the truth.”

Madame Préau leaned back in her chair. She was silent, embarrassed.

“Audrette thinks you have stopped taking your medication. Is that true?”

“My medication has nothing to do with it, Martin. It turns out that—”

A fist slammed down on the table.

“Well, shit!”

Martin leapt up and started pacing with his head down, turning in circles, not knowing what to do with his hands, muttering about his mother, the crazy loon who was ruining his life and would keep on ruining it until the day she dropped. He thought he was the only one to blame because he hadn’t had the courage to accept that she was completely crazy, refusing to put her in care because it seemed to him that, broadly speaking, she was independent; she ate well, behaved well enough, and basically kept her nose clean. Despite the traumas suffered in recent years, she had responded pretty well so far and seemed to be on the mend, but now it had started again: she was seeing dwarves everywhere.

“No. Never in my life,” Madame Préau corrected, savoring her green tea. “I’ve never had such visions. You’re talking rubbish.”

“And when you ask me for news of Bastien every time we see each other or talk on the phone, aren’t you, perhaps, being delusional?”

“It’s normal for me to worry about my grandson.”

“But Mum, Bastien is dead!”

Martin’s fist struck the table for a second time. His face contorted with rage; he looked like one of those union workers ready to do anything to keep up the strike. Madame Préau remained unmoved.

“I do not believe that the photographs the judge showed me back then were actually of Bastien.”

Exasperated, Martin left the room.

“Where are you going?”

He left without kissing his mother. The noise of his car engine rang out to the top of the street.

Madame Préau didn’t like it when they argued. She knew exactly which devil had sowed discord between them. Now, she knew to expect the worst. Probably injections—she loathed injections. Who knew if Martin would make good on his threat and put his mother in an old people’s home; Audrette had her eye on the house, no doubt. She had always known how to manipulate her son, to the point of making him blind to his own actions. She would have to handle him more carefully. Madame Préau would write a letter of apology to her beloved son to enrage the bitch. Changing the locks on her house to which Martin had the keys was also a priority. She had to stay here by hook or by crook until the stone boy was saved.

Something vibrated on the table, and she jumped. Her son had forgotten his mobile phone.

The bright screen displayed Audrette’s name in capital letters. Madame Préau watched the thing until it stopped flashing. Then, returning from the kitchen with a dustpan and brush, she cautiously slid it into the dustpan and went down to the basement to put on a wash.

Monday, 26 October 2009

Martin,

I’m sorry to have upset you so last night. It was not my intention. I received a severe blow myself that afternoon by witnessing a terrible scene in my neighbors’ garden—as I tried to tell you, they hit one of their sons. You know how sensitive a subject violence against children is for me. What you took for a delusion is unfortunately only the truth. Dr. Mamnoue has been aware of it for several weeks. I have also alerted social services, and I made an official statement to the police on Friday. I needed to share this with you, that’s all. I’m so sorry that things turned out so badly.

As for the camera that you forgot to bring me, I managed in the end. I bought one that is doing the trick for the moment. And I reconnected the phone this morning. About the shutters—I prefer to wait until they have dismantled the crane before opening them again. But I will do it, don’t worry. I have a holy horror of dust mites!

I have to go. I have just received a call from a Ms. Tremblay from the police who wants to meet with me about my statement.

Again, forgive me for causing you all this torment.

I think this wretched flu has made me very weak and no doubt affected me psychologically over recent days, but I’ll get through it.

We live in difficult times, but we will win out in the end, you’ll see.

Affectionately,

Mum

PS: Did you know that a relay antenna to improve mobile phone reception has been erected in front of my house on the other side of the station? (You can see it from the first-floor bathroom.) Isn’t it dangerous for my health?

She was courteously received. Ms. Tremblay was about forty years old and looked like a typical single mother. She had short hair, a beige turtleneck sweater, an olive complexion; a woman in a hurry who did a slapdash job of putting on her makeup without taking care of her skin. At the back of her office was a window that overlooked the nearby gym. The social worker, for this was her title, was interested in domestic violence, family disputes, and at-risk minors. Her role of listening to and supporting victims went as far as making care orders and organizing placements. Every day, she consulted police reports filed the day before and took note of any cases that fell within her jurisdiction.

“This morning I read an electronic copy of the report you filed on Friday. Considering the content, I decided to call you immediately. Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made one for myself.”

A ceramic mug with a penguin on it landed in her hands.

“If you want sugar…”

She pushed a cup filled with wrapped sugar cubes towards Madame Préau, which she politely refused. The woman in the beige sweater asked essentially the same questions as Ms. Polin, but more delicately. She thought the old lady brave to take this step and didn’t question her about her age.

“Often, people are surprised when they first learn that their neighbor is being beaten by her husband all day long. They admit that seeing her leave the house with black eyes or an arm in a cast threw up a few question marks, but nothing more. Is your coffee okay?”

This Ms. Tremblay was friendly. Her sense of irony and her concern pleased Madame Préau, and they both bought the same Nescafé.

“It’s Green Blend with antioxidants, isn’t it?” inquired the old lady.

“I like it a lot. It has a slightly fruity taste.”

“Yes, it’s very mild.” Madame Préau unbuttoned her coat.

“Still, don’t be fooled. It’s only thirty-five percent green coffee. The rest is roasted.”

“Yes, and the antioxidant thing is mostly marketing. At .4 grams per cup of coffee, it would take hundreds of liters a day to feel the beneficial effects on the body.”

“Yes. You’d be better off snacking on dark chocolate.”

“Oh, yes!”

Ever careful, Madame Préau still held her handbag against her, its false base concealing a hammer; she wasn’t to be parted from it. That said, she felt almost at ease, except for one detail: the office door was left ajar. Muffled voices coming from the hallway of the police station were distracting the old lady. She leaned toward the woman, and in a whisper confided in her about the failure of her approach to social services. She replied in the same tone.

“Contacting social services was the first step to be taken. And it saves us time. They don’t necessarily take the same approach to their files, although our findings generally overlap. I’ll contact them for more information.”