The Woman in the Fifth (40 page)

'Of course it was. And after I wound the tape around his mouth and head – ensuring that he couldn't scream or breathe – I did tell him, "
In a few moments, you will wish I'd shot you and ended your life quickly
." Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the razor and opened it and severed his right thumb. It's not easy, severing a finger. You have to work your way through bone and tendon and—'

'Enough,' I said.

'I told you, if you don't sit through my story you don't get to hear the truth—'

'
The truth?
You expect me to believe there's any truth to any of this?'

'Where are you right now, Harry? In some dream?'

'I haven't a fucking idea anymore . . .'

'In dreams you might get your hand cut, but it doesn't bleed. This is
real
. It's simply a different version of
real
. But again, you're interrupting my story. And until I finish the story—'

'You're sick, you know that?'

'Sick because I cut off all of Bodo's fingers? Without doubt, it was a sick thing to do. Even through the tape around his mouth I could hear his screams. But I was very systematic. Every finger on his right hand. A short pause. Every finger on his left hand. Then I started on his eyes. The police were wrong, by the way. I didn't gouge them out. I simply sliced across them. You remember that Buñuel exercise in surrealism:
Un chien andalou
, where a woman gets her eye cut by a razor. It approximated that. And yes, you can think me mad and twisted for inflicting such horror . . . but surely you can grasp the madness that overtakes someone when they have been so wronged that—'

'Don't try to justify it.
Don't
.'

'I'm trying to justify nothing, Harry. I am simply relating to you what happened.'

'Did it settle the score? Did doing that to Bodo in any way make you feel better about your father's death?'

'At the time, all I could think was,
Do what you must do . . . Be systematic . . . Then get out of this dreadful country.
So after blinding Bodo, I made a small incision in the side of his throat – to let him slowly bleed to death . . . though within moments I could hear gurgling and gasping behind his taped nose and mouth: a sign that he was starting to drown in his own blood. I had packed a spare set of clothes in the bag – so it was the same drill as with Dupré. I stripped everything off and had a shower. Only this time, I cleaned up all the evidence. I wanted everyone in France to know what I did. I also wanted everyone to know in Hungary . . . but only after I was out of the country. So I scrubbed down every surface I touched and bundled up my bloody clothes and waited until Bodo was no longer gasping and gagging.

'Then I left and took the
métro
back across the city to Buda. I returned to the shop where I had purchased the duct tape and bought four more rolls. I walked over to Lovas's apartment and rang his bell. He said, "
Go away, I ant to see nobody
."

'I said, "But I am the woman from the Party's senior services. I have come with a special present for you. You must let me deliver it."

'Once I had talked myself inside his apartment and revealed who I was and brought out the gun, he began to scream. I told him to shut up, but he kept screaming. That's when I slammed him on the head with the gun. It knocked him out cold. I taped him down, I gagged him as I had done with Bodo. But just as I started working on him, there was a banging at the door. It was some neighbor who'd evidently heard his screaming, as she kept shouting, "
Mr Lovas, are you all right? Is someone there with you?
" If I had been sensible, I would have cut his throat right there and hightailed it out of the kitchen window – his apartment was on the ground floor. But I wasn't sensible. I was deranged. So deranged that I convinced myself I had to dismember all of his fingers and blind him as well. The pain caused Lovas to wake up when I was cutting off his right pinky, and I'd been sloppy when it came to taping his mouth, as I left a small gap. So he started to scream again. The neighbor heard this and told him she was going to call the police. But I still didn't make a run for it. I just continued my grim work—'

'You wanted to get caught—'

'I don't know what I wanted at the time. When you're deranged you don't think logically. You just tell yourself,
Get the next finger off . . .
'

'Jesus . . .'

She smiled and lit up a cigarette.

'It gets worse. The police arrived. They pounded on the door, demanding to be let in. I worked super-fast, making certain all his fingers were severed. By this time, their pounding was replaced with the boom-boom sound of a battering ram they were using against the door. As it began to give, I grabbed Lovas by the hair. As soon as the door burst open and the cops fell in, I cut his jugular. Then, as they watched in complete horror, I drew the razor across my own throat.'

'And then?'

'And then . . . I escaped arrest, detention, trial and probable execution by a regime I loathed.'

'By dying?'

'Yes. I died.'

Silence. She continued to puff on her cigarette.

'And then?' I asked.

'Death is death.'

'Which means?'

'I no longer existed in a temporal form.'

'But what happened after you died?'

Another smile. Another deep lungful of smoke.

'That I cannot say.'

'Why not?'

'Because . . . I can't.'

'The cops showed me your death certificate. And you yourself have confirmed that you slit your throat and you died. So why . . .
why
. . . are you here?'

'Because I am.'

'But that doesn't make sense. How can I believe you when I know what you're telling me is impossible?'

'Since when has death ever made sense, Harry?'

'But you've been there. You
know
.'

Another smile.

'True – and I'm saying nothing.'

'You have to tell me—'

'No, I don't. And no . . . I won't. Any more than I have to explain my work on your behalf.'

'Your
work
on
my
behalf. Now I know you are insane.'

'Think what you like, my sweet. But consider this: every person who has recently done harm to you has, in turn, been punished.'

'You ran over Brasseur outside the hotel?'

'Yes.'

'How?'

'How else do you run a man down? I got into a car that I borrowed on the street. A Mercedes C-Class – not the best Mercedes, but still a car with considerable kick. I waited for him to emerge from Le Sélect. When he stepped off the pavement, I hit the accelerator and ran right into him.'

'He said he couldn't see the driver, but he thought it was a woman.'

Another smile.

'And you cornered Omar when he was on the toilet?' I asked.

'You were right about him. His shit truly stank. And I'll let you in on a small revolting secret: when he wiped himself he only used a minimal amount of paper, so the shit was everywhere on his hands. A disgusting bastard. And I'd seen how he had treated you, how he left that communal toilet in such a grim state—'

'You
saw
? How?'

She stubbed out a cigarette and lit another.

'Do you know what I like best about being dead? You can smoke without guilt.'

'But even in death you still age, just like the rest of us.'

'Yes, that is rather ironic, don't you think? But that's how it works . . . for me, at least.'

'And the others?'

A shrug.

'So you didn't go to heaven after you—?'

'Killed myself ? Hardly.'

'To hell then?'

'I went . . . nowhere. And then, somehow, I was back here. I was ten years older, but the apartment was here . . .'

'Who paid the bills?'

'Before I left for Hungary, I saw my lawyer and told him to set up a trust with the money I received as compensation from Dupré. I left my estate to no one. And I made certain in my will that no one could sell the apartment from under me. You see, I knew what I was going to do in Budapest . . . and I also knew that I would have to disappear for a very long time afterward . . .'

'So you weren't planning to kill yourself ?'

'Not until the police burst in. It was a completely impulsive decision. But, like I said, I was crazy then.'

'And you're not crazy now? Beating men to death with baseball bats—'

'He kicked the crap out of his wife, and he also threatened to kill you.'

'That was never established.'

'
I
heard it.'

'When?'

'In his bar. When he didn't think I was there.'

'And Robson?'

'I asked you what
you
thought was the worst thing that could befall him. You said—'

'I didn't think you'd actually download kiddy porn on to his computer.'

'It's what you wanted, Harry. That man systematically destroyed your life. His punishment struck me as . . .
apt
. His life is now completely shattered. And before the week is out, he'll take his own life in jail.'

'Are you going to force him to do that?'

Another laugh.

'I am not a spirit who invades the souls of others and forces them to do things.'

'No – you're just a succubus.'

'A succubus has sex with men while they are asleep. You're very much awake, Harry.'

'So all this then is . . .
what
? When I came here yesterday, the apartment was covered in dust, the concierge acted as if I was a lunatic, telling me the place hadn't been inhabited – let alone cleaned – for years.'

'You're not a lunatic. But when you come to visit me every three days, you enter this.'

'But what is
this
? And what about everybody else in the building? Do they go into the same sort of trance which the concierge seemed to be in?'

'Think whatever you like.'

'I still don't get it. Why just the three hours? Why just every few days?'

'Because that's all I can do . . . all I can take. I want
this
. . . our little liaison. But only on my terms. That's why I refused to see you more than our few hours twice a week.'

'Because that's all you were allowed?'

'No one controls me. No one.'

'But you still loiter with intent every Sunday on the balcony of some dilettante American's salon, picking up idiots like myself ?'