Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
She wants to move, but she cannot. Jesus Christ, Sophie, what shit have you got yourself into this time? As though things weren’t bad enough. You should leave now, right now, before the telephone rings again, before his mother panics, jumps into a taxi and turns up here screaming and sobbing, before the police, the questions, the interrogations.
Sophie
does not know what to do. Call someone? Leave now? She has to choose between two evils. That has been the story of her life.
At last, she stands up straight. Something inside her has come to a decision. She starts running around the apartment, dashing from room to room, sobbing, but her movements are uncoordinated, the running is futile, she hears her own voice, she is whimpering like a child. She tries to steel herself: “Focus, Sophie, take a deep breath and try to think. You need to get dressed, wash your face, pack your things. Now. You need to get out of here. Get your things, pack your bag, hurry.” She has been running in circles so long she is a little disorientated. As she passes Léo’s room, she cannot help but stop once more. What she sees first is not the boy’s lifeless, waxen face, but his neck, and the brown shoelace that snakes across the floor. She recognises it. It is one of the laces from her walking shoes.
There
are things she no longer remembers about that day. The next thing she sees is the clock on the façade of église Sainte-Élisabeth reading 11.15 a.m.
The sun is beating down and her head is pounding fit to burst. And she is utterly shattered. The image of Léo’s body surges up once more. It feels like waking up again. She steadies herself . . . against what? Her hand is pressed against a window. A shop. The glass is cold. She feels beads of sweat trickling from her armpits. Icy cold.
What is she doing here? And where exactly is she? She tries to check the time, but she does not have her watch. Yet she was so sure . . . No, maybe not. She cannot remember. Rue du Temple. Jesus Christ, it cannot have taken her an hour and a half to get here. What did she do with all that time? Where has she been? And more importantly, where are you going now, Sophie? Did you walk here from rue Molière? Or did you take the
métro
?
A black hole. She knows that she is crazy. No, she just needs time, that’s all, a little time to pull herself together. She must have taken the
métro
, she decides. She cannot feel her body, only
the sweat trickling from her armpits, an icy stream she tries to staunch, pressing her elbows tightly to her body. What is she wearing? Does she look like a madwoman? Her head is teeming, buzzing, whirling with random images. Think. Do something. But what?
She catches her reflection in the shop window and does not recognise herself. At first, she thinks it is not really her. But no, it is her, only there is something about her . . . Something about her, but what?
She looks down the street.
Keep walking, try to think. But her legs refuse to respond. Only her brain seems still to be functioning, somewhat, a whirling maelstrom of words and images she tries to calm by taking a deep breath. Her chest feels tight. As she leans against the window, she tries to collect her thoughts.
You ran away. That’s it, you were scared and you ran. When they find Léo’s body, they will come looking for you. You will be accused of . . . What do they call it? “
In loco
” something . . . Focus, for God’s sake.
In fact, it is very simple. You were responsible for looking after the child and someone came and killed him. Léo . . .
Right now, she has no idea what is happening to her. She needs to think, but she simply cannot. Her every thought stumbles at the same frantic notion: this cannot be happening.
She looks up. She knows this area. It is close to where she lives. There, that explains it, you ran away and you are going home.
But to go home is surely madness. In her right mind, she would never have come here. They will soon come looking for her. They may already be searching for her. She feels a fresh wave of exhaustion. A café, over there on the right. She walks inside.
She
finds a table right at the back. She struggles to think clearly. First, orient herself in the space. She is sitting at the back of the café, feverishly staring at the face of an approaching waiter, she glances around, planning an exit route in case she needs to bolt. But nothing happens. The waiter does not ask any questions, he simply looks at her apathetically. She orders a coffee. The waiter trudges back to the counter.
O.K., first she needs to get her bearings.
Rue du Temple. She is . . . let’s see, three, no four
métro
stops from home. That’s right, four stops, Temple, République, change trains, and then . . . What’s the name of the fourth station? She gets off there every day, she has taken the same train hundreds of times. She can picture the entrance clearly, the stairs down and the metal ramps, the newspaper stand in the corner with the guy who always says “Fucking weather, eh?” . . . Shit!
The waiter brings her coffee, sets the bill down next to it: €1.10. Do I have any money with me? Her handbag is on the table in front of her. She was not even aware that she was carrying a handbag.
She is acting automatically, her mind a complete blank. That is how she came to be here, that is why she ran away. Something is stirring inside her, as though she were two people. I am two. One quivering with fear in front of a cup of coffee slowly getting cold and the other who walked here, clutching her handbag, forgetting her watch, blithely heading home as though nothing had happened.
She puts her head in her hands and feels tears running down her cheeks. The waiter looks at her as he polishes glasses, pretending to look blasé. I’m insane, and everyone can see it. I have to leave. I have to get up and leave.
She
feels a sudden rush of adrenalin: if I am crazy, then maybe these images in my head are made up. Maybe this is simply a waking nightmare. One she is only now shaking off. That’s it, just a nightmare. She dreamed that she killed the child. This morning, why did she panic and run? I was frightened by my own dream, that’s all.
Bonne-Nouvelle! That’s the name of the
métro
station, Bonne-Nouvelle. But there is another that comes before. This time she has no problem remembering: Strasbourg-Saint-Denis.
Her stop is Bonne-Nouvelle. She is sure of that, she can picture it.
The waiter is staring at her oddly. She is laughing. She was sobbing and suddenly she burst out laughing.
Is any of this real? She needs to know. To be clear in her own mind. She could telephone. Today is . . . Friday. Léo is not at school. He is at home. Léo must be at home.
Alone.
I ran away and left the child on his own.
I have to call.
She grabs her bag, rummages inside. The number is on her mobile. She wipes her eyes so that she can read the names. It rings. Once, twice, three times . . . It rings and no-one answers. Léo doesn’t have school today, he is alone in the apartment, the telephone is ringing, but nobody is answering . . . She feels sweat begin to trickle again, this time down her back. “Pick up, for fuck sake!” She counts the rings: four, five, six. There is a click and finally she hears a voice she was not expecting. She wanted to speak to Léo, but it is his mother’s voice that answers: “Hello. You’ve reached the voice-mail of Christine and Alain Gervais . . .” That calm, determined voice chills her to the marrow. What is she waiting for? Why has she not
hung up? Every word nails her to her chair. “We’re not here at the moment . . .” Sophie jabs at the “END CALL” button.
It is incredible, the effort it takes to string two simple thoughts together . . . Reflect. Understand. Léo knows how to answer the phone, in fact he loves racing to get there, picking up the phone, asking who it is. It is perfectly simple: if Léo were there, he would answer; if he does not answer, it means he is not there.
Shit, where can the little bastard be if he is not at home? He is not able to open the front door by himself. His mother had a childproof lock installed when he was starting to get around everywhere and into everything, and she was worried about him. He is not answering, he cannot have gone out: it is like squaring the circle. Where can the damn boy be?
Think. It is . . . what? 11.30 a.m.
The table is scattered with items from her handbag, there is even a tampon in the pile. What must she look like? At the bar counter, the waiter is talking to two men. Regulars, she guesses. They are probably talking about her. They glance over at her. She cannot stay here. She has to leave. She quickly scoops up everything on the table, shoves it into her bag and runs for the door.
“One euro ten!”
She turns back, the three men are looking at her strangely. She fumbles in her bag, takes out two coins, sets them on the counter and leaves.
The day is beautiful. Unthinkingly she notes the movement on the street, the strolling pedestrians, the passing cars, the roaring motorcycles. Walk. Keep walking and think. This time, the image of Léo is very precise. She can picture every tiny detail. It was not a dream. The boy is dead and she is on the run.
The
cleaner will arrive at noon. There is no reason for anyone to be in the apartment before midday. But at that point, the child’s body will be discovered.
So she has to get away. She must be vigilant. Danger could come from anywhere, at any moment. She cannot stand still, she has to keep moving, to keep walking. Collect her belongings and get away before they find her. Get away until she has had time to think. To understand. When she is calmer, she will be able to figure things out. Then she can come back and explain. Right now, she has to go. But where to?
She stops dead. Somebody bumps into her from behind. She stammers an apology. She is in the middle of the pavement, she looks around. There are a lot of people on the boulevard. The sun is sweltering. Life loses a little of its madness.
There is the florist, the furniture shop. She needs to move swiftly. She catches sight of a clock in the furniture shop: 11.35. She rushes into the entrance of her building, hunts for her keys. There are letters in her mailbox. No time to waste. Third floor. More keys, first the mortice lock, then the Yale. Her hands are trembling, she sets down her handbag, it takes her two attempts, she tries to calm her breathing, the second key turns, the door swings open.
She stands on the threshold, the door yawning wide: at no point did it occur to her she might have miscalculated. That the police might already be waiting for her. The hallway is silent. The familiar light from her apartment falls at her feet. She stands there petrified, but all she can hear is the beating of her heart. Suddenly she flinches, a key turns in another door. Along the landing on the right. Her neighbour. Without thinking, she hurries into her apartment. The door slams behind her before she has time to catch it. She freezes and listens intently. The empty silence, so
often depressing, is reassuring now. She moves slowly about the only room. One eye on her alarm clock: 11.40. More or less. Her alarm has never been exactly accurate. But is it slow or fast? She seems to remember it runs fast. But she is not certain.
Everything happens at once. She pulls a suitcase from the wardrobe, opens the dresser drawers, stuffs clothes higgledy-piggledy into the case, then runs to the bathroom, sweeps her arm along the shelf and everything tumbles into a sponge-bag. A glance around. Her papers. She runs to the desk: passport, money. How much does she have? 200 euros. Her cheque book! Where is the damn chequebook? In my handbag. She makes sure. Another quick look around. Jacket. Handbag. The photos! She retraces her steps, opens the top drawer of the writing desk, snatches up the album. Her eyes fall on the framed wedding photograph on top of the dresser. She grabs it, tosses it into the suitcase and snaps it shut.
Frazzled, she presses her ear to the door. Once again the only sound is that of her heart beating. She presses both hands flat against the door. Concentrate. Still she can hear nothing. She grips the handle of the suitcase, throws the door wide: there is no-one on the landing. She shuts the door behind her, not bothering to lock it. She races down the stairs. There is a taxi passing. She hails it. The driver wants to put the suitcase in the boot. No time! She lifts it onto the back seat and gets in.
The driver says: “Where to?”
She has no idea. She thinks for a moment.
“Gare de Lyon.”
As the taxi pulls away, she looks through the rear window. Nothing unusual, a few cars, pedestrians. She takes a breath. She must look like a lunatic. In the rear-view mirror, the driver is eyeing her suspiciously.
It
is curious how, in emergency situations, one idea leads to another almost spontaneously. She cries out:
“Stop!”
Startled by the command, the driver brakes. They have not even gone a hundred metres. By the time the driver has turned around, she is already out of the car.
“I’ll be right back. Can you wait here for me?”
“Actually, love, it’s not exactly convenient . . .” mutters the driver.
He looks at the suitcase she tossed on the back seat. Neither it nor his customer inspire confidence. She hesitates. She needs him, and everything is already so complicated . . . She opens her bag, takes out a fifty-euro note and proffers it.
“Does this help?”
The driver looks at the banknote, but he does not take it.
“Oh, alright, go on then,” he says. “But be quick . . .”
She dashes across the street and goes into the local branch of her bank. The place is almost empty. At the counter is a face she does not recognise, a woman. But she rarely comes in. She takes
out her chequebook and sets it in front of her.
“I’d like know the balance of my account, please . . .”
The clerk pointedly looks up at the clock on the wall, takes the chequebook, keys numbers into the terminal and studies her nails while the printer clatters and whirrs. Her nails and her wristwatch. The printer seems to be performing a Herculean task, it takes almost a minute to spit out ten lines of text and numbers. The only number Sophie is interested in is the one at the bottom.