Talking to Ghosts (32 page)

“I don't think there's anything else we can do,” the doctor said. “I'll have to give him a shot. He'll end up hurting himself. Do you know the kid?”

“His mother is a witness in a case I've been working on. The boy's autistic, as far as I know. He looks like he's in shock. He must have been terrified …”

“We'll have to take him to a psych unit. The children's hospital won't take him.”

“A psych unit?”

“You got a better solution?” The man's tone was curt, impatient. José was wailing now and sobbing.

“No, I've no solution.”

He looked back at the boy, his eyes were wide with fear, crouching in the back seat of the car.

Pablo. Different shadows, a different fear. Vilar felt himself choking, everything around him was suddenly floating. He leaned on the bonnet of the car and shook his head.

“You O.K.?” the doctor said.

“Yeah, yeah … Just look after him. Don't leave him crying in the dark like that. Give him something so he can sleep, so he can get some rest.”

He felt sweat trickle down his back. His eyes were blurred from the dizziness – from the tears – and he stood for a moment, head bowed, hands resting on the warm bonnet. All he could hear now was the boy's wail, shrill, deafening, right beside him in the darkness. A woman in a
white coat came over and set a first-aid kit on the roof of the car. Slowly, she opened the door against which José was leaning and began whispering to him gently. The doctor Vilar had spoken to was also leaning into the car and they discussed what to do while the boy whimpered softly.

Vilar walked away, watching as one by one the officers left the scene. An ambulance moved slowly off. Mégrier was giving orders to his men, juggling two mobiles simultaneously. In his pocket, Vilar's own mobile rang. It was Daras.

“Mégrier told me about Laurent. Shit. What the fuck did you do?”

“We were trying to get Sandra de Melo somewhere safe. The guy must have followed her. He called me. He was tailing Pradeau's car, threatening all sorts. What would you have done?”

He heard Daras sigh.

“How do you expect us to find them in the middle of the night when we've got nothing to go on?” she said. “We could put an officer on every street corner but we'd just be pissing in the wind. Besides, by now they'll be long gone.”

“So what are you planning to do?”

“Nothing. I don't know. We can't do more than Mégrier. He's already got bodies on the ground. He has promised to call me the minute he hears anything. He's been in touch with the big shots, the
commissaires
and the directors and they've told him to do his best, to get out all the officers he can. Jesus wept! I think I'm just going to take a pill and get some sleep so I can start again early tomorrow. Not that there's anything we can do. We're already trying to track down details for this Éric guy, we can't do any more. With a bit of luck, we'll have some information tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yeah.” Vilar echoed her words mechanically, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

“What about you?”

“I'll hang around for a bit. Tire myself out, because the way things are I won't get a wink of sleep, and that wouldn't help.”

He broke off as he saw the frail form of the boy being lifted gently out of the car like some sacred effigy. Surrounded by doctors and police
officers, his body seemed as though it might disappear. A huge firefighter was cradling him in his arms. To such a giant he barely weighed anything, he barely existed. Vilar wondered whether this boy would ever truly be aware of his own existence.

“If you'd seen the kid screaming in the back of the car … The guys from the S.A.M.U. are just taking him away, sedated like an elephant. They didn't know what else to do. There was nothing left of him but this howl. He saw everything, his mother was taken away from him, while he was there, bawling in the dark. You remember, I told you about him? And the girl, his mother, she's a decent person.”

They both hung up. Vilar turned away from the line of police officers and headed back to his car. He drove towards the train station, his mind blank, unable to think, then he went along the cours de la Marne, found a place to park in a narrow street next to the Marché des Capucins. All the windows in the alley were dark, the heat was stifling. From the vast mouldering dumpsters by the market came a stench of rotten meat and fish that made his stomach heave. He walked back towards the cours de la Marne, where the greasy smell wafting from a steakhouse forced him to double up between two cars, but he could only manage to vomit up a little bile. He headed towards the place de la Victoire, his eyes blurred with tears, an acrid taste in his mouth, weaving between the crowd that was gathered around the stalls offering various kinds of food. The place smelled of fried onions, pizza, grilled meat and hot fat, and as he walked he caught snatches of conversation – this seemed to be a nocturnal race of people who communicated only in monosyllables and in the rumblings of their bellies. Their faces were dazed, tanned or flushed with sickly colour by the garish neon lights. He stepped aside for five guys who came swaggering along, taking up the whole pavement, wearing baseball caps or bandanas in a pathetic attempt to look like American “gangstas”. He passed an African woman dressed in a red and gold
bubu
, pushing a buggy with a baby who stared out, wide-eyed at the garish lights and the milling crowds. Two little girls, their hair braided in cornrows, walked alongside, sometimes pressing themselves against her hips.

Through the square, which was marked out like a landing strip with recessed lights, weaved a host of shadows, chattering into mobile telephones, publicly declaiming their most private thoughts, some with the faint blue glow of a Bluetooth headset winking at their ears, others with their heads down, listening to music on their phones. From here and there came cries or laughter in this darkness spangled with lights and teeming with sleepwalkers. Vilar stopped in the middle of the square, its cobblestones transmitted all the heat of the day to the legs of the passers-by and, for a brief second, he had the precise impression of being surrounded by the dead. By a crowd of people who did not realise they had died. Oblivious and sombre, quickly swallowed by the darkness and dispersed into the void. He allowed himself to sink into this vertiginous feeling, his breath coming in gasps, an urge to cry caught in the back of his throat.

Then a boy walked past. Ten years old, maybe, pushing a bicycle that was too big for him.

Pablo. Vilar shuddered at the idea that his son could be right here, alone in the darkness, drifting in limbo, unable to see or hear him, while Vilar could do nothing to bring him back to the light. He felt himself choking, wanted to cry out. He spun around, shook his head in an attempt to ward off this nightmare.

He headed for the bars with their dazzling terraces, not daring to look around him, crossed the street, weaving between the cars, and walked into the first bar he came to which was huge, heaving, deafeningly loud. He tugged the sleeve of a barman who initially tried to extricate himself, arrogant and aggressive, but seeing the man half slumped over the bar, he served Vilar the beer he had ordered. Vilar had to force himself to breathe, otherwise all his internal workings would have stopped dead. In that moment it seemed to him that to stay alive he had to make a conscious effort to breathe, to constantly check his heart was still beating, just as someone in the hold of a sinking ship – he had seen this in films – has to keep working the hand pump that both drains the breath from him even as it prevents him from suffocating.

Breathless, Vilar gulped half of his beer so quickly he had a coughing fit that had him doubled over. When he finally managed to catch his breath, the thick wall of cotton that had been smothering him had melted away. Pradeau's pistol, tucked into his belt, was digging into his back. He thought about the evening, about Sandra de Melo somewhere out there in the darkness at the mercy of that psychopath, separated from her son; about the little boy separated from himself, torn away, torn apart, a boy who right now was bludgeoned by sedatives, thrashing in terrifying sleep. He wondered how Éric – since this seemed to be his name – would manage to cope with two hostages, one of them a police officer who would grab the first opportunity to take him down.

He thought again about Pablo, about limbo, about the nightmare vision that had overwhelmed him in the square, and he knew that if one day he began to believe in these images, began to talk to them, a conversation with shadows, he would go mad.

He looked around, because there was nothing else for him to do.

Apart from a couple of old lags sucking in their stomachs to hide beer bellies while they chatted up drunk students, he had to be the oldest person in this milling crowd. He listened, but heard only a general hubbub in which he could not make out a single word, and once again he had the insistent sensation of being in a foreign country with an unfamiliar language, a feeling that faded as he gradually came back to the surface of things, of himself. He could now make out isolated words, voices, the throaty, sensual laugh of a girl standing behind him.

All this was life. And nothing else. It was this or nothing, perhaps. These loud, pretentious young people crowded in here to exorcise a working day, a week of grovelling, self-denial, resentment and humiliation; to forget everything they have been forced to meekly accept; to drown the insidious sorrows that govern their lives. Young people who are already resigned, already wrinkled beneath their smooth, glossy skin, their limber backs already bowed. Reduced to silence, or to the scarcely articulate gabbling of drunken crowds. Vilar looked at the laughing faces, the shocks of hair, the bodies of the girls naked under bodysuits; curvaceous breasts and muscular abs visible through
cropped T-shirts. He saw three or four faces of extraordinary beauty; suddenly he desperately needed a woman, right now; he felt his cock harden in a way it had not done in a long time and he thought about how he would like to grab one of them, fuck her roughly, right here, pounding into her, howling more with rage than with pleasure.

He drained his glass, dropped a five-euro note on the bar and walked away. As he made his way to the door, he brushed against one of these beautiful girls, felt the curves of her body, the heft of her breasts pressed against him. He gently pushed her away, wrestling with the urge to shove his hand between her legs and drag her away with him.

He wandered around for a while, shocked by the violence of his feelings, of his desires, he drifted towards the dark corners of the square past lurking groups of thugs, walked a little way along the cours Pasteur then turned back and walked back down the cours de la Marne oblivious to everyone, paying little attention to the fight that broke out on the opposite pavement, only dimly aware of shouts, jerking movements, a body collapsing into the road. He needed to get back to his car, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being clumsy, drunk, pathetic, his stomach lurching queasily. He slipped behind the steering wheel with a groan of exhaustion and relief and drove off, all the windows rolled up, happy in this silence, this solitude. He crossed the city in his air-conditioned bubble, the radio playing a Mozart concerto he happened upon while flicking through the stations. He allowed himself to be filled with the grace of this music. By the sudden joy that formed like the cool condensation on a glass when you are thirsty.

As he got home and was fumbling in his pockets for his keys, the telephone in his apartment rang. He slammed open the door, crashing through the dark flat, winded and wheezing.

He recognised the voice. He listened.

“It will be all over soon,” the man said, “You'll see.”

“What do you mean, ‘over'?”

“For everyone. You, me. The time we've spent together. This is the moment when everything comes together.”

“What about Sandra? What about my partner?”

“It will be over for them too. Don't worry, I'm taking care of it right now. You tried to fuck me over, but you're not in control of anything, you shower of shits. I've been in control, ever since the beginning. Oh, and I've got some stuff about your son. You'll like that.”

Vilar had to sit down. He slumped into an armchair, feeling suddenly dizzy. The darkness whirled around him.

“Hey, you listening to me?”

Vilar sought some reserve of air within himself.

“Yeah, I'm listening. One of these days, I'm going to kill you.”

“Whatever. But maybe you should wait till you find out about your son, because if I'm dead, you'll never know.”

Vilar closed his eyes. The man had stopped speaking. There was nothing now but the hum of electrical static, a meaningless buzzing.

Then, without another word, the call was cut off.

Vilar threw his head back. Tears trickled into his throat.

Late that night, the telephone rang again and immediately a dream came to him in which Ana was saying that they would be home soon and telling him she was about to pass the phone to Pablo, and Vilar, half asleep, leaning over the nightstand, receiver pressed to his ear, smiling at the thought of hearing his son's high-pitched voice, could not understand why Daras was talking to him in a muffled, distant, barely audible voice as though she were calling from the bottom of an abyss; he had to ask her to repeat what she had said.

“They've found Sandra de Melo at the Cité du Grand-Parc. It's not pretty. You have to get here.”

Victor was sitting in the sweeping shadows cast by the mulberry tree and the oaks at the bottom of the garden where, at this time of the evening, it was so dark that it seemed it was from here that night welled up and spread irresistibly across the face of the earth. He abandoned himself to the muddled thoughts and chaotic images which seemed to sum up his situation. Once again he felt as though he were trapped in a deep hole, with no means of escape. At times the hole seemed to be filling with water, or to be flanked by steep powdery sides where his hands could find no purchase to climb out.

Then he thought about Rebecca, about her hands on him, about what she had allowed him to do, what he had glimpsed. He ran a finger over his lips trying to recapture some trace of the pleasure he had experienced. But he felt nothing, alone and stupid in the silence that had suddenly swelled around him; there was not a breath of air and he looked up at branches of the trees which seemed impossibly still, tried to listen for the sound of the television in the house but heard nothing, not even the noise of the plates clattering in the sink.

When finally he did hear something, it was too late. A hand was clamped over his mouth, a blade pricked at his throat. He recognised the voice whispering in his ear. He smelled the boozy breath that reminded him of the stink of cheap plonk that often hung around the wineries.

“Keep your trap shut. You're coming with me. You know who I am?”

Victor nodded.

“No … you don't know. But I know. I'm sure now. I'm your father, you got that? I'm the one who had you with that whore and now you're coming with me.”

Victor felt his head being pulled back, the man's hand was still clamped to his mouth so the boy decided not to resist and allowed himself to be dragged backwards, toppling the deckchair where he had been sitting, knocking over a plastic chair. The man was behind him, panting suddenly out of exhaustion or fear, following Victor's footsteps, walking so close behind him that he stumbled and trod on his heels. They moved towards the house, passing the shed where Julien had finally got the engine of his moped working, and Victor remembered the kid's whoops of joy that almost drowned out the backfire from the engine as he sprang from his den, stripped to the waist, slick with oil and sweat, coughing and spluttering from a cloud of exhaust fumes that looked as though they were coming from a big diesel truck rather than a moped. He recalled these whoops of joy perfectly now, the reek of engine oil, he could see Marilou hugging the kid, kissing and congratulating him like a little brother.

Victor felt nothing. Neither fear nor anger. He tried to understand what was happening, but things were moving too quickly. All he knew was that he was drifting away. Everything suddenly seemed distant, remote. He was sorry it was dark because he would have liked to see the world flash past.

As they passed the terrace and the golden glow that streamed from the open French window, Victor heard the familiar sounds of evening, Denis' voice, loud and clear, saying to everyone “Hey, come look at what this guy's doing on the telly,” and Victor was not sure whether he wanted someone to suddenly burst through the door and save him, chase this evil bastard out of his life or whether he wanted them to stay inside, safe and happy in this beautiful summer evening. The familiar sounds died away and Victor quickly found himself out on the road in the gathering dusk, faintly lit by a distant streetlamp. The man pushed him towards a large estate car whose make Victor did not recognise, but he thought it might be the car he had thrown stones at the other
day. The man stopped when he clicked open the vast boot filled with boxes, bags and tins, he hesitated and Victor felt the grip on his mouth and his throat ease a little, but he did nothing that might anger the man or arouse his suspicion, he forced himself to remain completely still. He was terrified that someone might come out into the garden – probably Denis, who was always worrying where the kids were at night – might call him, come out to the gate and see what was going on, might see this guy trying to bundle a boy into his car, rush over and get into a fight or – worse – the guy might turn round at the last minute and stick the knife into Denis' chest, so Victor let himself be manhandled, he tried to imagine Marilou and Julien sitting wide-eyed in front of the television with Nicole and Denis commenting on what was happening because someone on television was clearly doing something extraordinary, almost beyond belief, and he knew that this peaceful world was over now, that one way or another, he would be done for.

“You scream or make any sudden move and I'll cut your throat,” the voice behind him said. “I don't give a fuck.”

The man took his hand from Victor's mouth, reached into the boot to get a roll of duct tape, which meant he had to let go of the boy, keeping him pressed against the bumper only by the weight of his body, struggling to locate the end of the tape.

Victor did not know what the man had done with the knife, but he knew he needed to use both hands to unroll the tape so he drove his elbow back hard and the man staggered back in surprise, allowing Victor to run out onto the road away from the village. As he turned away, he could clearly see the house he was leaving behind and he thought about the people inside, happy that he was able to keep them out of this. He heard the man curse and run after him, then dash back to his car. As he heard the engine start up, Victor came to the little path he and Rebecca had taken a few nights earlier, he plunged down the embankment as the utter darkness closed its huge jaws around him. He made no attempt to get his bearings, he simply ran across the soil rutted by tractor tyres and when he felt the ground rise again he stopped
to catch his breath and listen, but he could hear nothing save the silence of the night pierced by stars with a pink moon rising over the estuary. He realised he could make out the shadowy mass of the vines and the dark track of the path running gently uphill from here. Feeling thirsty, he picked a heavy bunch of grapes, feeling each one with his fingers and eating only those that were soft and ripe. He loved the taste of the sweet juice filling his mouth and he walked on more slowly now, almost calm, hearing nothing but the night wind whispering in the vines.

He carried on walking with no concept of time, skirting around the vast fields of the vineyards, along paths that criss-crossed one another; the moon, rising behind him, cast the faintest shadows that alerted him to any obstacles he had to negotiate, the furrows or the hillocks where he might trip and fall on all fours, pricking his hands on the brambles or thistles. His feet were bare, he had been wearing only a pair of old espadrilles that Nicole insisted they use when coming and going between the garden and the house, but the canvas had ripped while he was running so that they barely stayed on his feet, and more than once he had to hop around in the dark looking for the one that had come off.

His only thought was to move forward. The darkness made him invisible and this entirely suited his desire to vanish, to cease to exist, to be able to watch unseen, as the dead do, perhaps, to eavesdrop on what others say about you, to know their secrets, to be close to them without their knowledge. He plunged into the balmy darkness and felt weightless.

Then he stopped. He thought about his mother, he had left her behind, and his heart beat wildly as he pictured the urn in his wardrobe. “Manou,” he said aloud, “Manou, I'm not leaving you, I'll come back to get you. You saw the guy. I had to run, I had to.” Once again he waited several seconds for her answer, but there was nothing but the wind tickling his neck.

After a while, his legs began to tremble each time he needed them to jump a ditch or a stream, and he wondered where he was going to sleep. He scrambled up another bank and found himself on a narrow
tarmac road, which he thought he recognised from having cycled this way once or twice – to the right, it led down to the estuary. He was afraid of that expanse of water gliding in the dark, afraid that it would swallow him up or carry him away, so he turned left and walked uphill for about a hundred metres, then cut back into the vines. He was hurrying now and turned his ankle in a rut, breathless and aching and suddenly so exhausted that he wanted to lie down and try to sleep, but when he felt the rough, dry grass prick his hands and his knees, felt the soil radiate the accumulated heat of the day against his skin, he gave a disappointed groan and limped on.

Further on, just as the moon disappeared behind a wisp of fog, he almost ran straight into a trailer lying in the field; the boy hoisted himself into the back and lay down on the rough bare boards. He peeled off his shirt, rolled it into a pillow and the moment he lay down on his stomach and pressed his cheek to it, he was asleep.