The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (30 page)

     When he was small, she had injured him herself. Perhaps even tried to kill him, but lost her nerve. Then, as Louis grew older, he soon learned what she wanted, and responded to her needs. So he did it himself. Having heard what Louis had said from his coma, Perez was sure of it. She didn’t need to touch him. She just had to be there. He’d have an accident, and she would save him. It would strengthen the bond between them. She loved him, she hated him. She wanted to be with him for ever and she never wanted to see him again. She couldn’t live with him and she couldn’t live without him.

     And Louis colluded.

When Sophie turned up, tearful and scared, I told her everything.

     —I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, she said. —The girls are on their way.

     And then neither of us knew what to say. Despite all our years of marriage, there was an awkwardness, a formality. It felt as though we were strangers who would have to acquaint themselves, slowly, with the new people we had become. She put her hand on my arm and I saw a terrible expression on her face: not love, but pity.

     —Will you come back? I asked. There was a long pause.

     —I don’t know. I don’t really know if I can live with what’s happened to you. I don’t mean the burns. I mean what’s happened in your head.

     When she said that, I wondered if I could either.

I came out of hospital in November, and began to work at the clinic again part-time. I was still weak. In August, after the post-mortems, both Pierre Drax and Natalie’s funerals took place. Natalie’s, in Paris, had been a small affair, according to Lucille, who’d visited me regularly, bringing me news of Louis, and the outside world. Natalie’s sister Francine came, and the mother whom Natalie had always claimed lived in Guadeloupe. She did not. Had never even been there. She was in sheltered accommodation in Étampes, south of Paris. She’d looked weary and drawn and strangely resigned to what had happened. Though she had known nothing, she said, understood nothing. After Louis was born, Natalie had broken off all contact. There had never been a stepfather, with or without Parkinson’s disease.

     December brought me a visit from Detective Charvillefort and Marcel Perez, who was off the bottle. Stephanie Charvillefort was dealing with a case of fraud in Cannes, and Marcel Perez had joined her for the ride. Both of them had wanted to take the opportunity to visit me, Louis and Lucille. I was delighted to see them, delighted that they had made this detour – a whole trip, in Marcel Perez’s case – to visit me. If they were shocked at the change in my appearance, they hid it well.

     —And how are you, Pascal? asked Marcel.

     —I don’t look very attractive in the nude, but Sophie says I never did anyway.

     —She’s come back, then? asked Stephanie searchingly.

     —Sort of. It’s very delicate. Some days we’re OK and other days we aren’t.

     —Give it time, said Marcel Perez. Treat it like bereavement. There are stages to it.

     —She’s still doing anger, I said.

     —Then let her.

     —Shall we walk in the garden? I suggested.

     —I’ll sit with Louis for a while, said Marcel Perez. —I’ve got things to say to him. I’ll join you.

     When he saw Louis, his face lit up, then darkened. He took the boy’s hand in his and squeezed.

     —No change? he asked sadly.

     —No change. We keep on hoping.

     I needed two sticks to walk. Even with their help, I couldn’t move fast. Everything hurt. I explained to Stephanie that the burns would take a long time to heal, and I might need some further surgery on my chest and legs. My hands were mending slowly.

     —Come on. I’ll show you the roses. Winter roses. They’re just in bloom. As we left the ward, Stephanie reached for her cigarettes, and I picked up an empty plastic specimen jar to serve as an ashtray, knowing that Monsieur Girardeau would never forgive me if I didn’t clean up after my visitor. We walked for a while in silence under a sky dotted with white clouds. The seagulls spun above us.

     —Have you lost your faith in women, Pascal? Stephanie Charvillefort asked abruptly. —I’m interested.

     I thought for a moment. I’d never asked myself this. I wondered why. The question was so obvious.

     —Perhaps I should have. But no. Actually, I refuse to. On principle. It’s more that I’ve lost faith in my own judgement.

     What I couldn’t say was that I wasn’t over Natalie Drax. That a sick, tortured part of me hung on, yearning for her still. Stephanie took out a cigarette and lit up. I winced at the flame.

     —Sorry, she said. —I didn’t think.

     —And what about you? Can one ask the same question of a woman?

     —No, because it’s different. You can’t lose faith in your own sex. That would be a kind of abdication. But you know what your own sex is capable of, and what it can sink to. I may not be a typical woman, she said, shooting me a wry glance, —but I do understand the female psyche.

     —And the male psyche?

     —To some extent. Men want to think the best of women, especially if they’re attractive. Isn’t there some truth in that? That we attribute moral goodness to attractive people? And to those who present themselves as victims? Natalie made a very convincing victim, she mused. —I was taken in too. Despite being female.

     I had a sudden flash of memory: Natalie’s scorched figure screaming and on fire. It was recurrent. Five times a day on average, I saw that small frail frame, running away from itself, from me, from the world. Hurtling into hell. Saw the once-pale hair on fire, a ghastly halo around that blackened, eaten-up face.

     We had reached the roses.

     —Aren’t they stupendous? I asked shakily, pointing a stick at the yellow mass of blooms. I forced the image of Natalie back into the corner of my mind where it lived and lurked.

     —A very striking colour, said Stephanie, stubbing out her cigarette before grinding it into the earth with her heel. —Didn’t Louis mention lupins? Do you have them here?

     —Hundreds, I said, pointing to what remained of them. —Highly toxic.

     At this she grew serious again, animated. —What’s so puzzling to me is that Natalie’s way of thinking comes from another era. From the time when women really were helpless, when they really did have to manipulate men.

     —A throwback, I murmured. —Some kind of relic. But to hurt her own child and call it love  ...

     —Every day, a woman somewhere kills her own child, said Stephanie Charvillefort bleakly. —Believe me. We watched as Marcel Perez stood on the balcony with Jacqueline, then descended the steps towards us.

     —But I don’t want to believe you.

     —No one does. But it’s the truth. It’s the easiest kind of murder to cover up, because it’s the kind most people would prefer not to contemplate.

     —Which makes us accomplices, I said slowly, allowing the thought space. —Because we’ve colluded without knowing.

     —That was the end-point. But it all began with something very small. Natalie’s first mistake was negligible. It was easily understandable. It was even forgivable, if you’re into forgiveness. She wanted a man who didn’t want her, so she tried to trap him by getting pregnant. It’s the oldest trick in the book.

     —One of the oldest tricks, said Marcel, joining us as Stephanie took out another cigarette. This time she turned away from me to light it. —There are actually many. What lovely roses.

     —All of them listed somewhere in a psychology book, right? said Stephanie. He smiled and we walked on, rounding the corner and stopping by the ornamental pond. It struck me that Stephanie and Marcel must have spent some time discussing the case of Natalie Drax. I felt oddly out of the loop.

     I watched the tiny rainbows shooting up from the fountain. My legs were hurting and I had to stop for a moment.

     —It may be a morally questionable thing to do, said Stephanie, —but it’s not evil. It’s not even illegal. It’s just a dirty trick to play. Talk to any man who’s been caught out that way. He’s furious, he’s resentful. Women can be their own worst enemies.

     —But why invent a story of rape? I asked. I still didn’t get it. —It’s so – so
drastic
. How could anyone come up with an idea like that?

     Marcel Perez sighed. —That’s where I went wrong. I never doubted it, when I heard that story. You don’t, do you?

     —No, I said —You don’t. It’s too ... indecent. Indecent to question it, but the idea of making it up’s indecent too. No one with any pride–

     —Oh, but it came from pride, said Marcel. —Look at it this way. She could hardly tell the real story. It didn’t make her look good. But she could have come up with something that didn’t make her look so bad – some kind of halfway version. Most women in that position manage to. But she was too proud for that. And cunning. She took it a step further. The rape story gained her a sort of sick cachet.

     —It was actually quite inspired, said Stephanie dismally. —It made her a sort of holy martyr. Three cheers for the female mind.

     This thought depressed me. I didn’t like to think of women like that. Most are not. Surely, most are not?

     —That’s why I asked you if you’d lost faith, she went on. —Because in your position I might. But I don’t want you to.

     I smiled at her sudden seriousness. I could see Marcel smiling too. When I felt a little steadier, we walked on slowly, Charvillefort smoking and talking, Marcel and me mostly listening and thinking. I remembered at one moment, with a kind of shock, that I had rather disliked Stephanie Charvillefort when I first met her. Or at least not taken her seriously.

     —I got you wrong, I said suddenly.

     —I know, she said, turning sharply to look at me, and then smiling.

     —People do, Stephanie, said Marcel. —It’s the way you come across. Perhaps you should wear a bit of make-up.

     But I couldn’t join in their laughter. My feelings – would they ever leave me? – were too strong, too recent, too excruciating. The three of us sat down on the bench near the azaleas and looked at the garden in silence for a moment, each absorbed in our thoughts.

     —She loved her son, said Marcel Perez. —But she hated him too. There was an eternal conflict. It was more complex than Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy. The murderous instinct really was there. She said she never let him die. But she took him to the edge time after time. A part of him wanted it too. It was a game they played together.

     A sleek koi carp glided into view beneath the surface of the water, its scales smooth. Another followed, and then a third. I watched, mesmerised as their cool shapes swirled in the depths.

It was February. Winter had laid everything bare. The mountains, capped with snow, rose dark and primaeval from the plain below: a desolate, almost lunar landscape. Huge rocks lay scattered like a handful of dice flung down by a petulant giant. There were hardly any other cars on the road, but the occasional HGV rumbled past, its tyres shooting up swathes of slush. Somewhere, in this emptiness, they took deliveries.

     After Ponteyrol the road narrowed; it took me another hour, from there, to reach the spot where the Drax family had gone for their picnic. It was higher up, more remote, than I had pictured.

     I parked in a clearing nearby and picked my way slowly along the track that led through tall dead grass spangled with frozen cobwebs. Stephanie had given me the police map which showed the landmarks: a bent fir tree, a clutch of birch trees, two boulders. There were odd patches of mist; despite my thick coat, I shivered. The scars on my chest and hands ached as I struggled with the brambles that caught at my clothing. Slowly, I became aware of the sound of rushing water. I limped to the edge of the ravine and stood at the spot where Louis Drax fell.

     It was a few minutes before I summoned the nerve to look down. The drop was sheer and unrelenting. A wave of nausea overtook me. Vertigo. The trick is to breathe slowly, quell the panic. Unthinkable, that anyone could have survived such a fall. You could see a thin ribbon of silver far below, with a cloud of spray rising from it.

     I stayed there for a long time, just breathing. Breathing, and wondering if I would ever make sense of the dance that Louis and his mother danced together for nine years, the rituals and acts of complicity that led to him walking those five steps back. Or if I would ever know where Louis was wandering now. The mind is infinitely larger than the world it inhabits. There is more to the human brain than machinery or meat. I believe in the soul, I thought suddenly. Everything I know about the brain tells me not to, but I believe in it still. I believe in Louis’ soul. I felt myself swaying.

To try and put a lid on things, I wrote about the case of Louis Drax. But despite the proof of a telepathic interchange – the CCTV footage, the witnesses – my article was rejected by all the major medical journals. In my heart of hearts, I had always known it would be. It was too bizarre. The editors indicated, gently, that publication would discredit me. That it would not help my career to be seen as any more of a maverick than I already was.