After the Crash (32 page)

Marc reached out and managed to grab Lylie’s foot. She protested: ‘Hey, that’s not fair!’
He pulled her towards him. When they were young, he and Lylie
used to play like this every night, in a soapy bath. Marc’s strong
hand gripped Lylie’s waist. She was as light as a feather.
‘Cheat!’
Still laughing, Lylie turned around so she was facing him.
Marc’s hand slid upward, to her arm, her shoulder. Gently he
pushed her down, using her as a support to lift himself out of the
water. Lylie’s chest rubbed against Marc’s stomach. Then her shoulders did the same. And then her face, eyes closed to protect them
from the salt water.
Deeper underwater. Lylie’s face touched the soaked cloth of
Marc’s shorts. By accident, almost, her mouth touched his penis.
He went hard. How could he do otherwise?

Far off, a ferry was leaving the port in Dieppe, headed towards
Newhaven. A few white triangles followed in its wake – seagulls,
probably, or small sailing boats. It was difficult to be sure from this
distance.

Lylie and Marc said nothing. They swam slowly towards the
beach. The sand was nearly dry. Lylie lay face down.
‘Shall we dry off for a bit before we go home?’
She sounded embarrassed. There was a new timbre to her voice,
an adult timbre. Marc sat with his arms round his knees, staring out
towards the horizon.
How long did they stay like that? A few minutes? Hours?

Suddenly, Lylie stood up. She didn’t say a word. Marc could see
only her shadow on the sand. She crossed her arms and, in one
single movement, removed her top. She placed it delicately on the
sand, stretched out flat, as if to make it dry quicker. When she bent
down, Marc could see the shadow of her small, firm breasts on the
sand.

Lylie then slid her hands slowly down her waist, inch by inch as
if she were dancing, and stripped off the lower part of her outfit. It
fell to the ground, like a shed skin.

Marc looked at her shadow, pigmented by millions of grains
of sand. It was the same as before – same waist, same hips, same
thighs, with or without the second skin – and yet . . .

Lylie lay down on her stomach again.
Marc waited for hours. Or minutes. He couldn’t tell.
Nobody came to their aid. There was not a sail on the horizon,

Lylie felt Marc’s warm hand on her lower back. It felt rough from
the sand stuck to his palm. She shivered, and turned onto her back.
Who else could she give her eighteen years to?

Marc opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat. Through the
window of the train, an endless line of pylons was rushing past.
Instinctively, he recoiled. Was he a monster?
Marc felt the weight of the blue envelope in his jacket pocket.
It probably only weighed twenty grammes, but it seemed much
heavier somehow.
Were they monsters?
If he opened the envelope, he would know.
The carriage door opened, and Malvina de Carville appeared.

The hot water rained down over Lylie’s naked body. She closed her
eyes under the shower, hoping to find some kind of serenity. Or
calm, at least. Blindly, she reached out and squeezed liquid soap
from the dispenser. She rubbed it against her skin: breasts, stomach,
pubis. Then she rinsed off the soap, remaining under the shower for
a long time. She was desperate to feel clean. On the surface, if not
underneath.

Finally, she emerged from the cubicle, wrapped in a large white
bath towel. Her wet hair dripped onto the floor. Lylie wiped the
steam from the mirror with the back of her hand. She felt frightened by her own blurred reflection, as if her face had been replaced
by that of a stranger. She brushed her teeth so hard that her gums
bled.

She had thrown up, an hour ago, outside on the street. A young
policeman had helped her up from her knees and handed her
a tissue. She had wiped her face while a mother pushed a pram
through her puke. The policeman could have arrested her. He probably would have done, had she not implored him with her doe-like
eyes.

‘It’s the first time, officer.’
He let her go.
She threw up again half an hour later. In her room, at the foot

The girl lying on the other bed in the room was obviously waiting for her to come back.
‘They came and cleaned up while you were in the shower.’
The girl was not even sixteen. She had short-cropped red hair
and her teeth were already yellow.
‘You’re lucky in a way. I can’t throw up. I feel like I’m rotting
inside. I’d give anything to be able to puke.’
This was not a conversation Lylie wanted to have right now. But
Yellow Teeth didn’t seem to care about that; she just wanted someone to listen to her.
‘This is my second time here,’ she went on. ‘I’m a reoffender!
So they’re pissed off with me. They were preaching at me for three
hours yesterday, the bastards.’
Lylie walked to the window, and looked out. The girl was
annoyed: ‘Don’t get all hoity-toity with me. You’re no different than
I am.’
Lylie watched the ambulances come and go in the car park
below. She had walked the streets for three hours before she finally
entered. She had even followed a funeral procession for a while.
She could see the bell tower of the church of Saint-Hippolyte, but
the playground of the nursery next to it was obscured by a row of
houses. The laughing of the children was submerged beneath the
roar of traffic. Unless they had gone back into the classroom, or
gone home. Lylie was unsure what time it was. She felt so confused.
What was she doing here? How was she going to endure all the
hours of waiting?
‘I was like you, the first time . . .’
Oh, please just shut up!
Lylie screamed inwardly.
She had left her telephone on a shelf in the bathroom. Switched
off. If only she could talk to Marc. If only he were here, to protect
her, as he always had done, to keep the bastards away from her.
All she had to do was pick up the phone. Marc would be there
in no time.
Yellow Teeth would not shut up. ‘You mustn’t feel bad about it.
Who cares what those bastards think? If they try to make you feel
guilty, just tell them to fuck off.’
‘Thank you,’ Lylie managed to say.
She stared at the large cedar tree in front of the window, hoping
to see a bird or some other sign of life. But there was nothing.
No, Marc would not come. She would not call him. No one
could find her here. Anonymity was one of the few things they
could guarantee you in a place like this. She would not call him, no
matter how desperately she wanted to. She had to leave Marc out
of this.
At least until tomorrow.

Lylie turned towards Yellow Teeth. The girl could at least do one
thing for her. Lylie attempted a smile.
‘Could I scrounge a fag?’
But Lylie never got a reply, because the door opened and a nurse
with the body of a prison warden entered the room.
‘Miss Emilie Vitral?’
‘Yes?’
‘The psychiatrist will see you now.’

Malvina de Carville gave Marc her inimitable rich-little-mad-girl
stare, her aristocratic-serial-killer smile. She sat down at the far end
of the carriage, facing him. Outside, the dull landscape of the Caux
sped past.

Marc did not move. Malvina undoubtedly had her Mauser to
hand. The best thing to do was wait. All Marc wanted, at that
moment, was to finish reading Grand-Duc’s notebook. He was only
five pages from the end.

The memory of Lylie, lying naked on Morval beach, came back
to him. Then he thought of the list of hospitals and suppressed a
shiver. He must not allow himself to be sidetracked. He should read
the last pages while keeping one eye on Malvina . . . and disarm the
crazy bitch at the first opportunity he got.

You’re beginning to panic now, aren’t you? You’ve counted the pages
left in this notebook and you’re beginning to wonder when you’ll
reach the solution to the mystery. I did warn you not to expect a
happy ending. I am no Hercule Poirot, able to tie up all the loose
ends in a few theatrical minutes. I know you’ve had enough of me
rambling on. You’re sick of my methods, the endless descriptions
of my moods, all these clues that lead nowhere. You have listened
very politely to my story, but now you are interested in only one
thing. All you want to know is the results of the DNA test. Oh yes,
Science with a capital S. The miracle of genetics. Don’t worry, I’m
getting there. There’s no need to panic. That was Lylie’s fifteenth
birthday present: three drops of blood.

But first, there are a few minor details to be dealt with. Nazim
and I continued our search for the famous Georges Pelletier, the
homeless junkie wandering around with – perhaps – a bracelet
worth seventy-five thousand francs in his pocket. It was Nazim who
finally found him, almost by accident. For several months, we had
been combing through the list of tramps, drunks and drop-outs
who had been found dead in the streets. Then, one misty morning
in July 1993, Nazim showed a photograph of Georges to a community police officer in the Neiges district of Le Havre. The guy
remembered Georges vaguely. We dug up the local archives, and
found a file on our man at the police station.

On 23 January, 1991, an unknown man had been found drowned
in a lake. Temperatures had been below zero for a week before that
so the guy would not have survived more than five minutes in the
freezing water, even with more than two grammes of alcohol in his
bloodstream. No ID had been found on his person, but the police
had taken a picture of the corpse. There was no doubt whatsoever:
it was definitely Georges Pelletier. Nothing in his hands or pockets:
no will, no dog, and no bracelet.

The deadest of dead ends.
I told Pelletier’s brother, Augustin, myself. He seemed almost
relieved. His quest was finally at an end, and he could turn the
page. I was not so lucky.
Georges Pelletier had taken his secret with him. What had he
done, that night, on Mont Terri? What had he seen?

Malvina’s eyes were closing. The rolling landscape of the Caux
seemed to be sending her to sleep. Marc guessed she wasn’t used
to long journeys. She kept dozing off, then suddenly waking up,
searching for Marc’s face in a panic. But this time, her eyes had been
closed for more than thirty seconds.

Without a sound, Marc stood up and crept stealthily towards
her. She was less than twenty yards away. If only she would stay
asleep, for just a little bit longer . . .

Malvina’s head was still leaning, motionless, against the blue-andyellow headrest, her mouth curved in an almost angelic smile. Marc
remembered being a child in the leisure centre in Dieppe, playing
a game called The King of Silence, in which he had to rescue a
princess tied to a chair without being clawed by the blind dragon
(some child in a blindfold). Lylie had always been his princess, of
course.

Only five yards to go now. The train veered to the right, and
Malvina’s head tipped over slightly. Marc froze. He even stopped
breathing.

Malvina opened her eyes. She was looking straight at him. But
she did not have time to move a muscle: one second later, Marc’s
thirteen-stone body smashed into her. His right hand covered her
mouth while his left pinned both her arms together. Malvina could
do nothing but roll her eyes and feebly kick her feet. The two other
passengers in the carriage – the teenager wearing earphones and the
sleeping man – had not noticed a thing.

Marc pushed Malvina towards the window. A fake crocodile
handbag, like something an old biddy would own, was placed on
the seat next to her. Marc’s plan was simple: get the gun. After that,
they could talk . . .

Holding Malvina down with the weight of his body, he rummaged around in her handbag.
All it took was a few seconds. He pulled the Mauser L110 from
the bag and pointed it at her. Then he slowly removed his hand
from her mouth.
‘So you wanted to visit Dieppe?’
Malvina pulled a face. ‘Yeah, I’m just crazy about kites. What will
you do if I scream?’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘You wouldn’t do that! Not to your beloved sister-in-law.’
‘You think? I’m a Vitral, remember. One of the bad guys.’
Malvina sighed. Clearly, she had no desire to draw any attention
to herself.
‘You know this is the last train of the day, Malvina? Are you planning to stay the night in Dieppe?’
‘Who cares? I’m a de Carville, remember. I’m not exactly short
of cash.’
‘It doesn’t matter how much cash you have. My grandmother
will still chop you into tiny pieces and feed you to the seagulls if she
gets hold of you.’
‘Are you ever going to stop cracking stupid jokes?’
Marc was irritated by Malvina’s self-assurance. He wanted to
wipe the smirk from her face. He had to make her talk. He needed
to find some way of disturbing her, cracking her arrogant façade.
He put his hand on her thigh. Malvina recoiled, banging her
head against the window.
‘You’re planning to stay with us, aren’t you? You want to share
my room . . .’
He moved his hand up her thigh.
‘Sorry, sweetie, but my balls are off limits tonight.’
‘Stop that, or I’ll scream.’
Marc’s hand moved up to her mauve jumper, just below her
breasts.
‘You’d be decent-looking, you know, if you dressed better.’
‘Take your hands off me . . .’
Malvina’s voice sounded as if it were cracking.
‘Sexier, I mean,’ Marc went on. ‘If you wore something that
showed off your nice little titties . . .’
His hand caressed one of them. He could feel Malvina’s heart
pounding.
‘And you’ve got enough money to pay to have bigger ones, of
course . . .’
Malvina’s fingers tightened around Marc’s right arm. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, incapable of scratching him.
He moved his face close to Malvina’s and breathed into her neck.
The girl’s body stiffened, and her fingers gripped him convulsively.
Then Malvina suddenly went limp, as if her skeleton had melted.
Marc pushed her hand away and hissed: ‘Never touch me again,
Malvina! Understand? Never again.’
Just then, the carriage door opened and a female ticket inspector
entered. She walked past them without stopping, merely glanced at
their intertwined bodies and smiled before she went through into
the next carriage.
Marc relaxed his grip and pointed the Mauser at Malvina.
‘All right, enough messing around. What are you doing here?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Marc smiled.
‘You make me laugh, Malvina. You’re like the crazy little sister I
never had.’
‘I’m older than you, dickhead.’
‘I know. Weird, isn’t it? Everyone goes on about you as if you’re
mad, bad and dangerous to know, but I just can’t bring myself to
believe it.’
‘Who’s everyone? Grand-Duc?’
‘Well, he’s not the only one, but yes . . .’
‘Surely you don’t believe all that crap he spouts . . .’
Malvina appeared to be feeling better. Marc told himself not to
get sucked in by the instinctive lack of fear he felt for her. Brandishing the Mauser in front of her, he said: ‘Well, he won’t be spouting
any more crap about you, that’s for sure. But shooting him in the
chest seems a little over the top. Did you kill him just because he
hated you?’
As before, Malvina’s body went momentarily limp. Her brown
eyes opened wide. ‘What are you on about, Vitral? I . . . I didn’t kill
Grand-Duc!’ Then as the shock passed, her voice regained its usual
irony: ‘I would have liked to, admittedly. But the job had already
been done by the time I got there.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid? His corpse fell out of a kitchen cupboard! Your Mini was parked in front of his house!’
Malvina’s pupils dilated and her eyes darted about frantically.
‘He was dead when I got there! I swear it! I entered his house two
hours before you did, and his body was already cold. As were the
embers in the hearth where his head had been resting.’
Marc bit his lip. He had the feeling she was telling the truth.
Grand-Duc had clearly been dead for several hours when Marc
found him. Malvina seemed sincere, and her version of events was
plausible. Was he being naïve, trusting this madwoman? And if not
Malvina, then who had killed the detective? Lylie’s face suddenly
appeared in his mind.
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘I couldn’t care less if you do or don’t.’
‘All right. So what were you doing at Grand-Duc’s house?’
‘I like dragonflies. I was there to admire his collection. Just like
you, right?’
Marc smiled, in spite of himself, but he kept the barrel of the
Mauser firmly pointed at Malvina.
‘Anyway, maybe
you
killed Grand-Duc? Your fingerprints are the
ones the police will find, not mine.’
What a bitch! But maybe not so mad . . . Disconcerted, Marc
stammered: ‘Are you . . . do you know what actually happened?
According to his notebook, Grand-Duc was intending to commit
suicide. A shot to the head, with an old newspaper to soak up the
blood . . .’
‘No . . .’ Malvina hesitated for a few seconds, then went on: ‘The
old bastard probably just couldn’t aim straight.’
She was lying. On this point at least, Marc did not trust her word
at all. Had Grand-Duc contacted the de Carvilles before he was
killed? Had he revealed more to them than what was written in the
notebook?
‘Grand-Duc had discovered something!’ Marc said, almost
shouting in his excitement. ‘He must have told your grandmother
about it. What was it?’
‘Stick it up your arse!’
This was almost a confession. Malvina folded her arms and
turned to face the window. The top of it was open and a slight
breeze ruffled the few hairs that escaped Malvina’s hair slide. Marc’s
eyes rested on the fake crocodile handbag.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you don’t want to tell me . . . I’ll find it out
for myself.’
He opened her handbag with his left hand, his right still clutching the Mauser.
‘Don’t touch that, Vitral!’
Malvina’s mouth suddenly snapped at Marc’s wrist, as she tried
to sink her teeth into his veins. With his left hand, he pushed her
violently against the seat.
‘Fucker!’ Malvina hissed.
She kicked at Marc’s knees with her feet. He thought about
knocking her out, but decided against it. She struggled against him,
using all the strength left in her little body, but he was too powerful.
Her head slumped back against the window, defeated.
Marc exhaled. Malvina suppressed a jubilant smile. In the struggle, a blue envelope had fallen from Marc’s pocket and she had
kicked it under the seat without him noticing. Now all she had to
do was wait until she could pick it up. It might not be anything
important – just a telephone bill or a bank statement – but, then
again, it might be very important.
Marc put his hand inside the handbag once more.
‘Don’t do that, Vitral!’ she shouted.
‘Getting warm, am I?’ he smirked. ‘What are you hiding in here?’
Marc’s hand rummaged around the contents of the bag: keys, a
telephone, a lipstick, a purse (also fake crocodile skin), a silver pen,
a small diary . . .
Malvina’s hands began to shake. Apparently, the diary was something she did not want him to see. He took a closer look at it: it
was not actually a diary at all, just a simple notebook, about three
inches by four. Marc guessed the reason for Malvina’s terror. This
must be some sort of private journal.
‘Open it and you’re dead, Vitral.’
‘So talk. What do you know about Grand-Duc?’
‘Seriously, I will kill you . . .’
‘Suit yourself.’
Marc flicked through the pages one-handed. They were all laid
out in the same way: the left-hand page had been illustrated by
Malvina with drawings, photographs, and collages, while the right
contained three lines of childish handwriting, like short poems.
He suspected he was the first person other than Malvina to have
read this notebook. He skimmed through the pages, stopping
randomly at a page containing the image of the Crucifixion – except
that the head on Christ’s naked body had been replaced by that of
a smoulderingly handsome young man, probably a TV star Marc
had never heard of. In a quiet voice, he read out the words on the
page opposite: