Apocalypse Baby (12 page)

‘If Valentine suspected something of all this, you can see why she'd run away.'

‘And we can see why you were hired. For that kind of place, you need to build up a dossier, it's like getting into a top-level university.'

‘We've already got a dossier on her, believe me.'

‘Apparently it's quite a read.'

‘Well, she doesn't do animals, but frankly that seems to be the only limit.'

It's already dark by the time we meet in a little bar in the Goutte d'Or district, not far from the office. It's Ramadan and the place is crowded. An entirely male clientele. Smells of coffee, mint tea and spicy food come from the back room. We've picked a little corner to the left of the counter. The Chibani manager seems to know the Hyena well – someone else who's a friend of hers. Rafik explains that he can't get over it.

‘You have to go back more than two months to find anything like normal mobile phone activity, calls or texts. Nearly three months. I've never seen anything like it…
Fifteen years old, she stops any internet access and doesn't use her mobile – how do you explain that? Even if you were depressed, really, really depressed, it wouldn't stop you checking your emails now and then, would it? Is she on drugs? Hardly – we'd find her trail all over the web, twenty-four seven, if she was. A love affair? Without a mobile? Can you imagine teenagers in love without texting?'

The Hyena is less bothered.

‘Could be she's joined some sect we haven't heard of. A sect that doesn't text during Ramadan perhaps.'

‘Three months with no mobile, no email, no tweets, nothing. Not the slightest post to a blog. You seem too calm. You must have some idea you're keeping to yourself, yes?'

I'm sitting opposite them, and nobody expects me to say anything. My ego has been trampled on more times than an old fag end in the gutter. I'm getting used to it. I can appreciate the restful aspect of the situation. For instance, it means I avoid saying something stupid. No one asks anything of me. Not even to pay for my drink. I've got a slight headache after spending the whole day in front of a computer screen.

Rafik is still worrying away at the puzzle. ‘… That's unless she's watching such hardcore porn on the internet that her father preferred to cough up to have it all wiped off, and after that they strictly forbade her to go online…'

‘That doesn't explain why she hasn't sent any emails.'

‘And you're absolutely sure? Never seen her in an internet café, or using a friend's mobile? Never?'

This question was in fact addressed to me, but by the time I wake up they've moved on. The Hyena just has one idea.

‘And when will you get some info on the mother, Rafik?'

‘Tomorrow sometime. Nothing's come up under her name yet: social security, tax return, bank account. But it'll come up, I'm not worried. We can do like we did today. I'll take Lucie through it and then in the evening…'

‘No, tomorrow, we're working together: a concert by that band, Panic Up Yours, in Bourges. We're going to the setting-up session. I don't suppose you listen to them, Rafik, you prefer Rihanna and Lady Gaga?'

This time I butt in. ‘Great to hear I'm supposed to be on the road tomorrow.'

‘What's the matter with you, Derrick, you got other plans?' She appeals to Rafik with a big laugh. ‘I've rarely met anyone so reluctant to do anything.'

‘Would it be too much to keep me in the loop? It's my time you're asking for, after all.'

‘No problem, Derrick, next time I'll send you a fax.'

I roll my eyes with a big sigh, meaning I'm fed up with being called Derrick and being treated like mud. She appeals to Rafik again.

‘See that? She's crazy about me. They all are. It's a bit of a problem actually. It's like I'm always telling you, Rafik. The thing about testosterone, it isn't the quantity, it's the quality. See with me, they're all like bitches on heat, they don't realize what's happening. They just fall in love with me.'

Next day the Hyena is waiting downstairs for me. Today she's driving a metallic grey four-by-four, no idea where she got this monster. We drive through Paris slowly, and in this vehicle it feels like being in a carriage, you sit really high up, makes you feel like waving to the pedestrians like the Pope
or the Queen of England. France Gall is singing ‘Si maman, si, si, maman si', a song I haven't heard for ages. It makes these amazingly clear images flit across my eyes, ones I'd completely forgotten, of Sunday mornings sitting in the back of my parents' car, when we went to see our grandparents for the weekend, and we listened to this programme called
Stop or Play It Again
. Then Michel Berger starts singing ‘Si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes' and I realize it's not the radio. The Hyena drives in silence, absorbed in her thoughts; she drives sitting far back, arms out straight.

‘Won't we be there a bit early for the concert?'

‘I know one of the organizers, so I called to know when they'd be setting up the sound system. I thought that in a provincial town, where they don't know anyone, just before they go on stage would be the best time to catch them.'

‘You know what you want to ask them?'

‘What do you think I'm going to talk to them about? The situation in Israel? Carbon taxes?'

‘I wish you'd stop treating me as if I'm retarded.'

‘Well, change the kind of question you ask, that would help.'

‘Is it true that Cro-Mag started calling you the Hyena?'

‘No. I was already called that when I started working. It's because I've got a big clit.'

I roll my eyes. I really don't like this kind of talk. I get the impression that she's insisting on drawing my attention the whole time to her genitals. We take some time to filter on to the motorway and I try to show some interest in what we're doing.

‘Have you found out a lot about the group?'

‘Saw their Facebook page. Rich kids, rebels, they look like a milder version of White Power.'

‘
Mild
? White Power?'

‘I dug around a bit, they're making up their stupid spiel. Bunch of wankers really, I think. They're from posh families, but they'd like to have been born working-class. They'll get over it when they join daddy's firm.'

‘So racism doesn't shock you?'

‘I'm old, you know. When I see white kids who need to say, I'm white and proud of it, I just think in my day it would never have come to mind to say we were proud to be white. If we did think it, we felt sorry for everyone else, full stop.'

‘They may not be card-carrying members of a party, but it doesn't stop them being political, does it?'

‘If you don't have any links to politics, your group won't get noticed by anyone, just you and your pals rehearsing in a cellar… it's sort of like being a poet in a way. You can't blame people for wanting to write poetry, can you?'

‘You don't take them too seriously, I gather.'

‘Look, they're about seventeen. On their website, they call themselves far right, and where do they play? In a venue run by dykes. That's how I know one of the organizers. So what with one thing and another, no, I don't think I can be bothered to give them a lecture on morals.'

That's all she ever says, honestly. Dyke, dyke, dyke, I've never heard this word so often as in the last few days. As if I could care. As far as I'm concerned, she can be lesbian, or nympho, or celibate, the end result's the same. I have to put up with her, and I couldn't care less what kind of sex she has when she leaves me. She carries on.

‘The extreme right isn't what it used to be… They'd have been better off calling themselves the Asshole Whingers' Social Club, you'd have a better idea what they're like. Valentine, now, you've never seen her hanging about with fascists, or religious groups, or anything remotely political?'

‘Yeah, course I did, she ran this shooting gallery at a festival run by Friends of Palestine, should've told you.'

‘Well, maybe she'd spotted you and she kept it under wraps.'

‘It's true I did lose sight of her now and then. But do you really think she ran away to dress up as Joan of Arc and make Hitler salutes? Why would she hide to do that? It's not as if she was scared of making a fool of herself.'

‘Could be a problem for her father. No respectable novelist wants to see his daughter going round with swastikas tattooed on her forehead, it could make him look bad at dinner parties.'

The motorway's not too busy. Industrial zone. Hangars with big advertising hoardings on top, and car parks in front, like a long commercial corridor. I'd forgotten that I like travelling by car, getting out of Paris and seeing the tarmac rolling past under the windscreen. Quite soon we're driving through fields and forests.

We get to Bourges in no time. I recognize the cold and the winter light. The trees are still bare, the landscape is flat with its chequerboard of fields, brown and yellow, and a lowering sky; all the outlines are clear. The bleakness of rural France. I get flashbacks to my childhood again, walking along with a satchel on my back, waiting for the school bus, losing my gloves, riding my bike on waste ground.

We park in a square courtyard covered with graffiti. A gigantic clown's head is painted over the door of a circus school. It's five o'clock and already dark. I follow the Hyena into a concert venue, which is empty; none of the technicians takes any notice of us. We pass a staircase to the right of the stage, go along a corridor, and the Hyena turns to me, asks me if I'm ready, then whispers some advice. ‘Stay behind me. Whatever happens don't smile, keep your eyes fixed above their heads, don't say anything, don't move, OK?'

I nod yes, not because I feel as ready as all that, but it's not the moment to say I need a bit of preparation. I think to myself that she could have been briefing me during the three hours' drive. She goes into the dressing room without knocking. A square room with no windows, yellow-painted walls, mirrors with light bulbs festooned round them, shower rooms to the side. The place is full of cigarette smoke, which doesn't entirely mask the smell of young animals. I stay leaning against the door, hands in pockets, for a while, and despite my instructions, I find a smile creeping on to my lips, one way to disguise my unease.

There are a whole lot of them in here, all of the male sex, they must think we're part of the staff from the venue, and don't pay us any attention at first. I feel physically afraid being here. I tell myself to be reasonable as I sneak a look at them, they're just kids. But they're big kids, very tattooed, lots of piercings, half-naked and fit. They're used to each other and they make a lot of noise. I concentrate on my breathing, trying to control it, starting from the principle that as long as my heartbeats stay at the same rate I won't be sending out any signals that the animals facing me can
interpret as fear. There are seven of them, I've hardly had time to count them before the Hyena, standing in the middle of the room, barks a shout. Out of place, but effective. As if she was a coach, calling her team to order under the showers. The more I shrink into myself, the more she seems to me to be expanding. Usually I think she looks thin and delicate, but now for the first time I realize that she's strong, she has the shoulders of a swimmer. She's exaggerating. But oddly it suits her. I expect her to start thumping her chest like Tarzan and yelling, ‘I'll take on the lot of you.' Instead of which, she looks round them, one by one, until they fall silent and before they have time to start ribbing her, she addresses a short dark boy. The best-looking in my opinion. It's as if she has picked him out.

‘I need to talk to one of you. I'm conducting an investigation into Valentine's disappearance.'

A tall jokey-looking blond guy, who looks like he's the oldest, answers back. ‘And you're what? A cop? You've got ID?'

He has bad teeth, which gives him a proletarian appearance the other boys don't have. Not yet, or perhaps ever. They smell of soap underneath the stink of young males. The Hyena thrusts her hands in her pockets and smiles.

‘No, kiddo. The police will only come into it when the girl's found cut up into little pieces. We just want a quiet chat.'

The little dark one she homed in on first treats her condescendingly, but does answer her, which immediately gives her legitimacy. ‘What makes you think we know this Valentine?'

He has delicate features. He might or might not be good-looking later on, but right now he's stunning. In spite of
the piercings and his menacing expression, he has something angelic about him. Whatever life is going to land on him, and however much he tries to hide it, it's obvious that he doesn't have a clue, which is why he's so utterly charming. He wrinkles his nose when he wants to look like Joe Cool. I'm surprised by the silence she's managed to create. She's a tamer of heavyweights. There's something about her, her way of planting herself in the middle of the room, looking them straight in the face, something in her smile and her calm behaviour, that is slightly worrying. It's not exactly that she looks frightening, but her eyes are a little too bright, her good humour has this edge to it. I think again of Cro-Mag and the dozens of times he's told me about their outings together. Yes, now that I'm leaning up against this door with my arms folded, watching her act, I begin to understand how fascinating it can be. And unhealthy. It's the pleasure she takes in it that bothers me most. She has a gift for suggesting that things might get worse, and that she would be only too pleased if they did. She addresses the dark-haired boy with a certain gentleness, beneath which she doesn't try to conceal a note of pure madness.

‘Because I've heard about you. A lot of things about you.'

Bursts of laughter, shouts, they all come back to life as if by an invisible signal, like a flock of birds suddenly flying up in the air in unison. They protest, call to each other, laugh, start shifting their feet. The Hyena doesn't take her eyes off the dark youth, she takes a step towards him, changes her tone, becomes more menacing.