Apocalypse Baby (34 page)

It will take at least ten hours to drive to Paris. The younger detective, sitting in the front passenger seat, turns round to Valentine and breaks the silence. ‘I'm glad you're safe and sound. You probably think I'm out of order, but after thinking about you all this time, I'm glad you're OK. Everyone was so worried, you know. Can I ask you a question? Had you spotted me?'

‘How could I possibly have missed you?'

‘Do you want to call on your mother before we leave Barcelona?'

This is the taller one speaking. Valentine distrusts her. She may be playing the dozy elder citizen. But something in her piercing look is suspicious.

‘No. Thanks. We've said all we had to say to each other.'

‘She's worried about you, you know.'

‘Oh yeah? Well, she hides it pretty well.'

The older one smiles before adding, ‘Pity, I'd have quite liked to see her again. My name's the Hyena by the way.' Her
eyes are looking for Valentine in the rear mirror. On the way out of town, a car hoots at them, the Hyena screeches to a halt, lowers her window and hurls abuse at the poor guy, who shrinks under the wheel, surprised by the violence of her reaction. She starts in Spanish and finishes in French. The younger one looks annoyed as they move off again.

‘He won't understand if you swear at him in French.'

‘So what! I think he got the message.'

Right, she's a maxi-monster, a psychopath. That's all she needed. The tension has gone up a notch in the car, the air is harder to breathe. Now that she's put everyone at ease, the Hyena seems to relax, but for an hour nobody says anything. Valentine says to herself that her grandmother throwing a tantrum by comparison is like Gandhi tickling you. Dying in a road accident because the car's being driven by a maniac, how dumb would
that
be? She feels that the Hyena is watching her non-stop in the rear mirror. She's playing a Johnny Cash CD. Prehistoric music. A fine rain has started to fall, as it gets dark. Valentine feels a wave of sadness run over her, starting in her shoulders, then spreading like an ink stain down her back, to take hold of her guts. She's on her own. The strength that Sister Elisabeth inculcated into her is already losing intensity. Every kilometre they drive makes what happened in Barcelona a bit vaguer, a bit less real.

The Hyena is off again: ‘So, tell us then, what did you get up to all the time?'

‘Nothing much. That's why I'm glad to be going home.'

‘Yeah, sure, I can see you're bursting with joy. And why did you leave the hotel your mother took you to?'

‘That hotel depressed me.'

‘Was that a good reason to leave without telling her?'

‘We didn't have anything left to say. She'd bought me lunch in every restaurant where she wasn't scared of meeting someone she knew. I was afraid we'd start going round them again.'

‘So where did you sleep after that?'

‘I had a bit of money, I went to another hotel.'

She'd like the trip to be over quickly now. Once they've crossed back into France, they listen to the radio. A debate about self-defence. Listeners with unbelievable provincial accents call in to talk about their experiences.

The Hyena wants to ask something. ‘What about you, Valentine, have you ever been tempted to have a gun?'

She won't leave her alone. Valentine shrugs. ‘No. All I want is to get home and sit the bac.'

‘Oh really. The bac!' She takes this in, reflects, and obviously doesn't believe a word of it. ‘Terrific plan. Aren't you afraid you'll miss the palm trees? Weather's not so nice in Paris, is it?'

Adults really have a pathetic sense of humour as a rule. They think they can win kids over by false complicity. She'll say as little as possible. The old detective is playing the kind of woman you can't put something across on, but if she really knew, she'd blow a fuse. Valentine wants to tear her eyes out. Concentrate on the objective. Luckily, after five minutes they forget her and start talking about the love affair of the little one, the plain one. Valentine doesn't bother listening, she's relieved to have been forgotten.

The mobile of the one called Lucie rings, she sits up and waves her hands in the air. ‘It's your father!'

Then she goes into a string of yes, yes, yes, she rabbits on, with some pathetic traces of self-satisfaction in her voice, making Valentine feel like she's some kind of trophy. She's dreading the moment when the phone will be passed back to her. But her father is even more ill at ease.

‘Are you OK, sweetheart? Sure? Oh, if you knew how worried we've been about you… I can't tell you how glad I am you're safe. I can't wait to see you. You're going to drive all night? You're sure you're OK?'

Is she OK? What a farce. She doesn't need to pretend, to make her voice sound choked, neutral, disconnected. The idea of going home makes her uneasy. It hadn't occurred to her when she was far away. That he hadn't even come in person to fetch her. She can't manage to be cross with him, she just feels sharply aware of her total worthlessness.

They stop north of Perpignan at a petrol station. They let her go to the toilet on her own. She needs to freshen up. Down some stairs. In the white neon light of the cloakroom, she looks different in the mirror. More serious, her face more delicate. Her features look drawn and there are slight circles under her eyes. It suits her, makes her look like someone who thinks a lot. She'd like to cry, but she can't.

The door slams, she jumps, her nerves can't stand the slightest jolt. The Hyena comes in, and stares at her in the mirror. She's terrifying. The idea flashes into her head that her family has paid someone to kill her. That would be too stupid. Valentine makes an effort, gripping the washbasin, her heart wants to jump out of her chest.

‘You are a fucking idiot. A dirty, uneducated, pretentious,
fucking little idiot, way out of your depth.'

‘Oh!… honestly, I'm sorry if you don't like me. But I thought you were being paid to take me home, not to do instant character analysis…' Valentine automatically gives a smart-alec answer, but she would really prefer to be able to seem humble and obedient, thinking that might calm this madwoman down.

‘And what do
you
know about who's paying, or how much, or who to, or why? Eh? What have you grasped about what you're being made to do?'

‘What I understand is, I need my dad, I need to go back to school now, and take better care of myself.'

‘Be careful, little chick, anyone can tell that's been learnt off by heart. You'll have to try harder for it to sound sincere. Are you sure you're ready to go back?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘For three hours I've been looking at your little face in the rear-view mirror. I've had time to think. What has she stuffed into your brain? What stories has she been telling you?'

‘I'm really sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.'

Valentine has frozen. This madwoman scares her to death. She's never in her life had anyone speak to her as brutally as this, as close up as this. The woman's face isn't the same, it seems to be alight, hatred seeping from every pore. She could be in a horror film just like she is, no need for special effects, torn-off limbs, nothing. Just her ugly mug in close-up would be enough. The teenager's legs feel hollowed out, they can hardly hold her up. A little push would be enough to make her fall to her knees. Her thoughts are all on the ground, lying there inert. She's afraid.

The madwoman calms down, leans against the wall, facing Valentine. ‘I feel like the huntsman in
Snow White
, the one who has to bring back her heart.'

‘Look, honestly, I don't know what you're thinking, but I swear…'

‘Shut up. You're lying. The huntsman, we all know the story, he lets her run away into the forest, and he takes a deer's heart back instead. Note that he doesn't take an axe when he returns to the castle, to cut the throat of the stepmother, or to attack the king who just let it all happen. Fairy tales are a good guide to real life. You don't fight your paymaster.'

‘There's no need to get so worked up, just because you've got to take me home… I'm not going to stick up for my stepmother, but I'd be surprised if she asked you to rip my heart out.'

‘Just who do you think she is, your Sister Elisabeth? You think she's interested in your case, why? You think every runaway kid that crosses her path, she takes them under her wing for a bit of brainwashing? You think just because she wears her little blue and white headdress, and because she has wrinkles that make her look kind, that she's a good
person
? You haven't had experience of enough rotten apples in your life already? What do you think her diary looks like, your precious new friend, Sister Elisabeth? What do you bet there's not too much about the infinite mercy of Jesus, sacrificing himself for our salvation? Who do you think she's working for, that Sister?'

Valentine takes this on the chin. She'd been warned: they'll lie to you. They'll try and make you have doubts. Sister Elisabeth had said: ‘They'll know my name.' But she'd
omitted to say: ‘They'll sound like they're telling the truth, so convincingly that it will make you want to cry.' Valentine looks at the floor and says nothing. The less she says, the less she risks giving herself away. She blocks the inside of her brain, it's as if she had rolled into a ball, waiting for a disgusting big spider to go away. She'd like it if someone else came into these toilets to interrupt the confrontation, but nobody's there. The Hyena turns on a cold tap and lets it run over her wrists. She speaks to her reflection in the mirror.

‘I've never had any morals, I have no passion for the good. I don't know whether it's age, getting tired, or your angelic little face… But I can't let you go back home without saying something to you. Do you understand? Have you ever heard the saying: you think you're dying for your principles and you're killing for a barrel of oil?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Get this into your head, that old woman is doing the same job as me. She may not have the stature of Mother Teresa, but she's the same kind of believer. With a fat bank account, and thinking poverty's fine for other people. Whatever she's said, tell yourself that what's at stake here can be counted in euros, or in the extra power someone's going to get. That's what we are. Total bitches, obeying orders, selected because we're good at working on people.'

Valentine wishes she'd leave her alone. She wants to speak to Sister Elisabeth, urgently. For a brief moment, like a freeze-frame, despite her struggles, the thought insinuates itself: what if this woman's telling the truth? But she's been warned: don't trust anyone. She closes her eyes and counts down. Get back to the hypnotized calm.

It doesn't work. Surely the Hyena is preaching untruth to find out the truth. Block it. Deny everything. Never admit anything. This is the first test. Valentine pronounces through her teeth in a cold and indifferent voice. ‘All I know is I want to get back to my father.'

The Hyena has turned back into human shape, she floods the room by splashing water on her face. She wets her hair and combs it back. She holds out her hand to Valentine, smiling as if she was just talking about the cool night air. ‘No hard feelings. Just a little injection of reality. Like when a vampire bites an innocent victim. Crunch! It's over. You know. After all that, it's true, you're old enough to make up your own mind. I'll let you think about it overnight.'

‘Don't worry about me, I know perfectly well what I have to do.'

There, she couldn't keep her mouth shut. It was more than she could manage. The woman turns round, now she's neither angry nor relieved, she looks moved. And coming from her, perhaps that's worse than anything.

‘Do you want a bottle of water, something to eat? You haven't eaten anything this evening. Some crisps, chocolate perhaps?'

In the car park there's a line of trucks looking like reassuring animals, their headlights out. Lucie, leaning up against the boot of the car, is whispering into her mobile, punctuating the conversation with happy little chuckles. She's pathetic, but she looks happy.

They get back on the road in silence. The poison is seeping into her thoughts, trying to make her weaken. Valentine is shaken. How is it possible that a few sentences down in
those neon-lit toilets could make her have doubts? Sister Elisabeth. Their lovely understanding. ‘Too good to be true.' The immediate love, as if the nun had recognized her own child. But it doesn't change anything. She's climbed up on the merry-go-round, her seat belt is fastened. To get down now, what could be more depressing? To wait for what? What could she possibly look forward to? Valentine sees again a photo Magali had shown her. The skeleton of an albatross on a rock, the fragile bones of its wings spreadeagled. It had eaten so many plastic bottletops, which looked like juicy morsels floating on the surface of the sea, that its stomach was full of multicoloured capsules. In ten years, or a hundred years, that's all that would remain. The bones, the feathers, the beak would all have turned into dust. But those absurd plastic bottletops, imitating food, won't even have lost their colours. Perhaps some other albatrosses will have eaten them.

Even if it's been taken for the wrong reasons, her decision is the right one.

They stop again after two more hours. Lucie stays in the car, pretending to be asleep but her mobile's in her hand, she's waiting for a text that doesn't come. Valentine sits with the other detective at a tall round table by the coffee machines; the strip lighting adds another ten years to the Hyena's age. She says, ‘You have to be mentally confused to the highest degree to choose truth over lies, or virtue over vice, I know that. But I can't bring myself to leave you alone. Just tell me what you're going to do…'