How's the Pain? (9 page)

‘We need to get you to hospital, Anaïs. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. This is a matter of life or death.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are? Already dead, are you? Know all about it, huh? No? Well then, shut your trap.’

She did not actually say this to the doctor since her jaws refused to come unstuck, but by God she had thought it. A needle had just pricked her arm, spreading its welcome venom through her body. Fanny and the doctor were talking in hushed tones in the corner. From time to time, Fanny lifted her arms and let them drop again in a symbol of helplessness, like a fledgling bird afraid to fly the nest. Georges stood with his hands clasped behind his back, in conversation with the Negress lamp. Why couldn’t they all just go away and leave her alone? … Things were going just as well for Anaïs as for the rest of them, better even, since she did not intend to carry on any longer. She just had to wait for them to get fed up and piss off. She was
used to waiting, she had been doing it all her life – hanging around for buses, love, success, a phone call … Strangely, the less time she had left, the less the waiting bothered her.

The doctor was the first to leave the scene, carrying his little bag filled with needles, rubber tubes, pills and bottles. Then it was the turn of Georges, whose lumbering uselessness was beginning to get on his wife’s nerves. He did not wait to be told twice. Death, like birth, was not a sight he was madly keen to see. He was happy enough to stick where he was, somewhere between the two. Fanny, on the other hand, settled into the armchair next to the sofa where Anaïs lay, determined to watch over her, offering her puny body as a shield against all harm. It was a laudable stance, but within quarter of an hour she was snoring, her chin resting on her bony chest. Anaïs coughed and shifted until she was sure her neighbour’s nasal symphony was in full swing, before sitting herself up. It was a struggle, but she made it. Her head was spinning, but what did it matter? She had got her sea legs years ago. The pains running from shoulder to hip did not bother her any more. She had adopted them and tamed them, like mangy stray cats. Having reached the edge of the sofa, she attempted to stand, only to discover this was a risky enterprise. Crawling on all fours, she moved towards the kitchen. It was a tricky business, but more stable than relying on her hind legs. Besides, this was how everyone took their first steps and learnt to be independent. She just had to throw herself back in time, to the days of discovering the world from the ground up. Right arm … Left knee … Left arm … Right knee.

Once again, the parallel world of miniature creatures shyly gathered to spur her on. She knew she could trust the little monsters, because they were cute. They bent over backwards to help her push open the kitchen door. The floor was icy cold, each tile a territory to be conquered. With the effort of crossing it, she blew powerful gusts from her nose and mouth which scattered the flocks of grey fluff and whipped up crumbs, like an elephant stomping through the undergrowth. Anaïs came to a halt in front of the cupboard under the sink, where normal people keep their cleaning products and alcoholics keep their bottles. The last bottle of Negrita was definitely in there somewhere, but where …?

It was pitch black inside the cupboard. Anaïs groped about blindly, picking out various plastic and glass containers by touch. But danger was lurking in the absurd habit she had picked up from her mother – a house-proud woman of strict morals – of pouring the last drops of detergents, bleach and the like into empty bottles to save space. Since at Anaïs’s house the only empties were Negrita bottles, and on top of that she could not see a thing, the whole operation was very likely to end in disaster. But she was so thirsty! All around her the little creatures held their breath.

‘Now let’s see if God exists!’

She grabbed the first bottle at random and took a long swig.

Simon pushed away the flabby thigh resting on top of his and freed himself from the tangle of sheets. He felt sick. The heady smell of Rose’s perfume was overpowering. Unless it was something else, a deeper disgust at an entire existence, which rose in his throat, mingled with the aftertaste of pastis. Walking on tiptoe, he gathered his belongings and left the bungalow. The cool night air did him good but not enough to stop him emptying his stomach, clutching the rough trunk of a pine tree with both hands. He got dressed, shivering from head to foot. He had not been able to do it. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she had whispered in his ear, ‘at our age …’ Apart from a window at reception and a few street lamps along the main path, there were no lights on. It was like a graveyard. The regular ebb and flow of the waves made the dreary walk seem to go on for ever. When he finally reached his caravan, the car that should have been parked next to it was gone.

‘The little bastard!’

Bernard’s bed had not been slept in. Simon ran back
out to Fiona’s caravan. Deserted. He was seized with a strange panic, as though he had died and no one had thought to tell him. Even solitude, his only companion for as many years as he could remember, seemed to have let go of his hand. The darkness was becoming denser around him, invading his nose, mouth and ears like the soot of his childhood. He staggered back to his caravan, turned on all the lights and searched under his pillow. The gun was there, warmed by the cushions but utterly useless. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weapon dangling between his thighs like a flaccid penis, staring past the half-open door into a picture of crushing emptiness. He had been scared many times before, but never like this. This was a childlike, uncontrollable fear that was slowly shutting him down like an anaesthetic. ‘Be still my beating heart.’ He felt neither hate nor anger, he just could not understand.

‘Why have you done this to me, kid? Why?’

A chemical precipitation, caused by a complex mixture of conflicting emotions, made a warm, salty liquid spring from the corner of his eyes, a liquid he had not tasted for what seemed like centuries. The teardrop trickled through the network of lines on his cheek to the corner of his mouth, and from his lips to his chin. It felt as good and sweet as an endless ejaculation. For once, his heart was doing more than pumping blood around his body. He raised himself up painlessly, walked towards the beach, crossed the strip of grey sand and immersed himself up to the waist in the black waters. And there, swinging his arm like a farmer sowing seeds, he tossed the gun as far as he could throw it. The weapon went to join the pile of junk
that carpets the sea bed, just another thing among all the others, just as Simon was only one among many humans.

‘Don’t you think we might be doing something really, really stupid?’

‘What are you talking about? Surely you don’t actually think your Monsieur Marechall’s going to shop us to the police?’

‘No, not that …’

‘Well, what then? Where do you think you were going with him? Straight into a brick wall, that’s where, or else going inside. And as for that old hag, she’d have had Violette off me and stuffed her, no question.’

‘That’s total rubbish! What the hell are we going to do in Spain? I can’t speak a word of Spanish.’

‘It’s no harder than Italian. In Italian, you put an “i” on the end of every word and in Spanish you put an “o”. Also Spain’s really close and I’ve got friends in Barcelona.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, acquaintances, but that’ll do, right? We deserve
another shot at life. You have to take your chances where you find them.’

‘I suppose …’

Fiona was sitting in the back, with Violette sprawled across her lap. Looking at her in the rear-view mirror, Bernard saw the face of a stubborn little girl, closed like a fist. How could people change so quickly? Last night, in the half-light of the caravan, she had seemed so gentle, or at least so calm, like Violette after a feed. They had made love with the lightness of two butterflies, simply, without haste or hunger. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just closed her eyes. She was breathing in time with the child asleep in the Moses basket, following the rhythm of the night. The beauty spot on her left breast was the centre of a world in which pain, fear and sadness were no more. Bernard held his breath, for fear of bursting the fragile bubble in which they were floating. Never before had he felt so complete, a man in perfect harmony with his life. He was exactly where he should be. Then she had opened her eyes so suddenly, he was startled.

‘Let’s get out of here, Bernard!’

‘Uh, where to?’

‘Spain.’

‘Spain? When?’

‘Straight away, right now, this minute.’

Even the sky looked different today. Milky clouds trailed across a sun as ill-disposed as Bernard to starting the new day. The landscape seemed dull and flat, patches of land blistered with characterless houses.

‘I’ll have to stop and get petrol.’

‘OK, I’ll sort Violette out.’

They stopped at a service station selling any old rubbish at any price to anyone who would buy it. As he paid for his tank of petrol, Bernard noted bitterly that they were getting through money like there was no tomorrow. They were running low already and by the time they got to Barcelona there would be nothing left. Spain, for goodness’ sake! The petrol station was already trying to flog plastic bulls, castanets and models of gleaming toreadors and flouncy flamenco dancers. They had not yet crossed the border and already he felt homesick. But what was troubling him most was the dirty trick they had played on Monsieur Marechall. OK, he was a hit man, a criminal, but he was much more than that. Monsieur Marechall had always been straight down the line with him and had put his trust in Bernard. He had taught him things like … that the Red Sea isn’t red, for one. He had treated him like a man, like a son almost, and he, eight-fingered Bernard, had behaved like the lowest of the low, nothing but a common thief. His reflection in the window disgusted him. He would never be able to look himself in the eye again. He was worth less than a cigarette butt in an ashtray.

Fiona reappeared, spruced up. She had caught the sun on her nose and cheeks, which made her look like a shiny little toffee apple.

‘They’re selling car seats for babies in there – what do you think? It would make things a lot easier. I’ve had enough of sitting there with Violette plonked in my lap. What’s the matter? What’s that face for?’

‘Listen, I’m not going any further, Fiona. Here, take what’s left of the money and you go to Barcelona, but I’m taking the car back to Monsieur Marechall.’

‘Are you out of your mind? We’re almost at the border – we’ll be in Barcelona by this evening!’

‘I couldn’t care less about Spain. I’ve never cheated anybody and I can’t do it, I just can’t do it.’

One big, tight ball of words was stuck in Fiona’s throat, which she could not spit out or swallow. She was choking and looking helplessly about her. All around people were getting into their cars, munching snack bars and holding paper cups. Others were getting out, stretching their legs with hands on hips, walking their dogs or scolding snivelling kids … Normal people.

‘Christ, Bernard! Look around you. Don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you want an easy life like all these people have? You and me, we met each other and that means something. We can have a life of our own, just us, like we’ve never had before. We have a right to that, damn it! We deserve it!’

‘I want that too, Fiona, it’s all I want. But I can’t do it by going behind someone’s back. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror again.’

‘But he doesn’t give a shit about you, your Monsieur Marechall! He’s using you, and once he’s got what he wants from you he’ll put a bullet through your head.’

‘I don’t think so, Fiona, I don’t believe that. Listen, here’s what we’re going to do. You take the money and go to Barcelona to stay with your friends. I’ll take the car
back and then I’ll come and meet you there. I promise you, I swear.’

‘I don’t know if you’re just stupid or completely naïve, or both. You’re leaving us here in a fucking service station car park to go back to a murdering old bastard, and you’re telling me you can’t bear to let somebody down? What kind of an idiot do you take me for? It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic!’

Fiona sat down on a low concrete wall, her eyes brimming with tears. Violette started to whimper, then cry.

‘Oh, don’t you start!’

‘Calm down, Fiona. Don’t talk to her like that. Give her to me.’

‘NO! Don’t you touch her! Go on, fuck off! Get out of here! I don’t want your fucking loot! I’m telling you, get the hell away from me!’

People were turning to look at them. Bernard crouched down in front of the girls with his head in his hands and his back bent. Why did life have to give with one hand and take away with the other?

‘They seemed like such a nice couple as well. Are you going to report them?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘They looked as though butter wouldn’t melt though, didn’t they? It makes you wonder if you can trust anyone … You know, I saw that man on the news the other day, the one who killed the three English girls, being taken into court by two policemen. Believe it or not, they were the ones who looked dodgy. The killer just looked like your average man in the street, like you or me.’

Simon was stroking the sand with the flat of his hand, making figures of eight, building little heaps and watching the grains running through his fingers. He had not moved since sunrise, having stayed up all night waiting for it. Rose had passed him on her morning jog and sat down next to him. She had not stopped to draw breath, eagerly filling every silence the way people do when visiting sick
relatives. It did not bother him; she was just another part of the scenery. The sky had clouded over and an easterly wind ruffled the crests of the waves, threw up swirls of sand and tossed light objects about.

‘It’s going to rain later.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I haven’t thought about it.’

It was true. He had not come to any decisions. He was just there, as he always had been, wherever he was in the world. He was an island.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out. Young people mess about but in the end … Listen. How about I take you out for lunch?’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Great! I’ll go and get changed. Come and meet me at the bungalow.’

‘Will do.’

Rose bounced off along the shore like a beach ball. An injured seagull was batting one wing and emitting piercing squawks. All the other seagulls had abandoned it to its fate. Tired of flapping around, it sat on a rock and waited for a miracle that would never come. In which part of Africa was it that people greeted each other every morning with the question ‘How’s the pain?’ Simon could no longer remember.

‘No, Marike, he’s not a toy boy, he’s the real deal, our sort
of age. But he’s a good-looking man, not an ounce of fat on him, smartly dressed, very proper … You bet I’d like to take him back to Namur …! He’s selling his business, he’s retiring … What’s he like in bed?! There’s more to life than that, you know … Very affectionate, yes … I couldn’t tell you if he’s been married before, I only met him yesterday … Right, I must go, I’ve got to get ready, I’m taking him out for lunch. The poor thing, he had his car stolen … That’s right, Marike, I’ll tell you all about it. Speak soon.’

In the bedroom of the bungalow, the mirror had given up trying to follow Rose’s hour-long dance of the seven veils. A dozen dresses, each lacier than the last, were piled up on the bed. Rain began to hammer down on the roof. Rose glanced up, wincing.

Simon was sorry to leave the beach. The sand seemed to bristle with buckshot. The seagull hid its head under its good wing.

‘It’s the best fish restaurant in town. I can recommend the squid
à la sétoise
, it’s delicious!’

After ordering, Rose slipped off to the toilet. Simon reached over to the next table and picked up the newspaper. Smiling shots of Bornay, his mistress and his wife filled the front page: ‘
CRIME OF PASSION OR
COLD-BLOODED
MURDER
?’ He skimmed the article. The three victims had been killed with the same weapon. Strangely enough, the same calibre of pistol had also been used in the
aquarium shooting of a man with a murky past. The guard had seen two men fleeing the scene but had been unable to give detailed descriptions. It was dark, everything had happened very quickly. There was no apparent link between the two incidents.

Simon folded up the newspaper, indifferent. As far as he was concerned, it was nothing to do with him. He had always wiped the slate clean at the end of every contract, so that remorse and regret had no chance of rearing their heads. Simon was a pro, a sort of bailiff who did what he was told, no questions asked. He took lives the way others removed furniture.

The squid
à la sétoise
was indeed excellent. Rose was talking passionately about her craft, the art of preserving the appearance of life. It was a constant struggle against time, as flesh is fragile and, even treated, deteriorates quickly.

‘But you can do amazing things these days! Especially with the eyes – I’ve got drawers full of them: dogs’ eyes, cats’ eyes, all kinds of birds’ eyes. It’s what I put on last, the cherry on the cake, if you will. The eyes are where all the life is. Take you, for example. You come across as rather hard, almost severe, but your eyes are full of tenderness, with a hint of melancholy. It’s very touching. I suspect that’s why you rarely take off those dark glasses, to hide any sign of weakness. Forgive me, I’m prying.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘I can’t help myself. I just can’t resist peering into people’s hearts, because that’s where all the mystery is,
don’t you think? Right there, at the heart of the heart.’

‘Absolutely. But remember if you peer over too far, you might fall.’

‘At my age, there’s not much left to lose. You could just as easily fall in love as into a coma …’

When Rose blushed, she glowed like hot metal. Simon felt like throwing a bucket of water over her to cool her down. She fanned herself with her napkin. They had been the first to arrive and now that they had reached dessert, the restaurant was heaving.

‘It’s boiling in here! Do you fancy going for a stroll? It’s stopped raining.’

‘I’d like that very much.’

This is what he was planning to say: ‘Monsieur Marechall, I’m very sorry for what I did but, as you can see, I’ve brought your car back. I don’t want you to think I’m some petty thief. I don’t know what came over me – maybe I’m in love. Maybe I was scared, too. You have to admit you do a funny sort of job. But I do respect it, and you’ve always been straight with me. So if you want, I’ll carry on with the job and take you back to Vals, even if you don’t give me the rest of the money. You know, I just want a quiet life with Fiona and Violette, earning enough to get by. You see, I’m an honest person and I’ll always have good memories of you, even if you don’t want anything more to do with me. It’s up to you.’

Fiona was sleeping on the back seat, or pretending to. It had been no easy matter, winning her over, but at the end of the day she had probably had enough of being
shunted from pillar to post. On top of that it was raining and maybe, just maybe, she did have feelings for him, even if she had never said as much.

‘He’ll put a bullet through that thick head of yours.’

He had bought the car seat to console her. It was tricky to fit, with all its straps, buckles and hooks. The baby was bright red, strapped into the seat with her arms sticking out like two little wings. But she did not cry. Her big round eyes stared at the treetops, the roofs and the telegraph wires flashing past, outlined against the grey, rain-streaked sky. She had nothing against the car but preferred the beach because it was bigger and the things around her stayed still. When she grew up she would be a civil servant, with an office all to herself and everything neatly arranged. Every day would be like the day before. This dream of stability made her so happy that she pooed and wet herself all at once, and then blissfully wallowed in the warm, soft mulch.