The Circle (38 page)

They went on turning around him as if he were an explorer captured by natives, tied to a sacrificial pole. Again he felt the film against his throat then the chill of the pieces of meat. After that, they rubbed his face with the last hunks of steak. He shook his head violently from side to side, grimacing.

‘Stop it! Stop it now! You bunch of—'

They went inside again. He heard them turn on the tap in the kitchen, washing their hands while they talked. He tried to move. As soon as they left, he would tip the chair over and try to set himself free. But would he have time? He blinked to banish the sweat that was dripping from his eyebrows and stinging his eyes. He had figured out what they were going to do and it filled him with terror. He wasn't afraid of dying, but not this sort of death. Fuck it, no.

He stared at the dazzling light from the headlamps. The night and the dark forest were all around. He could hear the insects buzzing in the woods; the dogs had stopped barking. Maybe they had already caught a whiff of the smell that meant food. His torturers passed him again, climbed into their car and slammed the doors.

‘Wait! Come back! I have money! I'll give you money!' he screamed. ‘Lots of money! I'll give you everything! Come back!'

He pleaded with them as he had never pleaded in his life before.

‘Come back, come back, fuck!'

Then he began sobbing, while the car backed away into the night towards the cages.

There was no time to lose. They opened the cages in the darkness, one by one. The dogs knew them; they had come to feed them several times while their master was absent. ‘It's me,' said one of them in a reassuring voice. ‘You recognise me, don't you? I'll bet you're hungry. You haven't eaten a thing for twenty-four hours …' The dogs emerged from the cages one after the other and surrounded them, and they stood and let the huge beasts sniff them, dogs whose ancestors would not hesitate to attack a bear. The mastiffs rubbed against their legs, and walked around the car. Then they caught wind of that other smell wafting on the night air, and the visitors saw them raise their noses, their powerful necks turning in unison towards the house. They read the hunger and desire in their shining little eyes. The dogs licked their chops and all at once, as if responding to a signal, they began loping towards the house, barking. When the pack leapt onto the veranda, they heard Elvis's voice calling with authority, ‘Titan, Lucifer, Tyson, good dogs, lie down! Lie down, I said!'

Then panic and pure terror overcame him: ‘I said lie down! Tyson, no! NOOO!'

Despite themselves, they could not help but tremble when the screams tore into the silence and the dogs' growls of pleasure rose into the night as they devoured their master.

Breaking Bad

‘I wasn't going to do it.'

He was sobbing, looking at them in turn.

‘I wasn't going to do it, I swear. I – I just wanted to frighten her. I've never raped anyone! She was spying on us. It made me angry. I wanted to scare her, that's all! I wasn't feeling right today. I swear, fuck … I've never done anything like that in my life … You have to believe me!'

He put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

‘Were you on something, David?' asked Samira.

He nodded his head.

‘What was it?'

‘Meth.'

‘Who gave it to you?'

He hesitated.

‘I'm not a snitch,' he said, as if they were in a police drama.

‘Listen to me, you little twat—' Servaz began, red in the face.

‘Who was it?' said Samira. ‘Don't forget you were caught in the middle of an attempted rape. You know what that means: expulsion from school, a trial, prison … not to mention what people will say. And your parents …'

He shook his head.

‘I don't know his name. He's a student at the science faculty. His nickname is Heisenberg, like the character in—'

‘
Breaking Bad
,' interrupted Samira, making a note to ask the narcs. ‘And Hugo, does he take it too?' Servaz asked.

David nodded again, still looking at his hands.

‘Had Hugo taken something that evening when you went to watch the match at the pub?'

This time, David raised his head and looked Samira straight in the eyes.

‘No! He was clean.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.'

Samira and Servaz exchanged a look. It hadn't been Claire's handwriting in the notebook and clearly Hugo had been drugged. Tomorrow they would call the judge, but they weren't sure whether it would be enough to obtain Hugo's release.

Samira looked at Servaz. She was waiting for his decision. Servaz was staring at David, wondering if he should respect his daughter's wishes.

‘Get the hell out of here,' he said finally. ‘And spread the word: if you ever so much as touch a hair on my daughter's head, you and your little gang, your life will be hell.'

David stood up and walked out, his head lowered. Servaz stood up in turn.

‘Take up your positions again,' he said to Samira. ‘Get in touch with the narcs, and ask them if they know this Heisenberg.'

He left the room and went down the corridor. He knew the place like the back of his hand. There were memories connected to nearly every step. One of them surfaced. Him and Francis van Acker … they were twelve or thirteen years old. Francis was showing him a lizard warming itself in the sun on a wall. ‘Look.' All of a sudden, Francis had sliced off the lizard's tail with a shovel or a rusty knife, he couldn't remember which. The tail had gone on twitching every which way, as if it had a life of its own, while the lizard ran off to hide. But while the young Martin remained fascinated by the tail, Francis had picked up a huge stone and crushed the reptile's head before it had a chance to disappear.

‘Why did you do that?' Martin asked.

‘Because it's a ruse: while the predator is fascinated by the tail, the lizard escapes.'

‘Did you really need to kill it?'

‘I'm a more intelligent predator than others,' Francis had said.

Servaz went through the second door on the left. A former classroom. Margot was waiting for him, biting her fingernails.

‘Did you let him go?'

Servaz nodded.

‘Now everyone is going to look at me as if I have the plague,' she said.

‘It's not your fault.'

‘I'm supposed to spend another year here, Dad. How am I going to make friends if I go around with the label “the girl you can't touch or go near because she's got police protection” stuck on my back?'

‘Does the name Heisenberg mean anything to you?'

‘The guy who created quantum mechanics or the character in
Breaking Bad
?'

He felt reassured. She had answered without the slightest hesitation. Clearly she had never heard of a dealer who went by the name.

‘What is this
Breaking Bad
thing?'

‘It's a TV series, about this chemistry teacher who finds out he's got terminal cancer and starts manufacturing and dealing drugs to ensure his family's future. Since when are you interested in TV series?'

‘You overheard their conversation,' he said, changing the subject. ‘What were they talking about?'

He saw her frown and think.

‘I don't know … it was fairly disjointed, and rather strange. David said he was fed up with all of it, that he didn't want to go on.'

‘Go on with what?'

‘No idea. And then Virginie said they couldn't abandon Hugo, that Hugo loved all of them … Oh, and then she talked about something even weirder: the Circle. She said the Circle would meet soon.'

‘The Circle?'

‘Yes.'

She almost told him that the Circle was supposed to meet on the seventeenth of that month, but she held back. Why?
What's the matter with you?
Two of them knew about it: her and Elias. What was she thinking?

‘Do you have any idea what it is?'

She shook her head.

‘Go to bed,' he said, feeling weak with fatigue himself.

‘How long are Vincent and Samira going to stay here?'

She was already putting her earphones in her ears. Servaz thought of something.

‘As long as it takes,' he said. ‘What are you listening to?'

‘You won't know them, they're called Marilyn Manson.' She laughed: ‘It's not at all your style.'

‘Can you say that again?' he asked.

‘What?'

‘The name of the group.'

‘Marilyn Manson. Why? What is it, Dad?'

Servaz felt as if an abyss had opened beneath his feet.
The music on the CD that someone left for him at the Internet café
… His mouth went dry and his fingers trembled as he opened his mobile phone to call Espérandieu and Samira.

Samira Cheung was once again hiding in the bushes behind the lycée, like some bloody commando. She was already regretting her choice of clothes: with her skinny jeans and her short tank top, the grass was itching her belly and she spent her time scratching.

She had a view over the back of the buildings, from the concrete cubes and the sports stand on the left to the entrance to the stables and the dormitory wing on the right, as well as the tennis courts, the lawn and the entrance to the maze. There was a light on in Margot's window, and it was open. She even thought she could see the red glow of a cigarette.
That's against the rules, young lady
… She had drunk a coffee and taken some Pro Plus, although the events of the evening had already given her enough adrenaline to keep her awake. She wouldn't have minded listening to some death metal to wake her up even more – Cannibal Corpse, for example. But she didn't want to be startled by someone coming up from behind out of the woods. To be honest, she hated the thought of the deep dense forest at her back.

As much as she could she avoided moving. She didn't want to attract attention. But from time to time she stretched and did a few flexes. Her walkie-talkie crackled and she heard Espérandieu's voice in the nocturnal silence.

‘How are things at your end?'

‘It's calm.'

‘Martin's just left. He's completely losing it. He wanted to stay here. The gendarmes have posted a patrol on the road at the entrance to the lycée and Margot has orders to lock her door and not open it to anyone she doesn't know. She's gone to bed.'

‘Not quite. I can see her: she's having a fag. But she's in her room.'

‘I hope you're not listening to music.'

‘All I can hear is some fucking owl. And what about you, is it calm there?'

‘Deadly.'

‘Do you really think he would have the guts to show up here?'

‘Hirtmann? I don't know … I'd be surprised. But this business with the Marilyn Manson music is pretty creepy.'

‘And what if he sees us?'

‘Well, it will probably make him go back the way he came … I don't think he wants to get locked up again. If you want my opinion, he's miles away. And let's not forget that we're here to protect Margot, not follow him.'

Samira didn't say anything.

But that didn't mean she didn't have an opinion on the matter.

If the opportunity arose to get her hands on the Swiss killer, she would go right ahead and take it.

At the age of ten, Suzanne Lacaze had been convinced that the world was a marvellous playground and that everyone loved her. At twenty she had discovered that the world was a hurtful sharp-edged place where most people lie – when she'd seen her best friend steal the man she'd fallen madly in love with, tears in her eyes and spewing words like ‘we're in love', ‘we were made for each other', ‘I'm so sorry, Suzie' from that pretty little mouth of hers, full of shit … Now, at the age of fortysomething, Suzanne knew, with unshakeable certainty, that the world belonged to the bastards, with God as the reigning champion bastard. For everyone else it was hell.

She stared at the ceiling and listened to her husband snoring next to her. He had come back an hour earlier, and although the cancer had weakened her sense of smell, she could still make out another woman's perfume. He hadn't even bothered to take a shower.

He had been so attentive, so patient with her lately. So … kind. Why hadn't he always been like this?

Don't go telling yourself stories, girl. He's not acting out of love, just to ease his conscience. He didn't even bother to shower: what further proof do you need?

She wanted to die in peace. Suddenly she understood that ‘to die in peace' meant revenge.
Her
revenge. With blinding clarity, she realised that first thing tomorrow she would call that cop and tell him the truth.

Confrontation

The needle. Before she lapsed into unconsciousness, she summoned her will.

Be strong. Now is the time.

She came to in the big old dining room. As she did every time. She was sitting in the high-backed armchair at the end of the long table, a wide leather strap around her waist, two more around her ankles.

Plates, candlesticks, glasses, wine, music. Mahler, of course.
That fucking stupid bastard Gustav Mahler
… She wondered whether she would be able to speak loudly enough after all these months walled up in silence.

She had no other weapons, only her voice.

‘Cheers!' he said joyfully, raising his glass.

Usually, she reciprocated. She liked the taste of the wine, the liberating intoxication. And she liked her freshly ironed dress, the smell of soap on her skin, the delicious food – after all those days spent in her cellar eating the same colourless gruel. Her stomach and her brain shouted at her to throw herself on the wine and the steaming plate of food. She stared at the plastic glass. Tempting. She wanted it, wanted it so badly … almost as much as the drugs she thought she had weaned herself off, in those early days, down in her cellar, but had wanted so much she thought she would go mad.