Blood Wedding (28 page)

His mother’s medical file is in one of those boxes.

*

The key turns in the front door. She is alone. Sophie immediately gets up from the bed and hurries to the wardrobe, stands on tiptoe, takes the spare key and unlocks the door, her every muscle tensed. She listens as Frantz’s footsteps echo in the stairwell. She runs back to the window, but she does not see him emerge from the building. Unless he took the side exit past the rubbish bins. She slips on a pair of flat shoes, silently closes the door behind her, and pads down the stairs. There are no televisions blaring in this part of the building. Sophie controls her breathing, she pauses when she reaches the ground floor, glances around her. This is the only other door. She opens it slowly, praying that it will not creak. At the foot of the flight of steps she can just make out a faint glow.
She listens, but she can hear only her heart beating, her temples pounding. She creeps down the steps. The glow is coming from one of the cellars to her right. At the far end of the passageway, a door stands ajar. She does not need to go any further, in fact it would be dangerous. Frantz’s keyring has three keys. This, then, is what the third key is for. Sophie noiselessly goes back up the stairs. She will wait for the right opportunity.

*

From the taste – much more bitter than usual – she can tell it is a massive dose. Fortunately, by now Sophie is organised. Next to the bed she leaves a pile of crumpled tissues into which she can spit out the medicine. She replenishes the tissues each time she goes to the toilet. It does not always work. Yesterday, Frantz lingered too long, refusing to leave her side even for a second. She felt the liquid insidiously slipping down her throat. Fearing it might make her cough – something he would certainly find suspicious – she decided she would have to swallow, turning as she did though sleeping fitfully. A few minutes later, she felt her limbs grow numb, her muscles become slack. It reminded her of the last moments before an operation when the anaesthetist asks you to count to five.

On that particular occasion, her strategy failed, but she has a sophisticated system and, in the right circumstances, all goes well. She has found a way to keep the medication in her mouth as she swallows saliva. If Frantz walks away in the minutes that follow, she rolls onto her side, takes the pile of tissues and spits the liquid out again. If she has to hold it in her mouth for too long, it is absorbed through the mucous membrane and mingles with her saliva. Even on those rare occasions when she is forced to swallow, there is always the possibility she can make herself
throw up, though she has only minutes to spare before the effects take hold. This time, everything went well. A few minutes after spitting out the drug, she feigns the even breathing of deep sleep and when Frantz comes and bends over her, begins to stroke her, to whisper to her, she shakes her head as though to shake off his words. She moves restlessly, gently at first, then quickly becomes more agitated, thrashing and writhing, sometimes even jack-knifing her body when she wants to give the impression of convulsing in her nightmare. Frantz follows his own ritual. He begins by leaning over her, speaking softly, stroking her hair, trailing his fingers over her lips, her throat, but later all his passion is channelled through his words.

Frantz whispers to her, watches over her. What he says depends on whether he is trying to frighten or to calm her. But in all of his speeches, he summons up the dead. Tonight, it is Véronique Fabre. Sophie remembers it clearly: the sofa on which she was sprawled, the body of the young woman lying in a pool of blood. The kitchen knife Frantz must have placed in her hand.

“What happened, Sophie?” Frantz says, “A fit of rage? That’s right, isn’t it, a fit of rage . . .”

Sophie squirms as though trying to escape him.

“You can still see her, can’t you? Picture her now. She is wearing a grey trouser suit, it’s rather drab. All you can see is the white collar of her blouse, the base of her throat. Can you see her? Good. She is wearing flat shoes.”

Frantz’s voice is grave, he speaks unhurriedly.

“I was worried, you know, Sophie. You were at her place for almost two hours. I was waiting for you outside . . .”

Sophie gives a little moan, jerks her head fearfully. Her hands flutter over the sheet.

“. . .
then I see this woman running to the pharmacy down the street. I follow her inside and overhear her tell the pharmacists she’s not feeling well . . . Surely you can imagine how worried I was, my angel?”

Sophie rolls over, trying to get away from the voice. Frantz walks around the bed, kneels and continues to whisper into her other ear.

“I didn’t leave her time to help you. As soon as she went inside, I rang the bell. When she opened the door she was still holding the bag she’d got at the pharmacy. Behind her, I could see you, my angel, my Sophie, you were lying on the sofa, in such a deep, deep sleep, just like today. When I saw you, all my worry melted away. You were so pretty, you know. So pretty.”

Frantz runs his index finger over Sophie’s lips, she cannot help but flinch. To throw him off the scent she blinks rapidly, twitches her mouth.

“I did exactly what you would have done, my little Sophie. But first, I stunned her. Nothing savage, she fell to her knees just long enough for me to take the few steps to the table and pick up the kitchen knife. She looked surprised, and terrified, obviously. It’s understandable, it was a lot for her to take in. Don’t toss and turn like that, my angel. I’m here beside you, nothing can hurt you.”

Sophie jerks her body again, rolls over. She brings up her hands as though to stop her ears, but she cannot remember how, her movements haphazard, futile.

“I did just as you would have done. You would have come close to her, wouldn’t you? Do you remember her eyes? Those soulful eyes? You would have given her no time, you would have stared into those eyes and, with a powerful thrust, buried the knife in her belly. Can you feel it in your arm, Sophie? That wrench as you
plunge the knife into her stomach. Let me show you . . .”

Frantz crouches over her and gently takes her wrist. She tries to resist, but he already has a firm grasp and as he says the words again, she feels a jerk as he forcibly tugs at her hand, slashing at the air until it meets a supple resistance.

“That’s what it feels like, Sophie, you thrust the knife in, a single stab, and you twist it, deep in the wound.”

Sophie opens her mouth to scream.

“See Véronique’s face. See her suffer, see the pain you have caused her. Her whole belly is on fire, you see her eyes grow wide, her mouth gape in horror but still you push the knife deep into her belly. You are cold-blooded, Sophie. She screams. So, to shut her up, you remove the knife – slick with her blood now – and you plunge it in a second time. Sophie, you have to stop!”

But even as he says this, Frantz continues to force Sophie’s hand to stab at the empty air. With her free hand Sophie grabs her wrist, but Frantz is too strong, she is howling now, thrashing and writhing, she tries to raise her knees but it is no good, it is like a child trying to grapple with an adult.

“Is there nothing that can stop you?” Frantz says. “Once, twice, and again and again and again, you slash at her stomach, again and again and in a little while you will wake up with the knife in your hand and Véronique lying in a pool of blood beside you. How can anyone do such a thing, Sophie? How can you go on living knowing you are capable of such things?”

*

For several days now, thanks to an explosive cocktail of vitamin C, caffeine and glucuronamide, Sophie has managed to sleep for only a few short hours. Frantz sleeps soundly. Sophie watches him. The man has a determined face and, even in sleep, he radiates a
powerful, obdurate energy. His breathing, usually shallow and regular, is more erratic now. He moans in his sleep as though having trouble breathing. Sophie is naked, she feels a little cold. She folds her arms and looks at him. Dispassionately, she despises him. She goes into the kitchen where a door opens onto a small space that, for some inexplicable reason, people in the building refer to as an “airing cupboard”. Less than two metres square, with a narrow vent – summer and winter it is cold in here – this is where people store their junk; it also houses the rubbish chute. Sophie carefully pulls out the drawer of the rubbish chute, reaches her hand into the shaft and pulls out a plastic bag which she swiftly opens. She sets a syringe and a small vial of colourless liquid on the table. She replaces the rest in the plastic bag and stows it back in the chute. Then, as a precaution, she takes a few steps towards the bedroom. Frantz is still asleep, snoring quietly. Sophie opens the fridge, takes out the four-pack of Frantz’s probiotic yoghurt drinks. The needle slides easily through the pliant lids, leaving only a tiny hole in the foil. Having injected a dose into each one, Sophie shakes the pack to mix it in and replaces it in the fridge. A few minutes later, she has returned the plastic bag to its hiding place and is slipping into bed. The very touch of Frantz’s body disgusts her intensely. She could cheerfully kill him in his sleep. With a kitchen knife, for example.

*

By his reckoning, Sophie should sleep for about ten hours. This will be more than long enough if all goes well. If it does not, he may have to try again later, but he is so excited by his plan that he does not contemplate the possibility of failure. In the dead of night, it takes two hours to drive to Neuville-Sainte-Marie.

Rain has been forecast. This makes it ideal. He parks the
motorbike at the edge of the woods, as close as he dares in other words. A few minutes later, two welcome discoveries greet him when he sees the Auverney house in darkness and hears the first raindrops splatter on the ground. He sets his sports bag at his feet, quickly peels off his leathers under which he is wearing a tracksuit. Having pulled on a pair of trainers and zipped up the bag, Frantz heads down the small hill that separates the woodland from Auverney’s garden. He leaps over the railing. He knows there is no guard dog. Just as he comes to the door of the hangar, he sees a light go on in an upstairs room. It is Auverney’s bedroom. He presses himself against the door. Unless he goes downstairs and comes outside, Auverney cannot possibly see him. Frantz checks his watch. It is almost 1.00 a.m. He has plenty of time, but he is also very impatient, precisely the state of mind that can lead to mistakes being made. He takes a deep breath. The bedroom window casts a rectangle of light that pierces the fine drizzle and falls onto the lawn. He sees a figure pass through it. On the nights Frantz was keeping watch, Auverney did not seem to suffer from insomnia, but you never know. Frantz folds his arms, stares at the rain streaking the darkness and prepares himself for a long wait.

*

When she was a child, she found nights when there was a storm exhilarating. She throws the windows wide and inhales the cool air that chills her lungs. She needs it. She did not manage to spit out all the medication Frantz gave her and is reeling a little, her head heavy. It will not last, but just now she is beginning to feel the soporific effects, and tonight the dose was particularly strong. That Frantz increased the dose must mean he is planning to be out for some time. He left at about 11 p.m. Sophie is sure he will not be back before 3.00 or 4.00 a.m. To be on the safe side she settles
on 2.30. Steadying herself on the furniture, she makes her way to the bathroom and opens the door. It has become routine now. She pulls off her T-shirt, steps into the bath, takes a deep breath and turns the shower on cold. She lets out a hoarse, determined cry, forces herself to carry on breathing. A few seconds later, she is cold and rubbing herself down with a towel which she then hangs up in front of the vent in the airing cupboard. She makes herself a cup of strong tea (unlike coffee, it leaves no odour) and while she waits for it to infuse she exercises her arms, her legs, does a few press-ups to get her blood flowing and gradually feels her energy restored. She sips the scalding tea, then washes and dries the cup. She steps back and studies the kitchen to make sure she has left no trace of her presence. She stands on a chair, pushes up one of the ceiling tiles, and takes down a small, flat key. Before going down to the cellar, she changes her shoes and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Gently closing the door behind her, she pads down the stairs.

*

The rain has not let up. In the distance, there is the muffled roar of trucks on the main road. Marking time here on these few square centimetres, Frantz is starting to feel the cold. It is just as he sneezes for the first time that the bedroom light goes out. It is precisely 1.44. Frantz gives himself twenty minutes. He returns to his lookout post and wonders whether he will need to go to a doctor. The first crash of thunder rumbles in the distance, a flash of lightning rips across the sky illuminating for a fleeting second the whole property.

At 2.05, Frantz leaves his post, walks slowly along the side of the building and tests the frame of a small window at head height through which, by the light of his torch, he can clearly see inside.
The window frame is ancient, the wood swollen from many winters. Frantz takes out his tool kit then places one hand in the centre of the glass to test the resistance, but hardly has he touched it than the window flies inwards and slams against the wall. In the deafening roar of the storm, it is not likely that the sound would be heard upstairs in the house. He snaps shut his tool kit and sets it carefully on the ledge, hoists himself onto the sill and drops lightly down on the other side. It is a dusty concrete floor. He takes his shoes off, careful to leave no footprints. A few seconds later, torch in hand, he is moving towards the stacks of boxes containing Doctor Auverney’s case files. It takes less than five minutes to extricate the box marked “A–G”. He cannot contain the excitement, it is causing him to lose his composure and he has to force himself to take long, slow breaths and allow his arms to hang limply by his sides.

The boxes are extremely heavy. Each is sealed with a length of packing tape. Frantz turns over the one he is interested in. The bottom is simply glued together. The blade of a Stanley knife carefully inserted is enough to unstick the four corrugated cardboard flaps. This done, he finds himself faced with a pile of folders. He picks one at random: Gravetier. The name is written in block capitals in blue marker. He puts it back in the box. He takes out a sheaf of files and he can feel his salvation fast approaching: Baland, Baruk, Benard, Belais, Berg! An orange file, the name inscribed in the same handwriting. It is very thin. Frantz opens it nervously. It contains only three documents. The first is a “Clinical Assessment” concerning Berg, Sarah. The second is a simple note containing official and administrative details, the third, a hand-written, largely illegible prescription detailing a regimen of medications. He takes out the clinical assessment, folds it and
tucks it into his tracksuit. He puts the file back in the box, applies a few spots of extra-strong glue to the flaps, turns it over and leaves everything as he found it. Less than fifteen minutes later he is driving back along the
autoroute
, taking care to observe the speed limit.