Bed of Nails (31 page)

He had stayed two months in hospital before being allowed home. Guérin was still there, and had fixed up the flat, overcome by all the trainers and tracksuits which he had stuffed away in cupboards.

Lambert would never run again. He would never trail along the corridor with the sound like waves on a beach. The surgeon had not been able to save his legs.

He got a pension, and social services paid for a carer: a young student who came mornings and evenings to help him out of bed, to get into his wheelchair, to take a shower, have a meal and go back to bed again.

His legs had gradually wasted away.

Lambert would sit at the window, looking down at the estate he had returned to.

Sometimes he took the lift, propelling his wheelchair between the tower blocks. People said hello, he chatted to friends, the ones who were getting on O.K., others who were in trouble. His wastepaper basket was full of brochures for holidays by the sea or in the mountains for people with reduced mobility. Going to the
mountains in a wheelchair. He didn’t give a damn about going on holiday. What Lambert wanted was to be able to drag his feet through the bakery flour or along corridors of the quai, then flex his knees, and stand feet apart, holding a loaded gun to Lundquist’s head.

Guérin came to see him less often. The boss was turning into a wreck, becoming incoherent. Or perhaps Lambert was just not listening to him any more.

The visits disturbed him. He surprised himself by hating Guérin, who was still chasing his ghosts, while he, Lambert, was stuck in a wheelchair. In November, Guérin stopped calling altogether. Lambert went out less and less often.

The carer tidied the flat every morning, clearing up the mess created by Lambert in fits of rage that were getting more and more violent. He wasn’t bothering to eat. He drank a lot of beer and pissed himself sitting in his wheelchair. The bedsit began to stink. Lambert would belch, roll himself over to the window and yell.

He had a nightmare. Always the same, in black and white, and it scared him so much he became insomniac.

His father occasionally paid him a visit. One night they were drinking lager and watching T.V., his father on the couch, him in his wheelchair. After the film, his dad got up to go home, a couple of blocks away. The old man was a bit drunk. He hesitated on one foot, not knowing what to say. He felt sorry for his son, but couldn’t find the right words.

“Want a hand to get to bed?”

“No.”

He shook Francis’ hand, hesitated, then bent down and kissed him on the forehead. As he closed the front door, he said to himself, well, at least his son didn’t have to work, he was supported by the French state.

Lambert dreaded going to bed, he was afraid of the dream.

A pack of beer on his thighs, he pushed his way to the window and looked out. The estate was deserted. There were lights on in the flats, but no-one on the streets. Lambert threw an empty can on the floor and opened another.

Three teenagers came out of the building opposite and went over to a lamp post. They were sharing a joint. The rain had turned into flakes. It was snowing.

At first the dream had been the same: the cars, the crashes and the skinny young man running with his arms spread wide. Then the scene changed and now it was himself, Lambert, who was running between the cars, going up the ring road with long strides and smiling.

The dream terrified him and enraged him. Because he could feel the asphalt under his bare feet, the wind on his skin, that marvellous weariness in his thighs and the regular rhythm of his breath as he ran. When the truck came hurtling towards him, he would wake up screaming and banging his lifeless legs.

A few weeks ago, the dream had become a vision, and staying up drinking no longer protected him. He couldn’t get rid of it. For whole days, with his head thrown back looking up at the ceiling, eyes open, he was running up the
périphérique
into the traffic. The naked man was smiling, and Lambert was weeping. He had stopped sleeping altogether.

He pushed his wheelchair over to a cupboard. His jacket in Brazil’s team colours was stiff and smelled of mildew. He threw his half-full beer can at the shelf, splashing his Zidane T-shirt, and knocking over his shooting trophy.

He was a good shot. He wouldn’t have missed him, standing in the correct position as he was. But Lundquist had a loaded gun. Being nice wasn’t an option with shits like him. Wasn’t his life worth more than Lundquist’s? Guérin had aimed too low. Lambert wouldn’t have missed, firmly planted on both legs.

*

The youths, two white and an Arab, had met up at the bottom of the staircase, escaping from family meals that went on for ever. They had gone out to hang about under the street lamp. The hall with its broken windowpanes was no warmer than outside; might as well get some fresh air. A joint was passed round, the talk was about the evening, films, holidays in the mountains they would never take. Kids having a bit of fun. Snowflakes started to fall, as if suspended in the halo of light from the street lamp.

“Shit, man! It’s really Christmas now!”

They let the little flakes cover their hoods, looking up at the sky. No snowball fights yet, but it made them laugh. The flower beds round the flats started to turn white.

The young Arab wiped the snowflakes from his eyelashes and raised his arm, pointing a finger in the dark. His voice alerted the others.

“What the fuck’s he doing?”

They all looked up.

“Can’t hear, what’s he shouting?”

A man in a yellow jacket was contorting himself, twelve floors up, on the windowsill. The top half of his body was already hanging into the void.

ANTONIN VARENNE
travelled a great deal and completed an M.A. in philosophy before embarking on a career as a writer. He was awarded the Prix Michel Lebrun and the Grand Prix du jury Sang d’encre for
Bed of Nails
.

SIÂN REYNOLDS
is the translator of C.W.A. award-winning crime novels by Fred Vargas.