Blood Wedding (20 page)

March 27

Though
Laure has done her best to be supportive, Sophie is devastated. After her cat was killed, the house was vandalised while she was away; she has been knocked for six. She is convinced it must be the work of some spiteful neighbour. Laure insists that the people around here are lovely, that they have made her feel very welcome. Sophie is doubtful. And the facts as she outlines them are in her favour. To make matters worse, it will take time to get a loss adjuster to come round, to re-hire builders, order new furniture. It could take weeks (or months, who knows?). Then everything will have to be painted again. If that were not enough, Vincent has just started his new job and gets home late every night, and tells her that this is normal, that it’s always like that at the beginning. She feels as though they have got off to a bad start with the house. She does not want to focus on the negative (quite right, Sophie: try to stay rational). Vincent has had an alarm installed to reassure her, but still she feels uneasy. Their honeymoon period in the Oise did not last long. The pregnancy is coming along. Three and a half months. Though I have to say, Sophie looks very peaky.

April 2

This is the last straw: there are rats in the house. There were none when they moved in, and now they are all over the place. And they say when you see one rat there are nine more in the walls. You start out with a couple, but they breed so fast. The place is teeming, you see them scurrying into dark corners, it can be very frightening. At night you hear them scrabbling in the dark. You set traps, put down bait to lure and kill them. There seems to be no end. I’m the one
who has to do all the work, ferrying panicked rats in the panniers of the motorbike. That is the most tiresome part.

April 4

It is to Laure that Sophie turns for comfort. I went back to the teacher’s house to check on a few things. I even began to wonder whether she might not be a lesbian, but I don’t think so. Though this is precisely what has been said in the anonymous letters circulating around the village. The council were the first to receive one, followed by social services and the school inspections board: they paint an ugly picture of Laure, claiming that she’s a thief (one letter claims she has been embezzling school funds), a tyrant (allegations of the cruel treatment of pupils), a deviant (claims that she is involved in an intimate relationship with Sophie Duguet). The atmosphere in the village becomes hostile. Unsurprisingly, feelings are all the more intense because this is a godforsaken village where nothing ever happens. In her e-mails, Sophie describes Laure as “an extremely brave young woman”. Finding herself in a position where she can be of help to someone else, Sophie feels useful.

April 15

So here she is at last, the famous Valérie! The two women are rather alike, I think. They met in secondary school. Valérie works for an international haulage company based in Lyon. The internet throws up no results for “Valérie Jourdain”, but by widening the search to “Jourdain” alone I manage to trace the family lineage from the grandfather, the source of the family wealth, to the
grandson, Henri – Valérie’s elder brother. By the late nineteenth century, the family had already amassed a considerable fortune in the textile industry when, by a rare stroke of genius, the grandfather, Alphonse Jourdain, filed a patent for a synthetic cotton thread which was to ensure a generous income for his family for two generations. This was all that was needed for his son, Valérie’s father, to consolidate their wealth with a series of judicious investments (principally real estate), so that the family would be secure for at least eight generations more. From what I’ve been able to glean of Valérie’s personal finances, the sale of her Lyon apartment alone would allow her to live comfortably for a hundred years without working a day in her life.

I watch them stroll together in the grounds of the house. A distraught Sophie shows her how all the plants are dying, even some of the trees. No-one knows what the problem is. They would rather not find out.

Valérie proves to be cheerful and enthusiastic. She helps with painting the walls, but after a while she sits on the stepladder smoking cigarettes and chatting until she realises that Sophie has been working on her own for more than an hour. The problem is that she is terrified of rats, that the alarm randomly going off as many as four times a night sends her into a blind panic. (Although it requires a lot of work on my part, the results are deeply rewarding.) Valérie complains that they’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t disagree.

Sophie introduced Valérie to Laure. They seem to get along famously. But what with Sophie’s chronic depression and Laure’s persistent anxiety about the wave of poison pen letters circulating in the village, it’s not much of a holiday for Valérie.

April 30

If
things carry on like this, even Valérie is going to get annoyed with Sophie. Vincent is a sphinx, it is impossible to know what he is thinking; Valérie, on the other hand, is impulsive and spontaneous. She has no ulterior motives.

For some days now, Sophie has been pleading with her to stay a little longer. Just a few more days. Valérie tried to explain that she simply can’t. Sophie insisted, called her “darling” and “poppet”, but though Valérie might be able to take more time off, she hates the place. I don’t think anything in the world could persuade her to stay. But then, just as she is about to leave, her train ticket goes missing. She cannot help but think that perhaps Sophie is doing everything in her power to keep her here. Sophie swears that she had nothing to do with it, Valérie shrugs it off, Vincent makes it out to be just a trivial incident. Valérie books a new ticket over the internet. She is more reserved than usual. They kiss goodbye at the station, Valérie patting a sobbing Sophie on the back. I think Valérie is ecstatic to be getting out of here.

May 10

When I saw that Laure’s car had broken down, I immediately realised what would happen next and planned accordingly. It worked exceptionally well. The following day, Laure asked to borrow Sophie’s car so she could do her weekly shop. Sophie is always happy to help. Everything was prepared. I had arranged things meticulously, though I also had a stroke of luck. When she opened the boot of the car, Laure might not have noticed anything. But as she was loading the bags from her shopping trolley, she saw the stack of magazines poking out of a plastic
bag. Given that recently her whole life has been dominated by the poison pen letters, she was of course intrigued. When she saw that there were words and letters cut from the pages of the magazines, she made the connection. I was expecting her to explode. But she didn’t. Laure is a very calm, very organised person; in fact this is what Sophie likes about her. Laure went home to pick up copies of the anonymous letters she has been collecting over recent weeks and took them and the magazines directly to the police station in the nearest town, where she pressed charges. Sophie was beginning to worry by the time Laure finally came back from her shopping trip. Laure barely said a word. Through the binoculars, I could see them standing facing each other. Sophie’s eyes widened. Hardly had Laure left when the police arrived with a search warrant. It didn’t take them long to find the other magazines I had secreted here and there. The libel action should keep tongues wagging in the village for the next few weeks. Sophie is at her wits’ end. This is all she needs. She will have to tell Vincent. Sometimes I think that Sophie wishes she were dead. And she is pregnant.

May 13

Sophie is distraught. These past few days she has literally had to drag herself around. She did a little work on the house, but her heart was not in it. She seems reluctant to set foot outside.

I don’t know what is going on with the builders, but there has been no sign of them. I suspect the insurance company are not being cooperative. Perhaps they should have had the alarm installed earlier, I don’t know, insurers can be sticklers for regulations. In short, no work is being done. Sophie looks haggard
and dispirited. She spends hours standing outside smoking. Hardly the best in her condition.

May 23

Huge black clouds have been rolling across the sky all afternoon. At about 7.00 p.m., the rains started. By the time Vincent Duguet passed me at 9.15, the storm was raging wildly.

Vincent is a cautious, attentive man. He is driving at a reasonable speed, and is punctilious in his use of indicators. As he turns onto the trunk road, he accelerates. For several kilometres, it is a straight stretch of road and then it swerves sharply to the left, I would even say savagely. Despite the warning signs, many drivers have probably been caught out, especially since at that point the road is lined with trees that conceal the hairpin bend: it can quickly sneak up on an unsuspecting driver. Not Vincent, obviously; he has been driving the same route for weeks and is not given to bursts of speed. Even so, being familiar with a road can make you complacent; you stop thinking about the dangers. Vincent approached the bend with the confidence of someone who knows the area well. The rain was lashing hard now. I was just behind. I overtook at precisely the right moment and cut in front of him so brutally that the rear wheel of the motorcycle grazed his front bumper. At exactly that moment, I went into a carefully controlled skid, then braked hard to right the bike. The element of surprise: the rain, the motorbike appearing out of nowhere, scraping against the car and spinning out in front – Vincent Duguet literally went round the twist. He braked too hard, swerved and tried to turn into the bend. Just then, I pulled a wheelie right in front of him. He could visualise himself ploughing
into me, wrenched the steering wheel wildly and . . . that was that. The car spun around, the tyres mounted the hard shoulder, it was already the beginning of the end. It veered right, then left, the engine roared and the shriek of metal as it hit the tree was terrible: the car wrapped itself around the trunk, balanced on the rear wheels, the bonnet half a metre off the ground.

I got off the motorcycle and ran towards the car. Despite the torrential rain, I was afraid there would be a fire, I needed to work fast. I approached the driver’s door. Vincent’s chest was buried in the dashboard, the airbag must have exploded – I didn’t realise that was possible. I don’t know why I did what I did next, I probably needed to make sure he was dead. I pushed back the visor on my helmet, then grabbed him by the hair and twisted his face towards me. Blood was streaming everywhere, but his eyes were wide open and he was staring at me intently. I stood, completely paralysed. The driving rain poured into the car, Vincent’s face was gushing blood and yet he went on staring at me so fixedly that I was petrified. For a long moment we looked at each other. I let go of his head and it lurched heavily to one side and I swear, his eyes were still open. They now had a different fixity. As though he were finally dead. I ran to my bike and raced off back the way we had come. A few seconds later, I passed a car whose dipped headlights I had noticed earlier in my rear-view mirror.

I could not sleep for seeing Vincent’s eyes gazing into mine. Is he dead now? If not, would he be able to remember me? Would he realise that I am the motorcyclist he knocked down a few months ago?

May 25

I
keep up to date by way of Sophie’s e-mails to her father. He tries to insist that she come to stay with him, but she always refuses. She says she needs to be alone. When it comes to solitude, she has all she could wish for. Vincent was rushed to Garches hospital. I am desperate for news of his condition. I have no idea how things are going to pan out now. But I feel reassured: Vincent is in a bad way. A very bad way.

May 30

I had to take extreme measures, otherwise I risked losing her. Now I know where Sophie is at any moment of the day. It is safer that way.

I look at her: you wouldn’t think she was pregnant. Some women are like that, they only start to show at the very end.

June 5

It was bound to happen. It may be the predictable outcome of months of disaster and distress, and the way things have recently accelerated: Laure’s libel action, Vincent’s accident. Last night, Sophie went out in the middle of the night, something she never does. She went to Senlis. I wondered what it might have to do with Vincent. Nothing, as it turns out. Sophie has miscarried. Probably because she has been overwrought.

June 7

I was not at all well last night. I was woken by an overpowering
feeling of dread. I recognised the symptoms at once. Anything related to motherhood does this to me. Not always, but often. When I dream about my own birth, when I imagine Maman’s beaming face, the pain of missing her is excruciating.

June 8

Vincent has just been transferred to the Clinique Sainte-Hilaire for physiotherapy. The news is worse than I had feared. They expect him to be discharged in about a month.

July 22

It has been some time since I last saw Sophie. She took a little trip to visit her father. She stayed only four days, then came back to be at Vincent’s bedside.

Truthfully, the prognosis is not good . . . I am anxious to see what happens next.

September 13

My God, I’m still in shock . . .

Of course I had been expecting it, but even so. From an e-mail to her father, I learned that Vincent is being discharged today. First thing this morning, I found a spot in the grounds of the clinic from where I could see the whole complex. I had been there for twenty minutes when I saw them emerge through the door to the main building. Sophie at the top of the wheelchair ramp, pushing her husband. I could barely make them out.
I scrambled to my feet and took one of the adjacent paths so I could move closer. What a surprise! The man in the wheelchair is a shadow of his former self. His spine was badly damaged, but that is not all that’s wrong. It would be quicker to list the things that are still functioning. He cannot weigh more than 45 kilos. He is a shrunken relic; he wears a surgical collar to stop his head lolling and, from what I can make out, his eyes are glazed and his complexion sallow. When you think that the guy is not even thirty, it’s terrifying.