The Widow (28 page)

The one who held her opened the back of the car and propelled her in. She plunged and staggered and clutched the seat. Another turned the inside light out – or did that happen earlier? That was the one who had got very rapidly into the car from the other side and slammed the door. He gripped her like a parcel, set her abruptly upright and held her strongly with both arms.

‘Do not struggle, do not yell. You're all right.' It was too
painful to struggle, and she was too astonished to yell. This wasn't anything like rape. It was a great deal more businesslike. The one who had pushed her got into the driving-seat. The warm motor caught instantly, and in a smooth unfussed way they were at the crossing of the Boulevard de la Victoire with a green light and turning left into the Rue Vauban. The car gathered speed. The quiet voice said, ‘No harm will come to you. Make no fuss.' There seemed to be three men, the one holding her in the back, and two in the front. Whoever had spoken had an educated voice. Neither Robert nor his friends. She had not been hurt: it was simply that both her wrist and her mouth were tender. The car did not go up the ramp to the Pont d'Anvers but turned left along the canal.

This, the initial shock and the nasty feeling of a film being rerun once over, was surely the moment to do something with the gun. What did one do? Couldn't hold up all three. Presumably one could have a go at the one nearest. Very near indeed; the back seat of a Lancia is an intimate affair, and he had his arms lovingly around her, not she was bound to admit in any horrid Robertish way.

‘I told you not to wriggle,' he said. It occurred to him then to see what she was wriggling at, and his large hand patted the hard thickness of her holster.

‘She has a gun,' indifferently.

‘Has she now?' said the voice from the front, amused. ‘Give it to me. Really, really. I'm putting this in the glove compartment; you'll have no occasion for it just awhile.'

They had swung round through the Conseil des Quinze quarter, crossed the bridge over the canal opposite the Orangery, and turned right down into the back streets of the Robertsau, streets lit only at intersections and which she did not know well. She could hardly see anything anyhow; her glasses were quite smeared. Two or three more corners lost her totally. Perhaps out at the end of the Rue Melanie, somewhere near the Cháteau de Pourtales.

‘This'll do,' said the front voice, which seemed to be in authority.

The car stopped, lurching and squelching as it left the road. She could see nothing save a vague, impression of fields and trees. The driver flicked his lights twice and cut them; perhaps it was some sort of signal.

There was no need to repeat any instructions. The man holding her grunted as before, ‘Don't struggle and you won't be hurt.' She didn't feel inclined to struggle. He was large and strong; one big hand sufficed to hold both her wrists and his body wedging her in the corner made any rearing or bucking impossible.

The man in the front was busy with something that made a ripping sound. Tearing a length of fabric? – she got the answer when her glasses were taken off, roughly but not brutally, and a piece of wide adhesive plaster was fitted over her eyes. It did not hurt. It would hurt when she got it off, she remembered thinking, because of the fine hair over her ears and temples, and she wondered whether she would be alive to worry about this.

The next piece was fitted more carefully: a light hand touched her cheeks and nostrils, closed her jaws, and when the gag was in place made sure that her nose was not obstructed. They didn't want her to asphyxiate, which was kind.

‘Go mum-mum-mum,' said the front voice, pleasantly. She obeyed. ‘Good. It's only to stop you screaming needlessly, which would have no point at all.'

With the ventilators no longer going the driver had opened his window to get some fresh air. She could feel it. And at this moment, ears sharpened by the blindfold, she heard a car, being driven quite slowly; a big car with a soft motor and broad wheels grating on the surface they had left. Dear man, kind good man, do be curious for once. It isn't a fornicating couple: that fear had now left her.

The three men were quiet. The car slowed further. Oh whoopee, he is curious. Some little way behind them, the car stopped. She could hear the motor idling softly. With a sickening lurch of disappointment she realized when no move
was made that this was their car. Come to pick them up. In answer no doubt to their signal.

Something new was being prepared, something that unwound with a squeaky sound. Electrician's tape, she thought, as her left hand was laid on her knee and the wrist rapidly taped to her thigh.

‘Right,' said the light authoritative voice. ‘A short explanation. Listen carefully.' Her right hand was still being held by the man next to her: she wondered why they didn't finish tying her. ‘You are wondering about all this: you will now have time to think it over. Think, then, thoroughly. You are not being killed, or kidnapped. That would simply draw attention to you, something I have no use for. You will not even be here very long: you are lightly tied. If you do not manage to free yourself quite soon I shall be surprised. If not, you will be found before morning, though in your own interest I recommend you to try.

‘You have been meddling in other people's business. Innocently – it is possible. But it was not a good idea. It never is. Now you are getting a warning to stop it. One warning – that is all there will be. You have understood? Nod your head.

‘Very well. I waste the least time and trouble possible. You are putting me to trouble now and I don't intend to have any more. What follows will show you this. I am not a brute, nor a sadist. I have no enjoyment in inflicting pain. The injury will not be permanent. It will, indeed, hardly show. You will, though, remember it. Give me her hand.'

She struggled then, which was quite futile, and tried to scream, which just produced a mum-mum and hurt her ears and her sinus.

The one held her wrist and kept her hand steady. The other gripped her sharply by the tips of her fingers, bent her hand out flat on the back of the seat, and cut her twice across the palm in a cross. Her heart turned over and she made a whining sound like a whipped dog.

The man had prepared everything. He slapped a lump of cotton wool on her palm and covered that with a generous
piece of the elastic strapping. Her limp arm felt broken by the force she had tried to use to pull it back: they took it and taped it to her leg like the other. She lay doubled over with her head on her arms, a few hot tears behind the blindfold, a shadow of a last whimper behind the gag. To the blinding pain succeeded extreme misery.

‘That is all,' said the voice, drilling through the numbness. ‘You have been warned. Think about it now. Think thoroughly.'

The fresh air came in a gush, saving her from fainting. They had all three got out of the car. ‘Watch your footsteps,' said the light voice quietly. The doors slammed. She was alone. On the other side of the thick red haze more doors slammed, a motor accelerated, changed gear, died out of hearing. She was alone with the tick of the cooling motor of the Lancia and the pump of her blood.

How long Arlette sat, bowed, limp, she had no idea. Very gradually, bit by bit, she came to herself.

The soft rain was still pattering on the roof. It was not cold, but she was cold and getting colder. With every moment that passed she was getting stiffer, more cramped. Soon she would be able to do nothing at all. She must move. Moving would start the blood flowing again. Her hand was just a sticky wet mess: she could not tell if blood were still flowing. She thought not. The palm. Surely there was no artery there. Or was there – how deep were the cuts? Small blood-vessels – with any luck the constriction of the tape on her wrist, and the rough bandage, had stopped the bleeding, and coagulation would begin.

God – suppose there are tendons cut. I may never again have my right hand to use.

You better not think about that. Just do something. Now your legs are not tied. With a fumble you ought to be able to unlock the car, get out on the road. Walk? No, not walk: walking with the wrists taped to your knees – ever try it? You could get across a room, but you're not getting far on a deserted country road, and there's nobody much around at three in the morning – how late is it? Had she been unconscious? Examining her body, and thinking about it – there seemed nothing much wrong there except – yes, she had wet her trousers. Too bad about those trousers. And Annick had done a lot of work there. But there were more important things in the world. Like her head, which was alarmingly swimmy, empty.

Get your head down. It needs to be lower than the rest of you. Wriggling slowly and timidly, because if she fell between the two sets of seats she wouldn't be able to get out again, she got herself lying laterally. Head down, legs up.

She could kick the window out. What good would that do? It might not be as easy as it sounds, with safety glass, and apart from a spoiled car will it be of any use? Somebody comes and sees feet waving out of the window?

Help yourself. Do not rely on others to help you.

One could get the head down on to the thighs. The electric insulating tape is smooth. But it has rough edges where it is stuck to the fabric of the unpleasantly sodden trousers. If you rub away at the edge with the other edge, the sticky edge under your ear, you might get this gag off. And that will be a start.

This worked. A good deal slower and more laborious than a dog scratching or a cat washing itself but by repeated efforts of the head and neck the plaster rolled itself back, millimetre by millimetre, very slow but it became less slow and at last, oh what bliss, she could breathe through the mouth, move it, yell, but she wasn't going to waste energy yelling. Her mouth was bruised, and messed up with sticky goo tasting unpleasant, but she now had teeth again, and teeth worrying at the tape around her left thigh would, with lots and lots of
patience, eventually free her left hand. This was interminable, but this too gave results in the long run. Yes. Long run. A marathon. She was breathing heavily, sick and giddy and a horrible mess, but she got her left hand free, and that freed her eyes, and now it was only a matter of being patient and exceedingly relaxed.

Sometimes one was too relaxed, and sometimes not relaxed enough. The scales were too delicately balanced altogether.

Now she was altogether free, with an unusable right hand wound about with sticky sopping plaster. It wouldn't do any good but it might keep things cleaner: she used the plaster off her mouth and eyes to make further vague bandaging. It frightened her to think she had lost a lot of blood. She tried to use her common sense, and tell herself that all this immense mess of gore amounts probable to a cupful. Less than you'd give as a transfusion donor, woman. And you can now move. What is more, Arlette, you are going to drive this car.

God. They would have taken the keys and tossed them in the bushes.

No they hadn't. The keys were still in the lock. Kneeling on the driving seat, she got the parking brake off with her left hand.

Now what? You can drive with your left hand, but you shift gears with your right, and it's unusable. With some more manoeuvring she dragged the gearshift into second. Lovely, beautiful little Lancia, you are going to get me home in second gear.

There were lots more difficulties. Starting the car, putting on the wipers, putting on the lamps. Then she got halfway across the road and had to reverse. This was the worst yet. The gearbox moaned and screeched. Would she get picked up by the police for being drunk?

She weaved around a great deal, in roads that looked vaguely familiar and then turned out unfamiliar, and kept on coming back to the same crossroads, but she got the string untangled at last and yes this was now definitely the Rue Melanie.

Down at the bottom of the Rue Melanie, just before getting out on to the High Street of the Robertsau, is the Hospital Saint-François. She thought about this, knowing the hand must be looked to by a professional – ho ho. But blurrily – no. The priority was to get home. And they'd ask such a lot of questions. That much of the lesson had been learned. She did not want a lot of questions, and the more because none of the answers would be of any use.

It was only two-thirty – she'd thought it must be four at least. There were still belated revellers on the main road, but nobody who saw anything noteworthy in a small wet car travelling slowly. She crossed the big bridge past the Palais de l'Europe, turned to skirt the Orangery, came out on her familiar peaceful Boulevard de la Marne. Nobody was afoot in the Rue de l'Observatoire. As she walked tipsily up to her front door a car that had been parked drove away, but she wasn't bothered about it. They might be checking up on whether she had got home, and it might be pure coincidence, and she just did not care. All she needed now was Arthur. She had strength enough to get up the stairs: no more effort was needed. She switched on lights.

‘Arthur. Arthur. Arthur!'

However absent-minded or uncoordinated these English may be in the small day-to-day affairs there is nothing found wanting when the going is tough. He was out of bed and standing upright at the mere tone of her voice, before he found his glasses, snapped them on, and took one look. He laid her down on the bed, put pillows behind her, made one brisk smack with the lower lip on his teeth at the sight of the hand, and was back in ten seconds with a bottle of alcohol. She waved her left hand feebly to say no no, bad for me, don't, but drank some, and felt the better for it.

‘Tea,' she said.

‘Of course.' An English remedy for anything short of death. Not Arab tea, Annick dear, though yours did me all the good in the world. Thick soupy milky English tea, Super-Ceylon
from Lipton, please. Instinctively, this was what he provided. He took a look at the hand.

‘This is a horrible mess, but seems to have stopped bleeding. I don't want to frig at it now.'