Too Close to the Edge (8 page)

‘Done?’

‘Yes.’

Paul had red eyes. He looked like one of those briar pipe bowls carved in the form of a sailor’s head.

‘Don’t you think we could do with a nice cup of coffee?’

It may have been the sound of the flush upstairs, a waterfall in his dreams of mountains, that woke Étienne up, or perhaps it was the shooting pain behind his ear. It was only when he tried to lift a hand to his head that he realised he was tied up, his wrists and ankles so tightly bound he could feel them puffing up like rubber gloves filled with water. A filthy hanky
had been shoved in his mouth. Inside his throbbing head, his thoughts were jostling together and pouring out like a bag of marbles in a schoolyard. With his cheek pressed to the red floor tiles, he could see the undersides of the dining chairs with their battered straw seats and the table pocked with woodworm, along with a tiny mouse with round eyes, creeping the length of the skirting boards like a wind-up toy. He made an attempt to sit up, but the rope binding his limbs also went round his throat, preventing him from making any movement on pain of strangulation. He heard the door open and saw Éliette’s bare feet (one of which had the beginnings of a bunion forming) rushing towards him, followed by Paul’s heavy boots.

‘What on earth have you done to him? Étienne, are you all right?’

The question struck him as somewhat absurd. He made do with rolling his eyes and grimacing.

‘Paul, you’re not going to …’

‘Just make some coffee, Éliette. Don’t worry about that …’

Éliette and Étienne exchanged a look punctuated with ellipses as Paul sat down heavily, mopping his brow.

‘Gonna be a hot one today. Storm’s on its way back in. No good this weather, coming and going; nature can’t get its bearings.’

He sat with his rifle between his knees as if newly returned from a hunt, a good honest man full of concern for his land and ready and willing to discharge his weapon at the slightest
move by Étienne. Éliette’s hands were no longer hers; they moved of their own accord, putting coffee in the pot, rinsing two cups, taking the sugar out of the cupboard – they could easily have done without her. Éliette was working on autopilot. She didn’t dare cast her eyes towards Étienne – taken the wrong way, a single glance could prove fatal to both of them. The sound of the birds chirruping outside made the situation all the more surreal. If Étienne had not been lying on the floor, it was just like countless other mornings when Paul had come round and she had made him coffee.

‘Two sugars, yes, thanks, Éliette … Oh, I don’t think I told you: the other night we were in Clément’s car coming back from Privas and we hit a wild boar – eighty kilos, the thing was. We cut it up the same night and chucked the head and the skin down the old well – you know, behind the old rubbish dump. Quite handy that well – all you have to do is throw a few bits of scrap on top and the gendarmes are none the wiser! Bet people have got rid of some interesting stuff down there …’

As he said this, Paul turned to Étienne.

‘Rose and I thought you might like a haunch to have with your kids. We put one in the freezer for you.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Paul, but if you want us to stay friends you need to untie Étienne and put your gun down.’

‘You’re having a laugh! You saw him whack me around the head with your pan! Four stitches I had to have!’

‘Yes, but remember what you were doing to me!’

‘I was drunk, Éliette. It doesn’t count! And anyway, you
know very well that’s not the only thing. He’s the one who sent Patrick into the ravine, no shadow of a doubt! Don’t try to fool me you’ve known him ten years!’

Once again, doubts began rising in Éliette’s heart like a corpse surfacing from a bog. Étienne’s wide eyes pleaded with her.

‘Let him explain himself, or let’s call the police. You can’t just go round accusing people without any proof!’

‘Aha! You see – you’ve clicked something’s not right, too! I’m telling you, I know what men are like. You didn’t call the police out in Algeria. You made them dig their hole and job done! Next!’

‘But we’re not at war any more, Paul, and even when we were, that wasn’t …’

‘Of course we’re still at war! Thugs like him are roaming the streets. The towns are full of them and they’re crawling all over the place here too, ruining things for everyone!’

‘But for heaven’s sake, Paul, what do you think you can do about it?’

‘Some housekeeping! But not the kind women do. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Isn’t that right?’

The barrel of the gun lifted Étienne’s chin; his face was pale.

‘Paul, I know you’re hurting, but this whole thing is ridiculous. I’m calling the police.’

‘No, Éliette. These things are best sorted out man to man. Don’t do anything stupid. Besides, I’ve cut the phone lines.’

‘You what?’

‘You’re not on my side, Éliette. He’s turned you. I don’t want you to be angry but I just can’t trust you. I’m going to have to shut you in the cellar while I finish the job. You’ll thank me later.’

The sound of a car pulling up outside made Paul leap up and point his gun at Éliette.

‘No funny business, OK? Or this is going to get nasty.’

There were footsteps on the gravel and then a knock came at the door. Serge’s voice called: ‘Éliette? … Papa?’

The oak door creaked open and soon Serge and Zep stepped into the kitchen, dressed in shorts and white T-shirts.

‘Papa? … What the hell are you doing with that gun? … We’ve been looking for you since …’ (Éliette discreetly drew his attention to Étienne curled up on the floor.) ‘What the hell’s going on here? … Papa?’

‘This has nothing to do with you! What’s going on here does not involve queers!’

‘You’re insane!’

‘Tell your Kraut not to move or I’ll blow his skull to pieces.’

‘Papa, please, put down the gun!’

‘Think you can tell me what to do, you little shit? On your knees! Everyone, on your knees! Even you, Éliette. Hands on your heads!’

Serge took a step forward. Zep moved away to the left, while Éliette pulled a chair in front of her. Paul stepped back.

‘Fuck. The first person to make another move gets it!’

It was like a game of grandmother’s footsteps. Everyone froze.

‘Papa …’

‘Shut up! You’re all against me. I’m the only one who knows! That fucker there killed your brother but you don’t give a shit! None of you do, because you never loved him, because Patrick was twice the person any of you will ever be!’

‘Stop it, Papa! Let Éliette’s friend go. We’ll say nothing about this – it stays between us. If you won’t untie him, I will. I loved Patrick just as much as you did.’

‘Like hell you did!’

‘I did, for fuck’s sake! Even if I’ve known for years he wasn’t yours!’

‘Shut your mouth, Serge! Don’t you ever say that again!’

‘This has gone far enough! Let this man go. You’re not the only one having a hard time. Have you forgotten Maman, back at home?’

‘Your mother’s a slag!’

‘And Clément’s your good friend – but what does it matter now? Look, I don’t blame you for anything. Are you going to untie him or shall I?’

‘Take one step and I’ll kill you.’

‘You know, Papa, I don’t care if you don’t love me, I still love you. Please, put the gun down …’

‘Who told you? About your mother and Clément?’

‘Everyone knows. Please, this is ridi—’

Serge didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. A sort of scarlet explosion speckled the wall in fragments of bone, brain and blood. The second shot hit Zep with full force, passing through his chest like a cannonball. The bang echoed
around the kitchen for several seconds. Outside, not a bird was singing. They had all fled towards a boundless sky where human folly dissolved into wispy clouds that were munched like candyfloss between big blue teeth.

Éliette’s ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, and her lower jaw was practically touching her chest. Her eyes could not take in what they had seen and could still see now: the bodies of the two young men immobilised in grotesque poses, an arm here, a leg there, pouring with black blood that branched out into a complicated network of streams running between the floor tiles. Serge’s right hand rested on Étienne’s face; making short muffled cries as he moved his head from side to side, Étienne struggled to shake it off. There were unidentifiable splatters across his hair and forehead. Soon the stench of excrement mingled with that of gunpowder.

Paul let go of his gun and fell to his knees. His trembling lips muttered words that could not be made out. Éliette rushed to the sink and threw up the two coffees she had just swallowed. When she lifted her head two minutes later, Paul had not changed position. He was intoning words as though reciting a psalm, something along the lines of ‘That’s it, now, we’re there …’ Étienne had finally managed to wriggle free of Serge’s corpse and was resting his head against the wall. His throat was swollen – he was choking, the handkerchief sticking out of his mouth like a fat purple tongue, eyes rolled back. A ray of sunlight bounced off a kitchen knife on the draining board. Éliette slowly took hold of it, but as
she did so, Paul let out a hoarse shout and did something incomprehensible. He undid his right shoe, took it off, yanked off his sock and took the rifle in his hand. Éliette was clutching the knife tightly against her chest when he turned towards her.

‘There’s no need, Éliette. We’re there, we’re there.’

He thrust the barrel into his mouth and used his big toe to pull the trigger.

The minute Éliette had cut Étienne loose he had run into the bathroom with one thing on his mind: to strip off his soiled clothes and wash and wash and wash some more, from head to foot. But as the water ran and the soap lathered up, the bathtub filled with ever pinker liquid. Blood produced blood until the house was nothing but one huge open wound that seemed never to want to heal. He had brushed his teeth several times and still could not get rid of the indelible taste of rust and grease that the dirty hanky had left in his mouth. He needed to jet-wash his entire insides, his memory, his heart, wished he could watch it all disappearing down the plughole. Afterwards, Éliette helped him rinse the white enamel and the tiles. Étienne stared into the mirror, scrutinising his reflection in microscopic detail; every time he ran his hand through his hair, he was sure he could feel scraps of bone and brain under his nails.

‘Jesus fucking Christ! I’m never going to get it out!’

‘There’s nothing left, Étienne. It’s all gone.’

‘No, it hasn’t! Look, here! … And here! It’s still there!’

It took a very long time for Éliette to convince him to see reason. He could not bring himself to move away from the mirror; all the muscles in his body were so tight they could snap. As she draped her dressing gown over his shoulders,
she felt as if she was dressing a wooden mannequin. She led him across the kitchen like a blind man, helping him to avoid the pools of blood and the bodies strewn here and there, with bluebottles already hovering above them. When they reached the sitting room she sat him on the sofa and poured him a shot which he downed through gritted teeth. And then, sitting with his head hanging, he told her everything: about the train, the coke, stealing the car, Patrick’s accident, everything, except his relationship with Agnès.

He was sobbing now, his head still down. She had rarely felt so calm, so collected in all her life. Her hand stroked the lump at the nape of his neck; he could have confessed to the most sickening crimes and still she would not for one second have wavered in her love for him. It was a strange kind of love, both maternal and carnal, innocent and perverted, and it made her incredibly happy. For a few seconds, Charles’s face came to her. He was smiling at her from the afterlife the way he smiled when she owned up to a minor sin, and he would shrug and open the paper, whose headlines were full of catastrophes and massacres from one end of the earth to the other.

‘Étienne, you ought to go and get dressed and hide this briefcase of yours. Bury it under the compost heap. I’m going to have to go to the police station. You needn’t worry about anything. Étienne, can you hear me?’

Étienne stood up. With his puffy eye, the lump on his neck and the too-tight dressing gown, he looked like a boxer approaching retirement.

‘Yes, good plan. I feel better. I was so afraid it was going to be the end of me … How on earth did he know it was me? His son, I mean …’

‘Instinct. He was a good huntsman. A good father, too. Will you be all right?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’m off then. Everything’s going to be just fine – you’ll see.’

‘Éliette! … Why?’

‘I love you, and that’s all you need to know.’

‘But what do I …?’

‘I’m asking nothing of you.’

Étienne made no reply. With all his body and soul he wished he could love like she did. He heard the unmistakable sound of the Aixam fading into the distance and went upstairs to change.

He had only black, grey and beige clothing. None of it suited him.

The sound of another car reached his ears as he was pulling on his trousers, a high-power engine, out of place on this dirt track. Through the bedroom window he saw Agnès step out of the Ferrari, laughing, with a thickset guy – not very young, not very tall, not very attractive – following her. When she saw him, she waved up at him. Tangled in his trousers, he didn’t have a chance to shout, ‘No! Don’t come in!’

‘Come in, Ben, let’s have a coffee …’

Agnès froze as she opened the kitchen door. Étienne had
come hurtling down the stairs, and Benito was peering over Agnès’s shoulder at the scene before him.

‘Madonna!’

Étienne barged in front of them and tried to bar their way. Agnès stared at him, so pale she was almost transparent. She could not utter a single word. The Italian’s eyebrows were practically touching the roots of his hair. He stepped backwards until he reached the front door, where he turned and ran. They heard quick footsteps on the gravel, the roar of the engine starting up again, and a screech of tyres. Agnès and Étienne stared hard at one another, as if meeting for the first time. Their gazes joined to form a bridge over the unspeakable. The multiple horsepower of the Ferrari gave way to the flies buzzing over the bodies. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, Agnès looked like a Pompeii fresco.

‘It wasn’t me, Agnès! It wasn’t me!’

Her sunglasses had fallen on the floor. Étienne trod on them; it was like walking on his daughter’s eyes.

‘I’m telling you, it wasn’t me! Go up to your room and get undressed. You were asleep, you heard gunshots, that’s it. Quick, the cops are on their way. I’ll explain later. Run! I have to go and stash the case. Go!’

Agnès stared at him uncomprehendingly, as if trying to find a use for an unfamiliar tool. He had to push her up the stairs. The police van arrived a few minutes after he had buried the briefcase under the compost heap.