Seven Days
Page 30
He finally fell silent, out of breath. Petrified by this explosive reaction, I stared at the shaking barrel of the rifle. The man suddenly shut his eyes, grimacing, and slapped his temple with his right hand. He stood like that for several seconds, biting his lip, as if he had a huge pain in his skull and he was waiting for it to pass. During that brief respite, what struck me was the little noises coming from downstairs, from the kitchen—pots and pans, chairs being moved, the sounds you hear in a normal house. The man had gone berserk, and yet downstairs, the daily routine continued, as if . . . as if . . .
The man’s features relaxed and he opened his eyes, visibly relieved. His face was still a little red, damp with sweat, but his gaze was serene. Yes, serene. He even gave me an apologetic little smile . . . the man who, ten seconds before, had looked like he was going to eat me raw.
“Anyway,” he said with a vague wave of his hand, “I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
There was no longer any doubt that he was crazy.
I repeated to him that I wouldn’t say anything to anybody. I asked him to let me go. But he refused, said it was too risky. He explained this to me with a sad expression. Yes, sad. Shit. Was there a single human feeling that hadn’t passed over that chameleon face?
I stopped crying, suddenly angry. “What are you going to do with me? If you don’t kill me and you don’t let me go, what are you going to do?”
He sighed and scratched his head, with the expression of someone struggling with an annoying little domestic problem. He clearly didn’t realize, didn’t grasp the gravity, the insanity of the situation. For the first time—and not the last—I wondered why I’d decided to turn down that street on my bike.
“I don’t know . . . I really don’t know.”
He stroked his mustache, then announced in a decisive tone that he’d think about it. With those words, he walked toward the door, ignoring me. Before leaving the room, he gave me a reassuring smile.
The door closed, and I heard the sound of a key in the lock. I went to the door and, just going through the motions, tried to open it. Locked, of course.
Another room with a door that locked from the outside.
And that unbreakable window in the girl’s bedroom . . .
This wasn’t a house. It was a prison.
No more energy to shout or pound the door. No more adrenaline to struggle. I slumped down in a corner of the room and sat on the floor to wait. One sentence endlessly went through my head: It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.
I sat still for about an hour. Then . . .
But now I have to stop for a bit. I’ve been writing steadily for a couple of hours and I can’t feel my hand anymore. A little break for a few minutes. Afterward, I’ll continue. I want to finish. Before they come back . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© KARINE DAVIDSON-TREMBLAY
PATRICK SENÉCAL was born in Drummondville, Quebec. He taught literature for several years, and, fascinated by suspense, fantasy, and terror, began writing to popular and critical acclaim in his native province. Three of his novels have been adapted for film, and three other productions are currently under development. He lives in Montreal with his wife and two children.
Visithimatwww.patricksenecal.net.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Éditions Alire and Patrick Senécal
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Senécal, Patrick, 1967–
[Sept jours du talion. English]
Seven days / Patrick Senécal.
Translation of: Les sept jours du talion.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-982102-61-6 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-982102-63-0 (ebook)
I. Title. II. Title: Sept jours du talion. English
PS8587.E544S4613 2019 C843’.54 C2018-902307-4
C2018-902308-2
ISBN 978-1-9821-0261-6
ISBN 978-1-9821-0263-0 (ebook)