Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  The kid nodded proudly then launched into a little routine to demonstrate his control over the dogs. The male followed him meekly, walking to heel, but the bitch simply ran in circles around them giving little barks, sniffing at Victor, stretching her neck towards him, eyes fixed on his.

  Julien walked around to the back of the house. They passed two cars so patched and mended with salvaged parts it was impossible to determine their original colour. They were old large Peugeots with rusting chrome bumpers and windows grimed with dust. Victor glanced inside the first wreck and, where the back seat had once been, he noticed a filthy pile of empty cans and bottles, dirty rags and plastic containers on top of which lay a chainsaw. He looked away because the mess disgusted him and, though he did not understand why, it frightened him a little. He decided not to look inside the other wreck, vaguely thinking that he might just as easily have seen a nest of rats or maggots devouring a corpse. His mind filled with grisly images, he hurried to catch up with Julien, who was already rounding the corner of the house, bouncing along like a puppet on his spindly legs and his huge trainers, followed by the huge dog.

  Behind the house – the one part of the grounds where a little order seemed to reign – a well-tended vegetable garden, protected from the dogs by posts and wire fencing, ran along the right-hand wall to the end of the lot with rows of tomato plants, lettuces and other vegetables that Victor did not recognise. The rest of the garden was an overgrown area of grass overlooked by three peach trees laden with fruit, and a cherry tree. Beyond the back fence, stretching away interminably, were the vineyards, their dark green leaves shimmering in the sun. Victor wanted to steal some peaches, but Julien was already inside the house and holding the door open for him.

  They stepped into a narrow hall, the dark blue wallpaper was patterned with big pink flowers and the damp had left brownish stains and streaks that ran down from the ceiling. The place smelled of mould, stale tobacco and perhaps urine. A khaki oilskin coat hung from a lopsided coat stand, and a pair of rubber boots crusted with dried mud stood on the floor. Julien, who had been peering into each room in turn, now pushed the door opposite, drawing his head back at the terrible screech of hinges as it swung open to reveal a dark corridor at the far end of which was a glass-panelled door leading into a room bathed in sunlight.

  “Down there, that’s the kitchen,” Julien said in a whisper.

  “That’s his bedroom, it’s got his bed in it.”

  “What about that one?” Victor pointed to the door on their left. The kid opened it.

  “The living room? Let’s take a look.”

  The room was dark, Victor fumbled for the light switch and found it under a painting depicting a hunting dog with a pheasant in its mouth. Three of the five bulbs flickered on in a fitting shaped like a cartwheel. The room smelled of wood and dust. The board cracked under their feet as they walked slowly across the creaky floor, gazing around them with the astonished air of explorers in a pharaoh’s tomb at the furniture covered in curios and framed photographs, the geometric orange and black wallpaper hung with gilt-framed paintings bought from supermarkets and furniture shops. They were rural landscapes, meadows ringed by tall trees in which cattle grazed, country scenes from a far-off time: cows down by the river, a couple of shepherds with their sheep.

  Victor studied the paintings in this pitiful gallery. He did not know what to think of them, but the luxuriant vegetation reminded him of scenes he had seen in cartoons, only uglier. They exuded a curious sadness he found somehow fascinating. Eventually his contemplation was disturbed when he felt the snake jerk inside the bag and he continued quickly on his way.

  Everything was grey with dust. He blew on the table raising a cloud that prickled his throat. With a fingertip, he traced the word FUCKER on a dark wood tray whose varnish made the word shimmer.

  Julien wandered over to a bell jar enclosing a figurine of a flamenco dancer playing castanets. A souvenir of Toledo. Next to it, in a large frame, a bride and groom smiled out of a photograph. Julien studied it in the light from the chandelier and laughed.

  “That’s him there with his slut of a wife.”

  Victor came over. He looked at the photograph, then threw the frame against the wall where it shattered in a crash of breaking glass.

  “What d’you do that for?”

  Victor turned away without answering. He stood in front of a sideboard on which stood a stopped carriage clock garlanded with tarnished gilt. Around it was a crowd, a sort of tribe, peering out of photographs in black-and-white or in washed-out colours, most of them in dusty frames. He could see mouse droppings on the frayed doilies.

  “It’s disgusting,” he said, and, with the back of his hand, swept the whole mess onto the floor in a deafening crash.

  Julien shouted something at him, alarmed, but Victor did not hear because of the racket made by the carriage clock as it shattered on the floor. Cogs and springs bounced and rolled. A clear, shrill note pierced the sudden silence as the two boys hesitated.

  “You’re mad!” Julien whispered, “What the fuck did you do?”

  Victor walked over to an armchair, unzipped his pants and started pissing on it. He shook himself off then spat on the back of the chair.

  “You do it too,” he said.

  “Shame I don’t need to take a shit.” Julien went over to the window and pissed on the curtains.

  “Fuck, this is so cool!” he said.

  Victor was already opening the door of the sideboard and peering in at the crockery. Bone-china plates, soup tureens and sauce boats, serving dishes decorated with floral patterns: a whole dinner service, probably given to the couple as a wedding present. He rummaged about brutally.

  “Shit, that’s enough,” Julien said.

  “He’ll come back.”

  Victor shrugged and kicked the sideboard closed.

  “Stop it!”

  He waved the sack he had been carrying all this time.

  “Where should we put it?” Julien said, his eyes wide.

  Victor opened the kitchen door. The smell of rancid oil mingled with the stench of piss made his stomach heave. He knocked over two bottles next to the fridge and the sudden crash made his heart skip a beat. Boxes and crates covered the work surfaces and were piled up on top of the cupboards. The gas cooker was covered with a brown film and there were brown spatters on the hood. In the sink, plates and cutlery were soaking in murky greasy water. Everything was caked in grime. The floor was stained with a slick film that sometimes squeaked underfoot: probably a mixture of oil and dirt.

  “Jesus, this place is scuzzy,” Julien said.

  “Can you imagine what it was like for Rebecca?”

  Pinned to the wall were yellowed press clippings, one of which was a large photograph of a bunch of grape pickers, wooden baskets strapped to their backs, posing in front of horse-drawn carts piled high with fruit. Victor read that a warm welcome had greeted the owner, an important, indeed a legendary figure in the Médoc, who had come to implore the pickers to take great care with the precious harvest which would once again be transformed, through the magic of winemaking, into an illustrious vintage that would be served at the most prestigious tables the world over. The boy peered at the image and saw, amid the fly specks, men with moustaches and women in scarves doing their best to smile while, in the middle of the crowd, a man in a large hat and polished boots posed with one hand on his hip and the other holding a pipe to his lips. The boy was surprised to discover the man’s name was double-barrelled and clearly aristocratic, then remembered that the French Revolution, for all its good intentions, had not managed to chop off all their heads.

  “Over here,” Julien said from behind him.

  He had just opened a drawer in the table. Cutlery, a napkin in a napkin ring. The oilcloth was worn here and there where the old man rested his elbows.

  “This is where he sits when he’s eating, look,” said Victor.

  “Well tonight when he goes to get his fork the viper will b
ite his hand. And apparently when you’re bitten on the hand the poison goes straight to your heart.”

  He opened the drawer wider and started untying the string around the bag.

  “What if someone finds out it was us?” Julien said.

  Victor stopped what he was doing and looked at the kid, trying to think of an answer.

  “It was the snake. They’ll find him, see he’s been bitten by a snake and that’s that. The bastard could have been bitten out in the garden, couldn’t he? Besides, the snake will slither away, no-one’s ever going to find it.”

  The kid looked at him, chewing his nails.

  “But what if someone saw us?”

  “Fuck’s sake, shut it! This was your idea, so stop whining! We’ll tell them the whole story about Rebecca and that’ll be that. Justice is done. Anyway, at school they told us that if you’re a minor you get like half the sentence. What have we got to lose? Nothing.”

  Julien was still staring into the drawer. “Shit, we should have caught two. With one, we can’t be sure he’ll croak.”

  “We haven’t got time now. He’ll be back soon. Come on, let’s do it. Shut the drawer as soon as the snake’s in there.”

  He shook the bag and they immediately heard the viper wriggling among the knives and forks as Julien slammed the drawer shut.

  They stood for a moment by the table, staring at their trap. Victor put a hand on Julien’s shoulder and the kid nodded imperceptibly, struggling with some private conflict or perhaps nodding at his own determination.

  They were still standing transfixed by the drawer when the dogs began to bark. The boys heard them run to the railings, heard the iron gate clang, shaken by the strangled rage of barks and cries. Victor went to look out of the window but could see nothing but the thorny hedge hiding the road and the bounding dogs.

  “That’s probably him now,” Julien said. “They heard him coming.”

  Without consulting each other both boys dashed through the dining room, tripping over the jumble of objects strewn over the floor. The carriage clock went flying under the sideboard in a last jangling crash as they rushed out into the warm air just as both dogs gave a howl of pain and began to whimper pitifully. Victor saw the dogs coming towards them, tottering clumsily as though drunk, shaking their big heads. The bitch slumped down in the shade of a tree, rubbing her eyes and her snout with her paws while the male, a little further off, rolled in the dry grass and moaned.

  “It’s not him,” Julien said.

  Victor turned away from the dogs and saw the man, the one called Éric, closing the gate behind him, leaving his grey car parked by the side of the road. He was tucking a canister into his pocket. Tear gas. Julien ran over to the dogs, grabbing them by the scruff of the neck, shaking them and shouting “Attack!”, but the animals lay there sneezing, panting and choking as they whimpered.

  The man took out a knife, a flick knife, released the catch and the blade snapped into view.

  “Careful with them dogs of yours or I’ll gut them, you little wanker,” he said to Julien. “Now take your bike and get the fuck out of here, and keep your mouth shut unless you want me to come around and torch your place.”

  “Who is it?” Julien said. “Is it the guy from the other day?”

  He came over to Victor. The man stopped about ten metres away from them, half sitting on the bonnet of one of the Peugeots.

  “Fuck off, and don’t say anything,” Victor said. “This is none of your business. If you say anything I’ll kill you, I swear, I’ll fucking do it. You got that?”

  Julien picked up his backpack and walked quickly towards the gate, head sunk into his shoulders, trembling on his scrawny legs. He had to walk past the cars to get out and tried to give the man a wide berth, but not wide enough because the guy had only to reach out to give him a slap across the face that sent him staggering back two paces.

  “Don’t fucking threaten me again, you little son of a bitch, you got that? Now go home and fuck your mother before I do it for you!”

  The kid ran, pressing a hand to his cheek. He turned briefly to Victor, eyes wide with fear, blood dripping from his face and staining his T-shirt.

  The man did not take his eyes off Victor. He did not move, did not blink. He waited, arms wide, the palms of his huge hands turned towards him, until Julien was out of sight. He kept his thumb pressed against the handle of the flick knife. They heard the gate close, the soles of the kid’s trainers slapping along the road. The dogs lay slumped on the grass, their sides quivering in the heat.

  The man lit a cigarette. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and jerked his chin at Victor.

  “So what you gonna do now? Throw stones at me? Gonna call the dogs? Not so tough now, are you? You’re just like your mother. Soon as I showed her who was boss, she caved. Nothing but shit on my shoes. That’s whores for you. They open their mouths and spread their legs and they don’t even know why. Am I right?”

  He closed the flick knife and slipped it back into the pocket of his trousers. He ran a tentative hand over his close-cropped hair, glanced up at the white sky, blinked and pulled a face. He stepped towards Victor, skirted around him without making eye contact and leaned against one of the window shutters in the shade. Victor had to turn to look at him.

  “What did the pair of you come here for? To steal stuff? Who lives in this shithole anyway?”

  Victor shrugged. He thought about the viper now probably coiled up around the old man’s napkin, or wriggling about looking for a way out. Then he calculated his chances of escape, of retrieving his bike or running through the vineyards, making it as far as a storehouse or a winery. No chance. He was sorry he had left his knife in his bag rather that slipping it into the pocket of his shorts. He would have started a fight with this guy, stuck the knife into his throat or slashed his face. He pictured the scene and a shiver ran up his arm and down his back.

  Éric opened the door and gestured for him to come over.

  “Get inside. Don’t make me come over there.”

  Slowly, Victor walked towards him and stepped into the filthy hall. The man came in behind and quietly closed the door. Victor could hear him behind him, breathing. He bowed his head. Waited for the blow.

  “Jesus fuck, I don’t believe it,” the man said.

  He opened the door to the dining room and stopped dead when he saw everything smashed on the floor. He turned back to the boy. His piercing blue eyes shone in the darkness. He made a sort of grimace. Perhaps this was how he smiled.

  “Been behaving like a little chav, have we? You mother would be disappointed. Did you think about that?”

  “So what? You’re not my papa, what the fuck’s it got to do with you?” Victor said this in a breathless rush without a second’s thought. Instantly, he dreaded how the man might react.

  The man did not move. He grimaced again.

  “How would you know, you little bastard? How would you know who your papa is, with all the guys who fucked your mama over the years? D’you ever think about that? You see, that’s the thing with a whore’s kids, they never know who they are. You’re old enough to think about it now, aren’t you, now you’re all alone in the world. Maybe I should give you a hug, my son.”

  He gave a soundless laugh. He spoke quietly, almost gently, but every word hit Victor like a kick in the stomach. The boy thought of a knife being twisted in a wound. He knew for a fact that this man had killed his mother and had enjoyed it. He knew for a fact that he would kill this man. Or this, at least, was what he vowed as the man looked to see how much pain he had inflicted with his words, and this is what gave him the strength to stand there, to stare him down.

  “So what did you kids come here for? There’s nothing worth nicking here.”

  Éric stood in the middle of the kitchen glancing around suspiciously, looking for some clue that might betray the boy’s intentions. Then he grabbed Victor by the neck of his T-shirt and pulled him towards him.

  “What’s the matter, you little qu
eer? Got nothing to say?”

  Victor lashed out, jabbing an elbow into his belly, probably surprising him more than it actually hurt. The man pushed him against the table, slammed his head down between a dirty bowl and a hunk of stale bread. Victor let out a high-pitched scream and started sobbing, his jaws clenched tight, his face lined with pain and rage. The man almost lay on top of him, pressing his lips against Victor’s ear, still forcing the boy’s head down on the filthy tablecloth.

  “Readies, is it? The old bastard stashes his cash here and you little shits came here to rip him off? Where is it, then, where’s the money?”

  “No, no,” Victor gasped, “it’s not money.”

  Outside the dogs began to whine, the gate squealed and there was the sound of a car rolling across the gravel, its engine turned off, probably being pushed by the old man. Victor tensed, he felt sweat stream down his back as though someone had poured a bottle of water between his shoulder blades. Éric stood up and pressed an ear to the door leading in to the hall. He took out his knife, placed his thumb on the catch and waited.

  The dogs fell silent. There was a sound of metal, the noise of things being moved around in the shed. The man was grumbling, muttering to himself, or maybe talking to the dogs. The front door was opened slowly, then the old man seemed to stand for a moment on the threshold as though listening for something suspicious. Éric was breathing through his mouth, his lips formed an O, his eyes stared at Victor without seeing him, or tried to drill through doors and walls so he could know exactly what the old man was doing as he wandered into this house that had suddenly become a trap, sensing the danger and muttering to himself to allay his fears. The living-room door opened and there was total silence as the old man surveyed the wreckage, paralysed with shock or choking with rage while Éric, knife in hand, looking less vicious now, less arrogant, stared at the door behind which the old man still stood, reeling from the shock. He kept giving Victor quick sidelong glances and the boy realised he no longer knew what to do and thought perhaps he might make the most of the anxious hesitation he could see in Éric’s eyes to try and make his escape. He was trying to summon strength to his trembling legs when suddenly he felt a draught on his face as the living-room door was wrenched open and the old man bounded into the kitchen with a furious roar, waving his rifle, firing wildly at Éric and missing, cocking the rifle again, cursing and swearing as his target rushed at him, one hand grabbing the barrel to deflect it or yank it from him, while with the other he slashed the old man’s face and throat with the flick knife.