Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I had … unprotected sex, last night. I … I had been drinking and had also taken…’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pretended to look ashamed and guilty.

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here. But because of the … possible contamination.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I see. You would like to be tested, right?’

  She nodded. He stopped to think.

  ‘I can prescribe an Elisa test in three weeks’ time: any sooner would be pointless. And a second test to confirm, after six weeks have gone by. But in the meantime, I must ask you, um, a certain number of questions. To determine what sort of post-exposure treatment I should prescribe: perhaps a simple prophylactic treatment would suffice, or perhaps we should already envisage multiple therapies in order to try and ward off infection – do you understand?’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Good. Was the sex oral, vaginal or anal?’

  ‘Um … vaginal.’

  ‘What do you know about your partner? Do you know him well?’

  ‘Not at all. He was a – a stranger, you see,’ she replied, blushing.

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘Well, in a bar … two hours earlier.’

  For a fraction of a second, she got the unpleasant impression he was judging her.

  ‘Excuse me. You say you met him in a bar. In your opinion, do you think he might be HIV-positive? That his behaviour suggested risk?’

  ‘He fucked me without a condom,’ she replied shortly. ‘And he didn’t know me. So, yes: I think the probability is hardly zero.’

  Raped, shouted her inner voice, not fucked … She saw the young doctor frown and blush dark red, then he reached for a prescription pad.

  ‘I’m going to prescribe a combination of several antiretroviral drugs right away, to be taken for four weeks. Then you will stop the medication for three weeks before taking the test. Do you have a GP?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter who does what, just follow the plan, all right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Take the medication with food,’ he said, writing up the prescription. ‘Make sure you stick to the stated times and doses. You might have diarrhoea, nausea or dizziness, but do not stop the treatment, whatever you do. Is that clear? The unpleasant side effects will disappear after a few days. I’m also going to prescribe some blood tests.’

  He cast her a look that managed to be both stern and embarrassed.

  ‘A word of warning: this treatment will not protect you from any new contamination. Nor will it protect your partners – partner – do you understand?’

  Right. He thought she was a nympho. Then all of a sudden his gaze was gentler.

  ‘Look, there is a good chance you’re fine. These are simply precautionary measures. But if, unfortunately, it turns out you have been infected, it’s better to follow the treatment for four weeks than to have to take medication all your life.’

  He knew – and she also knew – that the treatment was no guarantee she would avoid infection. But she nodded all the same, to show that she had understood.

  * * *

  Replicant. That was what was written above the door. The ‘R’ was shaped like a submachine gun. Great. She went through the glass door; the jingle of the little bell was replaced by a wailing police siren of the kind you could hear on the streets of Chicago or Rio de Janeiro.

  All around her were showcases, displays, locked cabinets, neon lights, reflections, security glass. And all the artefacts born of the human race’s eagerness to tear itself to pieces, since time immemorial. Firearms: hunting rifles, pump-action shotguns, handguns, authorised pistols and revolvers made of brown steel, polished and virile. Pellet guns, airsoft guns, BB guns. Ammunition of every kind. Optical instruments: shooting glasses, binoculars, reflector sights, night vision goggles. Knives: daggers, throwing knives, machetes, katanas, tomahawks, axes, ninja stars … and also crossbows, slingshots, nunchakus, blowguns, clubs. And most of these things were for sale on the open market. Fascinating.

  The tall, bearded fat man was wearing the same baseball cap as the previous time. She could almost picture herself in a small town in the Midwest or at an NRA firing range. The guy was a walking cliché.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his voice as high-pitched as a little boy’s.

  The smell of sweat still hung in the air around him, like some sort of gas, and Christine wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I think so,’ she said.

  Ten minutes later, she left the shop with a Mace tear-gas key ring, a rechargeable 500,000-volt stun gun with an integrated LED lamp, and a stainless steel fifty-three-centimetre telescopic Piranha club with a neoprene handle. Her arsenal was stashed in a black sports bag. It felt strange when she stopped for coffee at a bar, with the bag at her feet, then when she took the Métro with it. Her next destination was a hardware store not far from her flat, where she bought a roll of thick adhesive tape and a box-cutter.

  When she came out of the store, her mobile was buzzing. It was Gérald.

  ‘She’s at home alone.’

  * * *

  She almost burst out laughing when she saw him by the Reynerie Métro station: the clothes he had put on – a sort of shapeless hoodie, huge baggy black trousers and leopard-print Puma trainers – were at least four sizes too big, except for the shoes. He was also wearing a Snapback cap with a flat red visor under his hood, and dark glasses. He looked like a caricature of a rapper in an episode of South Park.

  ‘Where did you find those clothes?’ she asked, horrified.

  ‘Yo,’ he answered.

  ‘They will strip you bare to get their hands on them,’ she joked.

  ‘Yo. Jes’ try, motherfuckers. You don’t look too bad yourself,’ he added.

  Christine stopped smiling when she realised there was a good chance he’d be noticed, dressed like that. She looked worriedly at the tall rows of buildings beyond the esplanade and the little lake.

  ‘I think those guys over there noticed me,’ he said when they started walking. ‘They must think I’m a plain-clothes policeman. We’d better watch out.’

  She gave him a cautious look, and smiled.

  ‘No plain-clothes policeman would be crazy enough to wear that kind of get-up. Is she still alone?’

  He pointed to the building while they slowly climbed the hill in the fog. Christine saw the same frightening figures in the mist as the previous time.

  ‘With her kid, yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Go home.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go home – if you dare to take the Métro dressed like that. If you stay here in those clothes, you’ll end up in your boxers.’

  Beneath his visor and hood he grimaced like a stubborn little boy.

  ‘No, I’m coming with you.’

  Christine stopped short and turned to face him.

  ‘Gérald, listen: do you have any idea what we look like, the pair of us? Like two clowns. It will take them thirty seconds to see through us, and even less to jump us. Have you seen your outfit? We’d be less noticeable if we were wearing suits and ties!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, I have a plan.’

  ‘A plan? What sort of plan are you talking about? Other than parading around in fancy dress…’

  ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done. But now you’re going home.’

  ‘Nope, I’m staying here.’ He stopped at the foot of a tree and rolled up the sleeve of the sweatshirt to look at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes. Any more than that and I’m coming to get you.’

  Christine’s nerves were as tight as piano strings. There was no reason to smile, it was far too dangerous. Still, Gérald’s obstinacy and his efforts to be brave made her smile.

  ‘All right. But I need twenty.’

  He lo
oked around anxiously.

  ‘I’m not sure I can last that long,’ he said, frowning.

  She scanned their surroundings, on the lookout for any suspicious behaviour, while the fog thickened.

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ she agreed. ‘They might think you’re a member of a rival gang.’ She looked him up and down and smiled. ‘But who knows. By the time they figure out which one, I’ll be back,’ she said jokingly as she walked away.

  She was hardly in the light-hearted mood she had affected. She was wearing the same dark sweatshirt as last time, but she was almost certain their little game was already being closely observed. Her hands clutched the tear-gas key ring in one pocket and the stun gun in the other. She arrived without incident at the entrance to the building. The kids from the time before had vanished. The wind was blowing the snow and mist in pale white swirls; the snow was melting. There was no one in the entrance. She left muddy tracks as she hurried towards the lifts. There was a distant drumming in her ears, and she wondered if it was from a stereo somewhere in the building or her own blood – a sound that was growing familiar: the sound of adrenaline.

  Once the doors to the lifts had closed behind her, she took out the key ring and the stun gun; the end of it looked like a jaw. She had inserted two batteries, and now she wound the strap around her wrist and opened the safety catch. The shop attendant had advised her to choose gel rather than spray for the tear gas (he had explained that gas could blow back into your face if you were downwind) but she had gone with the spray all the same, because on the one hand it required less precision and, on the other, she intended to use it indoors. She had, however, taken the precaution of wearing a scarf. Now everything was down to timing and luck: she had rehearsed her moves a dozen times or more in front of the mirror before going to meet Gérald, but she was not sure that was enough. She had a stomach ache and her back hurt. When the lift doors opened she took a deep breath.

  Corridor. Sounds of television. Graffiti.

  Door 19B. Christine tried to breathe calmly. Like last time, music was coming through the door. She rang the bell. Bang bang, went her heart. Footsteps. She could tell she was being inspected through the spyhole. Breathe …

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Cordélia looked down at her from her full height. This time she was wearing knickers and a T-shirt. Her face still showed the traces of the blows she’d received: bruises going from mustard yellow to black, bloodshot eyes, her nose flattened.

  Christine wondered who had done this to her. And whether she had submitted willingly to the blows or not.

  ‘Are you deaf? I asked you what the fuck you’re doing.’

  Christine pulled back her hood. And saw the surprise in the intern’s eyes. She had lined her eyes with black pencil and eyeshadow, put white foundation on her face, then painted her lips black. She looked Goth – or crazy. Or dressed up for Halloween.

  ‘Fuck, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but—’

  Christine raised her arm and aimed the spray right in Cordélia’s eyes. ‘Fuuuuck!’ The girl screamed. Recoiled, staggered. Bent double. She raised her hands to her face. Coughed. Christine pulled the scarf over her nose and mouth, then pushed Cordélia inside the flat with the palm of her hand and closed the door behind her. Cordélia was leaning over, frantically rubbing her eyes. She could not look at Christine. She was wracked by coughing fits. Christine placed the little electrodes of the stun gun right between her shoulder blades, and through the thin cotton (so thin that Christine could feel the outline of her vertebrae underneath) went 500,000 volts: a crackle and the blue light of the electric arc. The young woman’s body trembled all over, and her legs gave way. She fell like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Christine moved with her, the gun still pressed between Cordélia’s shoulder blades. She prolonged the charge beyond five seconds. Game over. The girl lay on the floor; she hadn’t passed out but was disorientated and incapable of getting up: the electric shock had momentarily interrupted the messages her brain sent to her muscles.

  Christine slid her bag off her shoulder, put it down at her feet, and opened the zip. So, what does it feel like to be the victim instead of the torturer? Huh? It’s strange, no? I’ll bet you didn’t like it all that much. Well, let me tell you something: it’s nothing compared to what’s coming next.

  * * *

  She looked like a mummy. The thick metallic adhesive tape was rolled around her ankles, her thighs, her torso and her arms. Lying on the floor on her side, knees bent, in a foetal position. Her arms bound in an L position, wrists and hands joined. Only a few patches of her body were visible beneath the tape: her knees, elbows, collarbones, and the upper part of her head. Cordélia’s neck, chin and mouth were also imprisoned under thick layers of sticky tape. It stopped just below her nose and she was breathing noisily.

  Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, one metre away, Christine was watching her: in her hand, the telescopic club had replaced the stun gun.

  ‘Doesn’t hurt too much?’ she asked. ‘They said this thing doesn’t cause any lasting effects or physical injuries. The liars.’

  ‘Gggrrrrmmmhh…’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The stainless steel tip of the club came close to a bare spot on Cordélia’s back, where the superficial burns left by the electric shock were visible; the girl shuddered when Christine touched them.

  ‘That wasn’t deliberate,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Ggoo … ffff … kkkk … ssselfff…’

  With a sigh, Christine gazed at one of the kneecaps the tape had left bare. A round, vaguely triangular, smooth bone beneath pale, thin skin. She took aim and swung the club. Her move cut through the air with a gentle whoosh. A strange sound, like that of a mug shattering, came next. Cordélia’s eyes popped out of her head. Through the tape she screamed, but the sound was nothing more than a stifled whinny. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and she looked at Christine with a terrifying mixture of pain and rage.

  Christine gave her time to get her wits about her. Her eyes were like two blocks of ice.

  ‘I’m going to remove the tape. If you cry for help, if you try to scream or raise your voice, I’ll smash in your teeth.’

  Her tone was so cold, harsh and metallic that she did not recognise her own voice. Another Christine was replacing the one she had known. But you like her, don’t you? Even if a tiny bit of that civilised, self-righteous Christine, full of hypocritical feelings, is still disavowing everything you’re doing, you cannot help but think it’s kind of cool to be taking justice into your own hands. An eye for an eye. Like in the Old Testament. Admit it: you like this new Christine.

  Clearly, Cordélia had also understood that the situation had changed; she nodded vigorously to show she would comply. Christine leaned down and tore the tape off her mouth. Cordélia winced but didn’t make a sound.

  ‘I’ll bet you didn’t expect this, did you? That Christine-the-ideal-victim, Christine-the-perfect-target, poor poor Christine would change into Christine-the-dangerous-nutter. Do you realise: even my language has changed. I have to say that what you managed to do in just a few days is really remarkable. Remarkable.’

  Cordélia did not comment.

  ‘Now the big question,’ added Christine quietly, ‘is who is behind this?’

  Cordélia stared at her.

  ‘That was a question, Cordélia. Didn’t you hear the question mark at the end?’

  No answer.

  ‘Cordélia…’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Please.’

  ‘Cordélia, you are not in a position to refuse.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Time is the one thing I have plenty of.’

  Her voice was increasingly calm and frosty. There was panic in the young woman’s eyes.

  ‘Please, please, stop. He can do anything. I know he’s watching me. You’d better get out of here. You have no idea what you’re doing. You have no idea who you’r
e dealing with and how dangerous he is.’

  Christine sighed, put the tape back on the girl’s mouth and pressed on it several times to make sure it was sticking properly. Cordélia shook her head vigorously, her eyes wide with fear.

  Christine stared at her bony shoulder sticking through her T-shirt.

  She was weighing things up. Evaluating. She raised the club, trying to control the trembling of her wrist. She gauged the pain, enormous, when the girl’s collarbone gave way under the impact, then the resignation in her eyes, before she closed her lids, tears flowing abundantly beneath her lashes.

  For a split second Christine wondered if she had passed out. She pulled the tape to one side.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?’

  The girl’s eyes opened suddenly.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Christine stopped to think. She might have changed but she didn’t want to be a torturer: could what she had just done be qualified as ‘acts of torture’ before a tribunal? Without a doubt. The fact remained, she thought, that in the end everyone acts according to their own principles and morality. There are only rules peculiar to each individual, and according to her own criteria, this did not constitute a veritable torture session: it was what might come later …

  ‘Go away,’ begged Cordélia. ‘Please. You don’t know him: he’ll hurt you. And me too.’

  ‘He already has, I think,’ retorted Christine.

  She put the tape back in place on Cordélia’s lips. But there was a creeping doubt. And a new wave of fear. Who was the man who was terrorising her like this?

  There might be a solution … But it was despicable.

  She reached into her handbag and took out the box-cutter. Saw Cordélia’s gaze, eyes gaping, terrified, at the sight of the blade.

  ‘Is Anton asleep?’

  Her gaze turned hard and fierce.

  ‘You want me to take care of your baby?’ said Christine suddenly.

  She pulled off the tape.

  ‘If you touch even a single hair on his head, I’ll kill you,’ spat Cordélia, her voice vibrant with hatred. ‘You won’t do it … you’re bluffing, it’s all an act. You could never do such a thing, you’re incapable.’