The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  Martin … Martin …

  He had grown attached to the policeman. Since the day of his first visit to the Wargnier Institute, when he had made his clever remarks about Mahler. Hirtmann had not forgotten that moment. While waiting for his visitors he had occupied himself as best he could, his mind absorbed by the first movement of the Fourth Symphony. Then Dr Xavier brought them in. That was the first time he saw Martin. He had not failed to notice the way Martin had started when he recognised the music. Then to his great surprise, Martin had said his name, ‘Mahler’. Hirtmann couldn’t get over it. And he had felt a surge of joy when he understood, with a wave of emotion he had difficulty concealing, that the man sitting before him was his doppelgänger, his kindred spirit – a double who had chosen the path of light instead of darkness. To live is to choose, after all. A single meeting had shown Hirtmann that Martin resembled him much more than he thought. He would have liked to convince him of their affinity, but it was a good thing that Martin thought about him as often as he did. He had sensed that this was a man who, like him, despised the vulgarity of the present generation, the poverty of their taste and their interests, their sheep-like behaviour and their incurable philistinism. Oh yes, they understood each other. Even if Martin might have trouble admitting it.

  Since that day, Hirtmann simply could not stop thinking about Martin. About Alexandra, his ex-wife, and Margot, his daughter. He had made enquiries. And little by little, it was as if Martin’s family had become his own. He had slipped into his life without him knowing, and he was never far away. It was better than watching a reality TV show. Hirtmann couldn’t get enough of it.

  He re-focused his attention on the lycée. They were all climbing back into their cars. He had parked his own car 500 metres away, in the forest. If anyone went near it, an alarm would go off and Hirtmann would be notified.

  He trained his binoculars on the facade of the dormitories. The lights were all off except in Margot’s room. Then he saw Martin in the room, and she was speaking to him animatedly. The unexpected sight of this little domestic scene filled him with happiness, an emotion that caught him off guard. Something which bore a curious, distant resemblance to love. In his hiding place in the woods he could not help but smile at the thought.

  42

  The Lake 2

  He parked at the side of the road, at the edge of the property, and waited for the right time. The day was breaking, with a patience he did not have. He smoked one cigarette after the other and when he held out his hand he saw it was trembling like a leaf in a stream. The image reminded him of the sentence they had all learned in philosophy class.

  No man ever steps in the same river twice.

  Never, he thought, had he known a more appropriate phrase. He wondered if back then he had loved a girl who did not exist. He looked at the house beyond the trees, and his pain returned. He opened the car door, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and got out.

  He walked along the fence to the gate, then up the drive. His shoes crunched noisily on the gravel in the dawn silence. Anyway, she wasn’t sleeping, he could tell when he saw the front door was open. Six o’clock in the morning, not a soul around, and the door was wide open. For him. She must have wanted to see him arrive. He wondered if she had got up early or simply hadn’t slept. He was willing to bet on the second option. How long had she been awake? To the east the sun was breaking through, beneath the grey ceiling of cloud, and it created long shadows that extended throughout the garden. He went up the steps, unhurriedly.

  ‘I’m in here, Martin.’

  The voice came from the terrace. He went through the rooms, one by one. Her form against the light; she had her back to him. He emerged into the open air. The lake was motionless, reflecting the sky and the curtain of trees on the far shore with the precision of a mirror. An impressive calm. Even the grass on the slope seemed greener in this pure light.

  ‘Did you find the answers you were looking for?’

  Her tone was distant, almost indifferent.

  ‘Not yet. But I’m getting close.’

  She turned slowly and stared at him. Her face was pale and exhausted. Her eyes were red, her cheeks hollow, her hair dry. He tried to read a message in her eyes but there was nothing. And yet the sorrow was there; this woman was not the Marianne he had loved, not even the Marianne to whom he had recently made love.

  ‘They’re going to release Hugo,’ he said.

  A gleam of hope.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The magistrate for custody and release will give his ruling this morning. He’ll be out by this time tomorrow.’

  She nodded. He understood that she did not want to get carried away, that she was waiting to hold her son in her arms.

  ‘I spoke to Francis,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  She looked right at him. A deep, green, shifting look, like the forest opposite. Her expression was impassive, but not her voice.

  ‘What? That I’m an addict? You really think I was going to tell you all that just because we fucked?’

  The expression wounded him. As did her tone.

  ‘What did Francis tell you, exactly?’

  ‘That you began taking drugs after Bokha’s death.’

  ‘Not true.’

  He shot her a questioning glance.

  ‘It would seem that Francis was afraid to tell you the whole truth. Maybe he was afraid of your reaction. Francis is not a very brave person.’

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘I started messing with drugs aged fifteen,’ she said. ‘At a party.’

  He gave a start. Fifteen … They already knew each other then, though they weren’t together.

  ‘I’ve always thought it was a miracle you never realised,’ she added. ‘I was constantly afraid you would find out, that someone would tell you …’

  ‘I suppose I was too young and naïve.’

  ‘Oh yes, definitely. But there’s something else: you were in love. How would you have reacted?’

  ‘And you, were you in love?’ he asked, not answering her question.

  She gave him a black look and for a moment, he thought he could see the old Marianne.

  ‘I forbid you to even doubt it.’

  He inclined his head, sadly.

  ‘The drugs,’ he suddenly realised. ‘Francis was already supplying you back then. How – how could I have been so blind? Not to notice … all that time we were together …’

  She went up to him, her face so close he could see every one of the little wrinkles that had appeared around her eyes and mouth over time, every part of the complex design of her irises.

  ‘So is that what you think? That I left you just because of the dope? Is that your opinion of me?’

  He saw the black flame in her eyes. The anger. The spite. The pride … and suddenly he was ashamed of himself.

  ‘You stupid idiot! I told you the truth, the other night: Francis was there for me, while you were lost, distant, elsewhere. Haunted by your guilt, your memories, your past. Being with you meant living with the ghosts of your parents, with your nightmares. I just couldn’t do it any more, Martin. There were so many shadows in you, and so little light, in the end. It was more than I could handle. I tried, oh yes, God knows I tried. And Francis was there for me when I really needed it. He helped me to let go of you.’

  ‘And he supplied you with dope.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He manipulated you, Marianne. You said so yourself: that’s his only real talent. Manipulating people. He used you. Against me.’

  She raised her chin. A hardness disfigured her features.

  ‘I know. When I realised, I wanted to hurt him in turn, and I knew his weakness: his pride. So I left him. I dumped him and I made it clear to him that he had never mattered to me, that he was nothing.’

  There was something infinitely weary and broken in her voice, a guilt that went far back into the past.

&
nbsp; ‘And then Mathieu came into my life. He’s the one who helped me out of it. He didn’t know anything about all that. Bokha managed to do what neither one of you could: he saved me.’

  ‘How could I have saved you from something I didn’t even know about?’ he pleaded.

  She ignored him.

  ‘And how long has it been since you …’

  ‘Relapsed? Since Mathieu’s death. We’re in a town where there are almost as many students as there are inhabitants. It wasn’t very difficult to find a dealer.’

  ‘Do you know Heisenberg?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Margot told me about something,’ he said, changing the subject because he couldn’t stand talking about it any more. ‘A scene she witnessed last night, in the mountains. Up by the Néouvielle lake.’

  He saw the expression on Marianne’s face change. He told her what Margot had described to him.

  He could see the surprise increasing in her gaze as he spoke.

  ‘Yesterday was 17 June,’ she answered when he had finished. ‘17 June, 2004,’ she added.

  He waited for her to continue.

  ‘A coach accident. It was in all the headlines, in all the regional papers. You should remember.’

  Yes, he vaguely remembered something. A news item swept away in the flood of other news items. Disasters, massacres, wars, accidents, murders … a coach accident. Neither the first nor the last. There had been a great number of victims, including children.

  ‘Seventeen children were killed. And two adults: a teacher and a firefighter,’ she said. ‘The driver lost control of the coach, went off the road, and into the lake. But before that, the coach was stuck for two hours halfway down the slope, and a number of children were rescued.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘How come you remember this so well?’

  ‘Hugo was in the coach.’

  ‘Do you know David, Sarah and Virginie?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘They’re Hugo’s best friends. They’re at prep school with him. Brilliant young people. They were in the coach that night, too.’

  Servaz looked at her closely.

  ‘You mean, like Hugo, they survived the accident?’

  ‘Yes. They were all traumatised, as you can imagine. I remember when we went to pick up the children. It was awful. They had watched their schoolmates die.’

  ‘They got treatment for it, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Physical and psychological. Some of them were severely injured. Some of them were disabled for life.’

  She broke off and paused to think. ‘They were already close before the accident. But I get the impression that this brought them even closer. They’re thick as thieves, now.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘If you’d like to know more, just look it up in the local newspaper. They had a field day with the story.’

  He stared at her. He felt sad and empty. She intercepted his gaze.

  ‘I warned you, Martin: all the people I care about come to a bad end.’

  He hesitated to ask her something he had been dying to ask since he had entered the house. He dreaded the answer. But his need to know was overpowering.

  ‘What was Francis doing here the other night?’

  He saw her give a start.

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘No, I was spying on him – because he was the one I suspected.’

  ‘He’d just been dumped by his girlfriend, a student from Marsac – that Sarah you mentioned. It’s not the first time that … that he slept with one of his students. Or that he’s come to cry on my shoulder. It’s strange, don’t you think: when Francis needs to confide in someone, he comes to me. He’s a very lonely person. Like you, Martin. Do you think it’s because of me?’ she asked suddenly. She made an odd gesture with her hand. ‘I’ve often wondered: what do I do to you? What do I do to the men in my life, Martin, that other women don’t? Why do I destroy them?’

  She was shaken by a sob, but he could see no tears in her eyes.

  ‘You didn’t destroy Bokha,’ he said.

  She looked at him.

  ‘He was happy with you, you told me so.’

  She nodded, her eyes closed, a bitter line distorting her mouth.

  ‘Do you think I can? Actually make a man happy? And stop? Once and for all?’

  They looked at each other. It was one of those moments where the scales could tip either way. She could forgive him – everything he had said, thought, believed; or she could reject him and banish him from her life forever. And what did he want?

  ‘Hold me,’ she said, ‘tightly. I need it. Now.’

  He did as she asked. He would have done it even if she hadn’t asked him. He looked over her shoulder at the lake, the morning light. Now it was her turn to squeeze Servaz, and he felt submerged by her embrace, by the warmth that flooded him.

  ‘You’ve always been there, Martin. In my mind. Even when I was with Bokha, you were there. You’ve never left me. Do you remember “UDDUP”?’

  Yes. He remembered. ‘Until death do us part.’ They always said goodbye with these five letters. Her voice and her breath in his ear, her mouth so close. He wondered if it was true, if he could trust her. He decided he could. He was fed up with suspicion, a profession that rubbed off on every aspect of his life. This time it was simple and clear. How long had it been since he had loved in this way? He felt that it was the same for her: it had been a near thing, for both of them – and he understood that they wanted to travel at least some of the way together. To believe in a future.

  On the lake, a heron gave a long lonely cry. Servaz turned his head just in time to see it take off into the stormy sky with a great beating of its wings.

  Friday

  43

  The Lake 3

  He dreamt he was dying. He was lying on the ground, in the sun, his head turned to the sky, and thousands of black birds were flying high overhead, while his blood drained from him. Then a shadow appeared and lowered its head to look at him. In spite of the grotesque wig and the huge glasses, he did not have the slightest doubt as to its identity. He woke up with a start, his head still full of the birds’ cries. He heard a sound from downstairs, and he could smell coffee.

  What time was it? He pounced on his telephone. Four missed calls. The same number. He had slept for more than an hour. He dialled the number.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what the fuck are you doing?’ said Espérandieu.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he answered. ‘We’re going straight to La République de Marsac. It’s a local newspaper. Find their number and call them. Tell them we need everything they have on the coach accident at the Néouvielle lake on 17 June 2004.’

  ‘What’s this business about a lake? Have you got something new?’

  ‘I’ll explain.’

  He rang off. Marianne came into the bedroom with a tray. He drank the orange juice and black coffee straight down, and gobbled a buttered slice of bread.

  ‘Will you come back?’ she asked suddenly.

  He looked at her as he wiped his lips.

  ‘You already know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I think I do.’

  She was smiling. Her eyes were, too. Her eyes so deep and so green.

  ‘Hugo will soon be free, and you’ll be here … all the misunderstandings between us will be over. I haven’t felt this good for a long time. I mean, this … happy.’

  She had hesitated to say the word – as if to say it might cause the happiness to vanish.

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I’ve never been this close to it, at least,’ she corrected.

  He took a shower. For the first time since the beginning of the investigation, he felt a renewal of energy and a desire to rush ahead, to move mountains. He wondered whether this business about the accident was important, and instinctively he knew it was.

  When he was ready to go, he took Marianne in his arms and she leaned against him. In spite of everything, he
couldn’t help but wonder if she had taken something since last night. As if reading his thoughts, she threw her head back, with her arms around his waist; she was almost as tall as him.

  ‘Martin …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you help me?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Will you help me get rid of the monkey?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll help you,’ he said.

  Bokha had managed to. Why shouldn’t he? It was love she needed. The only thing that could fill the void … He remembered her words a few hours earlier: ‘You’ve always been there … You’ve never left me.’

  ‘Do you promise me?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I promise you.’

  La République de Marsac had not yet digitalised all its archives. Only the last two years were on CD. All the rest – including the year 2004 – had been preserved in boxes of microfiches stacked in a wooden cupboard at the end of a corridor.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ said Espérandieu, contemplating the work ahead.

  ‘2004, here it is,’ said Servaz, pointing to a pile of three plastic boxes. ‘There’s not that much. Where can we find a reader?’ he asked the secretary.

  The secretary led them into a windowless room in the basement. An anaemic neon light flickered and the microfiche reader appeared: a big cumbersome machine, which, judging from the layer of dust on it, was not used often. Servaz rolled up his sleeves and approached the monster.

  They opened the boxes of microfiches and looked for the one for 18 June 2004, the day after the accident. Bingo. The moment they slotted it in the viewer, the title of the article leapt out at them:

  FATAL COACH ACCIDENT IN THE PYRENEES

  Seventeen children and two adults lost their lives in a coach accident at Lake Néouvielle last night at approximately 23.15. According to initial reports, the vehicle is said to have gone off the road in a bend then fallen on its side, where it lay trapped on the slope between the road and the lake for several minutes. The rescue workers, who arrived on the scene very quickly, managed to save ten children and three adults before the vehicle continued its slide and sank into the lake before their eyes, leaving them helpless. The cause of the accident is not known. The victims were all students from a secondary school in Marsac. They were on their end-of-year class trip.