Lost
Page 21
Coco was dialling Georges Rocca again. On the dressing table, which had belonged to her mother, were a lace doily under a pane of glass and several framed photographs of Nathalie, none of their son. Coco had destroyed them all. He used to like saying, ���I���m not a violent man.��� He had said it so often in the beginning that he and everyone else came to believe it. Liliane had always known how violent he could be. He only delegated the violence as a way of not falling prey to it.
From the look on his face, she saw that Georges was telling him what everyone else knew. It was a look of disgust. Coco looked at her while he listened to the details of his daughter���s liaison. Liliane held his stare. His instructions were calm and addressed to her.
���Get him, Georges,��� he said. ���Deal with him as soon as you can. Give him what he wants. Use the strong stuff. You know where it is.��� Then he looked at the telephone and hung up. ���You���, he said jabbing his finger at her, ���are an unfit mother. You knew about this.���
Liliane touched the ragged edge of her sliced cheek with her tongue. She knew not to answer him. She could see the weakness in him, flickering there. All her being told her to stay quiet, to protect her daughter.
���Liliane.���
���Yes, Claude.���
He gestured vaguely towards his face.
���Your mouth ������ He jerked his head up. ���There���s some blood.��� Liliane wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ���You know where they are,��� he said.
���I don���t.���
She faced him. She knew how he saw her: her face, round and pale and flaccid, with black pebbles for eyes, too ugly for dishonesty.
���I���m going to punish her,��� he said. ���She has to be punished, otherwise we���ll lose her. You understand that, don���t you?���
Liliane looked down at her neat hands, smeared with blood, resting on the bedclothes.
���You understand that, Liliane!��� he shouted.
���Yes,��� she said. ���I understand.���
But there was still a little tremor inside her, left over from the march, and she lay back and cupped her bosom beneath the covers, as if she were cupping a flame in the wind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In a small, bare room that smelled of paint on the fifteenth floor of Les Mimosas, Nathalie Santini lay beneath Raymond, listening to the sound of his breathing. She stroked his back with the tips of her fingers. He was her man, she told herself. Whatever happened. He was heavier now that he was fast asleep, and he was breathing into her hair. She wanted to laugh. This was the feeling she had been waiting for all her life. She closed her eyes and asked God to let her die now.
He had called her from the police station. He was crying. ���I���m sick,��� he told her. She knew how sick he was and she understood his wish to destroy himself. It was a part of him and she respected it. He had told her he had no money to score with. ���I lie to everyone,��� he said. ���I can���t lie to you.���
���Raymond needs me,��� she had told her mother. She had taken the bus into town. He was waiting for her outside the gates of the police station. She had thought he was dying. His skin was grey and he was sweating. He could hardly walk, he was so out of breath, but he had smiled at her. ���My angel,��� he had said. She had given him her communion necklace, which was gold with pearls and more than enough, and they had walked to his dealer���s house. She had waited for him outside. ���I���ll be five minutes,��� he had said and he had taken an hour at least, but even the waiting was a kind of bliss.
She turned her head and looked towards the window. A beautiful blue light was coming through the net curtains. She had given her body; that had been easy. He had not even needed to ask. There had been such a silence between them ��� in the hall of Les Mimosas and in the lift ��� there had been no room for words. The feeling was so strong, she had found it hard to breathe.
He had undressed her carefully, as though he needed to concentrate. When she was naked he had knelt down, as if he worshipped her, and she had knelt down too. She had not made a sound, even when it hurt. He had wiped the tears away and kissed her without consoling her. There was no need. Her lips and face still hurt from his kisses. Before he fell asleep, he told her again that she was his angel and that she could save him. He had spoken with great seriousness and she believed she could.
She wanted to leave Raymond while he slept. She didn���t want to say goodbye. She slid carefully from under him. He sighed and turned on to his side. She sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at the smooth curve of his back and the dark gully that ran down the middle. She wanted to touch him but she stopped herself, believing that love required great discipline. She thought of her mother, who had only ever wanted her happiness. She would be waiting up for her, would pretend that she had slept and ask no questions. This thought made Nathalie rise, gather her clothes and quietly leave the room.
*
Downstairs in the utility room, Georges Rocca held his sleeve to his nostrils to block out the sickly smell that was emanating from two community dustbins. He had a good view of the entrance to the building and could not be seen. He had just told Coco that he had found them. ���Call me,��� he had said. ���Day or night.��� When Nathalie Santini came through the glass door, Georges was scrutinising his tie, just back from the cleaners, noting with irritation that the pale mark was indeed a stain and not part of the bright, diagonal brushstroke motif as the Vietnamese woman had insisted. When he looked up the girl was halfway across the courtyard. In her walk she was still a child. For Georges, eliminating Raymond posed no problem whatsoever. He didn���t have a daughter himself but his sympathies were right behind Coco.
When she had gone, Georges picked up the leather attach�� case from between his feet and emerged from the utility room. The case contained three hypodermic needles, a very large dose of uncut heroin, a pair of miniature brass scales, a copy of Penthouse, twenty-three parking tickets in an envelope addressed to ���the care and attention of Lieutenant Capelli���, a packet of four fluorescent markers, a gold fountain pen, a description sheet with interior and exterior photographs of a property for sale in The Hesperides beach complex, a packet of Lexomil and a box of fifty .38 ���special��� bullets.
He made his way towards the building, his metal heels striking the concrete and echoing all around him. One leg was slightly shorter than the other and so his gait was distinctive, a little unsettling, he felt. The two skinheads were on either side of him before he reached the door. They were a whole head taller than him but this in no way diminished his authority. He���d told them Raymond was an Arab, to incite enthusiasm. They wouldn���t know the difference.
���This is easy,��� he said, as they stepped into the lift. ���Too easy for you two,��� he said, winking at them. The boys grinned eagerly at him. He could see them both trying to avoid looking at the growth on his nose. One of the boys had a left ear that looked as if it had been gnawed by a dog. Otherwise you could hardly tell them apart. They were wearing exactly the same clothes: black bomber jackets, white Tshirts, jackboots, pale jeans, even the belts with the New Order symbol for a buckle.
���He���ll still be stoned,��� Georges told them. ���So let���s try to do it without waking him up, shall we?��� The boys nodded earnestly. ���I want neatness and precision. I want no adrenaline in the blood. Right? You hold him down while I shoot him up. Couldn���t be easier. If you���re disciplined I���ll use you again. Is that clear?���
The skinheads nodded.
With the nonchalance of a TV cable sales team, the three of them stepped out of the lift and walked down the freshly painted corridor.
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Thursday
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Since Raymond had come into her life, Nathalie had let her hair out of its plait. It now hung down in an undulating mass, stray pieces clinging to her tear-stained face. Her mother, sitting beside her on her bed, tried to tidy it a little. The news had come to the village in the early afternoon and they could still hear Raymond���s mother, Incarna Battesti, and the terrible monotony of her crying, echoing in the courtyard next door. Habit told people not to believe in the overdose. Then, when they discovered Nathalie had slept out, no one doubted Coco was behind the boy���s death.
Liliane contemplated her daughter���s misery. The horror of it had worn off. Now that she was bent on action it didn���t hurt so much so see her child���s suffering. Soon they would both be rid of him.
As if he���d heard her thoughts Coco banged once on the door, hard. She imagined the gesture, a clenched fist and a lateral punch outwards from the chest.
Liliane stood up and walked towards the door. Nathalie sat on her bed clutching her knees to her chest.
Coco stepped into the room and jabbed his finger at Nathalie, who hid her face.
���I forbid you to shed a single tear over him. He was a junkie. He���d give you up for one dose of his drug. Don���t you understand that, you stupid child!��� He turned on Liliane. ���You knew that!��� He flung an arm out, pointing to his daughter. ���Why did you let her see him?��� Suddenly his face softened. ���Did you have him here? he asked. ���Did you receive him?���
Liliane faced him. She called to mind what she was about to do, how he would soon fall anyway. She closed her eyes. Then he struck her for the second time that day. The force of the blow knocked her against Nathalie���s little desk. Her child���s clutter, carefully arranged, fell to the floor. While Liliane gasped for breath she saw Nathalie run at her father.
���I hate you!��� she sobbed. ���I hate you. I���ve always hated you and I always will.���
Coco watched her sink to the floor. She knelt on the carpet, her legs splayed on either side of her, shaking with tears. Coco towered over her, a new expression of detachment on his face. Without looking at Liliane, he left the room.
Liliane went to her daughter and put her arms around her. Downstairs the front door slammed.
���He���s gone,��� Liliane said. ���He���ll stay at the villa now. Nathalie?���
She looked up at her mother.
���Why didn���t you call me? I could have told you he was coming home,��� Liliane said.
���Why didn���t he stay with his whore?���
���He���s in trouble.���
���Good. I hope they kill him.���
Liliane was shocked. Nathalie had never indicated that she was aware of what her father was. Now it came as a relief to her. For the first time in her life, she felt she had an ally.
���Mum.���
���Yes, my angel.���
���I loved him. I could have saved him.���
Liliane looked into her daughter���s face. The childishness was still there, in the swollen mouth, the full cheeks.
���I know you loved him.���
���I don���t want to go on living, Mum. I don���t. Do you understand?���
Liliane nodded, unable to speak.
���They were the best moments of my life. They were the only moments.���
Liliane knew she had not acted quickly enough. But there was nothing to stop her now. She could avenge her daughter and her son. She breathed in the smell of Nathalie���s hair and moved back and forth to the lullaby in her head. She would sit by her tonight and tomorrow night, and every morning she would be there when her child woke up.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Karim watched Philippe Garetta moving further away in the moonlight. A canvas army sack filled with their bedding hung across his back. He was walking too fast along the narrow path, loosening the splintered rock with his tread. They were on a narrow shelf overhanging a drop to their right so deep he could not see the bottom. There was something that spooked Karim about Garetta. His movements, his whole bearing, made him nervous. And he had noted the Browning that Garetta kept in his right boot.
Karim hugged close to the cliff wall, his eyes averted from the gorge. He was carrying the child on his shoulder. He could feel its body was stiff with fear. As soon as the path widened a little, he stopped. Denis halted behind him.
���Garetta!��� Karim called, but Garetta carried on. Karim watched him, then turned to Denis. He was carrying a cardboard box and two holdalls, one on each shoulder, full of provisions.
���Here. We���ll swap. You can carry him. He���s so stiff, he weighs a ton.���
���I���m not taking him here,��� Denis said.
Karim studied him. His dark eyes shone like an innocent���s no matter what he put into his body and no matter what evil he did. But there was a leak in the left eye, a little of the black had spilled into the white like a tiny worm. Karim patted him on the cheek.
���I need a smoke,��� Karim said.
���Let���s move,��� Denis said. ���Or we���ll lose him.���
Garetta had disappeared.
They walked on. The child on Karim���s shoulder was in some kind of spasm. It occurred to him that he might die.
���Inshallah,��� he said aloud.
The path curved sharply to the left and stopped in front of a steep rock. Karim looked up to find Garetta leaning over him, his long curls hanging down.
���Pass me the kid,��� Garetta said.
An unpleasant hierarchy seemed to have settled between them: Garetta at the top, then himself, then Denis. Karim was not used to taking orders from anyone except Santini, who had led him to believe that Garetta would be his equal in this. But Garetta had forced him into a two-hour ride on the back of a trial bike when there was room in the car. Denis rode Garetta���s Cagiva hunched over and with such concentration, it was tiring to be a part of it. Karim had so far not found the opportunity of talking about his feelings. Relieved to get the child off his back, he held him up to Garetta, who grabbed him under the arms and hauled him out of sight. Karim stepped away from the rock face to avoid the shower of dust and stones that fell in his wake.
���This is no good for me,��� Karim said to Denis. ���We���re going to have to have a conversation.��� He reached out to find a hold on the rock and pulled himself up.
Before him stretched a plateau of long grass flooded with moonlight that sloped gradually upwards to a wood in the distance. Garetta was already halfway towards the trees, the child and the sack on his back. Karim stood there looking at the silver plain until Garetta had disappeared into the wood.
���Hey, Karim!���
Karim turned and looked down at Denis.
���Take the fucking box.���
He knelt down and took the box. There seemed to be a lot of tinned cassoulet.
���Shit. He knows I don���t eat this shit.���
���Karim! For fuck���s sake.���
Denis handed up the bags to him, one after the other, then climbed up.
���You can take the bags,��� Denis said and he picked up the box. ���Where���s he gone?���
Karim nodded towards the wood and Denis walked off.
Garetta had flattened the grass, leaving a trail that caught the moonlight and shone brighter. Karim opened his eyes wide. It felt as if he was experiencing night for the first time and he did not like it. Night in the city was nothing like this. This sky with all its stars was too close. It felt as if the night were pressing up against him like some whore l
icking his face and the moon coating everything with its sleazy light.
Denis was far ahead of him. Karim hung the bags from each shoulder and followed. The long grass brushing against his legs as he walked sickened him. Nothing had prepared him for a place like this. Not his life in Massaccio where he was a prince with a black BMW 328i which yelped and flashed its headlights when he pressed the remote-control locking device; not his origin, which he draped over his person like a mantle but of which he knew nothing, for all he had from Algeria was a photo of the Djijelli football team taken in 1965, his father in the front row, second from the left. His dad had died the year he was born in a stupid accident at the port and so he told people he had been killed by the French during the war of independence. Karim had managed to live his whole life on the island without ever coming near a place like this. As if he had known all along that if Allah was anywhere, He was up here.
When he reached the trees, Denis had disappeared. The wood was so dark, for a moment he could not see and he held his arms out in front of him, moving forward step by step, afraid to breathe. He wished he knew one prayer, just one of the many his mother had sung to him at bedtime when he was little, before she had lost him. She had never learned French and he had never learned Arabic, and so they had been separated and all her weeping and kissing had just set them further apart.
When he emerged from the wood into the clearing, Garetta and Denis were waiting for him. Garetta had a smug look on his face.
���You got a problem?��� Karim said, dropping the bags.
Garetta shook his head slowly.
���You,��� he said, adjusting the position of the child���s body on his shoulder. ���I think you have a problem. I think you���re out of your depth.���
Denis was staring at him too and Karim realised he was perspiring heavily.
���Let���s just move, okay?��� he said. ���How far is it?���