he gets in, Doudouche wakes up and comes to greet him. Tonight – this morning – Camille just gives her a quick scratch on the back. He doesn’t really feel like opening up. The day has been somewhat overwhelming.
First, the woman being kidnapped.
Then, meeting up with Louis again, especially in these circumstances. It’s as though Le Guen deliberately engineered things …
Camille freezes.
“The bastard!”
7
Alex climbs into the crate, bows her head, huddles up.
The man puts the lid back on, screws it into place and then steps back to admire his handiwork.
Alex is bruised from head to foot, her whole body shaken by spasms and tremors. Though it feels utterly absurd, she cannot deny the fact that inside the crate she feels somehow more at ease. As though sheltered. She has spent the past few hours constantly picturing what he might do to her, but aside from the brutality of the abduction itself, aside from the beating … It’s hardly nothing – Alex’s head is still throbbing from theforce of the blows – but now here she is, in the crate, in one piece. He hasn’t raped her. He hasn’t tortured her. He hasn’t killed her. “Not yet,” says a little voice, but Alex doesn’t want to listen; as far as she is concerned each second gained is a second gained, every second yet to come is yet to come. She tries to take deep breaths. The man is still standing, frozen – she can see his heavy work boots, the bottoms of his trousers. He is staring at her. “I want to watch you die …” This is what he said; it’s almost the only thing he has said. Is that it? He wants to kill her? He wants to watch her die? How is he planning to kill her? Alex is no longer wondering why, but how? When?
Why does he hate women so much? What is this guy’s story that he could set this whole thing up? Could beat her so brutally? The cold is not too bitter, but what with the exhaustion, the beatings, the fear, the darkness, Alex feels frozen stiff. She tries to shift her position. It’s not easy. She is sitting hunched up, head resting on the arms hugging her knees. As she lifts herself to try and turn round, she lets out a scream. She’s just managed to drive a long splinter into her arm, high up near the shoulder, and has to use her teeth to pull it out. There’s no room. The wooden crate is rough, makeshift. What can she do to turn round? Rest her weight on her hands? Swivel her pelvis? First she will try to move her feet. She feels terror well up in her belly. She starts to scream, shifts this way and that; she’s terrified of injuring herself on the rough-hewn planks, but she needs to move, it’s enough to drive her mad. She thrashes about but succeeds only in gaining a few centimetres. Panic grips her.
The man’s large head suddenly appears in her field of vision.
So suddenly, she jerks back and bangs her head. He has crouched down to look at her. He smiles broadly with his missinglips. A grim, joyless smile that would be ridiculous if it were not so threatening. From his throat comes a sort of bleating sound. Still no words, he nods as though to say:
Do you get it now
?
“You …” Alex begins, but she cannot think what she wants to say to him, to ask him.
He goes on nodding his head, smiling that moronic smile. He’s mad, thinks Alex.
“You’re c— crazy …”
But she doesn’t have time to say more; he has just backed away, he is walking away – she can’t see him anymore so she trembles even more. As soon as he disappears, she panics. What is he doing? She cranes her neck; she can hear noises coming from a little way off – everything reverberates in the vast empty room. Except now, she’s moving. Imperceptibly the crate has begun to swing. The wood makes a creaking sound. Out of the corner of her eye, if she swivels her body as much as possible, she can see the rope above her. It is attached somehow to the crate. Alex twists her body so as to slide her hand up over her head and between
First, the woman being kidnapped.
Then, meeting up with Louis again, especially in these circumstances. It’s as though Le Guen deliberately engineered things …
Camille freezes.
“The bastard!”
7
Alex climbs into the crate, bows her head, huddles up.
The man puts the lid back on, screws it into place and then steps back to admire his handiwork.
Alex is bruised from head to foot, her whole body shaken by spasms and tremors. Though it feels utterly absurd, she cannot deny the fact that inside the crate she feels somehow more at ease. As though sheltered. She has spent the past few hours constantly picturing what he might do to her, but aside from the brutality of the abduction itself, aside from the beating … It’s hardly nothing – Alex’s head is still throbbing from theforce of the blows – but now here she is, in the crate, in one piece. He hasn’t raped her. He hasn’t tortured her. He hasn’t killed her. “Not yet,” says a little voice, but Alex doesn’t want to listen; as far as she is concerned each second gained is a second gained, every second yet to come is yet to come. She tries to take deep breaths. The man is still standing, frozen – she can see his heavy work boots, the bottoms of his trousers. He is staring at her. “I want to watch you die …” This is what he said; it’s almost the only thing he has said. Is that it? He wants to kill her? He wants to watch her die? How is he planning to kill her? Alex is no longer wondering why, but how? When?
Why does he hate women so much? What is this guy’s story that he could set this whole thing up? Could beat her so brutally? The cold is not too bitter, but what with the exhaustion, the beatings, the fear, the darkness, Alex feels frozen stiff. She tries to shift her position. It’s not easy. She is sitting hunched up, head resting on the arms hugging her knees. As she lifts herself to try and turn round, she lets out a scream. She’s just managed to drive a long splinter into her arm, high up near the shoulder, and has to use her teeth to pull it out. There’s no room. The wooden crate is rough, makeshift. What can she do to turn round? Rest her weight on her hands? Swivel her pelvis? First she will try to move her feet. She feels terror well up in her belly. She starts to scream, shifts this way and that; she’s terrified of injuring herself on the rough-hewn planks, but she needs to move, it’s enough to drive her mad. She thrashes about but succeeds only in gaining a few centimetres. Panic grips her.
The man’s large head suddenly appears in her field of vision.
So suddenly, she jerks back and bangs her head. He has crouched down to look at her. He smiles broadly with his missinglips. A grim, joyless smile that would be ridiculous if it were not so threatening. From his throat comes a sort of bleating sound. Still no words, he nods as though to say:
Do you get it now
?
“You …” Alex begins, but she cannot think what she wants to say to him, to ask him.
He goes on nodding his head, smiling that moronic smile. He’s mad, thinks Alex.
“You’re c— crazy …”
But she doesn’t have time to say more; he has just backed away, he is walking away – she can’t see him anymore so she trembles even more. As soon as he disappears, she panics. What is he doing? She cranes her neck; she can hear noises coming from a little way off – everything reverberates in the vast empty room. Except now, she’s moving. Imperceptibly the crate has begun to swing. The wood makes a creaking sound. Out of the corner of her eye, if she swivels her body as much as possible, she can see the rope above her. It is attached somehow to the crate. Alex twists her body so as to slide her hand up over her head and between
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