the slats: there is a steel ring to which is attached a thick rope; she grips the huge, tight knot.
The rope shudders and tenses, the crate seems to shriek as it rises, lifts off the floor and begins to rock, to spin slowly. The man appears in her field of vision again, some seven or eight metres away, standing near the wall where, with sweeping movements, he tugs on the rope connected by two pulleys. The crate rises very slowly, and for a moment it seems as though it might topple. Alex doesn’t move; the man stares at her. When the crate is about a metre and a half off the ground, he stops, ties off the rope then goes and rummages in a pile of things next to the gap in the far wall and comes back.
Face to face, at the same height, they can look each other in the eye. He takes out his mobile phone. To take a photograph of her. He looks for the right angle, shifts to one side, steps back, chicks the shutter once, twice, three times … then checks the images, deletes those he’s not happy with. Then he goes back over to the wall and the crate rises again; it’s now two metres from the floor.
The rope now tied off, the man is visibly pleased with himself.
He slips on his jacket, pats his pockets to make sure he’s forgotten nothing. It’s as though Alex doesn’t exist anymore – he hardly glances at the crate as he leaves. Satisfied with his handiwork. As though leaving his apartment to go to work.
He’s gone.
Silence.
The crate swings heavily at the end of the rope. A blast of cold air whirls around her, lapping against Alex’s body, which is already frozen to the marrow.
She is alone. Naked. Trapped.
Only now does she understand.
This is not a crate.
It’s a cage.
8
“You fucking bastard …”
“Mind your language … ,” “I’ll thank you to remember I’m your superior officer,” “What would you have done in my shoes?” “You should improve your vocabulary, your bad language is getting tedious.” Over the years, Divisionnaire Le Guen tried everything with Camille – or almost everything. These days, rather than rehashing old arguments, he no longer responds. This rather cuts the ground out from under Camille, who now simply storms into his office without knocking and stands glowering at his boss. At best, the divisionnaire gives him a philosophical shrug; at worst, he looks down, pretending to be contrite. Not a word is spoken; they’re like an old married couple, which is something of a no-win situation for two men pushing fifty, both of whom are single. Or rather, neither of whom has a wife. Camille is a widower. Le Guen racked up his fourth divorce last year.
“It’s strange how you keep marrying the same woman,” Camille said at Le Guen’s last wedding.
“What can you do?” Le Guen quipped. “Old habits die hard. I mean I always have the same witness at my weddings – you!” Then tetchily he said, “Besides, if I have to have a new wife, I might as well marry the same one,” whereby proving that when it comes to fatalism, he’s a match for anyone.
The fact that they no longer need to say anything to understand what the other is thinking is the primary reason Camille does not tear a strip off Le Guen this morning. He brushes aside the petty manipulations of the divisionnaire who could obviously have put someone else on the case but pretended there was no-one. It dawns on Camille that he should have realised straight off, but he completely missed it. This is strange; in fact it is rather worrying. The other reason is that he hasn’t had a wink of sleep, he’s exhausted, and he doesn’t have the energy to waste because he has a long day ahead of him before Morel takes over.
It’s 7.00 a.m. Dead beat officers move from office to office yelling to each other, doors slam, people shout, dazed civilians wait in corridors; for the station, this is the fag-end of a sleepless night like any other.
Louis shows up. He hasn’t slept either. Camille looks him up and down.
The rope shudders and tenses, the crate seems to shriek as it rises, lifts off the floor and begins to rock, to spin slowly. The man appears in her field of vision again, some seven or eight metres away, standing near the wall where, with sweeping movements, he tugs on the rope connected by two pulleys. The crate rises very slowly, and for a moment it seems as though it might topple. Alex doesn’t move; the man stares at her. When the crate is about a metre and a half off the ground, he stops, ties off the rope then goes and rummages in a pile of things next to the gap in the far wall and comes back.
Face to face, at the same height, they can look each other in the eye. He takes out his mobile phone. To take a photograph of her. He looks for the right angle, shifts to one side, steps back, chicks the shutter once, twice, three times … then checks the images, deletes those he’s not happy with. Then he goes back over to the wall and the crate rises again; it’s now two metres from the floor.
The rope now tied off, the man is visibly pleased with himself.
He slips on his jacket, pats his pockets to make sure he’s forgotten nothing. It’s as though Alex doesn’t exist anymore – he hardly glances at the crate as he leaves. Satisfied with his handiwork. As though leaving his apartment to go to work.
He’s gone.
Silence.
The crate swings heavily at the end of the rope. A blast of cold air whirls around her, lapping against Alex’s body, which is already frozen to the marrow.
She is alone. Naked. Trapped.
Only now does she understand.
This is not a crate.
It’s a cage.
8
“You fucking bastard …”
“Mind your language … ,” “I’ll thank you to remember I’m your superior officer,” “What would you have done in my shoes?” “You should improve your vocabulary, your bad language is getting tedious.” Over the years, Divisionnaire Le Guen tried everything with Camille – or almost everything. These days, rather than rehashing old arguments, he no longer responds. This rather cuts the ground out from under Camille, who now simply storms into his office without knocking and stands glowering at his boss. At best, the divisionnaire gives him a philosophical shrug; at worst, he looks down, pretending to be contrite. Not a word is spoken; they’re like an old married couple, which is something of a no-win situation for two men pushing fifty, both of whom are single. Or rather, neither of whom has a wife. Camille is a widower. Le Guen racked up his fourth divorce last year.
“It’s strange how you keep marrying the same woman,” Camille said at Le Guen’s last wedding.
“What can you do?” Le Guen quipped. “Old habits die hard. I mean I always have the same witness at my weddings – you!” Then tetchily he said, “Besides, if I have to have a new wife, I might as well marry the same one,” whereby proving that when it comes to fatalism, he’s a match for anyone.
The fact that they no longer need to say anything to understand what the other is thinking is the primary reason Camille does not tear a strip off Le Guen this morning. He brushes aside the petty manipulations of the divisionnaire who could obviously have put someone else on the case but pretended there was no-one. It dawns on Camille that he should have realised straight off, but he completely missed it. This is strange; in fact it is rather worrying. The other reason is that he hasn’t had a wink of sleep, he’s exhausted, and he doesn’t have the energy to waste because he has a long day ahead of him before Morel takes over.
It’s 7.00 a.m. Dead beat officers move from office to office yelling to each other, doors slam, people shout, dazed civilians wait in corridors; for the station, this is the fag-end of a sleepless night like any other.
Louis shows up. He hasn’t slept either. Camille looks him up and down.
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