Talking to Ghosts Read Free Page B

car passed in a deafening roar that streamed through the window half open against the heat of the day, the boy lurched forward and fell at the foot of the bed on which lay a woman he no longer recognised, her skin mottled and blue, her face swollen, her lips curled into a rictus of horror, as though aware of what she had become. He had fallen on his knees and now raised himself to the height of the mattress, staring directly between the slightly parted legs, leaning against the foot of the bed, and his stomach lurched uselessly, unable to vomit up this dread which would be forever lodged inside him like some bird of prey. The men pulled him back, advising him to come away, but he struggled, grabbing the sheets so tightly they had to prise his fingers open one by one and drag him from the room in a soft murmur of soothing words and reassurances until, as he reached the front doorstep bathed in sunlight, he passed out, scratching his arms on the climbing rose.
    *
    Everything was white. The ceiling, the walls. A woman in a white coat was staring at him, her hands in her pockets. She smiled and told him he had been asleep for two days, that he was much better now, then she asked if he needed anything. When he said nothing, she came over and sat on the bed, listened to his chest, tested his reflexes with a small round hammer. The boy simply lay there, watching her perform these tests, and his eyes betrayed nothing, they simply shimmered, wide-eyed, taking in everything that he covered up in unfathomable depths. The woman got to her feet and looked down at him for a few seconds, still smiling, until he turned away, looking out of the window where the tips of poplar trees glinted in the sun.
    â€œThere’s someone who wants to talk to you. He’s with the police. He wants to ask you some questions about what happened. Is that O.K.?”
    Since he remained silent, the woman turned and signalled to someone to come in. A man stepped into the room and said hello, but the boy did not react. Victor looked him up and down, not daring to meet the policeman’s curious or astonished gaze. He had dark hair and was wearing a black sweatshirt, a jacket and light trousers. He quickly settled himself in a heavy chrome and faux-leather chair that scraped the floor unpleasantly.
    The boy ignored him, allowing his gaze to wander to a corner of the room, as though he were looking for dust.
    â€œVictor? Can we talk for a bit? I’m Commandant Vilar. I’m here to find out who …”
    He trailed off as the boy looked up at him, his eyes black and glistening, blinking more quickly now.
    â€œCan we talk? Is that O.K.?”
    The boy nodded, then started to rub the scratches on his arm from the rose bush, idly ripping off the tiny scabs with his fingernails.
    At first the policeman said nothing: he simply looked at the boy who was studying him out of the corner of an eye. They could hear a muted hum of activity from the hospital, a creak of doors, muffled shouts, laughter too, sudden bursts of women’s laughter that quickly died away into a grave chorus of deep voices. From his jacket pocket the man took a small notebook and a ballpoint that he clicked. Then, in a low, sometimes hesitant voice, he explained that he needed to find out more about his mother so that he could catch the person who had done this to her (this was how he put it, as though he were talking about a mugging, unable to bring himself to mention death, to mention the stench or the horror they had stumbled into two days before, choking back the urge to retch, swallowing their bile), maybe it was someone who knew her, someone the boy had met, or overheard, someone whose name might be familiar. He asked the boy to rack his brains, to go through every face, every name, anything the dead woman might have said, they really needed his help, he was their main witness,it was important that he make an effort, even if it wasn’t easy. He repeated his questions,