BEN

“HE DID WHAT?”

Ben turned toward Jean-Paul.

“He jumped through the window. He couldn’t jump out the lower half. Two sheets of glass and a screen. So he tried the upper half, holding a pillow in front of him. But he got stuck . . .”

“Ah, shit . . .”

“He cut himself. He was bleeding like a pig. Gode ran out of the house and picked up the pillow that had fallen on the other side, in the grass. I tore a sheet and started to wrap his wounds, he had one on his hand, another on the wrist of his other arm. He was bleeding all over the place. His bandages were soaked faster than we could tie them. He asked us to take him to a hospital. I grabbed a piece of rope and made him a tourniquet. And another on the other side. He told me to tighten it, he said it didn’t hurt. He was white as a sheet.

“We brought him into the living room. He was bleeding a bit less. I think he must’ve lost half a pint at least. I washed his wounds with water and soap. Then I made him new bandages. He was still bleeding a little.

“I told Gode and René that we had to either free him or find someone to take him to a hospital. And they told me to come here and tell you what happened. That you would know what to do . . .”

“You can start by calming down.”

“Where are you going?”

“To call my brother.”

“Why don’t you call from here?”

“Never know, line might be tapped . . .”

It had been four days now since Jean-Paul had decided to lay low in Lison’s apartment, his friend from Montreal, in the South Central neighbourhood of the city, and maybe his nerves were playing tricks on him. But for a while now he’d been noticing unfamiliar movements in the area. So he’d redoubled his vigilance.

“Do you think you were followed here?”

“Do I think . . . no,” Ben replied. “Where are you going?”

“To find a phone booth, I told you.”

“You really think Lison’s might be tapped?”

“You never know.”

“What about the rue Collins telephone, then?”

Jean-Paul stopped in the doorway.

“Cut your bullshit, okay?”

The night was cold and clear in the alley. A cry rang out in the shadows next to him, making him jump. Like a child crying. A shiver.

Come here, he thought, my little Moses of the alleyways, perhaps you’re the one fate has chosen to lead the chosen people of Quebec out of bondage and through the American desert. Jean-Paul tiptoed toward the sound.

Near an overturned garbage can, two alley cats faced each other. Jean-Paul, fascinated, watched the ritual of intimidation, the psychological confrontation. One of the cats was wearing a collar. Suddenly, it leaped up and tried to flee. The other cat jumped him from behind and the two beasts ended up rolling at Jean-Paul’s feet, a whirling mass of flesh and fur torn by claws and whistling spittle. The coward ended up leaping out of the battle, stomach against the ground, and Lafleur watched him clamber up a telephone pole.

“You’re done for, now . . .”

He shouldn’t have backed off, he thought, and left to find a phone booth.