Victor was sitting in the sweeping shadows cast by the mulberry tree and the oaks at the bottom of the garden where, at this time of the evening, it was so dark that it seemed it was from here that night welled up and spread irresistibly across the face of the earth. He abandoned himself to the muddled thoughts and chaotic images which seemed to sum up his situation. Once again he felt as though he were trapped in a deep hole, with no means of escape. At times the hole seemed to be filling with water, or to be flanked by steep powdery sides where his hands could find no purchase to climb out.
Then he thought about Rebecca, about her hands on him, about what she had allowed him to do, what he had glimpsed. He ran a finger over his lips trying to recapture some trace of the pleasure he had experienced. But he felt nothing, alone and stupid in the silence that had suddenly swelled around him; there was not a breath of air and he looked up at branches of the trees which seemed impossibly still, tried to listen for the sound of the television in the house but heard nothing, not even the noise of the plates clattering in the sink.
When finally he did hear something, it was too late. A hand was clamped over his mouth, a blade pricked at his throat. He recognised the voice whispering in his ear. He smelled the boozy breath that reminded him of the stink of cheap plonk that often hung around the wineries.
“Keep your trap shut. You’re coming with me. You know who I am?”
Victor nodded.
“No … you don’t know. But I know. I’m sure now. I’m your father, you got that? I’m the one who had you with that whore and now you’re coming with me.”
Victor felt his head being pulled back, the man’s hand was still clamped to his mouth so the boy decided not to resist and allowed himself to be dragged backwards, toppling the deckchair where he had been sitting, knocking over a plastic chair. The man was behind him, panting suddenly out of exhaustion or fear, following Victor’s footsteps, walking so close behind him that he stumbled and trod on his heels. They moved towards the house, passing the shed where Julien had finally got the engine of his moped working, and Victor remembered the kid’s whoops of joy that almost drowned out the backfire from the engine as he sprang from his den, stripped to the waist, slick with oil and sweat, coughing and spluttering from a cloud of exhaust fumes that looked as though they were coming from a big diesel truck rather than a moped. He recalled these whoops of joy perfectly now, the reek of engine oil, he could see Marilou hugging the kid, kissing and congratulating him like a little brother.
Victor felt nothing. Neither fear nor anger. He tried to understand what was happening, but things were moving too quickly. All he knew was that he was drifting away. Everything suddenly seemed distant, remote. He was sorry it was dark because he would have liked to see the world flash past.
As they passed the terrace and the golden glow that streamed from the open French window, Victor heard the familiar sounds of evening, Denis’ voice, loud and clear, saying to everyone “Hey, come look at what this guy’s doing on the telly,” and Victor was not sure whether he wanted someone to suddenly burst through the door and save him, chase this evil bastard out of his life or whether he wanted them to stay inside, safe and happy in this beautiful summer evening. The familiar sounds died away and Victor quickly found himself out on the road in the gathering dusk, faintly lit by a distant streetlamp. The man pushed him towards a large estate car whose make Victor did not recognise, but he thought it might be the car he had thrown stones at the other day. The man stopped when he clicked open the vast boot filled with boxes, bags and tins, he hesitated and Victor felt the grip on his mouth and his throat ease a little, but he did nothing that might anger the man or arouse his suspicion, he forced himself to remain completely still. He was terrified that someone might come out into the garden – probably Denis, who was always worrying where the kids were at night – might call him, come out to the gate and see what was going on, might see this guy trying to bundle a boy into his car, rush over and get into a fight or – worse – the guy might turn round at the last minute and stick the knife into Denis’ chest, so Victor let himself be manhandled, he tried to imagine Marilou and Julien sitting wide-eyed in front of the television with Nicole and Denis commenting on what was happening because someone on television was clearly doing something extraordinary, almost beyond belief, and he knew that this peaceful world was over now, that one way or another, he would be done for.
“You scream or make any sudden move and I’ll cut your throat,” the voice behind him said. “I don’t give a fuck.”
The man took his hand from Victor’s mouth, reached into the boot to get a roll of duct tape, which meant he had to let go of the boy, keeping him pressed against the bumper only by the weight of his body, struggling to locate the end of the tape.
Victor did not know what the man had done with the knife, but he knew he needed to use both hands to unroll the tape so he drove his elbow back hard and the man staggered back in surprise, allowing Victor to run out onto the road away from the village. As he turned away, he could clearly see the house he was leaving behind and he thought about the people inside, happy that he was able to keep them out of this. He heard the man curse and run after him, then dash back to his car. As he heard the engine start up, Victor came to the little path he and Rebecca had taken a few nights earlier, he plunged down the embankment as the utter darkness closed its huge jaws around him. He made no attempt to get his bearings, he simply ran across the soil rutted by tractor tyres and when he felt the ground rise again he stopped to catch his breath and listen, but he could hear nothing save the silence of the night pierced by stars with a pink moon rising over the estuary. He realised he could make out the shadowy mass of the vines and the dark track of the path running gently uphill from here. Feeling thirsty, he picked a heavy bunch of grapes, feeling each one with his fingers and eating only those that were soft and ripe. He loved the taste of the sweet juice filling his mouth and he walked on more slowly now, almost calm, hearing nothing but the night wind whispering in the vines.
He carried on walking with no concept of time, skirting around the vast fields of the vineyards, along paths that criss-crossed one another; the moon, rising behind him, cast the faintest shadows that alerted him to any obstacles he had to negotiate, the furrows or the hillocks where he might trip and fall on all fours, pricking his hands on the brambles or thistles. His feet were bare, he had been wearing only a pair of old espadrilles that Nicole insisted they use when coming and going between the garden and the house, but the canvas had ripped while he was running so that they barely stayed on his feet, and more than once he had to hop around in the dark looking for the one that had come off.
His only thought was to move forward. The darkness made him invisible and this entirely suited his desire to vanish, to cease to exist, to be able to watch unseen, as the dead do, perhaps, to eavesdrop on what others say about you, to know their secrets, to be close to them without their knowledge. He plunged into the balmy darkness and felt weightless.
Then he stopped. He thought about his mother, he had left her behind, and his heart beat wildly as he pictured the urn in his wardrobe. “Manou,” he said aloud, “Manou, I’m not leaving you, I’ll come back to get you. You saw the guy. I had to run, I had to.” Once again he waited several seconds for her answer, but there was nothing but the wind tickling his neck.
After a while, his legs began to tremble each time he needed them to jump a ditch or a stream, and he wondered where he was going to sleep. He scrambled up another bank and found himself on a narrow tarmac road, which he thought he recognised from having cycled this way once or twice – to the right, it led down to the estuary. He was afraid of that expanse of water gliding in the dark, afraid that it would swallow him up or carry him away, so he turned left and walked uphill for about a hundred metres, then cut back into the vines. He was hurrying now and turned his ankle in a rut, breathless and aching and suddenly so exhausted that he wanted to lie down and try to sleep, but when he felt the rough, dry grass prick his hands and his knees, felt the soil radiate the accumulated heat of the day against his skin, he gave a disappointed groan and limped on.
Further on, just as the moon disappeared behind a wisp of fog, he almost ran straight into a trailer lying in the field; the boy hoisted himself into the back and lay down on the rough bare boards. He peeled off his shirt, rolled it into a pillow and the moment he lay down on his stomach and pressed his cheek to it, he was asleep.