Even Arthur, who might have been fidgety, and could become downright nasty if she was out late without his knowing where, had been placid when she rang him when going for a pee after reaching the coffee stage.
‘Sorry, things sort of evolved. Girls together, stuffing themselves with Italian grub in Schiltigheim. Figs you know, and grappa, and cassata icecream.’
‘Pissed again I hear.’
‘Yes, rather. Don’t be surprised if I belch.’
‘What does this mean exactly, things evolved?’
‘Oh, you know, the talkative bald-headed seaman. He set the crew laughing and forgot his course.’
‘Ah yes – with great lies about his wooden horse.’
‘I’II tell you when I get home.’
‘No no, you’re much too jolly. Anyway I’ll be falling asleep any moment. I went to bed with Jacques Ellul. Soporific, you know.’ The austere and exacting Professor of Sociology from Bordeaux!
‘Rather hedgehoggy, I should have thought, in bed. Or no, they curl up and have fleas. A lean and active porcupine, rushing fiercely about.’
‘Good, then, enjoy yourself.’
She was driving home, sober, monumentally correct (showing that she was not quite sober), well under the speed limit, scrupulous about red lights.
One could draw a line under Robert. Margin to margin: she didn’t suppose either of them wanted to hear any further from the other. Albert Demazis – an irritating bundle of loose ends, but best not fussed with any more. Marie-Line – that great silly, possibly with encouragement from the phony-artist brigade, had probably been trafficking in palfium and librium and similar nasty things doctors were much too casual about prescribing. One would have to go a bit further into that. A discreet enquiry Chez Mauricette. That girl Françoise …
She reached the Saint-Maurice Church, swung off for her right turn. The Rue de l’Observatoire, short cut between half a dozen different university faculties, buzzes with student activity during the day but is not too uproarious at night. It was raining very softly, not even enough to turn the wipers on; just barely enough to marry with a gently alcoholic haze of well-being. It was her own slowness no doubt, the slight blur on visibility and attention, that made everything so abrupt and rapid and effortless.
She was rummaging about in the car as usual to see whether anything had been left behind that would attract the light-fingered, and she had her driving glasses still on, most incompetent because they promptly spotted up with rain. She scrabbled in her pocket for house keys. Damn. Oh there they were; in her hand. Stupid, she’d thought those were the car keys. Which, presumably, were still in the ignition lock. She was feeling along the dashboard, wondering why on earth she hadn’t the sense to take her glasses off. If Arthur were here he’d be tapping his foot, definitely, and putting on that indulgent male face that means ‘silly-women in-cars’. Somebody a great deal less indulgent took hold of her other wrist. Made sore by Robert, so that she squeaked. Her arm was turned and pulled up her back, very painfully indeed, but she squeaked no more because a hand came over her mouth, also made sore by Robert and a quiet decided voice said ‘Don’t scream’. For a second she thought it was Robert, and was swamped by total panic. There seemed to be several Roberts.
The one who held her opened the back of the car and propelled her in. She plunged and staggered and clutched the seat. Another turned the inside light out – or did that happen earlier? That was the one who had got very rapidly into the car from the other side and slammed the door. He gripped her like a parcel, set her abruptly upright and held her strongly with both arms.
‘Do not struggle, do not yell. You’re all right.’ It was too painful to struggle, and she was too astonished to yell. This wasn’t anything like rape. It was a great deal more businesslike. The one who had pushed her got into the driving-seat. The warm motor caught instantly, and in a smooth unfussed way they were at the crossing of the Boulevard de la Victoire with a green light and turning left into the Rue Vauban. The car gathered speed. The quiet voice said, ‘No harm will come to you. Make no fuss.’ There seemed to be three men, the one holding her in the back, and two in the front. Whoever had spoken had an educated voice. Neither Robert nor his friends. She had not been hurt: it was simply that both her wrist and her mouth were tender. The car did not go up the ramp to the Pont d’Anvers but turned left along the canal.
This, the initial shock and the nasty feeling of a film being rerun once over, was surely the moment to do something with the gun. What did one do? Couldn’t hold up all three. Presumably one could have a go at the one nearest. Very near indeed; the back seat of a Lancia is an intimate affair, and he had his arms lovingly around her, not she was bound to admit in any horrid Robertish way.
‘I told you not to wriggle,’ he said. It occurred to him then to see what she was wriggling at, and his large hand patted the hard thickness of her holster.
‘She has a gun,’ indifferently.
‘Has she now?’ said the voice from the front, amused. ‘Give it to me. Really, really. I’m putting this in the glove compartment; you’ll have no occasion for it just awhile.’
They had swung round through the Conseil des Quinze quarter, crossed the bridge over the canal opposite the Orangery, and turned right down into the back streets of the Robertsau, streets lit only at intersections and which she did not know well. She could hardly see anything anyhow; her glasses were quite smeared. Two or three more corners lost her totally. Perhaps out at the end of the Rue Melanie, somewhere near the Cháteau de Pourtales.
‘This’ll do,’ said the front voice, which seemed to be in authority.
The car stopped, lurching and squelching as it left the road. She could see nothing save a vague, impression of fields and trees. The driver flicked his lights twice and cut them; perhaps it was some sort of signal.
There was no need to repeat any instructions. The man holding her grunted as before, ‘Don’t struggle and you won’t be hurt.’ She didn’t feel inclined to struggle. He was large and strong; one big hand sufficed to hold both her wrists and his body wedging her in the corner made any rearing or bucking impossible.
The man in the front was busy with something that made a ripping sound. Tearing a length of fabric? – she got the answer when her glasses were taken off, roughly but not brutally, and a piece of wide adhesive plaster was fitted over her eyes. It did not hurt. It would hurt when she got it off, she remembered thinking, because of the fine hair over her ears and temples, and she wondered whether she would be alive to worry about this.
The next piece was fitted more carefully: a light hand touched her cheeks and nostrils, closed her jaws, and when the gag was in place made sure that her nose was not obstructed. They didn’t want her to asphyxiate, which was kind.
‘Go mum-mum-mum,’ said the front voice, pleasantly. She obeyed. ‘Good. It’s only to stop you screaming needlessly, which would have no point at all.’
With the ventilators no longer going the driver had opened his window to get some fresh air. She could feel it. And at this moment, ears sharpened by the blindfold, she heard a car, being driven quite slowly; a big car with a soft motor and broad wheels grating on the surface they had left. Dear man, kind good man, do be curious for once. It isn’t a fornicating couple: that fear had now left her.
The three men were quiet. The car slowed further. Oh whoopee, he is curious. Some little way behind them, the car stopped. She could hear the motor idling softly. With a sickening lurch of disappointment she realized when no move was made that this was their car. Come to pick them up. In answer no doubt to their signal.
Something new was being prepared, something that unwound with a squeaky sound. Electrician’s tape, she thought, as her left hand was laid on her knee and the wrist rapidly taped to her thigh.
‘Right,’ said the light authoritative voice. ‘A short explanation. Listen carefully.’ Her right hand was still being held by the man next to her: she wondered why they didn’t finish tying her. ‘You are wondering about all this: you will now have time to think it over. Think, then, thoroughly. You are not being killed, or kidnapped. That would simply draw attention to you, something I have no use for. You will not even be here very long: you are lightly tied. If you do not manage to free yourself quite soon I shall be surprised. If not, you will be found before morning, though in your own interest I recommend you to try.
‘You have been meddling in other people’s business. Innocently – it is possible. But it was not a good idea. It never is. Now you are getting a warning to stop it. One warning – that is all there will be. You have understood? Nod your head.
‘Very well. I waste the least time and trouble possible. You are putting me to trouble now and I don’t intend to have any more. What follows will show you this. I am not a brute, nor a sadist. I have no enjoyment in inflicting pain. The injury will not be permanent. It will, indeed, hardly show. You will, though, remember it. Give me her hand.’
She struggled then, which was quite futile, and tried to scream, which just produced a mum-mum and hurt her ears and her sinus.
The one held her wrist and kept her hand steady. The other gripped her sharply by the tips of her fingers, bent her hand out flat on the back of the seat, and cut her twice across the palm in a cross. Her heart turned over and she made a whining sound like a whipped dog.
The man had prepared everything. He slapped a lump of cotton wool on her palm and covered that with a generous piece of the elastic strapping. Her limp arm felt broken by the force she had tried to use to pull it back: they took it and taped it to her leg like the other. She lay doubled over with her head on her arms, a few hot tears behind the blindfold, a shadow of a last whimper behind the gag. To the blinding pain succeeded extreme misery.
‘That is all,’ said the voice, drilling through the numbness. ‘You have been warned. Think about it now. Think thoroughly.’
The fresh air came in a gush, saving her from fainting. They had all three got out of the car. ‘Watch your footsteps,’ said the light voice quietly. The doors slammed. She was alone. On the other side of the thick red haze more doors slammed, a motor accelerated, changed gear, died out of hearing. She was alone with the tick of the cooling motor of the Lancia and the pump of her blood.