Thierry Jonquet - Tarantula

“Did you brutalize her?”

“No. I wanted to jump her bones, but I decided to put it off till later. I guess I should have done it, huh? Mind you, nobody will ever fuck her now. Never. Where she is, no one will show up for at least two weeks. She’s bound to die of hunger and thirst. And it’s your fault. Maybe one day you’ll see her skeleton. Was she a good lay, at least?”

“Be quiet,” said Lafargue softly, through clenched teeth. “You’re going to tell me where she is.”

“No way, asshole. Cut me up into little pieces if you want. I won’t tell you a thing. I’m for it, I know that. If you don’t kill me, the cops will get me. I’ve had it, and I don’t give a shit.”

“How wrong you are, you poor fool. You’ll talk, I promise you.”

Richard went over to Alex, who spat in his face. The surgeon had fastened Alex’s arm to the wall, palm facing outward; the wrist was chained, and long strips of extra-strong packing tape stuck to the concrete prevented the slightest movement of the limb.

“Look here,” said Richard.

He pointed to the catheter already inserted into Alex’s vein. Alex began to sweat and to sob. The bastard was going to get the better of him after all. By using a drug.

Richard showed him a syringe, which he attached to the catheter. Gently, he pressed the plunger. Alex screamed, and tugged vainly on his chains.

The fluid was inside him, flowing through his veins. A wave of nausea washed over him, then his mind grew more and more fuzzy. He stopped shouting and wriggling. As his eyes glazed over, he could still see Lafargue’s smiling face and mean expression.

“What’s your name?”

Alex’s head had subsided onto his chest, but Richard grabbed his matted hair and wrenched it upright again.

“Barny. Alex Barny.”

“Do you remember my wife?”

“Yes.”

A very few minutes later, Alex gave up the address of the house in Livry-Gargan.

A breath of air is making its way across the floor. You twist, and turn on your side, and press your cheek to the ground so as to relish this trace of coolness. Your throat is painful, dry. The adhesive tape across your lips tugs at the skin .

The door opens. The light goes on. It is Mygale. He rushes to you. Why does he seem so stricken? He takes you in his arms, gently pulls the tape from your mouth, covers your face with kisses. He calls you “my baby” and sets to work on the cord, untying it. Your swollen limbs hurt, but your circulation is quickly restored once the restraints are gone .

Mygale holds you tight, pressing himself against you. He runs his fingers through your hair, strokes your head, the nape of your neck. He picks you up from the floor and bears you out of the room .

You are not at Le Vésinet but in some other house. What does it all mean? Mygale kicks a door open. You are in a kitchen now. Without putting you down, he takes a glass, fills it with water and has you drink it slowly, in tiny sips .

You feel as though you have swallowed kilos of dust, and nothing has ever given you such a delightful sensation as this water in your mouth .

Mygale carries you into a crudely furnished living room. He sets you down in an armchair, kneels in front of you, places his head against your belly and his arms about your waist .

You follow all this with detachment, like the spectator of some meaningless game. Mygale disappears, only to return with the bedspread, which has been left behind. He wraps you in it and carries you outside. It is night .

The Mercedes is waiting in the street. Mygale puts you in the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel .

He talks to you. He is telling a crazy, completely unbelievable tale. You hardly listen. A criminal is supposed to have kidnapped you so as to have a hold over Mygale. Poor Mygale: he has gone mad; he can no longer tell reality from his fantasy world. As for the tenderness he is showing you, you are certain that he will make you pay for it in suffering. At a stop light he turns to you, smiles, strokes your hair once more .

At Le Vésinet, he carries you into the drawing room and sits you on a sofa. He runs up to your room and fetches a robe. He helps you into it, then vanishes again. This time he reappears with a tray laden with food and drink. He hands you a few pills; you don’t know what they are, and you don’t care .

He gets you to eat, coaxing you into swallowing yogurt and fruit .

Once you finish eating, your eyes close all by themselves: you are all in. He carries you upstairs, lays you in your bed; before falling asleep, you notice that he has sat down next to you and taken your hand .

You wake up. There is a pale radiance: it must be early morning. Mygale is there, close to you, asleep in an armchair, and your bedroom door is wide open .

Your legs are still sore: the cord was tied very tight. You turn onto your side to see Mygale better. You think back to the preposterous story he told you in the car. Something about a gangster? Yes, a criminal on the lam who wanted Mygale to alter his face. And you were the hostage!

You are not sure about it anymore. Sleep is returning. A sleep punctuated by nightmares. Always the same images: Mygale is cackling; you are laid out on a long table beneath a blinding spotlight. Mygale wears a white surgeon’s smock and hat, and he laughs wildly .

In your perception his laugh is amplified, and it hurts your ears; you wish you could sleep longer, but no, the anesthesia has worn off. You are coming back from elsewhere, the dream images are still vivid, and Mygale is laughing. You turn your head, and see that your arm—no, both arms, are restrained. A needle is sticking in the crook of one arm, attached to a tube through which liquid falls drop by drop from a flask of serum waving gently way up above your head. You feel dizzy, and then, little by little, you are assailed by violent shooting pains from farther down, from your lower belly. And Mygale laughs .

Your thighs are parted, and you are hurting. Your knees are clamped into supports of tubular steel, as though you were on one of those tables used by gynecologists to examine … God, it hurts! The pain spreads from your genitals into your abdomen; you try to lift your head, to see what is happening to you—and Mygale is still laughing .

“ Hold on, little Vincent. Let me help you .”

Mygale has picked up a mirror and, grasping you by the nape of the neck, he holds it between your legs. All you can see in the glass is a mass of bloody dressings, and two tubes hooked up to bottles .

“ Soon, very soon, you’ll see everything better.” Mygale is apoplectic with laughter .

But you understand what he has done to you. First the injections, the developing breasts—and now this .

When all trace of the anesthetic’s effect was gone and you were fully conscious, you screamed and screamed for a very long while. He had left you there in his operating room, flat on your back, bound to the bench .

He came back at last. Leaned over you, still laughing. Would he ever stop laughing?

He had brought a cake, a little cake with a candle on it. Just one .

“ My dear Vincent, we are going to celebrate the first birthday of someone you are going to know very well: Eve .”

He gestured toward your belly .

“ There’s nothing there anymore. I’ll explain everything. But you are not Vincent anymore. You are Eve .”

He cut the cake, took a slice, and mashed it into your face. You hadn’t the strength even to cry out. Grinning, Mygale ate his own piece. Then he uncorked a bottle of champagne, filled two flutes, drank his, and flung the contents of the other over your head .