Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘Our grandson,’ said Monsieur Paliard by way of introduction. His tone was apologetic. Manfred stood with his back to the wall next to the door. The detective did not invite him to sit down.

‘I’m investigating the murder of Juliette Hurel,’ he began. Manfred was surprised that his cheeks did not colour at the mention of Juliette’s name.

‘Your grandparents say that you often go walking in the woods where her body was found.’

‘Yes,’ said Manfred, ‘Sometimes I go there to read.’ Revealing this additional information suggested, Manfred thought, that he was willing to co-operate fully.

‘I don’t suppose you ever came across the girl when you were in the woods?’

Manfred was surprised at the way in which the detective phrased his question. It seemed an invitation to denial, as if he had already made up his mind that the response would be negative. It seemed easier to agree.

‘No,’ he said.

‘I understand you were in the woods the day Juliette was murdered,’ the detective went on.

‘No,’ said Manfred, ‘I went walking along the river that day.’

The lie took him by surprise. Up until that moment, he had imagined confessing everything at the first opportunity. But this lie had come from nowhere and at once he saw that it was a good one. Nobody knew where he had been that day, so one quiet place was as good as another.

‘Oh,’ said the detective as if a little disappointed that his lead had evaporated so quickly. ‘And you’ve never seen anyone suspicious around the woods?’

Again the question phrased in the negative. Perhaps, Manfred thought, the detective had asked these questions so often that he had no expectation of a positive response. There was no significance in him asking Manfred. He was just crossing another potential witness from the list.

‘No,’ said Manfred. That much was true.

The detective nodded, as if Manfred had confirmed what he had expected him to say. He clasped his hands together to indicate that the interview was over and took his leave, apologising somewhat obsequiously for disturbing his grandparents. Manfred went back to his room and lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. He felt no relief, merely the feeling that the inevitable had been postponed. In a way, he was disappointed. It would have been better to get the thing over and done with.

When Manfred returned to school at the end of the holidays, he withdrew completely from his peers. He had always been on the periphery. His status as an orphan made his classmates wary of him, but it also provided a shield behind which he could hide. However oddly he behaved, people put it down to ‘what he had been through’. He had always heard whispers to this effect. Now, however, Manfred’s retreat was complete. While his classmates flirted and arranged dates, he was nothing more than an observer. Nobody seemed to notice. He had always struggled to fit in and if he had now given up trying, it was no real loss to anyone. And while part of Manfred longed to participate, to be part of the crowd, the greater part of him was relieved. He developed a sense of superiority. His peers were mere children. The girls with their giggling and obsession with clothes seemed silly creatures, an entirely different species from Juliette. And the boys, posing with their leather bomber jackets, cigarettes held in the cup of their hand, were despicable. Little did they know that he, Manfred Baumann, had experienced love of the most intense and profound nature and had committed an act that placed him outside the normal boundaries of society.

Manfred followed the trial of the tramp Malou with dispassion. It did not occur to him to come forward and exonerate him, nor did he take any pleasure in his conviction. It had been clear to Manfred since the visit of the detective that he was going to ‘get away with it’.

It was around this time that Manfred experienced his first migraine. It came upon him at his school desk without warning, or at least he did not recognise the signs. All he knew was that he found himself clutching at a severe pain in his temples. He was helped to the school sickbay where the nurse insisted that an ambulance be called. Perhaps he was suffering an aneurysm. The medics gave him a cursory examination and, to his relief, refused to take him to hospital.

Manfred did not tell his grandparents about the incident and no questions were asked when he failed to appear for the evening meal. The headaches began to occur every few weeks. Each one lasted a day or two and left him drained of energy for days afterwards. Manfred spent these days in his room with the curtains drawn and the sheet pulled over his head. The slightest noise sent fresh shards shooting through his skull. During the episodes he lost all sense of time. Minutes dragged by as if mired in mud and whole days vanished as if struck from the calendar. Manfred could recall little of what occurred.

Even to the staunchly godless Manfred, it was impossible not to see these attacks as a punishment. But in the absence of a vengeful God, what force governed such things? Even in his pained state such thoughts irritated Manfred; the universe was chaotic and meaningless. Still, it was difficult not to see the killing of Juliette and the onset of the headaches as connected.

It became impossible to conceal what was occurring from his grandparents. Despite his protestations, Manfred’s grandmother insisted on making an appointment with the family doctor. Doctor Faubel was a middle-aged man with greasy thinning hair and a shiny complexion. He smiled pleasantly as Manfred sat down. The surgery smelled strongly of dark tobacco.

‘So,’ he began, ‘headaches, I hear.’

‘Yes,’ said Manfred. He was simultaneously relieved that he did not have to explain why he was here and embarrassed that his grandmother must have already briefed the doctor, as if he was still a child. ‘Headaches’ did not seem like a legitimate reason to take up a doctor’s time, especially headaches that Manfred, despite himself, believed to be a kind of just punishment.

Faubel asked a series of questions about the nature, frequency and duration of the ‘painful episodes’, as he called them. He appeared to take Manfred’s complaint quite seriously.

‘On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the level of pain?’ he asked.

Manfred was about to respond, ‘Ten,’ but that would be ridiculous. He had read of certain techniques of torture that would undoubtedly be more painful. Besides, he did not wish to appear lily-livered or melodramatic.

‘Seven,’ he said.

‘Seven?’ the doctor repeated. He emitted a breathy whistle.

‘Eight, maybe,’ Manfred said.

Faubel asked Manfred to describe what he did during the painful episodes.

‘I just lie there with my eyes closed. It’s as if I become the pain. There’s nothing else to think about.’

‘And prior to the onset of these attacks, do you experience any unusual sensations?’

Manfred looked blankly at the doctor.

‘Unusual effects of light, perhaps, a kind of flaring? Like an aura?’

Manfred nodded. This was precisely what he experienced. He would not have described it as an aura, as he disliked the word’s mystical connotations, but it was as if he was looking at the world through the glass of a rainy window. Colours appeared to slide into one other. Faubel smiled to himself, clearly pleased with the accuracy of his diagnosis. He explained that Manfred was suffering from migraines. It was the first time Manfred had heard this word. The causes of migraines, Faubel went on, were unknown and there was no cure. The only option was to try to manage the condition.

Manfred felt a pang of disappointment. His hopes had been raised by Faubel’s insight into his symptoms.