Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘Gorski,’ said Manfred.

‘Gorski, yes,’ she said. ‘He was asking about you.’

‘What about me?’

‘He wanted to know what sort of relationship we had, how long I’d known you, that sort of thing.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him it was none of his business.’

Manfred nodded. ‘What did he say?’

‘Not much. He gave me his card and left.’

‘He came to your apartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he find out where you lived?’

Alice shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He gave me the creeps.’

Manfred stood up. Had she cooked up this story to explain why he had seen Gorski leave the apartment building two days before? Sunlight glinted on the ripples of the water. His head hurt. He could not make sense of things. Perhaps Gorski had put her up to this little outing. Perhaps she was recording their conversation and the woods were crawling with cops waiting to spring out when he said something incriminating. Manfred scanned the trees around them. Alice was staring at him.

‘Manfred?’ she said.

Then it hit him: He gave me the creeps . It was the same expression Gorski said Adèle had used about him. His head swam. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them and looked at Alice. He was having trouble focussing.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said.

Alice’s eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

She stood up and took a couple of steps away from him.

‘You’re lying,’ he said. The sunlight on the lake was dazzling. Manfred closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy. He turned and faced the trees. He imagined the men in the woods, waiting for a sign from Gorski to move in. His eyes darted around the undergrowth. Nothing stirred. His breathing subsided a little.

Alice took a step towards him. ‘Is there something wrong with you?’ There was a hint of fear in her eyes.

Manfred shook his head as if to rouse himself from sleep. He was aware that he might, at this moment, appear quite insane. He must try to seem reasonable.

‘I just want you to tell me the truth about you and Gorski,’ he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. Alice tucked her chin to her chest and looked at him, open-mouthed.

‘There is no me and Gorski,’ she replied.

‘He put you up to this whole thing,’ Manfred blundered on. He took a step towards her.

Alice stood her ground. Her face had hardened.

‘I just wanted to know why the police are asking questions about you. If you’ve done something wrong, you can tell me.’

‘Of course, I can.’ Manfred laughed through his nose and shook his head. ‘I actually thought you liked me.’

‘I thought I liked you too,’ said Alice. She looked at him as if she had never seen him before. Then she turned and started back towards the path. Manfred watched her. They appeared to be quite alone. He could hear the distant honking of the geese. The water lapped gently on the rocks. It was a pleasant spot.

Manfred called her name. She did not turn round. He felt a strong desire to run after and tell her everything: how he had lied to Gorski, what had occurred between he and Adèle, even how he had killed Juliette. He suddenly felt that it would all seem quite reasonable — that he would seem reasonable. He called her name again. She strode on, making a dismissive gesture with her hand over her shoulder. She vanished into the woods. Manfred stood staring dumbly at the spot where she had disappeared for a few minutes, then followed her.

MANFRED HAD GROWN ACCUSTOMED to the feeling of being watched. It was stronger than ever as he sat on the front pew of the chapel. His grandmother was on his right, twisting an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers. Manfred had felt no emotion on hearing that his grandfather was dead. He had no fondness for the old man and could not see his death as anything other than a release for his grandmother. The turnout was unexpectedly large. Manfred had never known his grandfather to have any friends and whenever his grandparents had to attend a social engagement, he grumbled about it. Twenty or thirty bent old worthies, some wearing military honours on their lapels, filled two or three rows of the chapel. There was also substantial representation from the law firm. Manfred imagined that each of them had their eyes trained on the back of his head, hoping to discern some sign of emotion. He bowed his head a little as if in contemplation.

The priest described in a matter-of-fact tone how Bertrand Paliard had now been accepted into the kingdom of God. Manfred tried not to smile at the thought of how his grandfather, a confirmed atheist, would rankle at such a sentiment. Manfred had not been in a church for many years. He found it oddly agreeable. The air was cool and heavy with incense, and the priest’s monotonous drone had a soothing, narcotic effect. The flagstones were rounded like pebbles by centuries of footfall. Likewise the oak pews were worn and faded. The circular stained-glass window high on the wall behind the priest produced a pleasantly subdued light. Manfred paid little attention to the service. At some point he noticed that his grandmother had taken his hand and was gripping it with surprising tenacity. The time came for the coffin to be carried to the grave. Under the direction of the undertaker Manfred and the five other pallbearers, only one of whom Manfred recognised, arranged themselves around the box. Manfred was half a head taller than the rest of them and as the box was raised onto their shoulders he had to bend at the knee to shoulder his part of the burden. The others gave every impression of being old hands at this business.

As they began the ponderous waltz up the aisle Manfred spotted Gorski standing at the back of the church. He was indeed being watched. Manfred felt a flush of anger at the intrusion. Gorski was not to know that he did not feel any sadness at his grandfather’s demise. Manfred adopted a mournful expression for the cop’s benefit. He turned his mouth down at the edges and kept his eyes fixed on the stone floor. He glanced up only as he passed Gorski at the door. Gorski acknowledged him with a curt, unapologetic nod. The congregation filed out behind the coffin. It was early in the afternoon and after the dim atmosphere of the chapel, the sunlight was quite dazzling. There was an incline towards the Paliard plot and Manfred had to stoop even lower to keep hold of his corner of the coffin. One of the old men had to pause, wheezing to wipe his brow. The undertaker, no doubt accustomed to such occurrences, relieved him of his place and they made swifter progress towards the plot. Manfred’s mother’s grave was to the right. It was surprisingly well maintained. There were fresh flowers in a pot at the foot of the headstone. Manfred never visited it and he wondered if his grandparents had looked after it or if such things fell under the remit of the municipality.

The box was lowered onto some planks that had been placed across the grave and then, with the use of canvas straps, lowered into the hole. Manfred admired the efficiency with which this potentially awkward task was carried out. He took his place at the graveside next to his grandmother, who now tearlessly clutched his hand. The old man had always despised displays of emotion and over the years Manfred’s grandmother had absorbed the lesson. As the priest read the benediction Manfred could not resist the temptation to look over his shoulder. Gorski was leaning against the wall by the wrought iron gates to the churchyard, smoking a cigarette. He felt a hand at his elbow and realised he was being directed to add his handful of soil to the grave. The hollow sound of earth on wood was quite agreeable. The mourners filed past, offering their condolences to Manfred and his grandmother, before making their way to the vehicles assembled on the road. There was to be a reception at the family home. As Manfred accompanied his grandmother towards the gate, Gorski approached.