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 The
Map
Of
Scars
By
JO HAMILTON
Sign up to our newsletter to receive emails about
special discounts on my books, news and stories.
www.hazelwoodpress.weebly.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and
incidents other than those clearly in the public domain are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express
permission from the publisher.
 ONE

c
outs was alone down a hospital corridor. The floor was shiny
and clean, yet the white walls marked with grubby fingerprints.
Now and again, she’d hear the elevator ping, the doors slide
open, yet there was no one inside. A strange ticking sound kept
bothering her. An incessant ticking like a clock or dripping water. Tick
Tick Tick. The ticking sound becoming louder, or was it someone’s
shoes against the sticky floor, walking closer to her. But no one came
around the corner or out of any of the many rooms there. She was
alone. Completely and utterly alone.
She ran her fingers over her right forearm where the scars are and
found that her skin was smooth. She looked down and to her
surprise, the scars had vanished. The doctor worked a miracle. She
can go home now. Why was she there anyway?
Tick Tick Tick
Where are the hospital staff? Usually this place is bustling. Have I
come into the wrong part of the hospital? No, this was where I
always come.
Coutts gets up from the chair and walks to where the ticking sound
was coming from. It’s louder now. Tick Tick Tick. It’s coming from
the elevators. The foyer feels warm. A trickle of sweat runs down
the back of her neck. She walked to the window. She’s on the fourth
floor and from there she can see across most of the west side of the
city Lakesford. When she woke that morning, the sky was blue and
clear, and she was considering washing the outside windows of her
house. Now heavy grey clouds were ominously moving in from the
ranges, suffocating the sun. If it rained, it gave her an excuse to
leave the window washing until tomorrow. She didn’t like housework
anyway.
Along the road a steady stream of cars droned along, all anxious to
get to their destination, only to be held up by an ambulance coming
into the hospital, or school children walking across the pedestrian
crossing.
Down below in the hospital car park a woman and a man were
having an argument. She was in a wheelchair and he looked like he
was being scolded for something. He then stormed off and left her
there on the footpath. Coutts was horrified, but also bemused. If
someone yelled at her in a public place, she might storm off too. She
wondered if she should go down and help her. She had been left
alone on the footpath, just like Coutts had been left alone in the
hospital. A silver car then pulled up. A man got out and helped her
into the car. He hadn’t stormed off at all. He had gone to get the car
so he didn’t have to push her all that way over curbs and cracks, and
other hazards that a hospital car park may bestow.
Sadness descended upon Coutts like those grey clouds rolling in.
She had no one.
Tick Tick Tick
She was distracted by that ticking sound again. Coutts pulled away
from the window to search the area to see where it was coming
from. One of the elevators clanged and she saw that it was coming
up to the fourth floor. It clanged again as it stopped on her floor and
the ticking sound was even louder. Coutts wasn’t sure if it was her
imagination or not, but it was getting hotter in there.
The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. In seconds she was
engulfed in ferocious orange flames. She hit the floor and crawled
out to the corridor to scream for help. But the flames wrapped
themselves around her, pulling her back to the elevator. The heat
was seething, but strangely, the flames did not burn. Instead, the
fire entered her mouth and nose, suffocating her from the inside-
out. She couldn’t breathe and began coughing up black ashes.
As she crawled along the smooth cool floor, the fire continued to
pushed her down and drag her backward, whilst engulfing her
organs. She felt the fire travel down her esophagus and then enter
her stomach. Suddenly she felt a pang of pain in her stomach. Now
it burned. It waited until it was inside of her before it burned her.
She screamed as the fire dragged her into the elevator and doors
slid shut.
Coutts awoke with a severe pain in her stomach and sweat
dribbling down her forehead and the back of her neck. She threw
the covers off and hugged her stomach, groaning. The dream of the
fire was lingering. She was still panting from the chase. It was a
frequent visitor to her dreams. Everywhere she went in her dream
life; the fire followed. There was no peace in life as there was no
peace in sleep.
She groaned in pain again, as a memory surfaced of why she felt
so unwell. She had scoffed an entire cake of dark chocolate with
almonds just before bed. This was nothing but a serious case of
indigestion, or was it gastritis? She had done this before many times
and suffered the consequence of it many times. It’s the evenings
that are the worse time for her. When she sits alone in her living
room, her right side debilitated due to severe scars from a fire, the
fire - the fire next door.
Unlike the fire from her dreams the fire next door burned and
melted her skin like it was plastic. That fire almost killed her. And as
she rolled out of bed and staggered to the kitchen to find the bottle
of bitter meadowsweet, the rage rose within her. She wanted
nothing more than to find the person who scarred her for life and
murdered her friends. She wanted them to see what they did to her
and how they ruined her life. She wanted them to see her scars, the
scars on the right side her face, the scars that cover half of her
body. She wanted them to experience her pain, the drilling, aching
nerve pain and the pain of humiliation whenever she left the sanctity
of her home. She wanted them to spend a day in her shoes, to
experience the way people stare or worse, turn away, and the
children that run to take the hand of their mothers because they’re
frightened of her hideousness.
If Vi was here she’d understand. But Vi perished in the fire along
with her daughter Arnika and granddaughter Piper because you
killed them. And I will hunt you down and do the same to you.
 TWO

I
mperial Private Investigators here at your service! If you suspect
a spouse of infidelity, suspect an employee of stealing or sharing
of important information to your competitors, or if you’re eager
to locate a missing family member then we’re the investigators for
you. Call now for a free quote!
Coutts held the pamphlet in her hand. It was left in her letterbox
on a cool spring morning and rested on the kitchen bench for weeks.
Sometimes she’d use it to scrape crumbs off the kitchen bench and
into the dustbin. After months of hospital care, skin grafts, being on
antibiotics to stop infection, and pains killers, she was finally strong
enough to call the number. The Lakesford Police had interviewed her
several times, coming back over and over again to see if she could
remember more. After forensics had been through the fallen place,
going over every last scrap of evidence, they came to the conclusion
that it had to have been faulty wiring.
However, Coutts insisted that they got it wrong. She saw a car, a
red sedan.
‘But it was at night?’ the detective asked. ‘The street lamp outside
of the Van der Zouwes’ house had been smashed. How can you be
so sure that it was red?’
‘I have very good night vision. Ask anyone who knows me. Oh!
Wait! They’re all dead. Apart from my neglectful sister.’ Most of the
people who knew her well and live in the vicinity of Lakesford have
perished. There are family members who live up north who she visits
at Christmas and at funerals. Interestingly, she rarely got invited to
family weddings, especially now that she looked like something that
stepped out of a Star Trek episode. ‘I eat lots of carrots,’ she added.
The detective frowned in confusion.
‘The vitamin A in carrots helps you to see in the dark. Or is it a
deficiency in Vitamin A diminishes your ability to see in the dark?’
She was trying to recall the conversation she had with Vi Van der
Zouwe on this very subject. On how good her night vision was. One
night she got up to use the bathroom, then went to the kitchen to
get a glass of water. Her kitchen window looked out over Vi’s back
deck and garden and she spotted someone in their back garden,
stealing fruit off the trees. There were no lights on, but she still
could detect a silhouette in the darkness. This came from a
succession of fruit theft, the thief believed to be selling their stolen
wares down at the markets. Vi said she wouldn’t have minded so
much, if they were family, but it seemed he was making good money
from her hard work.
Repeating the story for the third time in her hospital bed Coutts
said, ‘I heard a car pull up next door. It was 2.34am. I had over-
indulged in hokey pokey ice cream the evening before and was
suffering for it. I have a dairy intolerance, detective.’ Shaking her
head, ‘It wasn’t good. Stomach cramps and diarrhea all night. So I
was up already and heard the car pull up. Winchester Place is a very
quiet cul de sac, detective. Mostly retired people live down here. If a
car pulls up outside your neighbour’s house who you happen to be
very good friends with, you take note, especially if it’s in the middle
of the night.’
‘You heard the car pull up?’ the detective.
‘Yes. I heard the car pull up and peered out of my window. They
stayed inside the car for a few moments with the engine running.
Then they slowly did a u-turn and drove away.’
‘They didn’t get of the car?’ the detective asked.
‘I didn’t see them get out and I heard no car doors slamming. I
didn’t think much of it after that. I thought maybe they got lost or
something. I fell asleep there on the couch, until my cat Penny-
farthing woke me up. The house next door was ablaze and I rang
the emergency line, then raced next door in an attempt to wake
them up or…I don’t know what I was thinking. You don’t really think
at a time like that, you act. That’s when I saw her.’
‘Her?’ he asked. ‘You’re quite sure it was a her?’
‘Yes. As I ran to the house, I saw a woman dressed all in black pull
Piper out from the fire.’ Coutts felt the sensation of something run
down her chin. She wiped it away. It was drool. Back then, when her
nose and lips were half burnt away she had little control of the
seepages that came out on the right side. Things are better now,
after several operations, plastic surgery and skin grafts. Although
when she eats too much dairy and gets snotty, it can be a different
story. The left side was left perfectly intact.
‘Assuming that she was a decent citizen running to the rescue, I
shouted after her asking if the others are still in there. She said
nothing and just piled Piper into the car and drove off. At first I
thought that perhaps she didn’t hear me. The fire was eating its way
through the house, windows were exploding, foundations collapsing
and the roar…’ She took a pause to shudder. Tears flowed down her
left cheek. The right eye tear duct was destroyed. She swallowed
over a lump in her throat. The detective stood up and handed her a
cup of water with a straw, so she could take a sip. ‘Have you ever
seen anyone as ugly as me before?’ she asked him.
He stiffened at the bluntness of the question and then turned his
head away. He said nothing.
‘You just answered my question,’ she said, reading the grimace
upon his face. ‘I feel sorry for the staff here.’ She chuckled. ‘They
have to look at me. They will take the image of me home in their
minds and wish that their children and husbands will never suffer
like I. I have yet to see what I look like, detective. But going by
theirs and your expression I’m guessing I’m no fairy princess.’
The room fell silent. Then the detective said, ‘Were you ever a fairy
princess?’
This made Coutts snort a laugh and snot shot out of the hole on
the right side that used to be her nose, and landed on the
detective’s sleeve. He pretended it did not matter, but Coutts
couldn’t help but find it hilarious. Now that she was completely
damaged externally to go with her already internal damage, she
couldn’t care less about other’s discomforts and complaints. Do you
think you’ve got it bad? Take a look at me!
‘Now when I look back,’ Coutts continued after she gathered
herself together and the detective wiped the bit of snot from his
sleeve, ‘I think she was ignoring me. The car was red. It was the
same car that turned up earlier, I am certain of that.’
‘But forensics found remains of three bodies,’ the detective said.
‘Well one of those bodies wasn’t Piper Van der Zouwe because I
know what I saw.’
‘What did this woman look like?’ the detective asked.
‘Average height and slim. Piper must’ve known her, because she
went willingly.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘She wore a hood.’
‘How can you be so sure it was a woman and not a man?’ he
asked.
‘Her body shape. She had narrow shoulders, and ran like a girl.’
He seemed doubtful and looking back on that last interview, it
didn’t surprise Coutts that they had no evidence, apart from her
testimony, that there was a forth person at the house that night.
What did surprise her was that the investigators believed it was
faulty wiring that started the fire. No matter how hard she tried, she
just couldn’t get that woman dressed in black out of her mind.
‘Did you actually see someone suspicious start the fire?’ the
detective asked, the question to nail the coffin shut.
‘No. I didn’t. But…the street lamp was smashed only a couple of
days before, conveniently outside of the Van der Zouwes’ house.
Don’t you think that’s pretty suspicious?’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or it could be kids throwing stones.’
‘Throwing stones at the light outside number 17 Winchester Place
only. None of the others got smashed.’
 THREE

F
reddie Cooke was a tall, lean man of Maori heritage with a
balloon of black curly hair on the top of his head. He wore
glasses and clothes straight out of the 1970’s that suited him
well. The shirt he wore when he turned up on Coutts’ doorstep was
a large collared number in bright yellow with brown flying birds all
over it. He wore camel corduroy trousers on the bottom half, and an
expression of angst upon his face. The angst expression was already
there as he walked up the drive but worsened once he took a look at
Coutts.
‘Coutts?’ he asked, avoiding eye-contact.
‘Yes,’ she said, opening the door wider for him so he could step
inside. She reached out her hand for him to shake, thinking that was
what one does when they meet a real PI, only he to brushed past
her, satchel in hand, to take up residence at the dining table.
‘Is Coutts your surname?’ he asked. His nostrils were flaring and
his eyes kept flicking back and forth over the floor and surfaces.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Is it short for something? I can’t imagine what.’
‘Deborah,’ she answered. Usually people laughed when she said
that, but he failed to see the funny side. He frowned and pulled out
a chair, only to spot something upon the seat, and Coutts detected a
slight shudder. She tried to keep the place tidy after her mum died,
but since the fire… Who was she kidding? She’s never been tidy. Her
mother always tidied up after her, even as an adult. ‘You grown
baby!’ Jewel would say affectionately.
 ‘My surname is Newbiggin,’ Coutts said, stepping over to the seat
Freddie refused to sit on. ‘Coutts is a nickname of sorts.’ He stepped
away from her, wrapping his arms around his satchel. There was a
single crumb upon the seat and Coutts brushed it off with her hand.
He continued to stare at the place the crumb landed on the beige
carpet.
‘Would you rather take this meeting outside?’ Coutts asked.
He shook his head. His brown face paled somewhat and was
looking a tad sickly. Coutts thought that she could have some fun
with guy. Maybe she should show him the photograph of her face
recently after the fire, when her right cheek and nose had melted
away. If that won’t freak him out, nothing will.
‘No,’ he said, swiftly, and opened his satchel and revealed a small
bottle of hand sanitizer. He squirted it upon his hands, then upon the
seat where the crumb lived. ‘I prefer that people come to the office,
but it is currently being used for a sensitive operation.’
‘Like breaking into government files?’ she joked.
He was completely straight-faced. ‘I cannot say.’ He finally took a
seat. He was twitchy and kept checking the surfaces for any other
misplaced crumb or stain or anything else he may find unnerving.
‘So is being a PI in demand these days?’
‘Of course,’ he said, with little thought.
Taking a seat opposite him, she asked, ‘What’s your success rate?’
‘We always get the juice,’ he said without smiling.
Is this guy for real?
‘I have a list of prices,’ he said, taking out the said list and handing
it to Coutts. ‘What is it that you’d like us to find? A missing article?
A long lost family member? Or would you like evidence of a cheating
spouse?’
‘None of the above.’
He frowned. ‘Please elaborate .’
‘I want you find out who set my neighbours’ house on fire. They
murdered my neighbours and now I look like this.’
‘This is more of a police matter,’ he said.
‘Police think it was faulty wiring that started it. But I saw someone
there.’
 ‘You saw them set the house on fire?’
‘No. But I know it was them.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They kidnapped one of the people inside.’
His dark eyebrows shot-up and he began to gather his things.
‘You’re not going to ask me anymore questions?’ Coutts asked.
Without a word, he stood up and walked to the door.
‘You think I’m nuts, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘Certainly not. I prefer to take on cases where I am likely to
achieve the objective. Therefore, I am sorry to say, I will not be
taking on your case. Thank you and I wish you well.’
Freddie closed the door behind him and Coutts watched him stride
down the driveway. His car was parked outside the Van der Zouwes’
house and Coutts could see his tuft of dark, curly hair bobbing up
and down over the fence. As he was unlocking his car door, he
gazed over at the land that used to have a loving home on it
surrounded by a garden of fruit trees, vegetables, herbs and
flowering plants. Many of the trees were still there recovering from
the blaze. But weeds had taken over much of the garden,
suffocating the vegetable garden and herbs. There was a deep red
rose Vi was given when her husband Jim died a few years back. It
was standard rose called In Loving Memory that grew to over six
feet tall with heavily fragranced blooms. Her mother, Jewel, loved
that rose. Vi would cut stems and bring them over where they’d
always take pride of place on the mantelpiece. It was also the stems
of this rose that were laid on Jewel’s coffin.
The rose haunted Coutts. A thorny, woody beast that caught on
your clothes and punctured your skin. When the winds were up, the
flowers swayed like hands waving, begging her to come over. She
won’t dare though. She hadn’t stepped foot on the Van der Zouwes’
property since the day she threw herself into the flames. Her entire
point of view was based on what she could see out her kitchen
window - which was a wooden fence, trees and plants that grew
above it, and a frame of a house, blackened by the enemy.
Sometimes she heard kids playing over there amongst the trees,
which were still bearing fruit. The Van der Zouwes were dead, but
life carried on. The very things that Vi nurtured and spent decades
feeding with pony manure were betraying her by continuing to live.
Coutts stood on her tippy toes to catch a better look at Freddie. He
was now walking upon the land of fire and nosing around the
blackened frame of the house. He wandered through the garden and
then paused to pick something from a tree. Coutts couldn’t quite see
which tree it was. Either plum or apricot. She also expected him to
use his hand sanitizer after touching it. He didn’t seem to though.
After several minutes wandering through the overgrown garden he
suddenly breezed back to his car. It was as if he’d just remembered
he had to be somewhere and left in a hurry. Coutts’ heart sank.
There are always more PI’s out there. She’ll get on the internet
tomorrow.
Ten minutes later the phone rang. Coutts answered it.
‘I’ve decided to take the job,’ was a wooden voice, completely
lacking in emotion.
‘Who is this?’ Coutts asked. She was pretty sure that it was Freddie
Cooke, but she felt like playing dumb.
Ignoring her question. ‘I’ll need you to come down to the office to
conduct a proper meeting. We’ll need more information.’
‘What changed your mind?’ she asked.
‘Three things. The third was the black Doris plum tree.’
‘What were the first two?’
‘I’ll let you know in time.’
Click.
 FOUR

L
ouise and Coutts stood in silence at the grave of Jewel
Newbiggin. It was the fifth anniversary of her death, yet for
Coutts it felt like only yesterday when she received the news.
The lump under her underarm was like a ball-bearing rolling around
under her skin. Coutts had read that they’re the ones you have to be
careful of, not the pus filled painful cysts. But her mother was as
stubborn as Coutts was and it took sometime before she made an
appointment with the doctor. Then life just fell into some strange
stratosphere of hospital appointments, doctors’ visits and treatment.
She died anyway.
Louise was left out of the loop, until it was too late. That wasn’t
because they weren’t close, it was because she was just too busy
working some important case here and there. Louise Ratahi was a
sergeant at the Lakesford Police Department. There was three years
difference in age between them, yet Louise looked younger, which
was odd considering how stressful her job was.
Louise was born with luck on her side. She made friends easily,
mostly because she was attractive, with a beautiful head of long,
wavy dark hair and flawless tanned skin - inherited from her father -
and she was tall and played a lot of sports. But she also had an ease
about her, like she knew all the pieces would always fall into place.
That was until the Sian Tanner case. It made headlines all over New
Zealand and Australia. It knocked the lifeblood out of Louise. She
never went into great detail about what happened, but she was
assaulted, Coutts knew that much. That case got under her skin.
There were still many things that didn’t add up and she was
determined to find out the truth, even though the truth may be as
unpopular as Vegemite on a cream donut.
‘I’ve hired a private investigator,’ Coutts said, breaking the silence.
Louise closed her eyes suppressing her frustration. ‘How many
times do we have to go over this? It was faulty wiring.’
‘I saw someone.’
Louise sighed, still gazing down at the grave. There were red roses
laid there but not the ones from the Van der Zouwe’s. There’s no
way Coutts will step foot on that land of ghosts and fire dragons.
‘I’m on forced leave,’ Louise said. ‘Have to get therapy.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘It’s not worth talking about. Remember what dad used to say, “the
past is dust.” Yet the bloody therapist keeps making me talk about it.
I just want to forget about it and get back to work.’
‘The past is dust,’ Coutts whispered to herself.
‘What’s his name?’ Louise asked.
‘Who?’
‘The PI that you’re planning to waste your inheritance on.’
‘Freddie Cooke.’
Louise screwed her face up, obviously finding it repugnant. ‘From
Imperial Investigators?’
‘Yeah. You’ve heard of him?’
‘There’s three of them. Big Trekky nerds.’
Coutts chuckled, completely unsurprised by that comment. ‘That
doesn’t mean they’re not good.’
‘I know one of them is a real IT wizard and can hack his way into
anything. He’s been cautioned a couple of times. I can imagine he’d
be useful in a private investigating team. But they still need a lead,
Debz.’
Coutts cringed. She hated her birth name Deborah ever since a kid.
At seven years old, she banned everyone from calling her Deb,
Deborah, Debbie and Debz. Even her teachers were met with fierce
aggression when they called her that. She at seven years old
decided she wanted to be called Coutts and it stuck. Coutts was the
nickname of a minor character in a children’s book. That character
also had a dog called Salt, so she re-named her cat Salt. His
previous name was Penguin. Everyone adhered to the ruling to
never refer to her as Deb, Debz, Deborah or Debbie except her older
sister who still liked to torture her by calling her Debz.
‘Why don’t we just sell mum’s house and we find you a new place,’
Louise suggested, twisting the knife she had already struck into
Coutt’s spine by calling her Debz. I mean living next door to where it
happened can’t be healthy.’
‘I need to find who did this to me…to us. They weren’t just my
neighbours, they were my best friends. Remember them coming to
mum’s funeral?’
‘Debz, even private investigators need to have a lead. I mean,
there’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that it was arson. What
exactly are they going on to think this is a solvable case?’
‘If you must know, Freddie wasn’t going to take the case on. He
said the same as you. Until he went next door and had a look
around. Something changed his mind, in fact three things changed
his mind and he rang me to say he’ll take it on.’
‘Three things? Was one the money?’ she said a little too sharply.
‘No. He didn’t say what the first two of them were, but the third
was the Black Doris Plum.’
Louise scoffed. ‘He didn’t press the plum against his ear and it told
him what happened.’
‘You know, Louise you’re a bloody cow sometimes!’ Coutts barked.
‘I mean, look at me. I’m completely screwed for the rest of my life.
I’m always going to be ugly and scarred. This will never go away.
Shoot! I wasn’t exactly pretty before this happened, I’m sure as hell
not going to be accepted into the Miss Universe pageant now.’
Louise chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Debz always had a fabulous
sense of humour even when life had been unkind. Louise took after
their father’s side of the family, the Ratahis sports-mad, fit, healthy,
beautiful, and smart. Coutt’s on the other hand took after their
mother, the Newbiggin’s, plain, stout, thin haired, pale, spotty skin
and a short concentration span. What the Newbiggin’s lacked in
looks they made up for in personality with a wicked sense of
humour, which was what attracted their father to their mother in the
first place. Until he grew bored and left the entire family for some
Sheila or was it Sheena up north. Although Louise was initially hurt
and disappointed by his decision, she kept his surname and
eventually accepted his choice. Coutts on the other hand spat flames
and disowned him, changing her surname to Newbiggin as soon as
she was old enough. Her mother did the same and together they
lived blissfully at 19 Winchester Place, until Jewel died and the witch
set the fire next door.
‘Have you ever tried?’ Louise asked.
‘Tried what?’
‘Entering the Miss Universe pageant. I heard they let a transgender
person enter some major beauty pageant.’
Coutts spluttered a laugh. ‘Heck! I’ve got a chance then. I’ll go and
check to see if that little yellow bikini still fits. I won’t even need to
shave, cos hair won’t grow where the scars are anyway.’
‘There you go. Thinking positive.’ Louise paused a beat. ‘I do
understand, you know. You want someone to pay for what happened
to you and the Van der Zouwes. I get it.’
Pay? I want revenge. Pure and simple.
 FIVE

‘D
o you remember the fire that struck the TGI building in
Auckland just under four years ago?’ Freddie asked.
Coutts was summoned to his office at 11.15 am the
following day. The office was located in a small abandoned shopping
village in the Milson suburb north of Lakesford. Most of the shops
have been converted into office space since retail was in a slump,
especially retail that’s not located in a mall. Imperial Investigators’
neighbours were a functioning, yet marginally clean hair salon, and a
fish and chips takeaway restaurant. Coutts sat in the cramped,
soulless waiting room on a hard chair. There was a counter with
nothing on it and the walls were bare. She suspected all the action
was in the back, through the door that she was so desperate to
open. When Freddie did appear, he spoke to her in the waiting room.
She couldn’t help but notice the double locks on the door that led
into the back space. Double locks to lock people out and lock the
investigators in. He stood behind the counter rather than taking a
chair, which would’ve been more professional, but it was obvious
that he liked to keep his distance.
‘Vaguely,’ she lied. She couldn’t remember that incident at all.
‘What about the Ferguson Flats a year later in 2017? Five flats
burnt to the ground here in Lakesford.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember them. I thought that was started by
someone dope spotting and left the element on.’
‘It was a tea towel left on the hot element that started the fire,’ he
corrected her.
 ‘No one died in that fire did they?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘But two people died in the TGI building fire. The fire was set at
night, if it had been the daytime it the death toll would have been
much higher. ’ He paused to recollect his thoughts. ‘I can’t go into
great detail, obviously it was an incredibly sensitive case, but we
received anonymous letters from someone confessing to the crimes.’
‘You received the letters?’ Coutts asked. ‘Why would they send
them to you?’
‘Because we’ve been following her for years, since she set a house
on fire in Dannevirke killing an entire family of five in 2014.’
‘Wait a minute! You said her.’
He nodded. ‘We believe…we know it is a female arsonist. We also
know she is not working alone.’
‘You think she’s the one who did this to me?’ pointing to the scars
on the right side of her face.
‘Not at first. She didn’t email us a letter confessing to the crime like
she normally would and this fire took place how long ago?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘We received a letter for her last arson attack, the Ferguson flats,
but not for your neighbours’ house.’
Coutts’ heart pounded against her rib cage. Finally someone
believes me. ‘I saw a woman that night in a red car stop outside my
neigbours’ house at about ten thirty. She drove away, but it was the
same car that I saw a woman drag Piper Van der Zouwe into. I
thought she was saving her from the fire. How wrong can I be?’
‘What did she look like?’ he asked, seriously.
‘She wore a black hood, but I saw blond hair escape the hood,
probably shoulder length.’
‘And the car?’
‘Red sports sedan. Have you taken these letters to the police?’
‘The first letter we took to the police, and shortly after we received
a threat from her that we falsely believed was nothing but scare
tactics. Until…my colleague came home to find his house completely
ransacked. At the time we were working out of our homes and his
entire computer system was smashed to pieces. That was thousands
of dollars worth of superior equipment torn to shreds.’
Coutts’ mouth dropped open. ‘She’s fricken nuts!’
‘As you can understand, we collectively decided that if another
letter were to arrive we won’t be letting the police know.’
‘Hang on! How did she know that you gave a copy of the letter to
the police?’
His nostrils flared, a hint of emotion showed on his face. ‘I’m not
prepared to say.’
It was obvious to Coutts that it was something that both angered
and embarrassed him. Perhaps these super-smart, IT Trekky nerds
were outsmarted. Outsmarted by a nut case arsonist, murderer,
kidnapper. So many crimes committed, so many ways to make her
pay.
‘Crooked police?’ Coutts immediately thought of a work colleague
of Louise’s. She had no idea about him and she’s meant to be the
smart sister. ‘Hasn’t been the first time and it won’t be the last.’
Ignoring her suggestion, he took out a plastic bag from under the
counter. The bag contained two items – a glass vial, blackened, and
a withered spray of green leaves. He took out the spray of withered
green leaves, and on closer inspection, Coutts noticed it was a leafy
vine that had been tied into a knot.
‘Ivy,’ Freddie said, holding up a star-shaped leaf. ‘A noxious weed in
New Zealand. It’s widely known that criminals go back to the scene
of the crime. This is her calling card. She comes back and places it
somewhere. After the Dannevirke fire many of the locals placed
flowers in commiseration outside the property. One of these was left
there. At the time no one knew it was her until we received an email
from her sometime after the event. There was a photograph of the
ivy placed upon a bouquet of flowers. There was also the ivy knot
left at my colleague’s house after she smashed the place up.’
Coutts couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Is she messing with
you?’
‘It was only when we were hired to find the arsonist of the
Dannevirke fire that she started to have her fun. My colleagues have
given her a name. Twisted Ivy. But she calls herself S. Webb. That’s
what she signs the letters with anyway.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Utterly
unimaginative.’
Coutts pondered for a moment on what was so unimaginative
using the name S.Webb. Oh! Wait! Spider web. Duh! ‘And you have
no idea who this S. Webb is?’
‘On the contrary. We have a hunch. But she changes her image and
name frequently and will disappear for months on end, then
reappear when she’s in the mood to light a fire. What I can’t
understand is what her connection is with your neighbours and why
she didn’t email a letter of confession to us?’
‘You don’t think it’s a copycat killing?’
‘We have been pondering on that idea.’ He pointed to the ivy knot.
‘That is the number one reason why I changed my mind about
taking on this case.’ He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out
the blacked vial by the very tip. After he placed it on the counter, he
found his hand sanitizer and squirted some into his palm. ‘This is the
second reason.’
The vial looked like many that Vi had in her workroom at the front
of the house. She made tinctures from the herbs that she grew,
mostly for friends and family, sometimes she’d treat people
professionally as well. Coutts immediately thought he might be
barking up the wrong tree with this one.
‘Ketamine,’ he said. ‘For starting or maintaining anesthesia. Often
given intravenously.’
‘You found that at my neighbours’ place?’ Coutts asked.
He nodded.
‘How come the police didn’t find it?’
‘One only finds what one is looking for. Obviously I’m only
surmising, because I wasn’t there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They possibly suspected that it was faulty wiring from the start,
especially since there was an absent of evidence to indicate
otherwise.’
‘Yeah, the police had told me that forensics found no clues that the
fire was lit deliberately. It was only my testimony that said it was an
arson attack.’
 ‘Did you actually see this individual start the fire?’ Freddie asked.
‘No. Like I said, all I saw was her dragging Piper into that red
sedan.’
‘It was definitely Piper Van der Zouwe that you saw?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Piper seem drowsy?’
‘Yes. But I just thought she was sleepy. She was always a deep
sleeper. Arnika said that she slept through that big earthquake in
2009 when she was a baby. The floor moved like a wave, shelving
crashed to the ground, plates smashed and she slept through the
whole thing.’
‘Arnika is her mother?’ Freddie asked.
‘Yes,’ Coutts said, suddenly feeling glum.
‘And this Arnika died in the fire?’
‘Remains of three bodies were found,’ Coutts said.
‘I read the notes before you arrived,’ he said, dryly.
‘What notes?’ she asked.
‘The forensic and police reports on the fire at 17 Winchester Place.
The property of the Van der Zouwes’.’
‘How did you get hold of it?’
‘DNA cannot be detected in ashes. But if the forensics team came
across teeth and fingernails then they might be able to pull some
DNA off them.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘There was a tooth found from a single individual. It wasn’t in
particularly good condition, but they still managed to pull DNA from
them. It belonged to a Violet Van der Zouwe.’
Coutts’ brain was spinning. ‘A single individual?’
‘Correct.’
‘So they haven’t found Arnika and Piper’s DNA.’
‘The remains they found of the other two individuals were not in
the condition needed to pull DNA from.’
‘So they have absolutely no evidence that Arnika and Piper died in
that fire?’ ‘Also correct.’
 SIX

I
t wasn’t until a blowfly buzzed around her ears that she came
back to earth again. She glanced at the clock on the wall and
was horrified to see that she had been sitting in Jewel’s comfy
armchair for over an hour. The plate of crackers and cheese she
made for lunch were still untouched, resting in her lap. It wasn’t like
her to overlook a plate of food. Since her meeting with Freddie
Cooke, she had lost her appetite somewhat. It made her ill to think
of the family of women burning alive in that house and not being
able to save them. Now after what Freddie revealed, it’s put a
different spin on the situation. She wasn’t imagining it. Piper was
definitely the girl she saw that hooded woman drag into the red
sedan. In that split second, she even recognized the nightshirt Piper
was wearing. A pink, short-sleeved shirt with her star sign Cancer
the Crab on the front. It may have been night, but there was plenty
of light coming from that fire for Coutts to see clearly.
It was late January and it was hot and humid. The fan in the
lounge was spinning sending hot air round and round in circles.
Penny-farthing was stretched by the window, the cool breeze from
outside sweeping the curtain over her. Coutts munched on a cracker
and cheese. The salty flavour was appealing to her taste buds, but
when she swallowed her stomach wrenched and vomit poured into
her mouth. She ran into the bathroom and spat out chunks of
breakfast. It took her a long time to get her appetite back after the
fire, mostly due to all of those operations and skin grafts. The sight
of herself made her sick to the stomach. The high dose pain killers
probably didn’t help her appetite either. When her appetite did finally
return, it came with avenges, stuffing food down barely tasting it. It
was in desperation to fill that emptiness inside, that emptiness that
expanded when her mother died and grew even more after the fire
at 17 Winchester Place.
What interfered with Coutts appetite on this day was the Ketamine
bottle. What Freddie was suggesting was the crazy fire-starter,
Twisted Ivy, drugged the Van der Zouwes into such a deep sedated
state, they would never wake when the fire started. Why? What was
all this for? To steal Piper away? She could’ve easily done that
without killing everyone. And if she was the same person that set
alight the Dannevirke house, the Ferguson Flats, and the Auckland
TGI building, among others, why was her behaviour so different to
the other crimes. She kidnapped a kid and failed to send Imperial
Investigators a letter confessing to the fire. How has she gotten
away with so many crimes?
Coutts wiped the puke from mouth with a cold, wet flannel and
headed back into the humid lounge to get a glass of water. When
she gazed out over 17 Winchester Place, as she always did, she
spotted a silver-haired man hammering a sign into the front yard.
With little thought, she raced over to see what he was doing. She
refused to step foot onto the property so she called from the
footpath. ‘You’re trespassing!’
‘The family estate want to put the property on the market,’ he said
as if it should be obvious.
‘What family estate? There is no family.’
‘Apparently there is family, because they’ve contacted me to put it
on the market.’
Coutts was horrified. ‘But they haven’t finished the investigation
into their murder.’
He screwed his face up and took a good long look at Coutts. She
knew what he was thinking. That she’s deformed looking which
means she must be mentally retarded, paranoid schizophrenic,
obsessive compulsive, and deluded. Basically, a very difficult person
to deal with.
 ‘I’ve been told it was a terrible accident,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, it’s out
of my hands.’
After hammering the signpost into hard ground, without another
word he climbed into his silver Mercedes Benz and drove off. As soon
as he was gone, Coutts pulled the sign out of the ground and tossed
it in the tall grasses. She then froze on the spot once she realised
what she had done. This was the first time she’s stepped foot on 17
Winchester Place in 18 months. She had come to believe that this
land was cursed, and if she stepped foot on number 17 Winchester
she would dissolve into dust, or be struck down by lightning, or
something worse. Of course, this was just her mind orchestrating
this belief to disguise the fact that she was still haunted by that
night. The night she was unable to save her friends. Unfinished
business.
While she was frozen on one spot, she thought she might possibly
be brave enough to take a quick look around. So far, nothing
untoward has happened to her. Take a step, Coutts. Take a step.
The weedy rye grass and plantain had grown high and browned
due to the summer heat. Vi’s flower garden in the front part of the
property was smothered by these weeds, only the odd purple flower
slipped through the blades to greet the sunshine. Coutts chuckled
when she noticed the plantain, dock and yarrow plants. If Vi was still
alive, she’d harvest the weeds and make some concoction out of
them. Plantain was a soothing plant, good for inflammatory
conditions, Dock is a good laxative, and yarrow could be used to
treat a multiple of ailments from varicose vein ulcers to intestinal
colic. It surprised Coutts how much of Vi’s herbal ramblings actually
sunk in. If she was still alive, she’d make a balm for the scars, and
probably tell her to take vitamin E capsules internally.
A strange sliver of cool breeze cut through the warm winds. Coutts
shivered slightly and looked up at the sky. Heavy dark clouds were
rolling in from the coast. There might be rain; it could even be a
storm. When her eyes dropped back down they latched upon the
thing she kept avoiding…the remains of the house. An empty lifeless
ruin. Just part of the frame was left, blackened by the flames, and
the concrete foundations. Everything else went up in smoke.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
voir une procession de silhouettes en robes rouges, une lente
procession de créatures recueillies. Est-ce que ce sont là les lamas
rouges dont j’ai entendu parler ? les lamas femmes dont l’abbesse
est une Khoutouktou ? Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’une Khoutouktou ?
Mais en descendant la rivière, j’ai cru voir cette procession qui
me précédait et quand je me suis détourné il m’a bien semblé que je
la voyais disparaître avec lenteur dans un bois de palétuviers
chevelus.
J’ai, ce jour-là, fait fortuitement la rencontre du temple de Ganésa
et je me suis rendu compte qu’il était assez proche de la lamaserie.
Cela rend plus vraisemblable l’hypothèse qu’Eva en fuyant a été
recueillie par les lamas.
J’ai marché dans les galeries, j’ai descendu les escaliers, j’ai
traversé la cour intérieure. J’ai vu les statues d’animaux, les
éléphants caparaçonnés, les pythons de marbre enroulés sur eux-
mêmes, les buffles à demi ensevelis sous les plantes parasites. Le
mystère de jadis était toujours là.
Les Ganésa dans leur cellule de pierre tendaient les mêmes
objets avec leurs quatre bras, au-dessus de leur gros ventre.
Pourquoi ces objets plutôt que d’autres ? Je me suis creusé la
cervelle pour trouver une explication. Une conque, un disque, une
massue, un lotus, pourquoi Ganésa tend-il ces objets ? Peut-être
parce que l’abondance, le courage, la force et la beauté sont les
qualités que produit la sagesse en méditation.
Mais comme la sagesse est impressionnante quand ses
symboles sont reproduits circulairement et qu’il y en a des
centaines ! J’ai été soudain saisi d’un frisson et d’une éperdue envie
de fuir.
Sur le chemin de ronde qui domine le monument, une confuse
procession rouge cheminait à travers les pierres.

Je me surprends à avoir de violents regrets relatifs aux livres. Il y

a des choses que j’aimerais savoir et que je saurais si j’avais lu. A
quoi peuvent bien penser ces nonnes et ces moines bouddhistes qui
s’enferment dans des couvents ? Je sais pourquoi les nonnes et les
moines de l’Occident se sont volontairement retirés du monde et ont
renoncé à ses plaisirs. Ils obéissent à Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ
qui le leur a conseillé. Mais ces païens ? Je me souviens qu’à
Singapour les hommes les plus honnêtes et les plus désintéressés
étaient des bouddhistes. Je me moquais d’eux parce qu’ils ne
mangeaient pas d’animaux. Je disais en parlant des Jésuites de
Bukit-Timah : voilà de vrais prêtres ! Ils chassent, ils tuent comme
moi et ils mangent le gibier avec des appétits d’ogres. Le seul prêtre
bouddhiste qu’il m’a été donné de connaître, je l’ai tout de suite
détesté et je l’ai fait condamner injustement comme voleur.
Maintenant le rohi-rohi a chanté pour moi, je ne voudrais pour rien
au monde manger de la chair d’un animal, et quel sacrifice ne suis-je
pas prêt à accomplir pour retrouver le lama au chapeau de paille et
lui poser quelques questions.
Je lui demanderais ce que les animaux sont, par rapport aux
hommes, qu’est-ce que c’est que cette histoire de réincarnation dont
j’ai entendu parler comme d’une croyance hindoue et que j’ai
toujours considérée comme une absurdité des païens. Je lui
demanderais ce que c’est qu’une Khoutouktou, ce que c’est qu’un
lama et de me donner des détails sur la personnalité de ce Manou
qui a dit ou écrit cette phrase que je n’ai pas oubliée :
— Celui qui a tué un chat, un geai bleu, une mangouste ou un
lézard, doit se retirer au milieu de la forêt et se consacrer à la vie
des bêtes jusqu’à ce qu’il soit purifié.
Je lui demanderais s’il est vrai, comme je le crois, qu’il y a des
rois, des prêtres et des sages parmi les animaux, c’est-à-dire des
êtres plus avancés que les autres dans l’évolution et si ce sont eux
qui passent les premiers dans le règne humain, de même que parmi
les hommes, ceux qui sont purs comme monsieur Muhcin atteindront
un stade supérieur à l’humanité bien avant ceux qui sont sots
comme mon cousin, fats comme le capitaine Giovanni, grossiers
comme moi-même. J’ai connu un souverain redoutable des bêtes, le
tigre de Mérapi ; un magicien versé dans la science des
envoûtements, le crapaud qui tua ma mère ; un affectueux et fidèle
ami, un ange de délicatesse, l’éléphant Jéhovah. Je lui demanderais
dans quelle mesure il y a des récompenses et des châtiments pour
les vertus et les fautes animales, et si ce n’est pas nous qui, avec
notre impitoyable haine, rejetons les bêtes vers le mal dont elles
voudraient s’échapper. Je lui demanderais si la solitude dans la
forêt, prescrite par Manou, est suffisante pour la purification et si
celui qui a écorché ne doit pas être écorché, si celui qui a mangé ne
doit pas être mangé à son tour.

Je me suis retiré au milieu de la forêt et je commence à me

purifier.
Le premier qui est venu est le babiroussa sauvage que la
captivité avait jeté dans le désespoir. J’étais assis devant la cabane
quand il a paru dans les buissons. Il a labouré le sol avec ses
défenses. Il s’est tenu immobile en me considérant, puis il est reparti
avec une vitesse inimaginable.
Mais il est revenu grogner et s’accroupir à quelque distance de
moi. Je sens qu’il n’a aucune terreur et même qu’il me manifeste
l’amitié d’un compagnon pour un autre compagnon de la forêt. Mais
son amour de la liberté est si grand qu’il préfère laisser un certain
espace entre nous. On ne sait jamais ! a-t-il l’air de se dire. Il ne
demeure jamais longtemps. Il traverse les lianes enchevêtrées
comme un bolide et à chaque retour ses grognements ont quelque
chose de plus familier.
Je me rappelle l’histoire de saint Antoine qui me fut contée dans
mon enfance. Cet ermite égyptien avait aussi un cochon pour ami
dans sa solitude. Est-ce dans la destinée de tous les ermites ou cela
tient-il à la parenté qui rend si proches l’espèce humaine et l’espèce
porcine ?
A cause de l’exemple du babiroussa le singe trapéziste est
descendu de branche en branche et a fini par élire domicile sur le
toit de ma cabane. Il s’y tient toute la journée et il ne le quitte que
pour aller précipitamment faire du trapèze et des sauts sur le banian,
aux mêmes heures régulières où Ali le Macassar apparaissait
devant sa cage en faisant claquer sa cravache.
Puis presque en même temps sont venus les opossums, une
mangouste, des orangs et un tapir de Bornéo. Je reconnais le tapir
comme étant celui qui m’a appartenu à ses rayures en zigzag, à sa
queue trop courte, à son nez trop long, à ses oreilles bordées de
blanc. Il me regarde avec ses petits yeux latéraux qui sont remplis
de mélancolie. Il n’y a pas de tapirs à Java. Celui-là a dû errer à
travers la forêt, longer la rivière, plonger dans ses eaux, car il est un
peu amphibie, dans l’espoir de rencontrer une créature faite à son
image, avec une épaisse peau comme la sienne, une queue
minuscule, un nez mobile et trop long. Il a besoin de ne plus être
seul et il manifeste par de rauques sifflements sa satisfaction de me
rencontrer. Mais il s’appuie contre ma cabane et j’ai peur qu’il ne la
détruise par son poids. Je me hâte de lui faire un petit tas de tendres
feuilles de cassier dont je le sais friand, afin de le faire changer de
position.
Et d’autres animaux viennent encore. Des paons font de grandes
étoiles dans les buissons, des salanganes blanches volent au-
dessus de ma tête, un renard montre son museau curieux, un
menura superbe à queue lyriforme allonge son cou non loin de moi
et la tortue de la rivière Tachylga, reconnaissable aux caractères
thibétains de son écaille, vient manger des boulettes de riz que je
pétris pour elle de mes mains.

Cette nuit, c’est la pleine lune. Elle s’est levée extraordinairement

tôt et elle découpe les branches des arbres, elle dessine les
sentiers, elle fait du ciel, de la terre et de la forêt, un grand paysage
de marbre glacé.
J’ai fait entrer dans la cabane, pour y dormir à côté de moi, un
jeune opossum roux que sa famille a oublié en s’en allant chercher
un coin commode pour passer la nuit. Il s’est installé au pied de la
statuette de la déesse, mais de temps en temps il vient se poser sur
ma poitrine et il la gratte avec la patte comme s’il voulait y faire un
trou. Je me réveille et je me réjouis de ce réveil que je prolonge le
plus longtemps possible, dans l’espoir qu’il me permettra de
découvrir quel est le mystérieux porteur de riz.
Et comme je guette le silence à travers les fentes de ma cabane,
je suis enfin exaucé.
Le pas que j’entends est très léger. C’est celui d’un homme qui
marche doucement sans chercher à déguiser le bruit qu’il fait. Je le
vois écarter les lianes de la main droite. Sa main gauche tient une
jarre suspendue à une courroie. Il est vêtu d’une robe de cotonnade
rouge qu’une ceinture serre au milieu du corps et je crois bien qu’il
porte sous cette robe un pantalon européen ridiculement court. Il n’y
a aucun mystère dans son allure. Il s’avance comme un homme qui
accomplit une tâche simple et quotidienne, il verse dans la jarre qui
est devant la cabane le contenu de celle qu’il apporte. Il le fait
méticuleusement. Il la retourne jusqu’à ce que le dernier grain de riz
soit tombé et il s’en va comme il est venu, en balançant, au bout de
la courroie, la jarre vide.
C’est lui. Je viens de le reconnaître. C’est le lama que j’ai fait
condamner à la prison. Mais d’où vient que je ne m’élance pas sur
ses traces et que je ne tombe pas à ses genoux pour lui demander
pardon ?
Je demeure à ma place, la main posée sur le cou du petit
opossum et une grande joie m’emplit le cœur. Je sens que les
paroles entre nous sont inutiles et qu’il y a dans le don nocturne du
riz une fraternité qui n’a pas besoin de langage pour être exprimée,
un pardon silencieux comme Dieu lui-même n’en donnerait pas de
meilleur et qui ne demande pas de remerciements.
Cette nuit-là je ne me suis pas rendormi.

Le crayon avec lequel j’écris va être entièrement usé et je vais

avoir rempli bientôt le dernier feuillet de mon carnet. A quoi bon
écrire, d’ailleurs ? J’ai appris en écrivant ce qui m’arrivait et ce que
j’éprouvais, tout ce que j’étais susceptible de m’enseigner à moi-
même.
Je déposerai ces feuillets ici pour que ceux qui me cherchent les
trouvent et puissent déduire par cette lecture que leur recherche est
inutile et importune. Car on me cherche. J’ai entendu ces
nostalgiques bruits de tam-tam où il y a des souvenirs de fêtes
d’enfance et des évocations d’Eva perdue. Cette cabane est trop
proche des endroits où vivent les hommes. Demain matin je me
mettrai en marche vers le sommet du mont Mérapi où est le cratère
d’un volcan et qui passe pour inaccessible.

Je suis né des bêtes, ce sont elles qui m’ont engendré. Elles se

tiennent au delà de mon père et de ma mère qui appartenaient à la
race des hommes et je les vois toutes qui me font des signes. Que
de poils, que de plumes et que de nageoires ! Mes ancêtres sont
réunis autour de moi, ils lèvent des trompes, ils font claquer des
mâchoires, vibrer des antennes, crépiter des mandibules. Je
distingue le geste de prière de leurs mains palmées, je devine sous
des rotondités de crânes l’effort de pensées patientes. Tous ils ont
été laborieux à leur manière, ils ont mis au monde une espérance.
Le crocodile sous les vases des fleuves, le singe dans son domaine
d’écorces et de feuilles, l’oiseau dans l’air, le fauve dans son
mystérieux charnier, la taupe dans ses ténèbres souterraines,
chacun a inconsciemment formulé le désir de vivre sous une
enveloppe plus parfaite, avec des organes plus compliqués, deux
jambes seulement, pas de poils et pas de plumes, une tête
d’homme. Je suis l’enfant entrevu dans ces méditations millénaires,
je suis le dernier mot de la bête, ce que l’effort terrestre a eu tant de
peine à modeler, je suis la bête elle-même dans sa dernière
incarnation.
Je vous aime, ô mes parents porteurs d’écailles ; vous qui avez
quatre pattes pour marcher, vous qui avez d’épaisses fourrures et ne
pouvez les ôter s’il fait chaud, vous qui êtes nus et n’avez pas
l’ingéniosité de vous recouvrir de vêtements, vous dont le principal
souci est la nourriture de chaque jour, vous à qui la nature a fait des
becs pesants, des bosses difformes, des cornes embarrassantes,
des cous disproportionnés, je vous aime pour l’insouciance, pour la
résignation, pour la fidélité qui sont vos vertus essentielles, le
présent que j’ai reçu de vous et dont j’ai fait si peu de cas.
J’ai franchi, pour vivre à vos côtés, la porte des hauts ébéniers
qui se dressent au seuil de la forêt et je suis entré dans le royaume
de mes pères. Ma haine s’est changée en amour et je comprends ce
qui m’était demeuré caché. J’entends des paroles pleines de
tendresse dans les jacassements des perroquets ; je vois des
élégances incomparables et un merveilleux sentiment de la beauté
dans la grâce un peu maniérée avec laquelle le geai bleu lisse ses
plumes ; je pénètre les entretiens philosophiques des immobiles
marabouts et je demeure plein de respect devant le sentiment de la
mort que révèlent les enterrements des fourmis.
O mes parents, au cœur si vaste et si simple, je jure de ne plus
me servir de mon intelligence qui est la vôtre pour vous détruire.
Votre vie sera désormais à mes yeux aussi précieuse que la mienne.
Mais comme la chose la plus naturelle est difficile à réaliser ! Me
voilà rempli de scrupules. Comment me délivrer de l’importunité du
moustique avec assez de délicatesse pour ne pas lui donner la
mort ? Mon Dieu ! N’ai-je pas tout à l’heure écrasé un ciron inoffensif
qui passait sur la pierre où j’ai posé le pied ! Et si je respire avec
force, n’y a-t-il pas de minuscules et innocentes créatures que je
projette loin du soleil, dans les ténèbres de mes organes, et qui y
périront injustement ?
 LA DERNIÈRE NUIT DANS LA CABANE

C’est un froissement régulier, langoureux, terrible en même

temps, qui glisse sur les murs en branches de ma cabane et qui me
réveille durant la dernière nuit que j’y passe.
La lune est tellement éclatante que l’on y voit presque comme en
plein jour et que je me demande tout d’abord si ce n’est pas quelque
prodige céleste qui a enfanté cette clarté intermédiaire entre la nuit
et la lumière du soleil.
Qu’est-ce qui fait ce bruit si proche ? Je regarde et il me semble
d’abord voir une procession de lamas rouges. Ils vont tout
doucement et ce que j’entends est le froissement du coton de leur
robe sur le bois.
Mais non. Comment n’y avais-je pas pensé plus tôt ? Comment
n’est-il pas venu plus tôt ? C’est le tigre de Mérapi, le tigre borgne, le
tigre géant, celui que j’ai martyrisé, moi, l’homme.
A travers les interstices des branches je vois son mufle énorme,
son œil vert et phosphorescent et il me semble que la cabane
craque légèrement quand son dos s’y appuie en glissant. Je songe
que la porte est fragile, ne tient qu’avec une petite liane nouée qui
forme crochet et que le plus léger coup de patte la ferait ouvrir.
Mais je n’ai aucune terreur. J’éprouve même une bizarre
allégresse, celle de ne pas savoir ce qui va exactement se passer.
Jamais je ne suis entré dans la cage du tigre, jamais je ne me
suis trouvé face à face avec lui. Ma rage ne s’est exercée qu’à
travers des barreaux et il a dû accumuler en lui, comme seules
peuvent le faire les bêtes, une somme extraordinaire de vengeance
insatisfaite. Je connais cette faculté animale qui permet de garder
pendant des années dans la mémoire le souvenir de l’offense.
 J’entends le tigre gronder derrière le mur de la cabane. Il ondule,
il cherche une ouverture, il attend.
Et moi, assis à côté de la statuette de la déesse Dorjé-Pagmo, de
la déesse à tête de porc, je songe que j’ai injustement torturé cette
créature sauvage, car le tigre de Mérapi n’avait pas dévoré Eva, la
nuit du temple de Ganésa. Je le sais en cet instant avec une
certitude absolue.
Je me mets à réfléchir.
Le tigre peut très bien tourner autour de la cabane et ne pas
évaluer sa solidité, ne pas penser à donner un coup de patte sur la
porte. Les animaux, quelquefois si ingénieux, sont d’autres fois plus
naïfs que des enfants en bas âge.
Si j’élevais sévèrement la voix tout d’un coup et si je lui donnais
l’ordre de partir, peut-être s’éloignerait-il docilement. Il m’a si
longtemps vu et entendu commander comme un maître. Puis, il y a
dans la parole humaine une organisation rythmée qui impressionne
les bêtes. Je me souviens d’un chasseur d’Australie qui échappa à
des loups qui l’entouraient rien qu’en leur criant, à voix intelligible,
l’ordre de partir.
Mais je ne veux pas intimider le monstre borgne que je me suis
plu si longtemps à torturer. Il y a en moi un confus désir, même
davantage, il y a une nécessité de me trouver désarmé en sa
présence.
Non seulement je n’ai pas de haine contre ce tigre, qui a été le
cauchemar de mon existence, mais encore j’ai pour lui de la pitié à
cause de sa fureur aveugle de tuer, une sorte de sentiment fraternel
à cause de la ressemblance que j’ai eue avec lui.
Je regarde au dehors. Le tigre tourne et gronde. L’imaginaire
procession des lamas rouges a disparu. La rayonnante nuit a
cristallisé la forêt et fait de chaque arbre un bloc d’argent ciselé. Il
me semble que mon esprit est baigné dans le ruissellement des
vérités premières et qu’il va s’élancer dans l’espace illimité.
Je me suis levé et je me suis approché de la porte. Un rayon de
lune tombe juste sur le front de la statuette de la déesse. J’examine
la liane nouée par Chumbul et qui forme un crochet primitif. Je
donne un tout petit coup avec mon doigt et je fais sauter ce crochet.
D’ordinaire la porte s’ouvre toute seule. Cette fois-ci elle n’a pas
tourné. Je comprends aussitôt pourquoi. Le tigre est appuyé contre
la porte. Il n’y a plus qu’à donner une petite poussée, le tigre se
déplacera, la porte s’ouvrira et nous serons face à face.
J’ai écrit ces dernières lignes à la clarté de la lune et avec assez
de peine parce que mon crayon n’est plus qu’un ridicule petit bout de
crayon. Je déposerai les feuillets sur lesquels j’écris au pied de la
statuette de la déesse, puis je pousserai la porte.
O seigneur, je suis la bête. Donne à mon âme la fraternité
nécessaire pour être compris et aimé par les bêtes. Fais rayonner de
mon corps l’amour que j’éprouve afin qu’il se répande sur mes frères
de la forêt. Permets-moi de les aider et de les guider afin qu’ils
deviennent meilleurs, comme je le suis devenu.
Et je trace encore pour terminer cette prière que je ne comprends
pas et que je répète à haute voix :
— Om, Mani, Padmé, Aum.
 LA LETTRE DE MONSIEUR CHARLEX

Voici la lettre de Monsieur Charlex, chargé par le gouvernement

français d’une mission archéologique à Java et que j’ai trouvée
épinglée à la suite des deux manuscrits que je publie. Le premier de
ces manuscrits forme un grand cahier dont certaines pages ont été
arrachées et il est écrit dans une écriture ferme et régulière. Le
second a été griffonné plutôt qu’écrit sur les feuillets d’un petit carnet
de poche. La lettre de Monsieur Charlex les complète. On peut
déduire de sa lecture qu’au moment de son départ pour Java,
Monsieur Charlex fut prié par le possesseur des mémoires du
dompteur Rafaël Graaf de faire une enquête sur leur auteur à
Batavia et à Djokjokarta.

Batavia, 1er mai 1874.

Ce que je vous écris n’est que le résumé rapide de mes

recherches. J’ai tant de notes à recopier, tant de croquis et de
reproductions de bas-reliefs à classer et à mettre au net que
j’ajourne à mon retour en Europe des explications plus détaillées. Je
n’ai, du reste, que peu de choses à vous apprendre.
J’ai questionné dès mon arrivée à Batavia toutes les personnes
de la société hollandaise qu’il m’a été donné de connaître. Toutes
sont au courant de ce qui est arrivé il y a quelques années à
Djokjokarta. Mais il me semble qu’après avoir passionnément
commenté l’événement on s’en est désintéressé. Chacun conclut de
la même façon.
— Le dompteur de Singapour, celui qu’on a surnommé l’homme
qui vit avec un tigre, était une brute que Mademoiselle Varoga a
connu pour son malheur. Il est devenu fou, tant pis pour lui. Existe-t-
il encore ? C’est possible et cela n’a pas d’importance. Mademoiselle
Varoga est maintenant princesse de Matarem et elle vit très
heureuse aux environs de Bantam, dans les domaines de son mari,
le descendant des anciens empereurs de Java, qui est un poète et
un érudit.
On ajoute en parlant d’elle des phrases telles que les suivantes :
— Quelle créature romanesque ! C’est une hurluberlue qui s’est
assagie. Elle avait déjà fait plusieurs fugues, notamment à
Singapour, où elle courait les fumeries. Elle fait partie de ce genre de
femmes qui aiment les poètes, les dompteurs et les officiers de
marine. Mais comment expliquer qu’elle s’est enfermée dans un
couvent de nonnes bouddhistes dont le prince de Matarem eut
beaucoup de peine à la faire sortir ? C’est peut-être que le
bouddhisme a un puissant attrait sur certaines âmes.
Le capitaine d’un vaisseau de commerce français qui avait fait
escale à Singapour m’a dit qu’un procès était engagé là-bas entre
Mme Graaf, installée à Zanzibar, et un cousin du dompteur qui
habite Goa. La fortune et les propriétés de Rafaël Graaf ont été
mises sous séquestre.
Mais il est arrivé que sous l’influence du climat, les jardins de
Singapour, sur l’emplacement desquels était jadis la ménagerie, sont
devenus une forêt vierge. Dans cette forêt vierge des crocodiles qui
avaient dû être oubliés ont pullulé et constituent maintenant un
danger pour le quartier chinois.
Je vous rapporte à peu près mot à mot une phrase que j’ai
entendue dire à un professeur au lycée de Batavia, qui passait pour
très versé dans la connaissance du bouddhisme et des religions de
l’Inde. Cette phrase n’a qu’un rapport assez éloigné avec l’histoire
du dompteur de Singapour et elle ne fut pas prononcée à son
occasion, mais elle permet toutefois des rapprochements assez
troublants.
Ce professeur parlait des pouvoirs acquis par certains fakirs à la
suite de longues méditations.
 — Les fakirs ont une connaissance secrète de la puissance du
son. Ils arrivent à enfermer dans les vibrations causées par certaines
syllabes des influences qui agissent à distance sur ceux qui
entendent ces syllabes. Ils instruisent leurs disciples et ils prétendent
les rendre meilleurs, plus élevés dans la hiérarchie des êtres, rien
qu’en leur faisant répéter ce qu’ils appellent des mantras.
L’invocation qui, de toutes, est la plus mystérieuse, renferme le plus
d’occulte pouvoir quand elle est formulée selon un rythme dont il faut
avoir le secret, est celle-ci :
— Om, Mani, Padmé, Aum.
Comme je vous l’avais promis, je suis allé à Djokjokarta et j’y ai
séjourné quelques jours. Le voyage est long et fatigant. Le chemin
de fer qui doit réunir Djokjokarta à Samarang est encore en voie de
construction. Les travaux que l’on est en train d’accomplir
bouleversent ces paysages et leur donnent une physionomie
différente de celle qui est décrite dans les cahiers de Rafaël Graaf.
J’avais plusieurs lettres de recommandation pour le résident
hollandais de Djokjokarta. C’est un homme aimable mais simple, et
peut-être un peu brutal. Il affecte de croire que le dompteur Rafaël
Graaf est mort depuis longtemps et que tout ce que l’on dit de lui a
un caractère légendaire.
— Un homme ne peut pas vivre à côté d’un tigre sans être
dévoré par lui, m’a-t-il dit ; opinion sur laquelle je fis des réserves,
puisqu’il s’agissait en cette occasion d’un dompteur et qu’il est avéré
que certains hommes qui exercent cette profession possèdent une
espèce de magnétisme qui réduit la volonté des animaux.
Le résident, comme je lui objectais cela, ne m’a pas caché
combien il trouvait cette opinion absurde. C’était celle, a-t-il ajouté,
d’Ali, le principal employé du dompteur. Et il me raconta les
difficultés qu’il avait eues avec lui au sujet du rapatriement du
personnel de la ménagerie et des recherches à entreprendre pour
retrouver Rafaël Graaf, recherches pour lesquelles Ali voulait
mobiliser toute la garnison de la résidence.
 Il fut obligé de le faire expulser du territoire de Java, car il tombait
dans des rages insensées toutes les fois qu’il entendait émettre
l’hypothèse de la mort de son maître et il menaçait de son kriss ceux
qui n’étaient pas de son avis. C’est Ali qui retrouva la deuxième
partie du journal que vous avez en entier en votre possession.
— Ce fut une fameuse histoire que cette affaire de la ménagerie,
m’a dit encore le résident, le jour où j’ai pris congé de lui. Je ne me
place qu’au point de vue du chasseur, le seul intéressant. On peut
tirer maintenant à Java un gibier qui n’existait pas auparavant. J’ai
vu un zèbre galoper dans une plantation de café et un officier de la
garnison a manqué dans la même journée un tapir qui se baignait
dans la rivière et un animal qui courait sur deux pattes et
n’appartenait à aucune espèce connue.
C’est alors qu’ont commencé mes tractations avec les gens des
villages. Je vous fais grâce de toutes les difficultés que j’ai
rencontrées. Les indigènes restent muets et détournent la tête dès
que le mot Ganésa est prononcé devant eux. Ils se refusent
unanimement à servir de guide à l’étranger qui veut explorer la
région de Mérapi et de Merbarou. Les trois villages qui entouraient
l’indigoterie de Monsieur Varoga sont presque complètement
désertés. Les Javanais considèrent que le malheur est un être réel
qui habite certains endroits où il se plaît plutôt que d’autres. Les
événements qui se sont déroulés successivement il y a quelques
années leur ont fait penser que le malheur avait élu domicile aux
approches de la forêt de Mérapi. Ils estiment que le meilleur moyen
pour l’écarter est de garder un silence absolu sur tout ce qui est
relatif à l’homme qui vit avec le tigre.
Cet homme, le dompteur de Singapour, n’est aperçu que très
rarement. Ceux qui l’ont vu de loin se sont enfuis avec épouvante.
On sait qu’il habite la partie haute du mont Mérapi et qu’il ne
descend presque jamais dans les vallées.
Je n’ai pu recueillir à son sujet que deux témoignages, mais ils
sont probants. Les voici :
 Une femme de la région du Merbarou prétend avoir vu l’homme
et le tigre, dormant à côté l’un de l’autre, la tête de l’homme posée
sur le mufle du tigre, comme sur un oreiller. Elle a gardé, paraît-il, de
l’émotion causée par cette rencontre, un tremblement nerveux dont
elle ne s’est pas débarrassée. Elle donne un détail assez curieux et
qu’elle peut difficilement inventer. Elle a vu un singe gibbon
suspendu à une branche, faisant, à côté de l’endroit où étaient les
dormeurs, des exercices de trapèze dont elle aurait goûté le
comique si l’effroi ne l’avait pas fait s’enfuir.
Un Malais qui portait un sac de farine à la lamaserie de Kobou
Dalem s’est trouvé nez à nez sur un sentier avec le dompteur de
Singapour. Le fameux tigre marchait à côté de lui. Quand le
dompteur a aperçu le Malais, il a saisi la bête par la peau du cou,
comme l’on fait à un chien que l’on sait méchant et il a fait signe au
Malais de s’éloigner, ce que celui-ci a fait très rapidement.
J’ai interrogé le Malais sur l’aspect extérieur du dompteur.
Il m’a affirmé lui avoir vu sur l’épaule deux petits oiseaux
appartenant à une espèce assez rare, celle des béos. Il riait et
chantonnait doucement, en regardant les oiseaux et son visage
reflétait la joie la plus paisible.
Peut-être celui qui a cherché la purification a-t-il trouvé en même
temps le bonheur, dans la solitude des arbres, parmi les bêtes
réconciliées.
 TABLE

PREMIÈRE PARTIE
Pages
La Fumerie de Singapour 7
Le Cobra et le Crapaud 17
La Jeune Fille à l’Échelle 29
L’Étrange Indigoterie 42
Première Rencontre avec le Tigre 53
Le Jeune Homme à l’Échelle 71
La Robe de la Princesse Sekartaji 80
Le Tigre humain 86
Le Temple de Ganésa 97
La disparition d’Eva 104
Le Tigre prisonnier 118

DEUXIÈME PARTIE

Les Yeux du Tigre 127

La Souffrance des Bêtes 133
La Visite de monsieur Muhcin 147
Inès 153
Le Chapeau de Paille 163
Les Sam-Sings 175
La Chanson du Rohi-Rohi 183
Le Départ d’Inès 190
La Ménagerie délivrée 205

TROISIÈME PARTIE
Le Solitaire de la Forêt 223
La Dernière Nuit dans la Cabane 244
La Lettre de Monsieur Charlex 248

Établissem. Busson, Imprim., Paris. — 30-9-27.

ALBIN MICHEL, Éditeur, 22, Rue Huyghens,
PARIS

Vol.
BARBUSSE (Henri)
Lauréat du Prix Goncourt 1916
L’Enfer 1
BENOIT (Pierre)
L’Atlantide (Grand Prix du Roman 1919) 1
Pour Don Carlos 1
Les Suppliantes (poèmes) 1
Le Lac Salé 1
La Chaussée des Géants 1
Mademoiselle de la Ferté 1
La Châtelaine du Liban 1
Le Puits de Jacob 1
Alberte 1
BÉRAUD (Henri)
Prix Goncourt 1922
Le Martyre de l’Obèse 1
Le Vitriol-de-Lune 1
Lazare 1
Au Capucin Gourmand 1
BERTRAND (Louis)
de l’Académie Française
Cardenio, l’homme aux rubans couleur de feu 1
Pépète et Balthazar 1
Le Sang des Races 1
Le Rival de Don Juan 1
Le Jardin de la Mort 1
BOCQUET (Léon)
Le Fardeau des Jours 1
 CARCO (Francis)
Bob et Bobette s’amusent 1
L’Homme traqué (Grand Prix du Roman 1922) 1
Verotchka l’Étrangère 1
Rien qu’une Femme 1
L’Équipe 1
COLETTE
L’Ingénue Libertine 1
La Vagabonde 1
CORTHIS (André)
Pour moi seule (Grand Prix du Roman 1920) 1
L’Entraîneuse 1
La Belle et la Bête 1
DERENNES (Charles)
Vie de Grillon 1
La Chauve-Souris 1
Émile et les autres 1
Gaby, mon amour 1
DESCAVES (Lucien)
L’Hirondelle sous le Toit 1
DEVIGNE (Roger)
Ménilmontant 1
DONNAY (Maurice)
de l’Académie Française
Chères Madames 1
Éducation de prince 1
DORGELÈS (Roland)
Les Croix de Bois (Prix Vie Heureuse 1919) 1
Saint Magloire 1
Le Réveil des Morts 1
Sur la Route Mandarine 1
Partir 1
DUCHÊNE (Ferdinand)
Au pas lent des Caravanes (Grand Prix Littéraire de l’Algérie 1921) 1
Thamil’la (Grand Prix Littéraire de l’Algérie 1921) 1
Le Roman du Meddah 1
Au pied des Monts éternels 1
DUMUR (Louis)
Nach Paris ! 1
Le Boucher de Verdun 1
Les Défaitistes 1
La Croix Rouge et la Croix Blanche 1
ESME (Jean d’)
Les Barbares 1
HERMANT (Abel)
Le Cavalier Miserey 1
LEBEY (André)
Le Roman de la Mélusine 1
L’initiation de Vercingétorix 1
LOUŸS (Pierre)
Aphrodite 1
La Femme et le Pantin 1
Les Chansons de Bilitis 1
Les Aventures du Roi Pausole 1
MAGRE (Maurice)
Priscilla d’Alexandrie 1
La Luxure de Grenade 1
MILLE (Pierre)
Le Diable au Sahara 1
L’Illustre Partonneau 1
MIRBEAU (Octave)
L’Abbé Jules 1
Le Calvaire 1
POURRAT (Henri)
Gaspard des Montagnes 1
A la Belle Bergère 1
RENARD (Jules)
L’Écornifleur 1
ROBERT (Louis de)
Octavie 1
Paroles d’un Solitaire 1
ROLLAND (Romain)