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The Flourishing
Merlina Garance

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 THE FLOURISHING

Copyright © 2023 by Garance Merlin

Cover art by Alex Torres

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed or
transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent of the copyright
holder, except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of reviews and certain other non-
commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature adults.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to
businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-2-9588027-0-7

First edition May 20, 2023

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 Table of contents
Title page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Did you like this story?
Acknowledgements
About the author
Content warnings

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 Chapter 1

Andy comes in five minutes late, and with a headache.

She hasn’t been drinking, it’s just… one of those days.
The station isn’t so busy this morning, when she walks into the lobby,
vaguely waves in the direction of the receptionist and steps into the lift,
scanning the magnetic badge that allows her to call the third floor.
People move away when she makes a beeline for the coffee machine,
which is, granted, a terrible idea for the migraine. She's already slumping at
her desk when Claire shows up barely a minute after her and sits on the
corner of it. She towers over Andy who looks up at her, chin in her palm
and squinting against the neon lights.
Andy and Claire have been an informal team for years, now. It came
naturally, sticking together, when Andy finally got that DI position and
transferred to Leicester, and the first person she was introduced to was DI
Claire Atkins, whom she had actually met two nights prior, and almost
kissed in a local gay bar.
Two queer cops, one Scot and the other black — the decision to forget
about that half-arsed attempt at seduction and form an alliance was an easy
one to make.
Today, Claire is taking out an essential oils roll on from her shirt’s pocket
and handing it to Andy.
“Oh thank god,” Andy moans, immediately rubbing it all over her face.
“‘Thank Claire’ would have sufficed, but you're about to be a lot less
thankful in a second.”
Andy glares up. She had prepared herself to a calm day of sorting files
and typing reports. Claire's frown tells a different story.
Andy is half ready to cover her ears when Claire opens her mouth.
“Missing person case. Boss wants us both on it.”
 Andy groans and slips even closer to the surface of her desk, scattering
paperwork under her elbows.
“Why both of us?”
Claire rolls her eyes and doesn’t grace her with an answer, pulling her by
the sleeve of the jacket she hasn’t even taken off yet. Andy resists for half a
second before caving, thinking about ripping that plaster off. Only that’s not
how their jobs work.
DCI Harris is waiting for them in his office, phone squeezed between ear
and shoulder when they open the door, and he motions for them to come in
while he finishes his conversation. He’s been their superior for rounding on
eight years, now, and the only thing Andy knows about him, is that he looks
like he drinks too much ale and doesn’t put on enough sunscreen when he
goes to Spain on holiday. In short, he looks like most English men over fifty
and Andy is not too fond of him, or his authority.
She falls into a chair and slumps backwards, spreading her legs and
crossing her arms. Claire sits on her left and looks at her like you would a
child throwing a fit in the candy isle at the supermarket.
When Harris finally hangs up his phone, he claps his hands loudly, and
Andy bites her lip to stop herself from jumping at his throat for the sudden
and unnecessary noise.
“Ladies! So glad that you are both available to have a look at this. A
Mrs… Parry,” he continues after taking a look down at a report sitting on
his desk, “called yesterday, saying her husband hadn’t come home the night
before. Obviously, that’s not enough to send two DIs out investigating, but
his boss reported him missing as well, so we’re gonna have a look at that.”
Andy is already bored at the prospect of investigating a man who likely
ran off with his mistress to start over, leaving the poor woman behind. It’s
sad, but it happens everyday, and it’s not police work.
She still does her best not to fidget while Harris slides the report across
the table, looking for all purposes as if he’s getting rid of a piece of trash.
Andy wants to continue with the petulant toddler act, but swallows her
pride and grabs the piece of paper, wincing against the stabbing pain in her
right eye when she tries to focus on the too small print.
 “All right,” says Claire, “we’ll start by talking to the wife and checking
Mr Parry’s phone records, see if his number has been used since he went
missing. Won’t we, Andy?”
She probably grumbles something unintelligible and they quickly make
their way out of their superior’s office. Claire stops them in the corridor
before they can reach their office.
“Listen, seeing the state you’re in, why don’t you go out and talk to the
wife, eh? Will do you good to get some air instead of staying in here
looking at your computer screen all day.”
Andy rubs a weary hand over her face, then proceeds to tangle her own
hair into a terrible, overgrown ginger mess. She hasn’t been to a hairdresser
in over two years, and she doesn’t plan to — hates the whole experience.
“Fine, guess you’re right. Better get this over with as quickly as
possible.”
She grabs her notepad and her car keys, and is out of the building in no
time, covering her eyes with her hand and cursing herself for having
forgotten her sunglasses again. She’s forty, she’s probably a lost cause by
now. Give her a couple more years and she might start wearing those ugly
embroidered caps that the youth are all about. God, when did she start
thinking of them as the youth?
(The honest answer is, a while ago.)
Andy doesn’t hate Leicester. She doesn’t particularly like it either.
She’s at a stage in her life you could call lukewarm. Like tepid bathwater,
gone grey from suds and washed-off grime. Some days she dreams of more.
Most of the time she can’t be bothered, or she comes home too tired.
She types the Parrys’ address into her GPS and starts driving mindlessly.
She turns on the radio, and switches it off after barely two minutes, already
angry at the news. She parks right in front of the house. It’s like any old
English house: brick, a tiny front lawn with a few rose bushes that struggle
to survive the winters — and, nowadays, the summers as well — and a few
steps leading up to the door.
She locks her car and strides up to it, looks for a doorbell and finds none,
so knocks sharply on the wood, three times. She looks around, her eyes
trained to search for little details. The husband didn’t come home, the wife
had said. He was the one using the car, and it hasn’t been found either.
She’s counting the bricks around the door when she realises she has been
waiting an awfully long time. Of course, she hasn’t stopped to get the wife’s
mobile number, or even the landline if they had one.
She knocks again, trying for even louder, and feels the thrum of the shock
in her knuckles after. She wiggles her fingers and starts tapping the toes of
her right foot on the plain “welcome” mat. She hasn’t got all day. She
moves away from the door to sneak a look inside from the windows of the
first floor. She peers into a quiet living room, sofa facing a flat screen TV
mounted on the wall. It’s completely devoid of life. She goes around and
looks into the kitchen, equally empty.
She ends up sticking her ear to the front door and holding her breath. She
can’t hear a thing, and she doesn’t like that.
Last time this happened, she found the man she’d come to interview
hanging from a beam in the basement.
She holds her breath as she pushes the handle down. It isn’t locked. She
shoulders the door open as slowly as she can, one hand going to the
telescopic baton attached at her belt. She does a quick check around the
entrance of the house, a console welcoming a set of keys, shoes carefully
lined on a rack underneath the coat hanger. The place looks slightly too
quiet, she notices as she steps forward, finding the kitchen cleaner than any
three star restaurant. She approaches a closed door, and freezes when a
noise makes its way through the wood to her. Feet shuffling.
She’s been heard.
She presses herself to the wall, behind the door’s hinges in order to
remain unseen for as long as she can.
The door springs open and she immediately shakes her baton into its full,
extended size, pointing it in front of herself and screaming:
“Police! Don’t move!”
She is answered by a loud shriek and the sight of a naked body toppling
backwards into what appears to be the bathroom.
“What the fuck!” comes a scream, loud and high, a woman’s voice.
 Andy takes a few steps to her left to keep the squirming, definitely nude
body in her line of sight, and asks:
“Who are you?”
The woman is scrambling for something, and Andy is getting ready to
move forward, when she sees that she’s grabbed a towel to cover herself up.
Fair enough.
“I bloody live here!” the woman cries out, sounding about half enraged,
half embarrassed.
Andy herself knows she’s gone completely red in the face, all the way
down to her neck in shame and awkwardness, but she can’t seem to turn it
down.
“Why didn’t you answer the door?”
That gets her wide eyes and a mouth agape in shock.
“I was obviously in the shower! Are you mad?”
“Madam, you’re talking to an officer of the law, please watch your tone,”
Andy stammers out, voice trembling.
“Would you just put away your baton already?! You’ve clearly seen I’m
not armed!”
She takes a second to look at her hands, and notice that she is indeed,
threatening a half naked, unarmed woman, and slowly lowers her weapon.
“Oh. Right.”
The other woman’s whole body seems to relax all at once. In fact, she
quite collapses backwards against the door of the shower.
“Oh, bollocks,” Andy swears, scrambling to get her baton back into the
holster and kneeling at her side to check on her.
Her face has gone pale, but she’s still conscious, if the way she bats
Andy’s hands away from checking her pulse are any indication.
“Don’t touch me,” she mumbles, all fight gone from her.
“All right, all right, I won’t, just wanted to check you’re okay. Did you
hit your head?”
 The woman moans, and her hands go to the edge of the towel that has
slipped low enough to reveal the top of her breasts.
“What do you want…” she whines.
“I came here to talk to you about your husband. But… I can see how I’ve
handled that wrong. I’ll give you some time to… yeah. Um, can I wait for
you in your kitchen?”
The woman gestures for her to fuck off and Andy is quick on her feet and
out of the room as soon as she’s completely sure that she isn’t going to
leave someone unconscious on their bathroom floor.
Only when she reaches the kitchen does she realise how fast her heart is
beating, and possibly, how badly she’s cocked it up. She rubs a hand over
her face and grimaces, gritting her teeth at her own stupidity.
What a brilliant way to gain a possible witness’s trust. She doesn’t know
what came over her. Pulling her weapon on an unarmed, non-threatening
citizen could get her a written warning, and more.
She takes deep breaths until her heart rate is back to normal, and has
barely enough time to snoop a little about in the kitchen before she hears
footsteps, stomping and clearly angry, coming from the corridor. The
woman has got her hair pinned up in a clip, and is wrapped in the fluffiest
bathrobe that Andy has ever seen. It’s as pristine as the house, not a spot of
beige on the sparking white of the fleece.
Her nostrils are flared in anger, and her face has regained colour, cheeks
bright red.
“Right, officer,” she begins, tone clipped and full of frustration. “May I
offer you some tea?”
Andy moves forward with her hands out, eager to dispel the awful first
impression she has just given.
“Madam, I’m so so sorry, I just knocked for a really long time, and I was
worried something had happened, and —”
“Can we please. Not mention it. Again.”
The woman has closed her eyes and her neck is flushed red, and Andy
can see how hard she’s clenching her fists at her side, valiantly making an
effort to be polite to the wanker who just caught her naked and proceeded to
threaten her with an impact weapon.
“Okay,” Andy answers, making her own voice as soft as she can.
“So. Tea?”
“Um. Yes, please.”
The woman sets about opening cupboards, digging out two mugs and
boxes of what looks like loose leaf tea, then fills the electric kettle and
presses the button on it, prompting both of them to wait in awkward silence
while the water comes to a boil. Andy takes a second to properly observe
the room. There is one potted plant on the window sill, the only sign of life
outside of the actual owner being there. A tea towel is neatly folded over
the oven handle, and every kind of sponge Andy could think of are lined up
in a little caddy by the sink, all perfectly aligned.
Andy is pulled out of her intense scrutiny by the woman abruptly asking:
“May I see your ID?”
Andy raises her eyebrows. She assumes she means her police ID card.
“Er, why?”
The woman crosses her arms under her breasts, lips pinched in a haughty
expression.
“You did break into my house, then proceeded to threaten me , and I have
no idea who you are.”
Andy’s mouth opens on a silent ‘oh’.
“Fair enough,” she mutters, and digs her wallet out of her jacket, flipping
it open.
The woman leans in until her nose is nearly touching the paper and she
huffs.
“All right, Officer Campbell.”
Andy cannot help but smirk to see the woman has gone slightly cross-
eyed at trying to read, clearly far-sighted and refusing to wear her glasses,
and she asks:
 “Show me yours, then?”
The woman spins around, her features settled in outrage again.
“Excuse me?!”
“Your ID,” Andy laughs, then clears her throat when she realises her
humour is unwelcome. “So I can be sure I’m talking to the right person
when I ask you questions?”
The woman is positively fuming when she moves out of the room and
comes back with a handbag, rummaging inside it for a minute before she
manages to find her passport and thrusts it into Andy’s hands.
“There. Milk, sugar in your tea?” she asks, snappy as anything as she
goes to pour the hot water into the two mugs.
Andy opens the passport and checks that the picture matches the
infuriated lady making her tea. According to her date of birth, Mrs Parry is
forty-two, only two years older than her.
“No milk or sugar, thank you, Mrs Parry,” Andy answers, carefully
placing the passport back on the kitchen table.
If she was half as self-conscious as most people, or English, she’d
probably have crawled back outside while reciting all the different
apologies she knew, and come back the next day with a box full of cookies.
Well, she’s a Scottish cop, so she pulls one of the chairs around the table
and sits comfortably, and thanks Mrs Parry when her mug of tea is harshly
put down in front of her, dark liquid sloshing over the edge.
Andy pulls on the sleeve of her black Henley shirt and wipes it off,
before wrapping her slender hands around the mug. Mrs Parry takes a seat
across the table, visibly aiming to stay as far away from her as possible.
Andy can’t blame her.
She looks in silence as the woman pours some milk into her tea, and
breaks a piece of sugar in two, dipping it and waiting until capillarity has
made it soggy to finally drop it into her drink. The sound of her spoon
stirring the result is awfully loud in that kitchen.
“So,” Andy finally speaks, pulling her notebook out of her jeans back
pocket, “your husband is missing.”
 Mrs Parry’s expression is closed off now, where a second ago there was
still seething rage and embarrassment tinting her skin red.
“Yes. That’s… two days ago now, almost, he didn’t come home at night.
It’s not… unusual that he stays out, drinking, or… well, he usually comes
back at around two or three in the morning, at the latest.”
Andy vaguely scribbles ‘husband sleeping around’ in her notebook and
looks up expectantly.
“I tried staying up to hear the car, but I fell asleep, at… It was after five,
that’s the last time I looked at the alarm clock. When I woke up again at
eight, he still wasn’t there.”
“Did you try calling him that night?”
Mrs Parry looks away as fast as if Andy had just slapped her.
“No. I don’t own a mobile phone.”
Andy blinks, and shakes her head.
“You don’t?”
Mrs Parry shrugs, and fiddles with her spoon, lifting some tea up above
the mug and letting it spill in again.
“I don’t.”
“No landline?”
The other woman shakes her head.
Andy spins her pen around her middle finger, uncomfortable chills
creeping up the back of her neck. A disagreeable déjà vu.
“So, to be clear, your husband is the only one with a working phone
number in your household?”
Mrs Parry nods. Well. That usually means one thing, and Andy has found
that the quickest way of finding out was usually asking.
“Right… Mrs Parry… I’m going to ask you a difficult and intrusive
question, but I’m afraid I have to. Has your husband ever been physically,
or verbally violent towards you?”
 Mrs Parry’s eyes fill with tears. Andy puts her pen down. She sighs, and
rubs at her temples where the migraine is coming back with a vengeance.
“Okay… I would like to ask you more questions about that, and about
him as well, so I can lead the investigation as well as possible… I realise I
did an absolute shit job at making you comfortable, so if you’d rather speak
to my partner, DI Claire Atkins, I could ask her to visit you some other
time, or we could schedule for you to come into the station.”
That last word has Mrs Parry recoiling slightly. She doesn’t answer right
away, and Andy figures now is the time to show the patience she hasn’t
been capable of since the day started. After a while, the other woman takes
a sip of tea, and, her eyes downcast towards the table, she asks:
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting dressed… I feel a bit… undignified.”
It only occurs to Andy now, that the time she spent waiting alone in the
kitchen earlier, must have been just enough for Mrs Parry to recover from
the shock, dry herself and put on that robe to join her.
“Would you like me to come back another time?”
“I’d just like to go upstairs and get dressed properly, please.”
It’s asked with such fervour that Andy doesn’t press further.
“Of course, please… um…”
She holds back a ‘be my guest’, which would probably be the ultimate
offence to a woman in her own home, and finds she doesn’t need to add
anything. Mrs Parry has already scampered out of the room.
She drinks her tea in silence, walking around the kitchen and finishing
the scan she’d started earlier. There isn’t a lot of food around. A lonely
banana in the fruit basket is all she can see without actually going around
opening cupboards.
She puts her empty mug down in the sink and takes a few tentative steps
into the living room. The sofa has a blue crocheted blanket thrown over the
top. Matching cushions, and in the middle of the coffee table, a scented
candle that has never been lit. There is something there, prickling her
senses, and it takes a while for her to realise that this house doesn’t feel
lived in. Every surface is spotless. Not a dust bunny, not a thing abandoned
out of place. There aren’t even photographs on the walls, or the shelves.
Married couples usually have at least one picture of their wedding up in
their house, don’t they?
The walls are covered in a slightly beige wallpaper, and not a hole has
been pierced into them.
Andy hears the floor creak above her head and makes a quick decision.
She bounces out the living room and to the front door, opening it and
closing it behind her as silently as she can. She then rounds the corner of
the house and peeks into the kitchen again.
She waits a minute, until she sees the silhouette of Mrs Parry come in,
and stop abruptly when she notices Andy is gone. Taking that as her cue,
she rushes to the front door again, and knocks for the third time that day.
She hears wary steps, then a pause, before the door handle lowers and she
is faced with a fully dressed Mrs Parry. She’s now wearing an ankle length
pleated skirt, and a light pink woollen jumper over it. Her hair is still tightly
pinned in that hair clip, and Andy even theorises that she’s redone it, not a
single blond lock out of place now. She’s as spotless as the house, and it
stirs something ugly in Andy’s stomach.
“Detective Inspector Andy Campbell,” she says, holding her hand out
and forcing a smile.
Mrs Parry squints at her, brows joined in confusion, but after a few
seconds she shakes Andy’s hand.
“Mrs Parry.”
“May I come in?”
The other woman steps aside and Andy makes a point of waiting in the
corridor to be invited anywhere else, this time.
She can tell Mrs Parry is still calculating her next move, trying to assess
if the crazy woman in her home is actually a police officer or a really
convincing lunatic.
“Right… would you like some tea, officer?”
“I’m all right, thank you. Is there somewhere we can sit down to have a
chat?”
 They go back into the kitchen. Mrs Parry offers the same chair to her that
Andy had taken without asking earlier, and sits to her right. She doesn’t
cross her legs, and keeps her hands neatly lined up over the table. She feels
like a completely different person to the one who had shouted and cursed at
Andy not one hour before.
Andy pretends not to notice. She asks the questions in order, this time.
Takes down Mrs Parry’s name, her date and place of birth. Then asks about
her husband again.
John Parry has a high responsibility position in a pharmaceutical firm.
Mrs Parry doesn’t seem to know much about what his job actually entails.
He’s had it for twelve years now.
They got married when she was eighteen, which prompts a million more
questions to pop up in Andy’s mind, and that she decides to keep for later.
No children. No pets. Neither their families live close by, and she’s not in
touch with either hers or her husband’s. She doesn’t know how often he
talks to anyone, given that he’s the only one who has access to his mobile
phone at all times.
“Do you work, Mrs Parry?”
Bloody hell, how many times is she going to bring the woman to tears in
the span of one day?
“No, I don’t.”
That answer is loaded with things unsaid, and Andy is getting impatient
from dancing around the subject.
“All right… I need to ask you this now. Do you have a good relationship
with your husband?”
The blond woman’s posture breaks a little, and she slumps forward. She’s
shorter than Andy, but with wide shoulders and hips, and a lot more flesh
around her bones. Yet somehow, right this moment, she looks too small for
her clothes, as if she might disintegrate and leave only a pile of garments on
the chair.
When Andy looks down, she sees that her hands are shaking.
 “Let me rephrase my question. Have you ever filed a complaint against
your husband?”
A small nod.
“If I look when I go back to the station, how many should I find?”
“Three.”
She scribbles some notes, in an attempt to erect a barrier between her
professional attitude and the rage she can feel rising inside her. Anger
doesn’t do any good. She can help best if she keeps her cool.
A deep breath.
“And has your husband ever been prosecuted following these
complaints?”
Mrs Parry shakes her head. She looks about ready to crumble on the spot.
“Once, I did call when… while… during a row.”
Her eyes drift off into the distance, focusing on a point behind Andy, who
wonders if she’s reliving the scene.
“Two officers came round. Obviously I wasn’t the one to answer the
door, I was too… And he did what he does best. Talked. He sweet-talked
his way out of it, and they left. The next day he bought me flowers.”
Andy nods, doing her best to keep from snapping her pen in half. She
breathes slowly until she feels calm enough to talk.
“Thank you for letting me know. I will find those complaints and have a
word with the officers who took them. You don’t happen to remember the
names of those who came by your house, do you?”
“I never talked to them.”
“Right. Well. I um… Mrs Parry, do you have any idea, or suspicion of
where your husband might be?”
The woman shrugs and wraps her arms around herself.
“I wish. I usually feel better when I know for sure.”
“Hmm. You didn’t notice anything… peculiar, the days before? Did he
meet with unusual people, did he act nervous, did he pack a bag…?”
 Mrs Parry shakes her head yet again.
“I usually did my best to avoid him, when it was possible. And… I never
knew much about his life outside of the house. He had a few friends he
liked to go to the pub with. Mark and Luke. I’m not sure I can remember
their last names. They watched football together, I think. Didn’t tell me
where. I… I didn’t need to know.”
Andy stretches her hands from where they’d clenched into fists.
“And at work? Did you know anything that might have happened with
his colleagues, a recent change in the company?”
“He didn’t talk about his work much. Not directly to me, anyway. What I
know is bits I grabbed from conversations he had with his friends when
they came round.”
“Thank you. These friends, would you by any chance know where they
live?”
It seems that Mrs Parry knows very little about her husband’s life,
indeed. At least, according to what she’s saying. Weirdly, Andy has trouble
doubting her sincerity.
“All right, well… thank you very much for your time. What happens next
is this: we are going to track your husband’s credit card, see if it is being
used or not, check his phone records, try and trace his steps from the
moment he left your house. Anything you can give us will be helpful:
photographs, we may ask you for some DNA… I will get back to you on
that. As soon as we find trace of him alive, of course, we will update you.”
“Alive? Do you think…”
Andy holds up a hand, immediately regretting her choice of words.
“Wrong turn of phrase. I make hypotheses, and we are going to check
them. I will type down what you told me today, and… well, since I can’t
call you, would you mind if I came back in a few days to get you to sign
it?”
“Um… no, that’s no problem. Do you need me to do anything else?”
“If we need more details, we will get in touch. I ask that you remain
available as much as possible, you will be one of the most important people
in this investigation. If you think of something you would like to add to
your statement, please come by and ask for Andy Campbell, all right?”
She holds out her card, which Mrs Parry takes delicately between thumb
and index.
“Thank you.”
Andy is half ready to get up when something crosses her mind.
“Mrs Parry. How did you call the police, that night, if you don’t have a
phone?”
“Oh… I did, back then. It was almost ten years ago. That’s when he…
took it away.”
“Do you by any chance remember the phone number?”
The woman dictates it and Andy quickly takes note of the number.
“And when you called the station to inform of your husband’s
disappearance?”
Mrs Parry nods towards the window.
“I went to my neighbour. She let me use their landline.”
“Right, thanks ever so much,” Andy says, getting up.
Mrs Parry walks her back to the door, wringing her hands and looking up
at Andy when she stops and turns around.
“Oh, by the way, since your door wasn’t locked, I didn’t technically
break in.”
She can’t help but wink, and seeing the anger spark back into life on the
other woman’s lovely features feels like a small victory.
“Good day, Mrs Parry.”
Andy jogs back to her car and locks herself in. She throws her notepad
onto the passenger seat and heaves a deep sigh.
This is going to be messier than she expected.

***
Claire is chatting in the corridor by their office when Andy drags her feet
back into the station.
She raises her eyebrows at Andy who ignores her to go make them more
coffee. In her experience, awkward discussions are made less so by holding
a cup of something warm. Only they don’t have proper cups, just the paper
ones, and the coffee always comes out slightly lukewarm. Well. Better than
nothing.
She grabs a sugar for Claire and stops next to where she seems to be
caught in an unwanted conversation with a young uniformed officer. If
Andy’s eyes don’t betray her, it could even look like he’s chatting her up,
although the attempt is extremely awkward. Claire glances towards her and
after having known her for so long, Andy can recognise a cry for help.
She hands Claire her coffee and asks, cocking her hip as she leans against
the wall:
“Oh, mate, how did the date go with Laura last night?”
The kid hurries away with his tail between his legs, muttering something
about an appointment. Claire struggles to hide her amused pout as the two
women make their way to their office again.
“That was a bit violent, don’t you think?”
Andy shrugs. Neither of them are actively hiding in the closet, and most
of the station knows. She’s used to giving a heads up to the regular
newcomers who didn’t get the memo with their welcome package.
“You know what they say, better rip the plaster off quickly.”
They step into the office and settle into their respective chairs. Their
desks are pushed together so they are always facing each other.
“How did it go with the wife, then?” Claire asks, stirring her coffee and
making a face at it.
Andy licks her lips and pouts, looking for the right words that will give
justice to what actually happened and, more importantly, make her look like
less of an idiot.
“So I may have… um… given a bad first impression.”
 Claire frowns and shakes her head from behind her desk.
“You’re a cop, obviously people aren’t gonna like having you home -”
“No, not like that,” Andy sighs, and Claire’s gaze becomes pointed, until
she caves and lets the truth tumble out. “I knocked and nobody answered,
so I came in, right, to check that nothing wrong was going on, and I may
have caught the wife just out of the shower and…”
She feels her cheek flush red as the memory comes back to her.
“And what?” Claire asks, sounding increasingly exasperated.
“Yeah okay, maybe I waved my baton at her while she was naked.”
Claire drops her head into her hands, shoulders shaking.
“You laughing at me?”
Claire wipes her eyes, grinning.
“It’s that or shouting at you. You’re usually pretty smart, and yet
sometimes you pull these idiotic stunts, I have no idea how you do it.”
“Yeah, yeah, can we move on please?”
“You’re the one who brought it up. So, apart from threatening naked
ladies, did you learn anything?”
Andy digs out her notebook, even though every bit of that conversation is
engraved in her memory.
“Yeah, actually… The wife had filed several complaints for domestic
abuse, over the years. Said she called once in the middle of a… row,” she
winces even as she uses the same term Mrs Parry had chosen, “colleagues
showed up but the husband sweet talked them and they left. We need to
check if there’s been a report from that night.”
“Wait, so… If the husband was violent…”
There is a second of heavy silence, and the two women make eye contact
across the room.
“That’s motive, right?” Claire adds.
Andy feels her heart sink as she puts two and two together.
 “Yeah.”
“Shite. Want me to call her and tell her to remain available?”
“Actually… she doesn’t have a phone of her own. I know, I know,” Andy
continues at Claire’s surprised, then knowing gaze. “Doesn’t look like
things were good at home. Anyway, I wonder if it’s a good idea to go and
spook her by telling her to not leave the country. Wait, so are we treating
this as suspicious already?”
“Harris said so. Phone hasn’t been used since the guy left home the last
time his wife saw him. Nothing on the bank account either. No big
withdrawals made the days before he vanished. No down-payment for a
rental car, a hotel, nothing. Unless he has a separate account under a fake
name… that doesn’t feel like just some guy running off with his latest
mistress.”
Andy twirls her pen again. She can’t help it, she needs her hands busy so
she can focus.
“What next then? Should we go have a talk with his boss and colleagues?
Oh also, his wife told me he had two friends he regularly went out with,
um… Mark and Luke. No last names. If you’ve got the list of numbers he
contacted and his texts, we can get a hold of them.”
“Yeah, yeah Andy, I know the drill. Okay,” Claire sighs, cracking her
knuckles. “I can keep looking at the phone records for a while. You give his
workplace a call to warn them we’re coming.”
Andy is already looking up the name of the company on the web and
scribbling down their number. She’s about to dial when she suddenly
remembers something.
“Oh, hey, Claire?”
“Hmm what.”
She considers telling her about the fact that the complaints never gave
any result. About spewing her rage on how two of their colleagues probably
left the Parrys’ house shrugging off another ‘domestic’ and leaving a
woman alone to fend for herself. She doesn’t. She takes a deep breath in
through her nose and scribbles a big ‘FUCK THEM’ on her notepad, next
to the rest of her notes.
 She will find their names, and she will see to it that this never, ever
happens again.
“Nothing.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 2

The next day, Claire is telling Andy about her last date — the actual one,
not the one Andy made up on the spot to scare off an overeager youngling
— on the ride to Wrangham & Sons, and Andy is half listening, looking out
the window. She thinks of blond hair pulled back too tight, of that house
that must have been scrubbed twice a day so there would never be a grain of
dust in sight.
The building is located in the outskirts, but it looks like it should have
been in the centre of London, possibly even New York. It’s got airs of
grandeurs only a billion pounds company can afford. They enter a sleek, too
white lobby, floors a marble looking surface so polished Andy can almost
see her own reflection in it. Her blurry image looks tired, and she holds
back a curse when the sole of her boot slides and she nearly face plants into
Claire’s back. They go up to the front desk and present their IDs.
“Detectives Atkins and Campbell,” Claire announces. “We called earlier.
We have… a few people to see,” she adds after taking a look down at her
phone where she has the email app open, and the message the head of HR
sent her with a list of names.
The man doesn’t ask questions, takes down their names and times of
arrival, then proceeds to pull two magnetic cards and encode their visitor’s
badges. He gives them directions to the floor John Parry usually works on,
and they head to the lift.
Unsurprisingly, nobody here works in an open plan office. Each
employee seems granted a private space and a plaque with their name and
position on the door. They haven’t got clearance to search Parry’s office yet.
Andy looks at the door slightly longer than necessary, wondering what the
consequences would be if she were to just have a look inside.
They get a conference room to interview Parry’s colleagues. The boss is
scheduled to come down at 1 p.m. sharp. Andy hasn’t eaten anything since
the night before but half an apple swallowed on her way to work, and she’s
worried her stomach will produce otherworldly growls right until they
leave.
 Thank God — or other divine entities — for Claire again, who passes her
a cereal bar five minutes before the first employee joins them.
They go alphabetically. John Parry doesn’t seem to have given any kind
of memorable impression on his colleagues. He’s just your regular bloke.
He eats at the canteen with all the others. He’s a strategy advisor for the
company, which implies overseeing advertising campaigns and some legal
stuff Andy isn’t sure she fully understands yet. She’s grateful for the
recorder that means she can skip taking notes of every single word in case
she misses important information. She’s already tired at the prospect of
having to check so many alibis. That’s not what they’re calling it, not yet,
obviously. Not unless they have some strong evidence to back up the theory
that Mr Parry did not disappear of his own volition.
A few colleagues had a beer with him after work two days before he
went missing. None of them have ever been to his house. Nobody saw
anything suspicious in his behaviour. Andy wonders if they’ve received
orders from above. Better not draw attention to a firm that big in the media.
It’s never good PR for them.
Finally, Parry’s superior graces them with his presence, ten minutes after
the appointed time. Claire is scratching at the paper of her notepad with the
point of her pen, drawing concentric circles, while Andy progressively
slouches closer to the table as time goes by. They better go and get a frankly
indecent lunch, after this.
Mr Salgary, chief operating officer, whatever that means, struts into the
room with an air of superiority that immediately gets on Andy’s nerves, and
she’s known her colleague long enough that she can sense Claire tensing up
next to her. The guy is around their age, early forties, but he wears his
money and success like an accessory. His half-a-million pounds watch
peeks out of the sleeve of his designer suit. He’s the kind of man who can
afford to wear his tie slightly crooked because it’s so expensive nobody
would even dare touch it.
He lays down three mobile phones on the table before he even deigns
looking at the cops.
“Good morning — oops, afternoon, ladies. Sorry I ran a little late, you
know how it is.”
 He smiles with too many teeth. Andy sighs and opens:
“All right, Mr Salgary, thanks for taking the time to see us. I believe it
was your secretary who called us on the sixth to inform us that Mr Parry
had not been into the office that day, correct?”
“Absolutely. I’m not usually aware of the comings and goings of
employees, unless we have meetings scheduled together, which was the
case with Mr Parry that morning. We were, are still working on the
campaign for a new treatment that should be released soon, and we were
supposed to review it together. He had been working on it with the legal
department for the last month or so, and we had planned to go over his final
suggestions before launching it. Mr Parry is a very serious man, and an
extremely punctual collaborator. So when he wasn’t there fifteen minutes
after the appointed time of our meeting, I had my secretary call him, and he
didn’t answer. After three calls gone straight to voice-mail, we started
worrying that he might have fallen sick and wasn’t able to phone us.”
“Were you ever in touch with his wife?” Claire asks.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet her, no. Why do you
ask?”
Andy and Claire exchange a quick glance, silently confirming with each
other that it’s okay to share the next bit of information. Andy goes on:
“She reported him missing the morning of the same day, after he didn’t
come home all night. We were wondering if she might have called here
before alerting the police.”
Mr Salgary frowns and looks up for a second.
“No I don’t recall such a thing. Considering how hard we were trying to
reach John, I’m sure if his wife had called I would have been informed.”
“Right. Well, we have very little information to go on, at this stage, so we
will ask you the same question we have asked everybody else: had Mr Parry
been behaving oddly in the recent past? The week before he disappeared, or
so. Any detail you might have noticed would be of importance to us.”
Salgary hums.
 “Sadly, I hadn’t seen him in a while. I was in Paris for a congress from
the twenty-eighth to the third, and I only came back to Leicester on Sunday.
I hadn’t been into the office at all for ten days, and on Monday I held a
meeting with the board.”
Andy holds back the urge to grumble. One more alibi to check. She
scribbles his name down and marks down the dates of his trip with an arrow
pointing to the phrase ‘check plane/train tickets and immigration’.
“We noticed your building is equipped with camera surveillance. We will
require access to it so we can go through the footage.”
“Of course, that’s no problem. I will take you to our chief of security
later. He can also give you a log of all the employee’s badges, if that’s
helpful.”
“Very much so, yes,” Andy concludes.
She doesn’t see what more they can ask at this stage, until they have
some sort of confirmation that John Parry has been taken.
“Perfect,” Salgary claps his hands and stands up. “Let’s go there right
now so I won’t waste your time.”
It feels like a hidden reproach is lurking under those words, a silent ‘like
you are wasting mine’ layered with too many polite inflections for it to be
outright insulting.
He leads them up two floors, through a gallery of too white corridors, and
punches a few secret codes until they reach the security hub. A burly man
greets them and Salgary offers them his regards — he genuinely says the
word ‘regards’ aloud — before leaving Claire and Andy.
The days of VHS tapes you could copy are long gone — it’s all clouds
and shared links now. The security chief graces them with a lengthy
explanation of how the police will be able to access the video footage, and
when they finally leave that hellish place, Andy feels like her head is about
to explode. She can barely wait until they’re at the car to ask:
“Lunch?”
Claire smiles and cocks her head.
“You want pasta.”
 “How you know me.”
“I mean, it has been ten years.”
“Stop trying to make me feel old and drive me to the nearest Italian
place.”
Claire shakes her head and unlocks the car.
“I’m older than you, you know.”
“I know, you’re ancient. Now please take me to a place where I can stuff
my face with spaghetti.”

***

Andy finishes off her last forkful of ragù and slumps back into the wall
bench with a satisfied groan.
“Will I ever share pasta with you without being subjected to your sex
noises,” Claire muses, not exactly a question, while waving a waiter over.
“You don’t know what noises I make during sex.”
“I bet thinking of pasta gets you going. Do you ask your girls to talk dirty
to you in Italian?”
Andy huffs and shrugs, refusing to grace that with an answer. It’s not her
fault pasta is the most delicious dish humans have ever come up with.
They order two espressos and Andy knows the break is over when Claire
straighten her shoulders.
“So. Still nothing on Parry’s phone or his credit card.”
“Hmm. No money moved on the account at all?”
“Not a cent. Not even his wife has touched it.”
That triggers a little alarm in Andy’s pasta addled brain.
“What do you mean, she’s not spending anything?”
“Nope. Forgot to tell you, there is actually only one credit card linked to
that account. It’s a joint one, both their names on it, but only one card.”
Andy frowns at her fork.
 “And the car still hasn’t been spotted, right?”
“Not that we know of. I guess once we can release a missing persons
alert we’ll have more chances.”
“Where the fuck has that bastard gone…” Andy grumbles.
Claire doesn’t comment on her choice of word. She’s grown used to it, by
now. She just doesn’t know how much Andy means it that time.
“When are you going to see the wife again?”
“Probably tomorrow. Still haven’t had time to type up her statement, and
I figure it’s best I wait a bit to see if I have more questions to ask her when I
do.”
A waitress comes by with their two coffees and the bill. Andy downs her
espresso and puts out her credit card, taps it on the terminal without
listening to Claire’s half hearted protest, and stands up.
“Chop chop, lady, we got work to do.”
Claire slaps her on the arse as she walks past her and out of the
restaurant, making her yelp. She would run after her to get revenge, but she
can feel a few stares on her, and, on duty or not, she better watch her
behaviour. Maybe they won’t be coming back to that restaurant for a while.

***

On Friday, Andy is bouncing her leg by the printer, watching as it painfully

spits out the last pages of Mrs Parry’s statement. She feels oddly nervous
about showing up at the house again. She has considered asking Claire to
go in her place, but… Something kept her from doing so. So she’s waiting
with a stapler in hand, ready to punch the pages with metal and head out the
door. It’s almost lunch time, hopefully the wife will be around her house
and she won’t have to go looking for her God knows where.
She rolls the pages into a tube that she stuffs inside her jacket, grabs her
pen and her car keys and throws a quick ‘see ya later’ to Claire who is
about to meet an officer from the Missing Persons Unit to coordinate. She
puts music on the radio this time to distract herself from the nerves making
her stomach jump a little too high when she drives over a speed bump.
 When she parks in front of the house, she is surprised to find it exactly
the same as the time before. She isn’t sure why she had expected anything
to be different. Surely a neighbourhood would change after one of its
inhabitants has been missing for several days? She should know, however,
that life goes on as usual. Even in murder cases, people grieve for a while,
then the town goes about its life as usual. Seven billion humans. The planet
can’t afford to stop turning for every one it loses.
She locks her car and makes sure to knock loudly on the door this time,
and patiently waits. She keeps her breathing even and calm, and is relieved
to hear shuffling footsteps from inside barely ten seconds later.
The door opens on Mrs Parry, who takes one look at Andy before casting
her eyes down.
“Oh, officer, please come in.”
Andy bites the inside of her mouth and steps inside. The corridor is as
squeaky clean as it was the last time.
“Some tea?” Mrs Parry offers, voice low and devoid of any inflexion.
Andy’s senses are on high alert now. She hadn’t spent that long in the
other woman’s presence the first time, but enough to see there was a feisty
side to her personality, and that she was capable of letting something shine
out of her when her husband wasn’t around. She seems just as self-effacing
now as if he had been back inside the house.
She follows her to the kitchen and takes a seat while Mrs Parry puts the
kettle on. She watches her take out only the one mug from the cupboard,
and drop a teabag in it. Her movements are shaky, as if she’d been filmed
with not enough frames per seconds and Andy is missing the images to
make it run smoothly in her eyes.
When Mrs Parry finally places Andy’s tea in front of her, she is still
looking down, but Andy knows better and angles her head so she can get a
better look at her face. The rims of her eyes are red. She’s been crying.
She quickly scans the rest of her appearance. Blond curls still pulled
back, severely held away from her face with that same hair clip she had
been wearing last time. She’s got a blue jumper on, trousers that look too
tight for her, and a pair of slippers. The outside of her nails are scratched
like she’s been eating at the skin.
“No tea for you?” Andy asks.
Mrs Parry shakes her head.
“I had mine earlier, just a little before you came…”
Andy squints at her but the other woman is looking away again.
“Has your husband been back here?”
Mrs Parry’s eyes widen dramatically.
“What? God, no!”
It sounds too much like relief for her to be faking it, Andy decides. She
takes out the rolled up statement from inside her jacket where it’s making it
bulge over one side of her chest, giving the impression that she suddenly
grew tits overnight. She then stands up to come and place it in front of the
blond woman where she’s sat opposite her.
Doing so, she casts her eyes all around the kitchen, frantically searching
for the missing piece of the puzzle. Something has got the woman upset,
and she will find out what. Her eyes fall on the sink — completely empty.
No abandoned mug or spoon. She wonders, if Mrs Parry is so worried about
cleanliness that she put away the proof of her having had tea the second she
finished her drink.
The fruit basket on the counter is empty. Something stirs at the back of
her mind.
The account was a joint one, but there was only one credit card linked to
it.
She doesn’t ask for permission and goes around Mrs Parry to jerk the
fridge open. There, on perfectly clean and organised shelves, she finds only
beer bottles and not a trace of anything edible. She closes the door harshly
and turns to face the wife who is looking at her with, yes, that slight look of
anger that had been there the last time, and asks:
“How long has it been since you ran out of food?”
“What?”
 Andy is looming over her now, and realises a little too late that she
adopted interrogation mode unconsciously. Mrs Parry’s eyes are a really
clear blue, this close, almost grey. They are also afraid. Andy steps back
and sighs.
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant to your —”
“Mrs Parry, I’m slightly peckish, do you happen to have any biscuits I
could have with my tea?”
She sees the woman’s shoulder shake until the muscles there surrender at
the same time as her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks in a whisper.
Ah, she’s done it again, Andy muses. Went ahead and pushed too hard
and fast, as usual. She crouches next to the other woman, trying to move
slow, this time.
“Because if I know you’ve been sitting here starving, I would like to help
you find a solution.”
“How is that your job?”
Andy looks at where the other woman has pulled the sleeves of her
jumper down over her wrists, ad the poor state of her nails. She remembers
her time in the police cadets. How they taught them to care about
community. That police work was about more than arresting people and
solving cases. She can’t say it’s exactly been as fulfilling as they’d
promised. But she remembers what she learnt.
“It might not exactly be. But let’s say I will sleep better tonight if I know
I’m not leaving a citizen with an empty stomach when I could have done
something. Consider you’re doing me a favour, okay?”
Mrs Parry gets up and moves away, making the feet of her chair screech
on the pristine white tiles. Andy winces but doesn’t flinch. She gets up as
slow as she can and stays rooted where she is.
“We know your husband was the only holder of the credit card for your
account. Do you happen to have your own personal bank account?”
 The movement is barely perceptible, but Andy could have read that ‘no’
in the way the other woman is holding herself, backed up against the wall
separating kitchen and corridor.
“All right. Have you tried going to the bank to ask for a withdrawal at the
till?”
Mrs Parry blinks slowly.
“Can I do that?”
It takes a lot of willpower from Andy, right there, to keep from smashing
the nearest glass object in her line of sight.
“Of course. Grab your handbag and I’ll take you.”
A moment of hesitation, then she’s off. Andy releases a heavy breath
when she’s left alone in the room, and scratches at her scalp. She doesn’t
like this. She should have asked Claire to come.
She forgets about regrets when Mrs Parry comes back with a pair of
boots on, and wrapped in a black coat, cinched at the waist. She’s grown
one inch taller with the heels of her shoes but Andy can still see the top of
her head when she meets her by the front door.
“Shall we?”
Mrs Parry eyes the kitchen quickly.
“Don’t you want me to sign my statement first?”
Ah.
“Yes, of course!” she exclaims as if she hadn’t just briefly forgotten that
this is why she had come here in the first place.
Once Mrs Parry has gone over the three pages, she signs it and hands it
over to Andy with her pen. Andy smiles and holds the door open for her,
which makes it look a bit silly when she has to move back for the other
woman to lock it anyway.
She ignores the little voice inside her head — Claire’s, it’s usually
Claire’s — telling her this is the job of a social worker, not a Detective
Inspector on a case. She puts the statement in the trunk so it’s not visible
from the outside of the car, and follows Mrs Parry’s direction to her bank.
 “So, you haven’t answered my question,” Andy asks again after a few
minutes, speaking over the weather forecast coming from the car’s
speakers.
She stops at a red light and cocks her head to look at the woman sitting in
the passenger seat.
“Which was?”
“How long has it been?”
Mrs Parry sighs in defeat and looks out the window.
“The day after John didn’t come home, when I went to ask my neighbour
for her phone, she got… worried, and cooked for me. I made the dish last
three meals.”
Andy quickly counts on her fingers.
“So you haven’t eaten in… three days?!”
“I ate. Just… biscuits and porridge, things like that.”
“Jesus.”
“No need to swear.”
Andy cannot help the laughter that escapes her.
“Is the Lord’s name a bad word to you, Mrs Parry?”
The other woman holds eye contact for a second, long enough for Andy
to smile even wider when she sees a little pout twist Mrs Parry’s mouth.
“You’re right, best not answer.”
She tries to make small talk for the rest of the drive but the atmosphere is
heavy with the purpose of their outing.
Andy likes to think she’s developed the ability to command respect when
she strides into a building, without even having to hold out her police ID.
That is, when she’s not making a fool of herself by surprising people out of
the shower.
They step into the bank, and Andy marches them straight to the reception
desk. There are several people waiting in a line, that she side-steps in order
to plant her elbow on the counter and announce to the clerk:
 “Good day. Mrs Parry here would like to make a withdrawal, please.”
The lady, a skinny, severe looking thirty year old, frowns at her, then
behind her where Mrs Parry hasn’t dared get much closer than the back of
the line.
“And who are you?”
Andy grins her best bastard smile, and reaches for her wallet.
“DI Campbell. Now can you see to it that Mrs Parry can access her
money, please and thank you.”
Samantha, according to her name tag, doesn’t seem inclined to make an
even bigger fuss that would bring management out of their offices, and even
though a few people in the line behind are huffing, most of them are
respectful enough that they move out of the way when Andy waves Mrs
Parry over.
She considers waiting there, but her own stomach brings itself to her
attention, and she bends forward to whisper to the other woman:
“I’ll be gone just ten minutes, will you wait for me inside the lobby when
you’re done?”
She doesn’t give her much time to answer and gets her phone out as soon
as she’s out in the street, frantically searching for the nearest fast food joint.
She finds a kebab three hundred metres away, and jogs there to order two
sandwiches loaded with as many fillings as possible.
With the bag in one hand, she walks back to the bank as fast as she can.
She can feel the grease of the sandwiches seeping through the paper, but it’s
keeping her fingers warm, and she cannot wait to take the biggest bite
possible out of the thing.
She finds Mrs Parry still crumpling the envelope filled with banknotes in
one hand, her coat open. Andy comes up to her and gently suggests:
“You might want to put that in your handbag?”
It’s as if the other woman snaps out of a trance and notices Andy for the
first time. She blinks slowly, long lashes fluttering on pale cheeks, and after
a couple of seconds she finally looks down at her hands.
 “Oh, fuck,” she curses.
Andy chuckles to remember the same person scolding her for swearing in
the car earlier. Together they walk back to her car, and as soon as they’re
both sat inside, Andy opens the paper bag and pulls a sandwich, dripping
with sauce, and holds it out to Mrs Parry.
“I suspected you might be hungry.”
The blonde frowns and considers the sandwich for so long that a few
drops of sauce land on the armrest between them. Oh, well.
“Shit,” Andy realises, “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, I mean, nothing
wrong with that I just didn’t think —”
“— No, it’s fine, I’m not, I just… This is awfully… nice of you.”
“You didn’t think I was capable of that?” Andy teases, smirking and
pushing the kebab further towards her companion.
Mrs Parry huffs and takes the sandwich from her.
“Now I never said that. I just… it’s not what you’d expect coming from
someone like you.”
Andy feels the blood drain from her face.
“Someone like me?”
Mrs Parry has the dignity of looking slightly guilty.
“Yes, a police officer… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be offensive. You
just… surprised me.”
Andy’s heart starts beating again, relief flooding her. And, as it seems
bound to happen in the presence of the other woman, she speaks without
thinking:
“Not the first time though, right?”
She half expected Mrs Parry to run from her car. Instead she blushes,
discreet red spots staining her cheeks, and she mumbles:
“I thought we agreed to not speak of that again.”
“I mean, I know what anecdote I’ll be telling my hypothetical
grandchildren, if I ever have any,” Andy teases, and manages to pull a laugh
from the other woman.
She feels like she is finally getting a sense of the rhythm on how to dance
with her.
“Eat,” she says, and pulls out two bottles of water that she places on the
armrest.
She doesn’t wait to attack her own sandwich, but spares a glance towards
Mrs Parry who is hiding her mouth with a paper napkin and has turned as
much of her body as she could towards the window. Andy figures she can
respect that wish. She’s seen her naked, she might as well let her eat in
peace.
She switches on the radio and they have their lunch listening to old rock
tunes, each lost in their own thoughts. When Andy crumples the wrapping
of her sandwich to toss it into the paper bag, she finds Mrs Parry already
done eating and taking a few careful sips of water. She has some red sauce
on her chin, but Andy can’t bring herself to tell her.
“Should I drive you home?”
“Oh… I could take the bus, I suppose…”
“That was a rhetorical question, Mrs Parry. Rather a, ‘are you ready to
go’ than truly asking if you’d prefer to walk.”
The other woman’s eyes widen slightly, and it looks like she’s holding
back a snappy remark. It’s a shame she opts for politeness in the end.
“I see. Well… in that case, I’m ready.”
Andy smiles some more as she navigates the streets of Leicester towards
the Parrys’ home. When she parks in front of it, she feels light and playful,
like she shouldn’t be feeling when working on a case. She looks at the
woman sitting on her left, and the little smear of sauce on her skin.
“Right. Well. Thank you for the statement. I’ll er… I guess I’ll be back if
something comes up.”
“I’m going to get a phone,” Mrs Parry exclaims abruptly.
She looks as surprised with herself as Andy is.
 “Good. That’ll make things much easier. For you too, of course,” Andy
blabbers, and starts hoping she will be left alone shortly.
“Yes. I will give the station a call as soon as that is done so you have my
number. Of course, I would rather avoid… going there, but if that’s
necessary…
“I’ll do my best.”
Shut up. No promises.
“Right.”
“Yes, all right, I’ll go now,” Mrs Parry whispers, grabbing her handbag
and opening the door. “Thank you for…”
“Don’t mention it. Please.”
A nod, and then she’s gone. Andy waits until the woman is inside her
house and the door has closed behind her to drive off.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 3

It has been seventy-two hours.

Not a sign of life from John Parry has reached their ears. His own
number had mostly been used to contact his drinking mates a few times the
week before, and that’s it.
Andy had Mrs Parry’s old phone number checked, without much hope, to
find that it had been deactivated years ago.
Now the Missing Person’s Unit is involved, and she’s just… tired.
Checking alibis has to be one of Andy’s least favourite parts of her job.
Not that it necessarily takes that much time, it’s just so repetitive and…
hours spent on the phone, calling taxi companies, Uber drivers, restaurants,
bars, asking if such and such person were truly in on the fifth of March
between 6 p.m. and 5 a.m. the next day… It means dedicating a whole page
of her notebook to every single person who has been in contact with John
Parry the day he vanished, tracing their movements and interactions, until
she can conclude that no, indeed, they haven’t seen him that evening, or the
day after.
The list is long, too. They split it with Claire, who is a much better sport
than Andy, who by way of her non-English up-bringing, tends to complain
a lot louder and with more gusto than her local colleagues. Where Claire
will sigh ‘what a bother’, Andy will usually be swearing and shouting that
‘this bullshit is a pain in her arse’, and other niceties.
Unless she’s truly upset, and she goes silent.
Which happens when, on that Monday morning, she gets to the name of
Daphne Parry on her list. And she knows painfully well that the woman has
no verifiable alibi for the night her husband went missing. For all the police
know, she might have spent that time burying him in their garden and
making the evidence disappear. The house had been immaculate on Andy’s
first visit. And her second.
They just got their request approved to go search the house for DNA. She
will see that garden, without being invited to. And she will do so with a
team of other officers, combing the place for clues.
The only thing Daphne Parry told her about that night was that she tried
to watch a film while waiting for Mr to come home. Sadly, the household
isn’t even equipped with modern subscriptions to on demand TV that could
have given Andy something to work with — a log in time, browsing history
that would have placed someone in the house at a given hour. No. She
watched the BBC.
Andy’s phone rings and she jumps. It’s the front desk officer transferring
her a call.
“Yeah?”
“Mrs Parry on the phone for you.”
Oh.
“Put her through, cheers.”
She swivels in her chair to plant an elbow on the desk and press her
phone up to her ear with her shoulder, grabbing a pen, while the line beeps
one time.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Parry, good morning.”
Andy spots Claire raising her eyebrows from across their joined desks.
“Yes, well, as I said, I bought a phone for myself and I’ve now got my
own number so… As promised, I’m calling you so you know where to
reach me.”
“That’s grand, will you read it out for me?”
Andy takes note of the number, making sure to go over each digit several
times with the point of her pen so it’s clearly legible.
“Right, so actually, good thing you called,” Andy clears her throat,
looking for the right words to go about it. “I told you about searching your
house and collecting DNA samples of your husband before, if you
remember? Well, we’ll be able to do that soon. Actually… tomorrow, if
that’s okay.”
 Turns out there aren’t any right words to say people will invade your
privacy by going through every drawer inside your house, even your
underthings, yes, and step all over the lovely flowers in the garden Andy
has built in her imagination.
“Oh. That… makes sense. Well… you know I’m available either way. I
don’t have anywhere else to go, really.”
Andy’s grip tightens around the phone despite her best attempt to restrain
herself.
“Hmm, all right. Thank you. We’ll also need access to your husband’s
personal computer… Anyway, we’ll get back to you shortly to let you know
the time.”
They chat for a dozen more seconds, then Andy hangs up, a tight ball
lodged in her throat, making it difficult to answer when Claire asks:
“Did she have news?”
“Just that she has her own phone number now.”
“Huh. That was quick.”
Andy glares daggers as sharp as she can summon.
“Oi, you know why she didn’t have one in the first place.”
Claire stares on and doesn’t budge under Andy’s projected hostility.
“Mate. Don’t do that. You can’t let that get to you and make you lose
focus.”
“Oh I’m very focused. By the way, thanks for reminding me I need to
have a word with the wankers who never followed through with her
complaints.”
“Andy… don’t go stirring shit again.”
She’s about ready to get up and start screaming when she remembers
who she’s talking to. And why Claire is telling her this.
Again.
Ah, yes, it had been quite something. It’s been a few years now, six or
seven, she can’t remember. She forgot entirely how she had found out that a
colleague had spoken down to a woman who’d come shaking into the
station, asking to be heard about being assaulted the night before. The
constable working the front desk had been so shocked about it that the story
had gone round the whole station in less than a day.
Stirring shit was one way of putting it. Breaking the man’s nose after
hours was another.
Andy can still summon the feeling of intense, shattering pain in her
knuckles, and the immense pride she’d felt at hearing the crack and seeing
him wiping blood from his misogynistic shit hole of a mouth.
But Claire is right.
‘Violence is not the answer’ is an imperfect adage. It can be an answer,
and a perfectly good one - though not in the long run.
Hitting that tosser in the face had felt good and had provided her an
incredible sense of relief and vengeance. However, she’d been suspended a
week without pay.
She’s still on the fence whether it was worth it.
Claire is still surveying her when Andy opens their database and starts
typing. It doesn’t take her long to find the reports. She’s most interested in
the one dating of November 30, 2015.
It’s one paragraph.
Two officers went to check on a domestic. Husband answered the door,
seemed calm, and the wife could be seen in the room behind him, appearing
uninjured.
Appearing uninjured?
‘We assumed she was safe.’
She scans the document for the name of the officers who answered the
call that night.
Constable Andrew Richardson and Sergeant George Foster. Those
vaguely ring a bell, but she hasn’t heard those names in many years. Which
means...
“Fuck,” she swears, forgetting she can be heard.
 “What now?” Claire asks, making her jump.
Andy bites her lip, caught in the act.
“I don’t know them. They must have transferred somewhere else since
then.”
“Andy. Leave it.”
“Leave it? You know how that night could have ended if she’d been less
lucky?”
Claire’s silence speaks for itself.
“It should have been us to keep her safe. Not luck,” Andy spits, and
storms off to the lift, in dire need of fresh air.
When she reaches the ground floor and escapes outside the building, she
realises, her hand reaching unconsciously for her shirt’s pocket, just what
she’s craving right now.
A bloody cigarette.
She holds back a shout and kicks a plastic bottle littering the pavement,
which proves entirely unsatisfactory. However, the piece of trash lands
under a bench, which prompts Andy’s feet to lead her there. She sits down
with a wince. She’s got no meat on her bones, and designers these days
seem intent on making any piece of urban furniture as uncomfortable as
possible.
She clenches her fingers around her bony knees and folds herself in half.
Eyes closed, she remembers the sounds. The desperate coughing, her
mother’s wheezing breaths, not enough oxygen getting in. She summons the
image of her balding head and her skin clinging to her feeble skeleton after
six months of chemo. The oxygen mask. The sedation.
The urge recedes, and the smell of tobacco that her brain has hallucinated
is progressively replaced by that of hospital detergents, and death.
She needs to go out. Hasn’t been drinking or dancing in a while, it would
do her good. That’s probably what her friends are saying in that group chat
she hasn’t opened in two weeks.
 When she feels strong enough, she unravels her spine and looks around.
The thought of doing breathing exercises when she’s already so wound up
only works to enrage her further, but her observational instincts, apart from
proving useful in her line of work, have also shown their efficiency in
working her out of a frenzy.
She takes in the naked trees. One or two are budding, too early for the
season. She counts the cars driving by, listens for the chiming bells of
bicycles announcing themselves. A mother pushing a pram, struggling to
hold the hand of her toddler walking next to her at the same time. Dogs
trotting along their owners. The sky is grey, a light wind blowing and
making her shiver. She never wears scarves, or gloves, or hats. She forgets
that she’s not invincible.
She has no idea how long she has spent on that bench when she finally
feels ready to go back up. Her phone pings right as she enters the building
again. An email, giving them the go ahead to search the Parrys’ home. She
punches the button for her floor, and it hurts, but not enough.

***

Andy can’t stomach making the call to confirm the time of their visit to Mrs
Parry. She conveniently disappears to the toilet, leaving long enough so that
when she comes back, Claire simply informs her she’s used the number
written down in Andy’s notebook and made arrangements. They are going
the next day at two.
Andy can’t eat properly that night. She nibbles half heartedly on an
apple, and ends up having tea in bed, scrolling through the news on her
phone and thinking of an empty fridge.
Claire picks her up the next day, and they go together. Andy makes
herself talk of the last film she saw, but she knows it lacks her usual fire
when Claire cuts her off to ask her what is wrong.
“Nothing,” she mumbles and ends up looking out the window for the rest
of the ride.
The eye roll she gets in reply says she isn’t fooling anyone in this car.
 They park exactly where Andy had the two times she’s been here. She
doesn’t remark about it and slams the door of the car a little too hard,
wincing at her own gesture. Another car, carrying the forensics team,
follows and parks over the pavement across the street. Andy doesn’t like the
intense tossing and turning her stomach is performing, but since Claire is
waiting at the end of the little lane leading up to the door, she takes a deep
breath in and walks in front.
She knocks.
Mrs Parry must have been behind the door already considering how fast
she opens it.
“Oh, good afternoon,” she says, looking up at Andy who can’t seem to be
able to answer more than one word:
“Hi.”
The other woman leans to the side and peers behind her, her eyebrows
pinched up when she notices the four other people waiting there.
“All right,” she whispers, more to herself than to Andy, before moving to
the side and holding the door open. “Please come in.”
The officers there are all women. Nobody will ever know which strings
Andy pulled to make that happen.
They are all greeted with a smile too small, but a polite one nonetheless.
Mrs Parry doesn’t offer to make tea for everyone, but answers questions
about the house, the garden, which door leads to which room, and the
officers scatter, gloves and hair protection on. Andy stays behind. She feels
like there are too many of them anyway, and she can’t bear the thought of
seeing the rest of the house by herself.
Mrs Parry puts the kettle on and prepares two mugs.
She’s leaning against the counter in the kitchen, nervously biting at her
lower lip until Andy sits down in her usual chair.
“Still no news?” Mrs Parry asks, and if Andy isn’t mistaken, there is
hope in that question, but not where it should be.
“Nothing yet. We’re collaborating with the Missing Persons Unit to adopt
the best strategy possible. With the release of information to the public, we
Another random document with
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Et cet immense os frontal de M. Kurtz !… On dit que le poil parfois
continue de pousser ; mais la calvitie de ce… de ce spécimen était
impressionnante. La sauvagerie l’avait caressé sur la tête, et celle-ci
était devenue pareille à une boule, à une boule d’ivoire… Elle l’avait
caressé, et il s’était flétri ; elle l’avait saisi, aimé, étreint, elle s’était
glissée dans ses veines, elle avait consumé sa chair et avait scellé
son âme à la sienne par les indicibles sacrements de je ne sais
quelle initiation diabolique. Il était son favori, choyé et chéri… De
l’ivoire ! Ah, je pense bien… Des tas, des montagnes d’ivoire… La
vieille baraque de glaise en éclatait !… On eût juré qu’il ne restait
plus une seule défense dans le pays, ni sur le sol ni en dessous… —
Pour la plus grande partie fossile, — avait déclaré le Directeur d’un
ton de dénigrement. Il n’était pas plus fossile que moi, mais on
l’appelle fossile quand il a été déterré. Il paraît que ces nègres
enfouissent parfois leurs défenses ; mais apparemment ils ne les
avaient pas enterrées assez profondément pour épargner à l’habile
M. Kurtz sa destinée. Nous en remplîmes le vapeur et il fallut en
outre en empiler un tas sur le pont. Tant qu’il lui fut donné de voir, il
put ainsi contempler et se congratuler, car le sentiment de sa fortune
persista en lui jusqu’à la fin. Il vous eût fallu l’entendre dire : « Mon
Ivoire ». Oh oui ! je l’ai entendu. Ma Fiancée, mon ivoire, ma station,
mon fleuve, mon… — tout en fait était à lui. J’en retenais ma
respiration, comme si je m’étais attendu à ce que la sauvagerie
éclatât d’un rire prodigieux qui eût secoué sur leur axe les étoiles
immobiles. Tout lui appartenait, — mais ce n’était là qu’un détail.
L’important, c’était de démêler à qui il appartenait, lui ; combien de
puissances ténébreuses étaient en droit de le réclamer. Ce genre de
réflexions vous faisait froid dans le dos. Quant à deviner, c’était
impossible et du reste malsain. Il avait occupé une place si élevée
parmi les démons de ce pays, — et je l’entends au sens littéral. Vous
ne pouvez pas comprendre… Et comment comprendriez-vous, vous
qui sentez le pavé solide sous vos pieds, entourés que vous êtes de
voisins obligeants prêts à vous applaudir ou à vous tomber dessus,
vous qui cheminez délicatement entre le boucher et le policeman,
dans la sainte terreur du scandale, des galères et de l’asile
d’aliénés ; comment imagineriez-vous cette région des premiers
âges où ses pas désentravés peuvent entraîner un homme, à la
faveur de la solitude absolue, de la solitude, sans policeman !…, à
force de silence, de ce silence total où le murmure d’aucun voisin
bien intentionné ne se fait l’écho de ce que les autres pensent de
vous… C’est de ces petites choses-là qu’est faite la grande
différence… Qu’elles disparaissent et vous aurez à faire fond sur
votre propre vertu, sur votre propre aptitude à la fidélité. Bien
entendu, vous pouvez être trop sot pour risquer d’être dévoyé, trop
borné même pour soupçonner que vous êtes assailli par les
puissances des ténèbres. Je tiens que jamais imbécile n’a vendu
son âme au diable ; l’imbécile est trop imbécile ou le diable trop
diable, je ne sais lequel. Ou encore, vous pouvez être une créature
éblouie d’exaltation au point d’en demeurer aveugle et sourd à tout
ce qui n’est pas visions ou harmonies célestes. La terre dès lors
n’est plus pour vous qu’un endroit de passage, et qu’à ce compte, il
y ait perte ou gain, je n’ai pas la prétention d’en décider… La plupart
d’entre nous cependant ne sont ni de ceux-ci ni de ceux-là… Pour
nous, la terre est un endroit où il nous faut vivre, nous accommoder
de visions, d’harmonies et d’odeurs aussi, parbleu !… — respirer de
l’hippopotame crevé et n’en pas être empoisonné !… Et c’est là que
la force personnelle entre en jeu. La confiance où vous êtes d’arriver
à creuser des fosses pas trop voyantes où enfouir des choses…, —
votre faculté de dévouement, non pas à vous-même, mais à quelque
obscure et exténuante besogne… Et c’est assez malaisé. Notez que
je n’essaie ni d’excuser, ni d’expliquer ; je tente seulement de me
rendre compte pour… pour M. Kurtz, pour l’ombre de M. Kurtz. Ce
fantôme initié, surgi du fond du Néant, m’honora d’une confiance
surprenante avant de se dissiper définitivement. Tout simplement
parce qu’il pouvait parler anglais avec moi. Le Kurtz en chair et en
os avait reçu une partie de son éducation en Angleterre, et —
comme il eut la bonté de me le dire, — ses sympathies restaient
fixées au bon endroit. Sa mère était à demi-Anglaise, son père, à
demi-Français… Toute l’Europe avait collaboré à la confection de
Kurtz, et je ne tardai pas à apprendre qu’avec beaucoup d’à-propos,
la Société Internationale pour la Suppression des Coutumes
Barbares l’avait chargé de faire un rapport destiné à l’édification de
cette Compagnie. Et il l’avait écrit, ce rapport ! Je l’ai vu. Je l’ai lu.
C’était éloquent, vibrant d’éloquence, mais je le crains, un peu trop
sublime. Il avait trouvé le temps d’y aller de dix-sept pages d’écriture
serrée. Mais sans doute était-ce avant que sa… — mettons avant
que ses nerfs se fussent détraqués et l’eussent amené à présider
certaines danses nocturnes, se terminant sur je ne sais quels rites
innommables dont ce que j’appris çà et là me fit conclure bien
malgré moi que c’était lui — lui, M. Kurtz — entendez-vous, qui en
était l’objet. Ah ! c’était un fameux morceau, ce rapport. Le
paragraphe de début, pourtant, à la lumière d’informations
ultérieures, m’apparaît à présent terriblement significatif. Il
commençait par déclarer que, nous autres blancs, au point de
développement où nous sommes parvenus, « nous devons
nécessairement leur apparaître (aux sauvages) sous la figure d’êtres
surnaturels, — nous les approchons avec l’appareil d’une force
quasi divine, » et ainsi de suite. « Par le seul exercice de notre
volonté, nous pouvons mettre au service du bien une puissance
presque illimitée, etc., etc. ». C’est de là que, prenant son essor, il
m’entraîna à sa suite. La péroraison était magnifique, bien qu’assez
malaisée à retenir. Elle me donna l’impression d’une exotique
Immensité régie par une auguste Bienveillance. Elle me transporta
d’enthousiasme. J’y retrouvais le prestige sans limite de l’éloquence,
des mots, de nobles mots enflammés. Aucune suggestion pratique
qui rompît le magique courant des phrases, à moins qu’une sorte de
note, au bas de la dernière page, griffonnée évidemment bien plus
tard et d’une main mal assurée, ne dût être considérée comme
l’énoncé d’une méthode. Elle était fort simple et terminant cet
émouvant appel à tous les sentiments altruistes, elle éclatait,
lumineuse et terrifiante, comme le trait d’un éclair dans un ciel
serein : « Exterminer toutes ces brutes ». Le plus curieux, c’est qu’il
avait apparemment perdu de vue ce remarquable post-scriptum,
attendu que plus tard, lorsqu’il revint en quelque sorte à lui, il me pria
à plusieurs reprises de prendre soin de son « opuscule » (c’est ainsi
qu’il l’appelait) tant il était assuré qu’il aurait une heureuse influence
sur sa carrière. J’eus des renseignements complets sur toutes ces
choses ; en outre il advint que c’est moi qui eus à prendre soin de sa
mémoire. Ce que j’ai fait pour elle me donnerait le droit indiscutable
de la vouer, si tel était mon bon plaisir, à l’éternel repos du seau à
ordures du progrès, parmi toutes les balayures et — je parle au
figuré — tous les chiens crevés de la civilisation. Mais, voyez-vous,
je n’ai pas le choix. Il ne veut pas se laisser oublier. Quoi qu’il eût
été, il n’était pas banal. Il avait le don de charmer ou d’épouvanter à
ce point des âmes rudimentaires, qu’elles se lançaient en son
honneur dans je ne sais quelles danses ensorcelées : il avait le don
aussi de remplir les petites âmes des pèlerins d’amères méfiances ;
il avait un ami du moins et il avait fait la conquête d’une âme qui
n’était ni corrompue ni entachée d’égoïsme. Non, je ne puis l’oublier,
bien que je n’aille pas jusqu’à affirmer qu’il valût la vie de l’homme
que nous perdîmes en allant le chercher. Mon timonier me manqua
terriblement. Il commença à me manquer alors que son corps était
encore étendu dans l’abri de pilote. Peut-être trouverez-vous
passablement inattendu ce regret pour un sauvage qui ne comptait
guère plus qu’un grain de sable dans un noir Sahara. Mais, voyez-
vous, il avait servi à quelque chose ; il avait gouverné : pendant des
mois je l’avais eu derrière moi, comme une aide, un instrument. Cela
avait créé une sorte d’association. Il gouvernait pour moi : il me
fallait le surveiller. Je m’irritais de son insuffisance et ainsi un pacte
subtil s’était formé dont je ne m’aperçus qu’au moment où il fut
brusquement rompu. Et l’intime profondeur de ce regard qu’il me
jeta, en recevant sa blessure, est demeurée jusqu’à ce jour dans ma
mémoire, comme si, à l’instant suprême, il eût voulu attester notre
distante parenté.
« Pauvre diable ! Que n’avait-il laissé ce volet en paix ! Mais il
n’avait aucune retenue, aucun contrôle de soi-même — pas plus que
Kurtz ! Il était l’arbre balancé par le vent… Aussitôt que j’eus enfilé
une paire de pantoufles sèches, je le tirai hors de la cabine, après
avoir arraché la lance de son côté : opération que, — je l’avoue, —
j’accomplis les yeux fermés. Ses talons sautèrent sur le pas de la
porte ; ses épaules pesaient sur ma poitrine, je le tirais à reculons
avec une énergie désespérée. Ce qu’il était lourd ! lourd ! Il me
paraissait plus lourd qu’aucun homme ne l’avait jamais été !…
Ensuite, sans autre cérémonie, je le fis basculer par-dessus bord. Le
courant le saisit comme s’il n’eût été qu’une simple touffe d’herbes,
et je vis le corps rouler deux fois sur lui-même avant de disparaître
pour toujours. Tous les pèlerins à ce moment et le Directeur étaient
rassemblés sur l’avant-pont, autour de l’abri du pilote, jacassant
entre eux comme une bande de pies excitées, et ma diligence
impitoyable souleva un murmure scandalisé. J’avoue que je ne vois
pas pourquoi ils tenaient à conserver ce cadavre. Pour l’embaumer
peut-être ! Sur l’entrepont, cependant, un autre murmure avait couru,
fort significatif. Mes amis, les coupeurs de bois, étaient tout aussi
scandalisés et avec plus d’apparence de raison, bien que je n’hésite
pas à reconnaître que leur raison n’était guère admissible. Aucun
doute là-dessus ! Mais j’avais décidé que si mon timonier devait être
mangé, ce seraient les poissons seuls qui l’auraient. Durant sa vie il
n’avait été qu’un pilote médiocre, maintenant qu’il était mort, il
risquait de devenir une tentation sérieuse et, qui sait, de déchaîner
peut-être quelque saisissant incident. Au surplus, j’avais hâte de
reprendre la barre, car l’homme en pyjama rose se révélait
lamentablement en dessous de sa tâche.
« C’est ce que je m’empressai de faire dès que ces funérailles
furent terminées. Nous marchions à vitesse réduite en tenant le
milieu du courant, et je prêtais l’oreille au bavardage autour de moi.
Ils tenaient Kurtz pour perdu et la station aussi : Kurtz était mort, la
station probablement brûlée et ainsi de suite. Le pèlerin à cheveux
rouges s’exaltait à la pensée que ce pauvre Kurtz du moins avait été
dignement vengé. — « Hein ! nous avons dû en faire un fameux
massacre dans le bois. » Il en dansait littéralement, le sanguinaire
petit misérable !… Et il s’était presque évanoui à l’aspect de l’homme
blessé !… Je ne pus m’empêcher de dire : « Vous avez certainement
fait pas mal de fumée !… » Je m’étais aperçu, à la façon dont la cime
des taillis remuait et volait que presque tous les coups avaient porté
trop haut. Le moyen d’atteindre quoi que ce soit si vous ne visez ni
épaulez, et ces gaillards-là tiraient l’arme à la hanche et les yeux
fermés. La débandade, déclarai-je, et j’avais raison, était due
uniquement au bruit strident du sifflet à vapeur. Sur quoi ils
oublièrent Kurtz pour m’accabler de protestations indignées.
« Comme, debout près de la barre, le Directeur murmurait je ne
sais quoi, à voix basse, touchant la nécessité de redescendre un
bon bout du fleuve avant le coucher du soleil, par précaution,
j’aperçus de loin un endroit défriché sur la rive et la silhouette d’une
espèce de bâtiment. — « Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça ? » demandai-
je. De surprise, il se frappa les mains l’une contre l’autre. — La
station ! cria-t-il. Je piquai dessus, tout aussitôt, sans augmenter la
vitesse.
« Au travers de mes jumelles, je découvrais le penchant d’une
colline, garnie d’arbres espacés et dégagée de toute broussaille. Un
long bâtiment délabré apparaissait au sommet, à demi enfoui sous
les hautes herbes ; de grands trous, dans la toiture conique, béaient
tout noirs ; la brousse et la forêt formaient l’arrière-plan. Il n’y avait ni
clôture ni palissade d’aucune sorte, mais sans doute en avait-il
existé une autrefois, car près de la maison, une demi-douzaine de
minces poteaux demeuraient alignés, grossièrement équarris et
ornés à l’extrémité de boules sculptées. Les barreaux ou ce qui avait
dû les réunir, avaient disparu. Bien entendu, la forêt entourait le tout,
mais la berge était dégagée et au bord de l’eau j’aperçus un blanc,
sous un chapeau pareil à une roue de voiture, qui nous faisait signe
avec persistance de toute la longueur de ses bras. En examinant la
lisière de la forêt, j’eus la quasi-certitude d’y discerner des
mouvements ; des formes humaines glissant çà et là. Prudemment
je dépassai l’endroit, ensuite je stoppai les machines et me laissai
dériver. L’homme blanc sur la rive se mit à nous héler et à nous
presser de descendre. — « Nous avons été attaqués, » cria le
Directeur. — « Je sais, je sais, tout va bien ! » hurla l’autre du ton le
plus jovial. « Débarquez ! Tout va bien !… Je suis heureux !… »
« Son aspect me rappelait quelque chose, quelque chose
d’étrange que j’avais déjà vu quelque part. Tout en manœuvrant
pour accoster, je me demandais : à quoi donc ressemble-t-il ? Et tout
à coup je compris. Il avait l’air d’un arlequin… Ses vêtements étaient
faits de ce qui sans doute avait été autrefois de la toile brune, mais
ils étaient entièrement couverts de pièces éclatantes, bleues,
rouges, jaunes, — pièces dans le dos, sur le devant, sur les coudes,
aux genoux ; ganse de couleur au veston, ourlet écarlate au fond de
son pantalon ; et le soleil le faisait paraître extraordinairement gai et
propre en même temps, parce qu’on pouvait voir avec quel soin ce
rapiéçage avait été fait. La face imberbe et enfantine, très blond, pas
de traits pour ainsi dire, un nez qui pelait, de petits yeux bleus, force
sourires et froncements qui se succédaient sur cette physionomie
ouverte, comme l’ombre et la lumière sur une plaine balayée par le
vent. « Attention, capitaine ! » cria-t-il. « Il y a un tronc d’arbre qui
s’est logé ici la nuit dernière… » — « Quoi, encore un !… » J’avoue
que je lâchai un scandaleux juron. Peu s’en fallut que je
n’éventrasse mon rafiau pour finir cette charmante excursion.
L’arlequin sur la rive leva vers moi son petit nez camus : « Anglais,
fit-il, tout illuminé d’un sourire. — Et vous ? » hurlai-je de la barre. Le
sourire s’éteignit et il hocha la tête, comme pour s’excuser d’avoir à
me désappointer. Mais il s’éclaira à nouveau : « Peu importe ! »
continua-t-il d’un ton d’encouragement. Je demandai : « Arrivons-
nous à temps ?… » — « Il est là-haut, » répondit-il avec un geste de
la tête vers le sommet de la colline, et il s’assombrit subitement. Son
visage était pareil au ciel d’automne, tantôt couvert et tantôt éclatant.
« Quand le Directeur, escorté des pèlerins, tous armés jusqu’aux
dents, eut pénétré dans l’habitation, le gaillard monta à bord. « Dites
donc, ça ne me plaît guère. Les indigènes sont dans la brousse, »
fis-je… Il m’assura sérieusement que tout allait bien. — « Ce sont
des âmes simples, ajouta-t-il. Je suis content tout de même que
vous soyez arrivés… Il me fallait passer mon temps à les tenir à
distance… — Mais vous venez de me dire que tout allait bien !… »
m’écriai-je. — « Oh ! ils n’avaient pas de mauvaises intentions, » et
sous mon regard, il se reprit : « Pas de mauvaises intentions à
proprement parler… » Ensuite avec vivacité : « Ma foi, votre abri de
pilote a besoin d’un nettoyage !… » Et sans, reprendre haleine, il me
conseilla de garder assez de vapeur pour faire marcher le sifflet en
cas d’alerte : « Un bon coup de sifflet fera plus d’effet que tous vos
fusils !… Ce sont des âmes simples !… » répéta-t-il. Il s’exprimait
avec tant de volubilité que j’en étais étourdi. Il semblait vouloir
rattraper tout un arriéré de longs silences et, effectivement, il convint
en riant que tel était bien son cas. « Ne parlez-vous donc pas avec
M. Kurtz ? demandai-je. — Oh, on ne parle pas avec un homme
comme lui, on l’écoute… », s’écria-t-il avec une sévère exaltation. —
« Mais maintenant… » — Il agita le bras et en un instant se trouva
enfoncé dans l’abîme du découragement. D’un bond toutefois il en
émergea, prit possession de mes deux mains et les serra sans
arrêter, tout en bredouillant : « Collègue, marin… Honneur…
plaisir… délice… me présente moi-même… Russe… fils d’un
archiprêtre… Gouvernement de Tambov… Quoi ! du tabac ?… Du
tabac anglais ; cet excellent tabac anglais !… Ah, cela, c’est d’un
frère… si je fume ?… Quel est le marin qui ne fume pas… »
« La pipe lui rendit quelque calme, et peu à peu je démêlai que
s’étant échappé du collège, il s’était embarqué sur un navire russe,
s’était enfui à nouveau et avait servi pendant quelque temps sur des
navires anglais : qu’il était maintenant réconcilié avec l’archiprêtre…
Il insistait sur ce point. — « Mais quand on est jeune, on doit voir du
pays, acquérir de l’expérience, des idées, élargir son intelligence… »
« Même ici !…, » fis-je en l’interrompant. — « Sait-on jamais !… C’est
ici que j’ai rencontré M. Kurtz… » me répondit-il d’un ton de reproche
et d’enfantine solennité. Je tins ma langue désormais. Il paraît qu’il
avait amené une maison de commerce hollandaise de la côte à lui
confier des provisions, des marchandises et qu’il s’était enfoncé
dans l’intérieur d’un cœur léger, sans plus se soucier qu’un enfant de
ce qui pouvait lui arriver. Il avait erré sur le fleuve pendant près de
deux ans, seul, séparé de tout le monde et de toutes choses. — « Je
ne suis pas aussi jeune que j’en ai l’air. J’ai vingt-cinq ans,
m’expliqua-t-il. D’abord, le vieux Van Shuyten essaya de m’envoyer
au diable, contait-il avec un sensible amusement, mais je m’obstinai
et parlai, parlai tant et si bien qu’à la fin il eut peur que son chien
favori n’en fît une maladie, de sorte qu’il me donna une pacotille et
quelques fusils en me disant qu’il espérait bien ne plus me revoir.
Brave vieux Hollandais, ce Van Shuyten !… Je lui ai expédié un petit
lot d’ivoire il y a un an, ainsi il ne pourra me traiter de filou lorsque je
rentrerai. J’espère qu’il l’a reçu… Pour le reste, je m’en fiche…
J’avais préparé un tas de bois pour vous… C’était mon ancienne
maison. L’avez-vous vu ?… »
Je lui tendis le livre de Towson. Il faillit se jeter à mon cou, mais
se retint. — « Le seul livre qui me restât et je pensais l’avoir perdu,
fit-il en le considérant avec extase. Il y a tant d’accidents qui vous
guettent quand on circule ici seul… Les canots parfois chavirent, et
parfois aussi, il faut décamper si vite, quand les gens se fâchent… »
Il feuilletait les pages. — « Vous y avez fait des annotations en
russe », dis-je. Il fit oui de la tête. « J’avais cru qu’elles étaient
rédigées en chiffre… » — Il se mit à rire puis, avec sérieux : « J’ai eu
beaucoup de peine à tenir ces gens-là à distance… » — « Est-ce
qu’ils voulaient vous tuer ?… » demandai-je. — « Oh, non ! » fit-il et il
s’interrompit aussitôt. — « Pourquoi vous ont-ils attaqués ?… »
continuai-je. Il hésita ; puis avec une sorte de pudeur : « Ils ne
veulent pas qu’il s’en aille !… » fit-il. — « Pas possible », m’écriai-je
étonné. Il eut un nouveau hochement de tête plein de mystère et de
sagesse. — « Je vous le dis, reprit-il, cet homme a élargi mon
esprit. » Et il ouvrit les bras, tout grand, en me regardant de ses
petits yeux bleus, qui étaient parfaitement ronds.
 III

« Je le considérai à mon tour, confondu d’étonnement. Il était là

devant moi, en habit bariolé, comme s’il venait de s’échapper d’une
troupe de baladins, enthousiaste et fabuleux. Le fait seul de son
existence était invraisemblable, inexplicable, complètement
déconcertant. Il était un de ces problèmes qu’on ne résout pas.
Impossible d’imaginer comment il avait vécu, comment il avait pu
parvenir si loin, comment il s’était arrangé pour y rester — pourquoi il
n’avait pas disparu incontinent. — « J’ai poussé un peu plus avant,
disait-il, et puis encore un peu plus, jusqu’au moment où je me suis
trouvé être allé si loin que je ne vois trop comment j’arriverai jamais
à revenir sur mes pas… Tant pis !… J’ai le temps. Je sais me
débrouiller… Mais emmenez vite Kurtz — vite, je vous le dis !… » —
L’enchantement de la jeunesse enveloppait ses haillons bigarrés,
son dénuement, sa solitude, la profonde désolation de ce stérile
vagabondage. Pendant des mois — des années ! — sa vie n’avait
tenu qu’à un cheveu, et il était là vivant, bravement, étourdiment
vivant et selon toute apparence indestructible, par la seule vertu de
ses jeunes années et de son audace irréfléchie. Je me prenais à le
considérer avec quelque chose comme de l’admiration, voire de
l’envie. Un enchantement l’entraînait ; un autre enchantement le
protégeait. Il n’attendait assurément rien de la sauvagerie que des
espaces où respirer, des étendues où s’enfoncer. Son unique besoin
était d’exister et de circuler en courant le plus de risques possibles,
avec le maximum de privations. Si jamais l’esprit d’aventure,
absolument pur, désintéressé et chimérique posséda un homme,
c’était bien cet adolescent tout rapiécé. Je lui enviai presque la
possession de cette claire et modeste flamme. Elle semblait avoir si
bien consumé en lui toute pensée personnelle que même durant
qu’il vous parlait, on oubliait que c’était à lui — cet homme-là,
présent, devant vous — que toutes ces choses étaient arrivées. Je
ne lui enviai pas toutefois sa dévotion pour Kurtz. Il n’avait pas
délibéré sur ce point. Elle était venue à lui, et il l’avait acceptée avec
une sorte d’ardent fatalisme. Je dois ajouter qu’à mes yeux, de
toutes les choses qu’il avait rencontrées, celle-là était bien la plus
dangereuse.
« Ils s’étaient accointés forcément, comme deux vaisseaux en
panne se rapprochent et finissent par frotter leurs coques l’une
contre l’autre… J’imagine que Kurtz éprouvait le besoin d’un
auditoire, attendu qu’une fois, tandis qu’ils étaient campés dans la
forêt, ils avaient passé toute la nuit à parler, — ou plus
vraisemblablement, c’était Kurtz qui avait parlé… — « Nous avons
parlé de tout, me dit-il, encore transporté à ce souvenir. J’en avais
oublié la notion même du sommeil. Cette nuit ne me parut pas durer
plus d’une heure… — De tout, de tout !… Et même d’amour… » « Il
vous parlait d’amour », fis-je fort surpris. — Il eut un cri presque
passionné. — « Oh, ce n’était pas ce que vous pensez !… Il parlait
d’une manière générale… Il m’a fait comprendre des choses, bien
des choses !… »
« Il leva les bras. Nous étions sur le pont à ce moment et le chef
de mes coupeurs de bois, étendu non loin, tourna vers lui son regard
lourd et brillant. Je jetai les yeux autour de moi, et je ne sais
pourquoi, mais je vous assure que jamais cette terre, ce fleuve, cette
brousse, l’arc même de ce ciel enflammé ne m’apparurent plus
sombres et plus désespérés, plus impénétrables à tout sentiment,
plus impitoyables à toute faiblesse humaine. — « Et depuis lors, fis-
je, vous êtes demeuré avec lui, naturellement ?… »
« Point du tout. Il paraît que leurs relations avaient été très
intermittentes pour diverses raisons. Il lui était arrivé, ainsi qu’il me
l’apprit avec orgueil, de soigner Kurtz durant deux maladies de celui-
ci (et il parlait de cela comme on ferait d’un exploit plein de
risques…) mais, généralement, Kurtz errait seul dans les
profondeurs de la forêt. « Souvent, quand je me rendais à cette
station, il m’a fallu passer des jours et des jours à attendre qu’il
revînt », dit-il, « et cela valait la peine d’attendre, parfois !… » —
« Que faisait-il ?… De l’exploration… », demandai-je. — « Bien
sûr ! » Il avait découvert des tas de villages et même un lac. Mon
homme ne savait pas exactement dans quelle direction, car il était
dangereux de poser trop de questions, mais la plupart des
expéditions de Kurtz pourtant avaient l’ivoire pour objet. —
« Toutefois, objectai-je, il ne devait plus avoir de marchandises à
troquer. » Il détourna les yeux : « Oh, même à l’heure actuelle, il
reste pas mal de cartouches !… » — « Appelons les choses par leur
nom, fis-je. Il razziait simplement le pays ?… » Il fit oui de la tête. —
« Il n’était pas seul sûrement… » Il bredouilla quelque chose au sujet
des villages autour de ce lac. — « Kurtz, n’est-ce pas, suggérai-je,
se faisait suivre par la tribu… » Il témoigna quelque embarras. —
« Ils l’adoraient, » fit-il. Le ton de ces paroles était si extraordinaire
que je le considérai avec attention. La répugnance qu’il éprouvait à
parler de Kurtz se mêlait curieusement en lui au besoin de raconter.
L’homme remplissait sa vie, occupait toutes ses pensées,
commandait ses émotions : « Que voulez-vous ! » éclata-t-il. « Il est
arrivé ici avec l’éclair et le tonnerre à la main : jamais ces gens
n’avaient rien vu de pareil, ni d’aussi terrible. Car il pouvait être
terrible !… Impossible de juger M. Kurtz comme on ferait d’un
homme quelconque. Non, mille fois non !… Tenez — rien que pour
vous donner une idée, un jour, je n’hésite pas à vous le dire, il a
voulu me tirer dessus… mais je ne le juge pas !… » — « Tirer sur
vous, m’écriai-je. Et pourquoi ?… » — « Oh, j’avais un petit lot
d’ivoire que m’avait donné le chef du village, près de ma maison.
J’avais l’habitude, voyez-vous, de tirer du gibier pour eux. Eh bien, il
a prétendu l’avoir et rien ne l’en a fait démordre. Il a déclaré qu’il me
fusillerait à moins que je ne lui donnasse l’ivoire et que je ne
déguerpisse ensuite, attendu qu’il en avait le pouvoir et l’envie par
surcroît, et qu’il n’y avait rien au monde qui pût l’empêcher de tuer
qui bon lui semblait. Et c’était vrai… Je lui donnai l’ivoire. Cela
m’était bien égal. Mais je ne déguerpis pas. Non, je n’aurais pu le
quitter… Il me fallut être prudent, bien entendu jusqu’au moment où
nous fûmes amis de nouveau, pour un temps. C’est alors qu’il eut sa
seconde maladie. Ensuite, j’eus à me tenir à l’écart, mais je ne lui en
voulais pas. Il passait la plus grande partie de son temps dans ces
villages sur le lac. Quand il regagnait le fleuve, parfois il s’attachait à
moi ; parfois aussi, il valait mieux pour moi garder mes distances.
Cet homme souffrait trop. Il détestait toutes choses ici, et pour je ne
sais quelle raison, il ne pouvait s’en détacher. Quand j’en eus
l’occasion, je le suppliai encore de s’en aller, alors qu’il en était
temps encore. Je lui offris de rentrer avec lui. Il acceptait et n’en
demeurait pas moins ici. Il partait pour une autre chasse à l’ivoire,
disparaissait pendant des semaines, s’oubliait parmi ces gens —
oui, s’oubliait lui-même, comprenez-vous !… » — « Quoi, il est fou ! »
fis-je. Il protesta avec indignation. M. Kurtz ne pouvait être fou. Si je
l’avais entendu parler, il y a deux jours seulement, je n’aurais osé
risquer une telle supposition… J’avais pris mes jumelles tandis qu’il
parlait, et j’inspectais la rive, fouillant des yeux la lisière de la forêt
de chaque côté de la maison et derrière celle-ci. Le sentiment qu’il y
avait des yeux dans cette brousse — si silencieuse, si tranquille,
aussi silencieuse et tranquille que la maison en ruines, sur le
sommet de la colline — me mettait mal à l’aise. Pas la moindre trace
sur la face des choses de l’extraordinaire histoire qui m’était moins
contée que suggérée par ces exclamations désolées, ces
haussements d’épaules, ces phrases interrompues, ces allusions
finissant sur de profonds soupirs. La forêt demeurait impassible,
comme un masque ; épaisse comme la porte close d’une prison, elle
regardait d’un air de sagesse secrète, de patiente attente,
d’inaccessible silence. Le Russe m’expliquait que Kurtz n’avait
regagné le fleuve que depuis peu, ramenant avec lui tous les
guerriers de cette tribu lacustre. Il était resté absent pendant
plusieurs mois, — à se faire adorer, je suppose !… — et était rentré
à l’improviste, méditant selon toute apparence quelque raid de
l’autre côté du fleuve ou en aval. Évidemment le désir d’avoir un peu
plus d’ivoire l’avait emporté sur — comment dirai-je !… — sur de
moins matérielles aspirations… Cependant son état de santé avait
empiré brusquement. — « J’appris qu’il était couché, privé de tous
soins : aussi j’accourus et risquai le coup…, dit le Russe. Oh, il est
bas, il est très bas !… » Je dirigeai la lorgnette vers la maison. Aucun
signe de vie : je n’apercevais que le toit croulant, la longue muraille
de boue au-dessus des hautes herbes, avec trois trous en guise de
fenêtres et dont aucun n’était pareil à son voisin ; tout m’apparaissait
comme à portée de main, eût-on dit. Et tout à coup un geste
m’échappa, et l’un des derniers poteaux qui subsistassent de la
clôture évanouie disparut subitement du champ de ma vision. J’avais
été frappé de loin, vous vous en souvenez, par certains essais de
décoration que rendait d’autant plus remarquable l’état de
délabrement du lieu. Il venait de m’être donné de les considérer de
plus près et l’effet immédiat avait été de me faire rejeter la tête en
arrière, comme pour éviter un coup ! L’un après l’autre, j’examinai
soigneusement chacun des poteaux avec mes jumelles, et mon
erreur m’apparut. Ces boules rondes étaient non pas ornementales,
mais symboliques ; elles étaient, expressives et déconcertantes à la
fois, saisissantes et troublantes, nourriture pour la pensée, pour les
vautours aussi, s’il y en avait planant dans le ciel, nourriture en tout
cas pour les fourmis assez avisées pour grimper aux montants. Elles
auraient été plus impressionnantes encore, ces têtes fichées sur des
pieux, si le visage n’en avait été tourné du côté de la maison. Une
seule, la première que j’eusse remarquée, me faisait face. Je ne fus
pas aussi écœuré que vous pouvez croire. Le recul que j’avais eu
n’était en réalité qu’un mouvement de surprise. Je m’étais attendu
somme toute à trouver là une boule de bois. Délibérément, je
ramenai mon regard vers la première qui m’était apparue : noire,
sèche et recroquevillée, la tête aux paupières closes était toujours
là, comme endormie au bout de son pieu, et même, avec ses minces
lèvres retroussées, laissant voir l’étroite ligne blanche des dents, elle
avait l’air de sourire, d’un sourire perpétuel, au rêve hilare et sans fin
de l’éternel sommeil.
« Je ne divulgue aucun secret commercial. En fait, le Directeur
me dit plus tard que les méthodes de M. Kurtz avaient ruiné le
district. Je n’ai point d’opinion sur ce point, mais je tiens à marquer
clairement qu’il n’y avait rien d’avantageux dans la présence de ces
têtes. Elles témoignaient simplement que M. Kurtz était dénué de
retenue dans la satisfaction de ses divers appétits, que quelque
chose lui manquait, une pauvre petite chose qui, lorsque le besoin
s’en faisait sentir, se cherchait en vain parmi tant de magnifique
éloquence. Qu’il se rendît compte de cette lacune, je ne saurais le
dire. Je crois qu’il en eut le sentiment vers la fin, presque à son
dernier moment. La sauvagerie, elle, n’avait guère tardé à le percer
à jour et s’était terriblement revanchée de la fantastique invasion. Il
m’apparaît qu’elle lui avait chuchoté à l’oreille certaines choses sur
lui-même qu’il ignorait, dont il n’avait pas le moindre soupçon, avant
d’avoir pris conseil de la grande solitude — et le chuchotement
s’était révélé irrésistiblement fascinateur. L’écho avait été d’autant
plus profond en M. Kurtz qu’il était creux à l’intérieur… J’abaissai la
lorgnette, et la tête qui m’était apparue si proche que j’aurais pu,
pour ainsi dire, lui adresser la parole, disparut loin de moi dans
l’inaccessible distance.
« L’admirateur de M. Kurtz était un peu penaud. D’une voix
rapide et indistincte, il m’assura qu’il n’avait pas osé enlever ces…
ces… — disons, ces symboles… Ce n’est pas qu’il eût peur des
indigènes : ils n’auraient pas bougé, à moins que M. Kurtz ne leur fît
signe. Son ascendant sur eux était extraordinaire. Le campement de
ces gens entourait toute la station et chaque jour, les chefs venaient
le voir. Ils s’avançaient en rampant… « Je ne tiens pas à savoir quoi
que ce soit du cérémonial usité pour approcher M. Kurtz !… » criai-
je. Curieux, j’eus l’impression que ces détails seraient moins
supportables que la vue des têtes qui séchaient sur des pieux en
face des fenêtres de M. Kurtz… Après tout, ce n’était là qu’un
spectacle barbare, et dans cette obscure région de subtiles horreurs,
où d’un bond j’avais été transporté, la simple sauvagerie, affranchie
de toute complication, apportait du moins le réconfort réel d’une
chose qui avait le droit d’exister — notoirement à la lumière du jour.
Le jeune homme me regarda avec surprise. J’imagine qu’il ne lui
était pas venu à l’esprit que M. Kurtz n’était pas une idole pour moi.
Il oubliait que je n’avais entendu aucun de ses splendides
monologues… sur quoi donc !… ah, oui ! sur l’amour, la justice, la
conduite de la vie, que sais-je encore… S’il fallait ramper devant M.
Kurtz, il rampait comme le plus sauvage d’entre ces sauvages. Je ne
me rendais pas compte des circonstances, fit-il. Ces têtes étaient
celles de rebelles. Je le surpris considérablement en me mettant à
rire. Rebelles ! Quelle était la prochaine qualification que j’allais
entendre ? Il y avait déjà eu ennemis, criminels, ouvriers ; ceux-ci
étaient des rebelles. Ces têtes rebelles pourtant avaient un air bien
soumis au bout de leur bâton. — « Vous ne soupçonnez pas à quel
point une telle existence met à l’épreuve un homme comme M.
Kurtz !… », s’écria le dernier disciple de M. Kurtz. — « Eh bien, et
vous ?… » fis-je. — « Moi ! Oh, moi, je ne suis qu’un pauvre
diable !… Je n’ai point d’idées… Je n’attends rien de personne…
Comment pouvez-vous me comparer à… » L’excès de son émotion
l’empêchait de parler ; il s’arrêta court. « Je ne comprends pas,
gémit-il. J’ai fait de mon mieux pour le garder en vie et cela me suffit.
Je n’ai pas eu de part dans tout cela… Je suis une âme simple…
Depuis des mois, ici, il n’y a pas eu le moindre médicament, pas une
bouchée de quoi que ce soit à donner à un malade… Il a été
honteusement abandonné… Un homme comme lui et avec de telles
idées… Honteux, oui, c’est honteux… Et je… je n’ai pas fermé l’œil
ces dix dernières nuits !… »
« Sa voix se perdit dans le calme du soir. Les ombres allongées
de la forêt avaient glissé jusqu’au bas de la colline, tandis que nous
parlions, dépassant la baraque croulante et la rangée symbolique de
poteaux. La pénombre à présent enveloppait tout cela, cependant
que nous étions encore dans la clarté du soleil, et que le fleuve, en
face de là, brillait toujours d’une éclatante et tranquille splendeur que
bordait, au long de la rive et au-dessus d’elle, une bande obscure et
ombragée. Pas une âme sur la berge. La brousse n’avait pas un
frémissement.
« Et tout à coup, tournant l’angle de la maison, un groupe
d’hommes apparut, comme surgi de terre. Ils avançaient enfoncés
jusqu’à mi-corps dans les hautes herbes, formés en bloc compact et
portant au milieu d’eux une civière improvisée. A l’instant, dans le
vide du paysage, une clameur s’éleva, dont l’acuité perça l’air
immobile ainsi qu’une flèche pointue volant droit au cœur du pays, et
comme par enchantement, un torrent d’êtres humains nus, avec des
lances dans leurs mains, avec des arcs, des boucliers, des yeux
féroces et des gestes sauvages, fut lâché dans la clairière par la
sombre et pensive forêt. La brousse trembla. Les hautes herbes un
instant s’inclinèrent, et ensuite tout demeura coi dans une attentive
immobilité.
— « Et maintenant, s’il ne dit pas le mot qu’il faut, nous sommes
tous fichus… » fit le Russe à mon oreille. Le groupe d’hommes avec
la civière s’était arrêté, lui aussi, comme pétrifié, à mi-chemin du
vapeur. Par-dessus les épaules des porteurs, je vis l’homme de la
civière se mettre sur son séant, décharné et un bras levé. —
« Espérons, fis-je, que l’être qui sait si bien parler de l’amour en
général trouvera quelque raison particulière de nous épargner cette
fois !… » J’étais amèrement irrité de l’absurde danger de notre
situation, comme si d’être à la merci de cet affreux fantôme eût été
quelque chose de déshonorant. Je n’entendais pas un son, mais —
au travers de mes jumelles, je distinguais le bras mince
impérieusement tendu, la mâchoire inférieure qui remuait et les yeux
de l’apparition brillant obscurément, enfoncés dans cette tête
osseuse que de grotesques saccades faisaient osciller. Kurtz, Kurtz,
cela signifie court en allemand, n’est-ce pas ?… Eh bien, le nom
était aussi véridique que le reste de sa vie, que sa mort même. Il
paraissait avoir sept pieds de long au moins. Il avait rejeté sa
couverture et son corps atroce et pitoyable en surgissait comme d’un
linceul. Je voyais remuer la cage de son thorax, les os de son bras
qu’il agitait. Il était pareil à une vivante image de la mort, sculptée
dans du vieil ivoire, qui aurait tendu la main, d’un air de menace,
vers une immobile cohue d’hommes faits d’un bronze obscur et
luisant. Je le vis ouvrir la bouche toute grande : il en prit un aspect
extraordinairement vorace, comme s’il eût voulu avaler tout l’air,
toute la terre, tous les hommes devant lui. Une voix profonde en
même temps me parvint faiblement. Il devait crier à tue-tête !… Et
soudain, il s’écroula. La civière vacilla tandis que les porteurs
reprenaient leur marche en titubant, et presque en même temps, je
remarquai que la foule des sauvages se dissipait sans qu’aucun
mouvement de retraite fût nulle part perceptible, comme si la forêt
qui avait si subitement projeté ces créatures les eût absorbées à
nouveau, comme le souffle inhalé d’une longue aspiration.
 « Quelques-uns des pèlerins, derrière la civière, portaient les
armes de Kurtz, deux fusils de chasse, Une carabine de gros calibre,
une autre, légère, à répétition, tous les tonnerres de ce vieux Jupiter.
Le Directeur, penché vers lui, tout en marchant, lui parlait bas à
l’oreille. On le déposa dans l’une des petites cabines, une espèce de
réduit où il y avait tout juste la place d’une couchette et d’une ou
deux chaises de camp. Nous lui avions apporté le courrier qui s’était
accumulé pour lui, et un monceau d’enveloppes déchirées, de lettres
ouvertes jonchait son lit. Ses mains fourrageaient faiblement parmi
tous ces papiers. Je fus frappé par le feu de ses yeux et la langueur
compassée de son expression. Ce n’était pas l’épuisement de la
maladie. Il ne semblait pas souffrir. Cette ombre avait l’air satisfait et
calme, comme si, pour le moment, elle se fût sentie rassasiée
d’émotions.
« Il froissa l’une des lettres et me regardant droit dans les yeux :
« Très heureux de vous rencontrer ! » fit-il. Quelqu’un lui avait écrit à
mon sujet. Toujours les recommandations ! Le volume du son qu’il
émettait sans effort, sans presque prendre la peine de remuer les
lèvres, me stupéfia. Quelle voix, quelle voix ! Elle était grave,
profonde, vibrante, et l’on eût juré que cet homme n’était même plus
capable d’un murmure… Pourtant, il lui restait encore assez de force
— factice, sans nul doute — pour risquer de nous mettre tous à deux
doigts de notre perte, comme vous allez le voir dans un instant.
« Le Directeur apparut silencieusement sur le pas de la porte. Je
me retirai incontinent et il tira le rideau derrière moi. Le Russe que
tous les pèlerins dévisageaient avec curiosité, observait fixement le
rivage. Je suivis la direction de son regard.
« D’obscures formes humaines se distinguaient au loin devant la
sombre lisière de la forêt, et au bord du fleuve, deux figures de
bronze, appuyées sur leurs hautes lances, se dressaient au soleil,
portant sur la tête de fantastiques coiffures de peau tachetée,
martiaux et immobiles, dans une attitude de statue. Et de long en
large, sur la berge, lumineuse, une apparition de femme se mouvait,
éclatante et sauvage.
 « Elle marchait à pas mesurés, drapée dans une étoffe rayée et
frangée, foulant à peine le sol d’un air d’orgueil, dans le tintement
léger et le scintillement de ses ornements barbares. Elle portait la
tête haute ; ses cheveux étaient coiffés en forme de casque ; elle
avait des molletières de laiton jusqu’aux genoux, des brassards de fil
de laiton jusqu’aux coudes, une tache écarlate sur sa joue basanée,
d’innombrables colliers de perles de verre autour du cou, quantité de
choses bizarres, de charmes, de dons de sorciers suspendus à son
corps et qui étincelaient et remuaient à chacun de ses pas. Elle
devait porter sur elle la valeur de plusieurs défenses d’éléphants !
Elle était sauvage et superbe, les yeux farouches, magnifique ; son
allure délibérée avait quelque chose de sinistre et d’imposant. Et
parmi le silence qui était subitement tombé sur ce mélancolique
pays, l’immense sauvagerie, cette masse colossale de vie féconde
et mystérieuse, semblait pensivement contempler cette femme,
comme si elle y eût vu l’image même de son âme ténébreuse et
passionnée.
« Elle s’avança jusqu’à la hauteur du vapeur, s’arrêta et nous fit
face. Son ombre s’allongea en travers des eaux. Sa désolation, sa
douleur muette mêlée à la peur du dessein qu’elle sentait se
débattre en elle, à demi formulé, prêtait à son visage un aspect
tourmenté et tragique. Elle demeura à nous considérer sans un
geste, avec l’air, — comme la sauvagerie elle-même, — de mûrir on
ne sait quelle insondable intention. Une minute tout entière s’écoula
et puis elle fit un pas en avant. Il y eut un tintement faible, un éclat
de métal jaune, une ondulation dans ses draperies frangées et elle
s’arrêta, comme si le cœur lui eût manqué. Le jeune homme près de
moi grommela. Derrière mon dos les pèlerins chuchotaient. Elle
nous regardait comme si sa vie eût dépendu de l’inflexible tension
de son regard. Soudain elle ouvrit ses bras nus et les éleva, tout
droit, au-dessus de sa tête, comme dans un irrésistible désir de
toucher le ciel et en même temps l’obscurité agile s’élança sur la
terre et se répandant au long du fleuve, enveloppa le vapeur dans
une étreinte sombre. Un silence formidable était suspendu au-
dessus de la scène.
 « Elle se détourna lentement, se mit à marcher en suivant la
berge et rentra à gauche dans la brousse. Une fois seulement, avant
de disparaître, elle tourna ses yeux étincelants vers nous.
— « Si elle avait fait mine de monter à bord, fit nerveusement
l’homme rapiécé, je crois bien que j’aurais essayé de l’abattre d’un
coup de fusil !… J’ai risqué ma peau chaque jour, toute cette
quinzaine, pour la tenir à l’écart de la maison. Une fois elle y est
entrée et quelle scène n’a-t-elle pas faite au sujet de ces haillons
que j’avais ramassés dans le magasin pour raccommoder mes
vêtements. Je n’étais pas présentable… Du moins, je pense que
c’est de cela qu’elle parla à Kurtz comme une furie, pendant une
heure, en me désignant de temps en temps… Je ne comprends pas
le dialecte de cette tribu… J’ai quelque idée que Kurtz ce jour-là —
heureusement pour moi — était trop malade pour se soucier de quoi
que ce soit, autrement il y aurait eu du vilain… Je ne comprends
pas… Non, tout cela me dépasse… Enfin, c’est fini, maintenant… »
« A ce moment, j’entendis la voix profonde de Kurtz derrière le
rideau. — « ME sauver !… Vous voulez dire, sauver l’ivoire… Ne
m’en contez pas… ME sauver !… Mais c’est moi qui vous ai
sauvés !… Vous contrariez tous mes projets pour le moment…
Malade, malade !… Pas si malade que vous aimeriez à le croire…
Tant pis… J’arriverai bien malgré tout à réaliser mes idées… Je
reviendrai… Je vous ferai voir ce qu’on peut faire… Avec vos
misérables conceptions d’épicier, vous vous mettez en travers de
mon chemin… Je reviendrai… Je… »
« Le Directeur sortit. Il me fit l’honneur de me prendre par le bras
et de me mener à l’écart. — « Il est très bas, vraiment très bas ! » fit-
il. Il crut nécessaire de pousser un soupir, mais négligea de paraître
affligé en proportion… « Nous avons fait ce que nous pouvions pour
lui, n’est-il pas vrai ?… Mais il n’y a pas à dissimuler le fait : M. Kurtz
a fait plus de tort que de bien à la Société, Il n’a pas compris que les
temps n’étaient pas mûrs pour l’action rigoureuse. Prudemment,
prudemment, — c’est là mon principe. Il nous faut être prudent
encore. Pour quelque temps ce district nous est fermé ; c’est
déplorable… Dans l’ensemble le commerce en souffrira. Je ne nie