back to the basket then darted up the rope where it hung for a long time, whiskers twitching, uncertain as to its next course of action, gauging the level of the threat. And the potential benefits of the situation. She screamed and swore, but the rat ignored her efforts, clinging to the rope, head down, staring at her. The pinkish nose, the glittering eyes, the glossy coat, the long white whiskers and that tail that seems to go on for ever. Alex is numb with terror, unable to catch her breath. She shouted herself hoarse, but, being very weak now, eventually she had to stop and the two stared at each other for a long time.
Motionless, the rat dangles about forty centimetres above her then, cautiously, climbs down into the basket and starts eatingthe kibble, shooting frequent looks at Alex. From time to time, suddenly panicked, it scampers away to take cover only to quickly return. It seems to realise she is no threat. It is hungry. It’s an adult rat, about thirty centimetres long. Alex crouches down in her cage, as far away as possible. She stares at the rat with a fury all the more absurd since it is intended to keep the animal at bay. It’s eaten the dog food now, but it doesn’t scamper back up the rope. Instead it moves towards her. This time Alex doesn’t scream, she squeezes her eyes shut and cries. When she opens them again, the rat is gone.
*
Pascal Trarieux’s father. How did he find her? If her brain weren’t so slow she might be able to think of an answer, but her thoughts now are frozen images, like photographs: nothing is moving. Besides, what does it matter how he found her? She has to negotiate; it’s her only option. She has to come up with a story, something credible, anything that will persuade him to let her out of this crate – after that, she’ll think of something. Alex gathers all the information she can, but her thought process goes no further. A second rat has just appeared.
A bigger rat.
The king rat, maybe. Its coat is much darker.
This one did not crawl down the rope to the basket, no, it darted down the rope supporting the cage and appeared just above Alex’s head. And unlike the previous rat, it didn’t scurry away when she screamed and swore at it, simply moving in short, fitful bursts, until it could rest its forepaws on the top of the crate. Alex can smell the acrid stench of it; it is a fat, sleek rat with long white whiskers and deep black eyes. Its tail is so long that it dangles between the slats and touches Alex’s shoulder.
She screams. The rat turns unhurriedly to look at her, then paces up and down the slat three or four times, stopping from time to time to stare at her as though taking measurements. Alex follows it with her eyes, her whole body tensed, her breathing ragged, her heart beating fit to burst.
That’s what I smell like, she thinks; I smell of shit and piss and vomit. It smells carrion.
The rat rears up on his hind paws, sniffing.
Alex’s eyes move up along the rope.
Two other rats have just begun their descent towards the cage.
14
The building site at the old outpatient clinic looks as if it’s been overrun by a film crew. The R.A.I.D. team have left, forensics have laid dozens of metres of cable, and the courtyard is flooded by the glare of spotlights. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s not an inch of shadow anywhere. Sterile walkways have been created, marked off with red and white police tape, making it possible to walk around without contaminating the scene. The forensics crew are collecting evidence.
What they need to find out is whether Trarieux brought the girl here at any point after the abduction.
Armand likes to have people milling around. As far as he’s concerned, a crowd is first and foremost a ready supply ofcigarettes. He glides easily past those he’s already scrounged off too often before they get a chance to warn newcomers; he’s already stocked up enough to last him four days.
Standing in the courtyard, he
Motionless, the rat dangles about forty centimetres above her then, cautiously, climbs down into the basket and starts eatingthe kibble, shooting frequent looks at Alex. From time to time, suddenly panicked, it scampers away to take cover only to quickly return. It seems to realise she is no threat. It is hungry. It’s an adult rat, about thirty centimetres long. Alex crouches down in her cage, as far away as possible. She stares at the rat with a fury all the more absurd since it is intended to keep the animal at bay. It’s eaten the dog food now, but it doesn’t scamper back up the rope. Instead it moves towards her. This time Alex doesn’t scream, she squeezes her eyes shut and cries. When she opens them again, the rat is gone.
*
Pascal Trarieux’s father. How did he find her? If her brain weren’t so slow she might be able to think of an answer, but her thoughts now are frozen images, like photographs: nothing is moving. Besides, what does it matter how he found her? She has to negotiate; it’s her only option. She has to come up with a story, something credible, anything that will persuade him to let her out of this crate – after that, she’ll think of something. Alex gathers all the information she can, but her thought process goes no further. A second rat has just appeared.
A bigger rat.
The king rat, maybe. Its coat is much darker.
This one did not crawl down the rope to the basket, no, it darted down the rope supporting the cage and appeared just above Alex’s head. And unlike the previous rat, it didn’t scurry away when she screamed and swore at it, simply moving in short, fitful bursts, until it could rest its forepaws on the top of the crate. Alex can smell the acrid stench of it; it is a fat, sleek rat with long white whiskers and deep black eyes. Its tail is so long that it dangles between the slats and touches Alex’s shoulder.
She screams. The rat turns unhurriedly to look at her, then paces up and down the slat three or four times, stopping from time to time to stare at her as though taking measurements. Alex follows it with her eyes, her whole body tensed, her breathing ragged, her heart beating fit to burst.
That’s what I smell like, she thinks; I smell of shit and piss and vomit. It smells carrion.
The rat rears up on his hind paws, sniffing.
Alex’s eyes move up along the rope.
Two other rats have just begun their descent towards the cage.
14
The building site at the old outpatient clinic looks as if it’s been overrun by a film crew. The R.A.I.D. team have left, forensics have laid dozens of metres of cable, and the courtyard is flooded by the glare of spotlights. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s not an inch of shadow anywhere. Sterile walkways have been created, marked off with red and white police tape, making it possible to walk around without contaminating the scene. The forensics crew are collecting evidence.
What they need to find out is whether Trarieux brought the girl here at any point after the abduction.
Armand likes to have people milling around. As far as he’s concerned, a crowd is first and foremost a ready supply ofcigarettes. He glides easily past those he’s already scrounged off too often before they get a chance to warn newcomers; he’s already stocked up enough to last him four days.
Standing in the courtyard, he
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