Talking to Ghosts by Hervé Le Corre, Frank Wynne Page B

wide-eyed into the darkness where even now that miracle seemed to be stirring.
    It had probably been a dream. Nothing had happened. He was lying on his bed surrounded by the familiar outlines of his room, utterly at ease in this familiar space. He didn’t know where his dreams began or ended. He felt he was hovering on the brink of an extraordinary event.
    He scrambled from the bed and stood in the boundless silence. A shiver ran down his back.
    â€œManou?”
    His voice sounded strange, hoarse, a whisper. It may not even have stirred the air. The air around him felt thick and heavy.
    And yet there came an answer. A sound like a throat being cleared. Almost a cough. He stood motionless and listened. He called his mother’s name again, softly, as though talking to someone who might be asleep. A low moaning sound filled the air. A soft, almost imperceptible groan. He did not dare to breathe.
    Then suddenly he smelled tobacco smoke.
    He pushed open the bedroom door and glanced down the hall. The kitchen light was on. Someone was smoking. He did not know whether or not he should be afraid. Brushing his fingertips along the wall, he groped his way through the semi-darkness towards the orange light.
    She was sitting with one elbow propped on the table, staring at the window as she exhaled a plume of smoke, she looked thoughtful, her head tilted back. She was wearing cream cotton trousers and a baggy black T-shirt. A packet of cigarettes lay beside the ashtray, a small blue lighter standing next to it.
    Victor had seen her like this dozens of times, sitting in precisely this position, smoking in silence; she never heard him approach, never turned until he was standing in the doorway, when she would turn and smile to hide the sadness that tugged the corners of her lips into a bitter crease. He did not speak now, but made the most of this daydream so that he could study her. As always, he found her beautiful, in this moment perhaps more beautiful than ever.
    She reached out a hand to tap the ash off her cigarette into the ashtray and shook her black hair.
    â€œManou?”
    She did not react. She just ran her hand through her hair and down her neck, lifting the dark mane that shimmered with blue.
    â€œMaman? Is that you?”
    Victor waved his hand to attract her attention, and suddenly everything faded and darkness enveloped him, forcing him back against the wall. He slumped there for a moment. With a groan, he forced himself to stand up straight and, flicking the light on, he stepped into the kitchen.
    He walked around the table, eyes filled with tears, and stood on the very spot where, a moment earlier, he had seen her. He pulled out the chair, ran his hand over the seat, looked around for the ashtray and saw it lying upside down on the draining board. He spun around, then sat where she had been, adopting the same pose, staring out of the window, one elbow propped on the table, hoping that by some magic of this place, this pose, his mother’s body would materialise in this veryspot, on him or within him. He waited, breathless, tears pouring from his eyes and snot running from his nose. “Come,” he tried to whisper, “come, Manou,” but no sound came but trickles of grief and desperate sobs.
    After a while he got up and looked around again. He put his head under the cold tap, drinking in long gulps. Dripping wet, he reluctantly returned to his room and found his backpack into which he slipped some books –
I Am Legend, The Mysterious Island, Moby Dick
– and his MP3 player. Then, checking that he had everything he needed, he glanced around the room one last time, and carefully closed the door.
    Investigating the other rooms, he was surprised that the police investigations had not created more of a mess. A few cupboard doors or drawers stood open, their contents spilling out, but it was nothing like what he had seen on television or in movies. On the large sideboard in the living room he