An Uncertain Place

of butterflies that had fluttered around his head until the doorway of the old mill. They hadn’t wanted to go in – he should have stopped to think and followed their lead. One should always follow butterflies. His ears picked up a sound from the direct ion of the door. It was opening. He was coming back! Anxious to see if the job had been properly done. If not, he’d finish it off in his own way, axe, saw, stone. He was the nervous type, he would worry; Zerk’s hands were always in motion, clenching and unclenching.

The door opened. Adamsberg shut his eyes to protect them from the shock of the light. Zerk closed the door very cautiously, taking his time, and then took out a torch to examine him. Adamsberg sensed the light playing across his eyelids. The man knelt down and pulled the tape roughly from his mouth. Then he felt his body, touching the tape wound round it. He was breathing heavily now, and feeling inside a bag. Adamsberg opened his eyes and looked at him.

It wasn’t Zerk. His hair wasn’t the same. Short and very thick with red tufts that showed up in the torchlight. Adamsberg knew only one man in the world with hair like that, dark brown but with auburn stripes, where he had been attacked with a knife when he was a child. Veyrenc. Louis Veyrenc de Bilhc. And Veyrenc had left the squad, after a long battle with Adamsberg. He had been gone for months, back to his village of Laubazac. He was paddling his feet in the streams of the Bearn, and not a word had been heard from him.

The man had taken out a knife and was now attacking the covering of tape that was compressing Adamsberg’s chest. The knife did not cut well and progress was slow, so the man was swearing and muttering. Not like the way Zerk muttered. Yes, it was indeed Veyrenc, now sitting astride him and tearing away at the tape. Veyrenc was trying to rescue him, Veyrenc was in the tomb in Kisilova. Inside Adamsberg’s head, a great bubble of gratitude formed towards this boy whom he had known from childhood, his enemy of yesterday, Veyrenc, In the night of the tomb, Thou who consolest me. Almost a bubble of passion: Veyrenc, the man who spoke in verse, the colossus with tender lips, the pain in the neck, the one and only. He tried to move his own lips and say his name.

‘Shut up,’ said Veyrenc.

The man from Bearn had managed to make an opening in the shell of duct tape, and was pulling at it with abandon, tearing out hairs from Adamsberg’s chest and arms.

‘Don’t try to talk, don’t make a sound. If it hurts that’s good, it means you can still feel something, but don’t cry out. Can you feel any bit of your body?’

Nothing, Adamsberg managed to mouth slightly moving his head.

‘Oh God, can’t you speak?’

No, Adamsberg managed the same way. Veyrenc was now working on the lower end of his mummified body, and gradually freeing his legs and feet. Then he impatiently chucked the mass of tape behind him and began slapping Adamsberg all over his body like a drummer embarking on a frantic improvisation. After about five minutes of this, he paused and stretched his arms to loosen them. Under his well-padded body, with its round contours, Veyrenc was actually very strong and Adamsberg could hear, without really feeling them, the slapping of his hands. Then Veyrenc changed his approach: he took hold of Adamsberg’s arms, bending and unbending them, did the same with his legs, then slapped him all over again, massaged his scalp and started back on the feet. Adamsberg moved his gelid lips with the feeling that he might begin to utter a few words.

Veyrenc cursed himself for not bringing any alcohol. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He felt without much hope in Adamsberg’s trouser pocket, and brought out two mobile phones and a mass of useless bus tickets. He picked up the shreds that remained of the jacket on the floor and felt in those pockets too: keys, contraceptives, ID card; then his fingers found some small bottles. Adamsberg had three miniature shots of brandy on him.

‘Froiss-y,’ Adamsberg whispered. Veyrenc didn’t seem to understand, as he put his ear to his lips.

‘Froi-ssy.’

Veyrenc had not known Froissy for long, but he got the message. Good old Froissy, what a woman, the goddess of plenty. He opened the first bottle, raised Adamsberg’s head and poured it in.

‘Can you swallow?’

‘Yes.’

Veyrenc poured in the rest of the bottle, unscrewed a second and put it to Adamsberg’s mouth, like an alchemist pouring a miracle cure into a large container. He emptied all three bottles and looked at Adamsberg.

‘Feel anything?’

‘In-side.’

‘Good.’

Veyrenc felt in his rucksack and pulled out his stiff hairbrush, carried because no comb would ever get through his thick hair. He rolled it in a strip of the torn shirt, and rubbed it over Adamsberg’s skin, as if he were curry- combing a horse.

‘That hurt?’

‘Just star-ting.’

For another half-hour, Veyrenc went on with his massaging, bending of limbs and curry-combing, asking all the time, which bit of him was coming back to life? Calves, hands, neck? The brandy had warmed his throat, and speech was returning.

‘I’m going to try and stand you up in a minute. You’ll never get your feet back otherwise.’

Bracing himself against a tomb, the solidly built Veyrenc pulled him upright with ease, and set him on his feet.

‘Can’t – feel – the ground.’

‘Stay standing, so the blood goes down to your feet.’

‘Not feet – horse’s hooves.’

As he helped Adamsberg to stay upright, Veyrenc flashed the torch around the vault for the first time.

‘How many corpses are there in here?’

‘Nine. One – undead. Vesna. Vampire. But – if you’re here – you must – know that.’

‘Me, I don’t know anything. No idea even who put you in this fucking tomb.’

‘Zerk.’

‘Never heard of him. Five days ago I was still in Laubazac. Keep the blood circulating.’

‘How – did you – get – here? Flew off – the mountain?’

‘Something like that. How are the hooves?’

‘One’s – coming – back. Think I can walk – a bit.’

‘You got a gun anywhere in this place?’

‘Kruchema. Inn. You?’

‘No, don’t have my service revolver any more. We’re going to need some reinforcements to get out of here. That guy came back four times in the night to check and listen at the door. I had to wait for him to go away for good, and I waited some more to be sure he wasn’t coming back again.’

‘Who will come out with us then? Ves-na?’

‘There’s light showing under the door, a gap of about half a centimetre. Should be able to get a signal. Stay here, I’m leaving you.’

‘Only – one foot. Bit – tipsy – brandy.’

‘You should be blessing that brandy.’

‘Oh – I am. Bless – you too.’

‘Don’t be in a hurry to bless me, you might regret it.’

Veyrenc lay down on the floor, pushed his phone against the door and checked it with the torch.

‘Yeah, I think I’m getting a signal. Have you got someone’s number in the village?’

‘Vlad-is-lav. On my – mobile. Speaks French.’

‘Good. What’s this place we’re in called?’

‘Tomb of the – victims. Of Plog-o-jo-witz.’

‘Charming,’ said Veyrenc, tapping in the number. ‘A serial killer or what?’

‘Chief vam-pire.’

‘Your pal isn’t answering.’

‘Keep – trying. What – time is it?’

‘Nearly ten.’