Blood Wedding Read Online Free

simply looks at her apathetically. She orders a coffee. The waiter trudges back to the counter.
    O.K., first she needs to get her bearings.
    Rue du Temple. She is . . . let’s see, three, no four
métro
stops from home. That’s right, four stops, Temple, République, change trains, and then . . . What’s the name of the fourth station? She gets off there every day, she has taken the same train hundreds of times. She can picture the entrance clearly, the stairs down and the metal ramps, the newspaper stand in the corner with the guy who always says “Fucking weather, eh?” . . . Shit!
    The waiter brings her coffee, sets the bill down next to it: €1.10. Do I have any money with me? Her handbag is on the table in front of her. She was not even aware that she was carrying a handbag.
    She is acting automatically, her mind a complete blank. That is how she came to be here, that is why she ran away. Something is stirring inside her, as though she were two people. I am two. One quivering with fear in front of a cup of coffee slowly getting cold and the other who walked here, clutching her handbag, forgetting her watch, blithely heading home as though nothing had happened.
    She puts her head in her hands and feels tears running down her cheeks. The waiter looks at her as he polishes glasses, pretending to look blasé. I’m insane, and everyone can see it. I have to leave. I have to get up and leave.
    Shefeels a sudden rush of adrenalin: if I am crazy, then maybe these images in my head are made up. Maybe this is simply a waking nightmare. One she is only now shaking off. That’s it, just a nightmare. She dreamed that she killed the child. This morning, why did she panic and run? I was frightened by my own dream, that’s all.
    Bonne-Nouvelle! That’s the name of the
métro
station, Bonne-Nouvelle. But there is another that comes before. This time she has no problem remembering: Strasbourg-Saint-Denis.
    Her stop is Bonne-Nouvelle. She is sure of that, she can picture it.
    The waiter is staring at her oddly. She is laughing. She was sobbing and suddenly she burst out laughing.
    Is any of this real? She needs to know. To be clear in her own mind. She could telephone. Today is . . . Friday. Léo is not at school. He is at home. Léo must be at home.
    Alone.
    I ran away and left the child on his own.
    I have to call.
    She grabs her bag, rummages inside. The number is on her mobile. She wipes her eyes so that she can read the names. It rings. Once, twice, three times . . . It rings and no-one answers. Léo doesn’t have school today, he is alone in the apartment, the telephone is ringing, but nobody is answering . . . She feels sweat begin to trickle again, this time down her back. “Pick up, for fuck sake!” She counts the rings: four, five, six. There is a click and finally she hears a voice she was not expecting. She wanted to speak to Léo, but it is his mother’s voice that answers: “Hello. You’ve reached the voice-mail of Christine and Alain Gervais . . .” That calm, determined voice chills her to the marrow. What is she waiting for? Why has she nothung up? Every word nails her to her chair. “We’re not here at the moment . . .” Sophie jabs at the “END CALL” button.
    It is incredible, the effort it takes to string two simple thoughts together . . . Reflect. Understand. Léo knows how to answer the phone, in fact he loves racing to get there, picking up the phone, asking who it is. It is perfectly simple: if Léo were there, he would answer; if he does not answer, it means he is not there.
    Shit, where can the little bastard be if he is not at home? He is not able to open the front door by himself. His mother had a childproof lock installed when he was starting to get around everywhere and into everything, and she was worried about him. He is not answering, he cannot have gone out: it is like squaring the circle. Where can the damn boy be?
    Think. It is . . . what? 11.30 a.m.
    The table is scattered with