‘Shut up,’ said Veyrenc.
The man from Béarn 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.’
‘May – be – still – a bit high. Try – again.’
‘You trust him?’
One hand holding on to a tomb, Adamsberg was standing on one leg like a suspicious bird.
‘Yeah,’ he said in the end. ‘I – dunno. He laughs – a lot.’
XXXVIII
ADAMSBERG DROPPED HIS HEAD AS HE CAME OUT INTO THE sunlight, leaning on Veyrenc’s shoulder. As they emerged from the vault, Danica, Boško, Vukasin and Vlad watched, the first three dumbstruck with terror, and having crossed their fingers against any evil exhalations that might have accompanied the two men out. Danica was staring petrified at Adamsberg, seeing the green shadows under his eyes, the blue lips, pallid cheeks and the naked torso striped with red marks from the tape and bleeding in places from the hairbrush.
‘Come on,’ cried Vlad angrily, ‘just because they’ve been in there, they’re not the living dead. Help them, for God’s sake!’
‘No manners, you have,’ muttered Danica mechanically.
As she gradually saw signs of life in Adamsberg, she got her breath back. But who was the stranger, and what was he doing in the cursed tomb?
Veyrenc’s striped hair seemed to worry her even more than Adamsberg’s deathly aspect. Boško moved forward cautiously and took the commissaire’s other arm.
‘Jack-et,’ said Adamsberg, pointing to the door.
‘OK, I’ll get it,’ said Vladislav.
‘Vlad!’ shouted Boško, as Vlad made to move. ‘No son of the village goes in there. Send the foreigner.’
It was such a peremptory order that Vlad stopped in his tracks and explained the situation to Veyrenc. Veyrenc left Adamsberg to Boško and went back down the steps.
‘He’ll never get out alive,’ predicted Danica in her direst tones.
‘Why is his hair like that, all stripy like a wild boar?’ asked Vukasin.
Veyrenc was out in two minutes, carrying the torch and what remained of the tattered jacket and shirt. He pushed the door closed with his foot.
‘We ought to lock it,’ said Vukasin.
‘Arandjel’s the only person with a key,’ said Boško.