Aisha’s running down the main corridor towards him. Trouble of one kind or another. Without stopping, she yells at him:
‘An accident, a short circuit, Émilienne’s dead! I’m going to call an ambulance.’
Maréchal catches himself thinking if she’s dead, it’s too late, and hastens his step, while Aisha runs on in the direction of the offices. He goes into the finishing workshop and the first person he sees, in the opposite doorway, is Nourredine, the packaging foreman. A good worker, fair enough, but a real troublemaker, always protesting, wanting to put forward his own ideas. What the hell’s he doing here? The place stinks. He immediately spots the scorch marks caused by the short circuit running from floor to ceiling. He looks down and sees Émilienne’s body lying at his feet, and, kneeling beside her, Rolande and Réjane, who is shaking, sobbing and wailing:
‘She’s been electrocuted, she’s dead.’
Émilienne, unconscious, pale, her lips blue, her body racked with spasms accompanied by groans. Right, she’s not dead. Women always exaggerate. I need to take charge of the situation and show that bloody Arab. A quick glance around the room. The girls are all there, pinned against the walls, white as ghosts. Rolande looks less shaken and anyway, she’s the production-line supervisor, a good worker, she’ll lead the others. He leans towards her:
‘Everything’s fine, the ambulance is on its way. Move away, you need to give your friend air. Until the ambulance arrives you must all go back to your places. Once the ambulance is here, we’ll see what has to be done.’
Rolande is still holding Émilienne’s head. Nobody’s paying any attention to the foreman. Rolande’s mesmerised by the puddle of water spreading between Émilienne’s legs.
Maréchal bends down and takes her arm.
‘Her waters have broken.’ Her head is bowed, her voice husky.
Maréchal doesn’t understand what she’s saying.
‘Ms Lepetit, do set an example. Go back to your seat. We must calm everyone down, let the paramedics do their job, and then get back to work. It’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see.’
Rolande seems to be waking from a nightmare, it’s nothing to worry about, bastard, get back to work, swine, don’t you dare touch me. She suddenly stands up, thrusts his hand from her arm and gives him a resounding clout that sends him sprawling on his back amongst the girls’ legs. Not one of them holds out a hand to help him to his feet. He gets up, crimson with rage. Nourredine has come into the room and he leaps over the conveyor, grabs the foreman’s shoulders and marches him outside.
‘Calm down! You’ve no idea what they’ve just been through. The short circuit was so powerful that next door we could see the flash through the partition. And the woman’s scream …’ he has difficulty finding the words ‘… was like something from beyond the grave.’
The fire brigade arrives at the double, led by Aisha. Nourredine continues to push Maréchal out of the way. Within seconds, Émilienne is hooked up to a drip, placed on a stretcher and carried away.
Aisha’s lying in the dark, in a cubicle in the medical room. Her production line has been halted, electricians have been called out urgently from Pondange to carry out repairs. The foreman said that everything would be sorted in time for the second shift. Meanwhile, the girls on the opposite line, supervised by Rolande, have gone back to work. To work. Aisha faints.
Between these sheet-metal walls, white from the flash of electricity, resonating with the scream, Émilienne’s body, a few feet away from Aisha, keeling over backwards, rigid, entangled in her chair. And the other accident, no more than a month ago, right in front of her, the headless body, standing there for ages before collapsing, blood spurting out of the neck, the warmth of the blood on her hands, her face. I am cursed. Forget Forget. Think about something else. I don’t want to go home before clocking-off time. My father at home with all his questions. Why aren’t you at the factory? I shan’t tell him anything. Not a word. Nothing happened. I can’t talk any more.
Maréchal draws back the curtain around the cubicle and comes in, almost on tiptoe.
‘How do you feel, Miss Saidani?’ No reply. ‘I realise what a shock this has been for you. The nurse told me you were feeling a lot better.’
Clumsy, bumbling Maréchal. Definitely not bright.
‘What do you want?’
‘OK. Ms Lepetit has gone upstairs to talk to management and as you’re the only one from the other production line to have stayed, I wondered whether you’d kindly take her place. Just while she’s upstairs. It shouldn’t be for long.’
Aisha sits bolt upright. To face all that right now — the sheet-metal walls, the production line, the neon lights, the dangling wires, the handle of the soldering iron in the palm of her hand — is to face her own death. But whether she does it today, or tomorrow … the girls will be around me, supportive, their eyes saw what I’ve seen. If I have to choose between the production line and going home to my father, I prefer the production line. Besides, I’m doing it for Rolande.
‘All right.’
‘The nurse will give you a little pick-me-up.’
In the admin section, Rolande is trying to walk straight and slowly. They’re probably going to ask me about the accident. That’s going to be difficult. Because right now, what I need more than anything is to forget, completely, for a few days, until I’ve got over my fear. Then talk about it … I must ask for a few days off for the girls. Flashback to the girls’ faces, ashen against the sheet metal. The shock was too brutal. Get them to understand. Find the words … and I’ll find out how Émilienne is. Miscarriage? Dead? Be prepared for the worst, and above all, don’t break down in front of ‘them’.
She is immediately shown into the office of the Head of HR himself. It’s the first time she’s set eyes on him. A quick glance to size him up. Young, flashy. Not my type.
‘Ms Lepetit, I have very little to say to you. After your inexcusable behaviour towards Mr Maréchal, your section foreman, you are being dismissed for serious misconduct, and this decision takes effect as of now. You may not return to your work station. You will be accompanied to the cloakroom to remove your personal belongings, and then to the exit. You will receive your final pay cheque tomorrow.’
Her insides turn to liquid, her mind goes blank, not a word, not a coherent thought, only images, violent feelings, the flash, the white light, the scream, the smell, the fear. And then my son’s smile, in his boarding school uniform, my mother, drunk, asleep on the kitchen floor, who’s going to pay? Work, pain, broken body, hands numb, hard, yes, but better than no job. Tomorrow, on the streets, homeless?
Half unconscious, she’s shoved out into the corridor. She leans against the wall, her eyes closed, dizzy, feels like throwing up. When she opens her eyes, Ali Amrouche is standing in front of her. He’s holding her hands, tapping them, a concerned expression on his face. Amrouche, the union rep, always hanging around management, that’s him.
‘Rolande, don’t you feel well? Rolande, talk to me.’
He places a hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s never made, or dared make before. He has nothing but respect for Rolande, but she’s distraught. She feels the warm contact of his hand on her shoulder, it does her good, less alone, and the words return, jumbled at first. She leans against him, lets herself go, then the words come tumbling out and she tells him about the accident, in great detail — her every movement, Émilienne’s body, lifeless, rigid: ‘I touched death, Ali.’ The helplessness, not knowing what to do to save a life, and the violent contractions, the groans as if Émilienne were in immeasurable pain and a hope, the baby that died, almost as if that would bring the mother back to life. With the words come tears, what a relief. ‘And they fired me, Ali, because I knocked Maréchal to the floor.’ A hint of a smile. ‘For that price, I should have killed him, the fat bastard.’