Stone Bruises
Authors: Simon Beckett
| Stone Bruises |
| Simon Beckett |
| UK |
| (2014) |
Sean is on the run. We don't know why and we don't know from whom,
but we do know he's abandoned his battered, blood-stained car in the
middle of an isolated, lonely part of rural France at the height of a
sweltering summer. Desperate to avoid the police, he takes to the
parched fields and country lanes only to be caught in the vicious jaws
of a trap. Near unconscious from pain and loss of blood, he is freed and
taken in by two women - daughters of the owner of a rundown local farm
with its ramshackle barn, blighted vineyard and the brooding lake. And
it's then that Sean's problems really start...
Superbly written,
Stone Bruises
is a classic nail-shredder of a thriller that holds you from the
beginning. The narrative slowly, inexorably tightens its grip as the
story unfurls and will keep you guessing until the unnerving and
shocking final twist...
‘Somebody!’ I half-sob and then, more quietly, ‘Please.’ The words seem absorbed by the afternoon heat, lost amongst the trees. In their aftermath, the silence descends again. I know then that I’m not going anywhere . . .
Sean is on the run. We don’t know why and we don’t know from whom. Under a relentless French sun, he’s abandoned his bloodstained car and taken to the parched fields and country lanes. And now he’s badly injured.
Almost unconscious from pain and loss of blood, he’s rescued and nursed by two young women on an isolated farm. Their volatile father, Arnaud, is violently protective of his privacy and makes his dislike of the young Englishman clear. Sean’s uncertain whether he’s a patient or a prisoner but there’s something beguiling about the farm. Tranquil and remote, it’s a perfect place to hide.
Except some questions can’t be ignored. Why has Arnaud gone to such extreme lengths to cut off his family from the outside world? Why is he so hated in the neighbouring village? And why won’t anyone talk about his daughter’s estranged lover?
As Sean tries to lose himself in the heat and dust of a French summer, he comes to realise that the farm has secrets of its own. It might be a perfect hiding place but that means nobody knows he’s there . . .
. . .which would make it the perfect place to die.
Contents
1
THE CAR IS
running on empty. There’s been no sign of a garage for hours, and the petrol gauge is needling into red. I need to get off the road but the fields seem endless, intent on funnelling me along to the engine’s last gasp. Even though it’s still early the day is arid and hot. The breeze that whips through the open windows only stirs the air without cooling it.
I drive hunched over the wheel, expecting the car to die at any moment, and then I see a break in the green barrier. On my left a track cuts out of sight between wheat fields. I turn off, bumping over the rutted surface, not caring where it leads providing it’s out of sight. The track dips down to a copse. Branches scratch at the windows as I edge the Audi into it and switch off the engine. It’s cooler in the trees’ shade. In the ticking quiet I can hear running water. I close my eyes and lean my head back, but there’s no time to rest.
I need to keep moving.
I check the car’s glove compartment. There’s nothing identifying in it, only junk and a nearly full packet of cigarettes. Camels, my old brand. As I reach across the passenger side for them I become aware of a smell. Faint but unpleasant, like meat left out in the sun.
There’s something smeared on the rich leather of the passenger seat, and also on the unspooled seatbelt that hangs on the floor. The tough fabric is nearly severed at one point, and when I touch it my fingers come away sticky and dark.
My head swims to think I’ve driven all this way with it in plain view. I want to put as much distance as I can between myself and the car, but I can’t leave it like this. Branches push against the door as I get out. There’s a stream running through the copse, and my hands are shaking as I soak a cloth from the glove compartment in it. The seat wipes down easily enough but the blood has clogged in the seatbelt’s weave. I rub off as much as I can, then rinse out the cloth in the stream. Water flares over my wrists like manacles of glass as I scrub my hands, scouring them with sand from the bottom. Even then they don’t feel clean.
I splash water over my face, wincing as it stings the grazes on my cheek, and go back to the car. It’s coated with dust from the roads, camouflaging the black paintwork. I use a rock to smash off the UK number plates, then fetch my rucksack from the boot. As I lift it out it snags on the mat covering the spare wheel. There’s a glimpse of something white underneath. I pull the mat aside and my stomach knots when I see the polythene-wrapped parcel.
I lean against the car, my legs suddenly weak.
It’s about the size of a bag of sugar, but the white powder it contains is far less innocent. I quickly look around, as though someone might be there to see. But there are only the trees, and the background hum of insects. I stare at the package, too tired to process this new complication. I don’t want to take it with me, but I can’t leave it here. Snatching it up, I cram it deep into my rucksack, slam the boot and walk away.
The wheat fields are still empty of life when I leave the copse. I fling the car’s number plates and keys out into the tall stalks before taking out my phone. It’s broken beyond hope of repair. Still walking, I remove the SIM card and snap it in two, then throw the pieces into one field and the phone in another.
I’ve no one to call anyway.
The road’s grey tarmac ripples and distorts as the sun climbs higher. The few cars on it hardly seem to move, caught in the heat until they flash past in a sudden blare of colour. The rucksack rides high on my back, my own private monkey. I walk for almost an hour, until I feel I’ve put enough distance between myself and the car. Then, holding out my thumb, I begin to hitch.
My red hair is both an advantage and a handicap, attracting attention and announcing that I’m a foreigner in one single message. The first lift is from a young couple in an old Peugeot.
‘
Où allez-vous?
’ he asks, cigarette barely moving.
I struggle to switch linguistic gears. I’m more used to hearing French than speaking it recently, but that isn’t what makes me pause.
Where am I going?
I’ve no idea.
‘Anywhere. I’m just travelling.’
I sit in the front passenger seat, the girl having moved uncomplainingly into the back. I’m glad the driver’s wearing sunglasses, because it gives me an excuse to keep mine on. They cover the worst of the bruising on my face.
He glances at my red hair. ‘British?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your French is pretty good. Been over here long?’
For a second I struggle to answer. It already feels like a lifetime. ‘Not really.’
‘So how’d you learn?’ the girl asks, leaning between the seats. She’s dark-haired and plump, with an engagingly open face.
‘I used to come over a lot when I was younger. And I’m … I like French films.’
I shut up then, realizing I’m giving away more than I intended. Luckily, neither of them seem interested. ‘I prefer American movies myself,’ he shrugs. ‘So how long are you over for?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
They drop me off at the outskirts of a small town. I dip into my small fund of euros to buy bread and cheese, a bottle of water and a disposable cigarette lighter. I also buy a baseball cap from an open-air market in the square. It’s a cheap Nike copy but it’ll keep the sun off me and help conceal my bruises. I know I’m being paranoid but I can’t help it. I don’t want to attract any more attention than I have to.
It’s a relief to leave the town behind and head out into open country again. The sun burns down on the exposed back of my neck. After a kilometre or so I stop under a row of poplars and try to eat some of the baguette and cheese. I manage a few bites and then puke everything back, dry-heaving until my stomach’s sore. When the spasms have passed I slump against a tree, feeling so wasted I want to just lie there and give up.
But I can’t do that. My hand trembles as I flick a tongue of flame from the disposable lighter and draw on the cigarette. It’s the first I’ve had in two years, but it tastes like a homecoming. I breathe out some of my tension along with the smoke, blessedly thinking of nothing for a few moments.
I finish the cigarette, then get to my feet and start walking again. I’ve only the vaguest idea of where I am but since I don’t have any plans that doesn’t matter. I stick out my thumb whenever a car passes, but that isn’t often. The roads here are all secondary ones, backwaters where there’s little traffic. By mid-afternoon, a Citroën and a Renault later, I’ve covered less than twenty kilometres. The lifts have all been short, locals travelling to the next town or village, but now even they have dried up. The road is so quiet I can believe the rest of the world has forgotten about me. The only sound is the scrape of my boots and the incessant drone of insects. There’s no shade, and I’m thankful for the cap’s protection.
After I’ve been walking for what seems an age, the open fields are replaced by a dense wood of chestnut trees. It’s fenced off by strands of old barbed wire, but the broad-leaved branches still offer some respite from the sun.
I carefully ease the rucksack from my sore shoulders and take a drink of water. There’s only a couple of inches left. Blood warm, it barely touches my thirst before it’s gone. I should have bought another bottle, I think. But then I should have done a lot of things. It’s too late to change any of them now.
I squint down the road. It runs arrow straight, shimmering in the heat and empty as far as the eye can see. I screw the top back on the water, willing a car to appear. None does. Christ, but it’s hot. I feel parched again already. I take off my hat and push my fingers through my sweat-damp hair. A little way back down the road I remember passing a farm gate. I gnaw my lip, reluctant to retrace my steps. But my dry throat decides me. I’ve no idea how long it’ll be till I reach another town, and it’s too hot to go without water.
Picking up my rucksack, I head back the way I came.
The gate is trimmed with the same rusty barbed wire that borders the woods. A track runs from it, disappearing into the chestnut trees. A mailbox is fixed to the gatepost, on which faded white letters spell out the single word
Arnaud
. An old but solid-looking padlock hangs from a hasp on the gate, but it’s been left unlocked.
I look once more down the road, but there’s still nothing in sight. Mindful of the barbs, I push open the gate and go through. The track slopes gently uphill, then curves down to reveal a cluster of roofs through the trees. I follow it and find myself in a dusty courtyard. A dilapidated old farmhouse stands at its head, half-covered by a flimsy-looking scaffold. Opposite it is a large barn, and at one side a stable block in which is set an ancient, one-handed clock. There are no horses, but several dusty vehicles are parked in the open archways in various attitudes of permanence.
No one is in sight. A goat bleats from somewhere nearby, and a few hens scratch around in the dirt. Other than them the place could be deserted. I stop at the edge of the courtyard, reluctant to go any further. The farmhouse door is ajar. I go up to its unpainted panels and knock. There’s a pause, then a woman’s voice answers.
