Stone Bruises (2 page)

‘
Qui est-ce?
’

I push open the door. After the bright courtyard the interior seems impenetrably dark. It’s a second or two before I make out a woman sitting at a kitchen table, a moment longer to see that she’s holding a baby.

I raise the empty bottle, hesitating while I marshal my question into French. ‘Can I have some water, please?’

If she’s discomfited by being disturbed by a stranger she doesn’t show it. ‘How did you get in here?’ she asks, her voice calm and unhurried.

‘The gate was open.’

I feel like a trespasser as she regards me. She sets the baby down in a wooden high chair. ‘Would you like a glass of water as well?’

‘That’d be great.’

She takes the bottle to the sink, filling first it and then a large glass at the tap. I drink it gratefully. The water is icy and has an earthy tang of iron.

‘Thank you,’ I say, handing her the empty glass.

‘Will you padlock the gate behind you?’ she asks. ‘It shouldn’t have been left open.’

‘OK. Thanks again.’

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk across the sunny courtyard.

I follow the track up through the wood to the road. It’s as quiet as before. I lock the gate and keep on walking. Every now and then I’ll glance back to see if a car is coming, but there’s only the sun-baked tarmac. I hook my thumbs under the rucksack straps to take some of the weight. It feels heavier when I remember what’s in it, so I clear my mind and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

The drone of an engine gradually detaches itself from the overheated silence. I turn and see something approaching, a dark speck distorted by the heat. At first it seems to hover unmoving above a reflection of itself. Then its tyres stretch downwards and touch the road, and it becomes a blue car speeding towards me.

I’m already stepping out from the shade of the trees when I notice there’s something on its roof. Realization comes a moment later. I vault over the barbed-wire fence, snagging my jeans and landing awkwardly because of the rucksack. Without stopping, I plunge into the woods as the note of the car’s engine grows louder. When it sounds almost on top of me I duck down behind a tree and look back at the road.

The police car blurs past. I listen for any signs of it slowing, any indication that they’ve seen me. But the sound of its engine steadily dwindles to nothing. I rest my head against the tree. I know I’m overreacting, that the French police probably won’t care about me, but I’m too jumpy to take the chance. And I daren’t risk my rucksack being searched.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. Blood; I’ve bitten through my lip. I spit to clear it and take the water bottle from my rucksack. My hands are trembling as I rinse my mouth, then take stock of where I am.

The wood is set on a shallow hillside, and some distance away I can see the glimmer of a lake through the trees. To one side of it are the roofs of farm buildings, small and insignificant at this distance. I guess they must be where I asked for water, so I’m probably still on their land.

I stand up and brush off the twigs and soil that cling to my jeans. My T-shirt is stuck to me with sweat. It’s so hot the air seems scorched. I look at the lake again, wishing I could swim in it. But that’s not going to happen, and I need to keep moving. Taking another swig of water, I step away from the tree and cry out as something seizes my foot.

I drop to my knees as pain lances up my leg. My left foot is engulfed in a pair of black, semicircular jaws. I try to pull free but the movement sends fresh hurt searing up the length of my leg.

‘Jesus!’

I stop moving, sucking in panicked breaths. I’ve stepped in some sort of iron hunting trap, hidden away in a knotted tangle of tree roots. It clamps my foot from mid-instep to above the ankle, its jagged teeth piercing the tough leather of my boot. They’ve stabbed so deep into my flesh that I can feel them nuzzling coldly against the bone.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to deny the sight. ‘Oh, fuck!
Fuck!
’

But that doesn’t get me anywhere. Shucking off the rucksack, I shift to a better position and take hold of the trap’s jaws. They don’t budge. Bracing my free foot against a tree root I try again. This time I’m rewarded by the tiniest sense of give, but not nearly enough. My arms quiver with the strain as the metal edges bite into my hands. Slowly, I let it ease shut and sit back, gasping.

Rubbing the sore patches on my hands, I study the trap more closely. It’s crudely made, lightly ochred with rust but not enough to suggest it’s been lying here very long. If anything, the oil on the hinges looks fresh. Worryingly so, in fact. Trying not to think what that might mean, I turn my attention to the chain that tethers it in place. It’s short and leads to a wooden spike buried among the tree roots. A few tugs are enough to convince me that I’m wasting my time trying to pull it out.

Sitting with my trapped leg stuck out in front of me, I put my hand down to push myself upright and feel something wet. The bottle of water is lying where I dropped it, most of its contents soaking into the dry earth. I snatch it up, even though it’s already spilled as much as it’s going to. Taking a careful sip, I re-cap what’s left and try to think.

OK, stay calm.
The initial pain has evolved into a throbbing, like toothache, that extends up my shin. Blood is beginning to soak through the leather of my boot. Except for the buzz of insects the sun-dappled woods are silent. I look over at the distant roofs of the farm buildings. They’re too far away for anyone to hear me shout, but I don’t want to do that anyway. Not unless I have to.

I rummage through my rucksack for my pocketknife. I know it’s in there somewhere, but as I search for it my fingers encounter something else. I pull it out and a shock runs through me.

The photograph is dog-eared and faded. I’d no idea it was in the rucksack; I’d forgotten I even had it. The girl’s face is almost obscured by a crease, distorting her smile. Behind her is the whiteness of Brighton Pier, vivid against a blue sky. Her hair is blonde and sun-bleached, her face tanned and healthy. Happy.

I feel dizzy. The trees seem to tilt as I put the photograph away. I take deep breaths, willing myself not to lose it. The past’s gone. There’s nothing I can do to change it, and the present is more than enough to worry about. I find my pocketknife and open it up. There’s a three-inch blade, a bottle opener and a corkscrew, but nothing for dismantling iron traps. Jamming the blade between the jaws, I try to prise them open and fall back as it snaps.

I throw the broken knife down and look around for something else. There’s a dead branch nearby. It’s out of reach but I use a smaller one to drag it closer, then wedge its thickest end between the jaws. The metal gouges at the wood but the trap slowly begins to open. I apply more pressure, gritting my own teeth as the iron ones start to pull out of my flesh.

‘Yes! Come
on
!’

The stick breaks. The jaws spring together again.

I scream.

When the pain subsides I’m lying flat on my back. I push myself up and fling the stick impotently at the trap. ‘Bastard!’

I can’t pretend any longer that this isn’t serious. Even if I could free my foot I doubt I could walk very far on it. But I’d willingly settle for that problem, because not being able to free myself is far more frightening.

Happy now? You’ve brought this on yourself.
Blanking out those thoughts, I try to focus on the more immediate problem. Using the knife’s corkscrew, I start digging around the spike that holds the trap in place. It’s a futile attempt but allows me to vent some emotion by stabbing the ground and tree roots. Eventually, I let the knife fall and slump back against the trunk.

The sun has sunk noticeably lower. It won’t be dark for hours yet, but the thought of having to lie there all night is terrifying. I rack my brain for ideas, but there’s only one thing left I can do.

I take a deep breath and yell.

My shout dies away without an echo. I doubt it will have carried to the farm I went to earlier. I yell louder, in English and French, shouting until my voice grows hoarse and my throat hurts.

‘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.

By next morning I’m feverish. I’ve taken my sleeping bag from the rucksack and draped it over me during the night, but I still shivered fitfully through most of it. My foot throbs with a dull agony, pulsing to the beat of my blood. It’s swollen to above the ankle. Although I’ve unlaced the boot as best I can, the leather, which is now black and sticky, is stretched drum tight. It feels like a vast boil, waiting to burst.

At first light I try to shout again, but the dryness of my throat reduces it to a hoarse croak. Soon even that is too much effort. I try to think of other ways to attract attention, and for a while become excited at the idea of setting fire to the tree I’m under. I go as far as pawing in my pockets for the cigarette lighter before I come to my senses.

The fact that I was seriously considering it scares me.

But the lucidity doesn’t last long. As the sun rises, stoking itself towards a mid-morning heat, I push off the sleeping bag. I’m burning up, and have accomplished the neat fever-trick of being soaked with sweat while I’m shaking uncontrollably. I look at my foot with hate, wishing I could gnaw it off like a trapped animal. For a while I think I am, can taste my own skin and blood and bone as I bite at my leg. Then I’m sitting propped against the tree again, and the only thing biting into my foot is the half-moon of iron.

I come and go from myself, submerged in garbled, overheated fantasies. At some point I open my eyes and see a face peering at me. It’s a girl’s, beautiful and Madonna-like. It seems to merge with the one in the photograph, racking me with guilt and grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, or think I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

I stare at the face, hoping for a sign of forgiveness. But as I look the shape of the skull behind it begins to shine through, peeling away the surface beauty to show the rot and dissolution underneath.

A new pain bursts in me, a fresh agony that bears me away on its crest. From far away there’s the sound of someone screaming. As it grows fainter I hear voices speaking a language I recognize but can’t decode. Before it fades altogether, a few words present themselves with the clarity of a church bell.

‘
Doucement. Essayez d’être calme
.’

Gently, I can understand. But I’m puzzled by why they need to be quiet.

Then the pain sweeps me up and I cease to exist.

THE SKYLIGHT IS
fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.

Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blonde hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.

The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.

I feel her stir beside me.

‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.

THERE’S AN EYE
staring down at me. It’s black but clouded at the centre by a cataract, a grey fog hung with dark shapes. A series of lines spread out from it like ripples. At some point they resolve into the graining on a piece of wood. The eye becomes a knot, the fog a spider’s web stretched over it like a dusty blanket. It’s littered with the husks of long-dead insects. No sign of the spider, though.

I don’t know how long I stare up at it before I recognize it as a wooden beam, rough and dark with age. Sometime after that I realize I’m awake. I don’t feel any compulsion to move; I’m warm and comfortable, and for the moment that’s enough. My mind is empty, content to stare up at the spider’s web above me. But as soon as I think that it’s no longer true. With consciousness come questions and a flurry of panic: who, what, when?

Where?

I raise my head and look around.

I’m lying in bed, in a place I don’t recognize. It isn’t a hospital or a police cell. Sunlight angles in through a single small window. The beam I’ve been staring at is a rafter, part of a triangular wooden ribcage that extends to the floor at either side. Slivers of daylight glint through gaps in the overlapping shingles of the roof. A loft, then. Some kind of barn, by the look of it. It’s long, with bare floorboards and gables at either end, one of which my bed is pushed against. Junk and furniture, most of it broken, is stacked against the unplastered stone walls. There’s a musty smell that speaks of age, old wood and stone. It’s hot, though not uncomfortably so.

The light coming through the dusty glass has a fresh, early quality. I’m still wearing my watch, which tells me that it’s seven o’clock. As if to confirm that it’s morning the hoarse crowing of a cockerel sounds from somewhere outside.

I’ve no idea where I am or what I’m doing here. Then I move and the sudden pain at the end of my leg gives an effective jolt to my short-term memory. I throw back the sheet that covers me and see with relief that my foot is still there. It’s bound in a white bandage, from which the tips of my toes poke like radishes. I give them a tentative wiggle. It hurts, but not nearly so much as before.

It’s only then I realize that I’m naked. My jeans and T-shirt are on the back of a wooden chair next to the bed. They’ve been folded and look freshly washed. My boots are on the floorboards next to them, and an attempt has been made to clean the damaged one. But the leather is darkened with bloodstains, and the rips from the trap’s teeth are beyond repair.