Stone Bruises (21 page)

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

My voice makes her start. I can pick out her features now, pale and scared against the dark framing of her hair. She gives a nod. Head down, she goes past, so close she almost brushes against me. She vanishes around the corner of the house, and a moment later I hear a faint click as the kitchen door is closed.

I stay on the track, looking up towards the now silent woods. My heart is racing. Gradually, the whisper of crickets resumes.

Accompanied by their music, I go back to the barn.

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, blond 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.

I don’t know what to say. The atmosphere between us has been strung taut since I found the coke. Chloe swears it was an isolated mistake she won’t repeat, and I’m trying to believe her. Neither of us talks about Jules. Each day is a delicate balancing act that could fall and shatter if we don’t maintain it.

Yet I’ve noticed she’s become more withdrawn lately. There’s nothing specific, but a few days ago I searched the flat again while she was out. When I didn’t find anything I told myself I’d been imagining things. But it could just mean she’s found a better hiding place.

‘What sort of question’s that?’

‘Does it scare you?’

‘Jesus, Chloe …’

‘It doesn’t scare me. It used to, but it doesn’t any more.’

The muscles in the back of my neck are knotted and clenched. I push myself up so I can look at her. ‘Where’s this going?’

She’s staring up through the skylight, her eyes bright points in the shadowed paleness of her face. Just when I think she isn’t going to answer, she does.

‘I’m pregnant.’

At first I don’t know what I feel. Of all the things I’ve expected, all the scenarios I’ve imagined, this wasn’t one of them. Then everything’s swept away by euphoria and relief. So that’s what’s been wrong.

‘God, Chloe, that’s great!’ I say, starting to put my arms around her.

But she lies stiff and unresponsive. She’s still staring through the skylight, and now I see the brightness from her eyes spill and run down her cheeks. I pull back from her as a coldness begins to spread through me.

‘What?’ I ask, though I already know.

Chloe’s voice is level, unaffected by the tears on her face.

‘It isn’t yours.’

THE POLICE ARRIVE
next morning. I’m climbing down from the scaffold when I hear footsteps in the courtyard. I glance around, expecting it to be Mathilde or Gretchen, and the sight of two uniformed gendarmes shocks me motionless. Only the fact that I have one arm hooked over a ladder rung stops me from falling.

Oh, Jesus Christ, I think.

Their white shirts are dazzling in the sun. The dark lenses of their sunglasses rob them of expression as they look at me, caught halfway down the ladder like a fly in a web. The smaller of the two, who has the look of seniority about him, speaks first.

‘Where’s Arnaud?’

The words don’t communicate anything to me. I stare at him stupidly.

‘We’re looking for Jacques Arnaud,’ he repeats, irritably. ‘Where is he?’

The bigger gendarme takes off his peaked cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. The armpits of his shirt are stained with wet rings. For some reason, that frees me enough to dredge up a sentence.

‘Try the house.’

Without thanking me they walk up to the door. I’m still immobile on the ladder so I force myself to continue down to the courtyard. My legs feel sluggish, as though I’ve forgotten how to use them.

Arnaud might be out hunting for all I know, but the door opens before they can knock. He confronts them with silent belligerence. When the smaller gendarme asks, ‘M’sieur Arnaud?’ he gives only the barest nod of confirmation. The gendarme is unimpressed.

‘We’ve had a report of shooting here last night.’

His partner with the sweat-stained shirt notices me watching. I quickly turn away and go around the side of the house. As soon as I’m out of sight I sink to the ground.

They aren’t here for me. I let my head hang and take deep breaths. The murmur of voices still drifts from the courtyard, but I can’t make out what’s being said. I quickly pull myself up the inside of the scaffold like it’s a giant climbing-frame, hardly noticing the way it sways and creaks. Once I’ve hauled myself onto the platform I creep along it to the end nearest the kitchen. The voices become audible again.

‘… no formal complaint has been made,’ Arnaud is saying below. ‘I was defending my property. If you know who it was you should be arresting them, not me.’

‘We aren’t arresting anyone, we’re just—’

‘Then you should be. Someone attacks my home, but I’m the one you harass because I fire a few shots in the air to scare them off? Where’s the justice in that?’

‘We’ve heard the shots weren’t in the air.’

‘No? Was anyone hurt?’

‘No, but—’

‘There you are then. Besides, I don’t know how they can say what I was aiming at, they took off so fast.’

‘Can we talk inside?’

‘I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about.’

‘We won’t take up much of your time.’

The gendarme’s voice has a touch of steel in it. I can’t hear Arnaud’s answer, but there’s the sound of footsteps going into the house. The door closes. All I can think about is the plastic-wrapped package in my rucksack. It seems like madness not to have got rid of it, let alone leave it hidden under a few old clothes.

Too late now.

I become aware I’m biting at a torn piece of thumbnail and make myself stop. From where I’m crouching I can just see the lake over the tops of the trees. I could hide down there until the police have left. Perhaps even climb over the barbed wire and head across the wheat fields until I reach another road. If I’m lucky I could be miles away before anyone knew I’d gone.

But that’s panic talking. The gendarmes aren’t interested in me; they’ve only come to warn Arnaud about firing his rifle last night. At least, that’s what I hope. If I run I’ll only be drawing attention to myself.

Besides, where would I go?

I chop the trowel worriedly at the mortar drying on the board. Without giving any thought to what I’m doing I scoop a little out and press it into the wall. Then I do it again. The soft scrape of the metal on the stone has a tranquillizing effect, quieting the tremor in my hands. After a while I stand up. I work mechanically, moving the trowel from the board to the wall and back without conscious thought. With each stroke I forget about Arnaud, forget about the police. Forget about everything.

I don’t even hear the kitchen door opening again.

‘How’s it going up there?’

I stop and look down. The big gendarme is standing in the courtyard squinting up at me. He isn’t wearing his sunglasses, and without them his eyes are small and piggish.

‘Looks like hot work,’ he calls up.

I make a show of carrying on working. ‘Yeah.’

He plucks his damp shirt away from his chest. ‘Bitch of a day. We had to leave the car and walk from the road, as well. The gate’s locked.’

‘Right.’

‘Can’t stand the sun. Never could. From April till October, it’s just hell as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, with your colouring you must feel it pretty bad too.’

The mortar slips off the trowel and spatters onto the platform. The gendarme studies the house, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair before replacing it. His thick moustache all but obscures his mouth.

‘Been at it long?’

‘Oh … since about nine.’

He smiles. ‘I don’t mean today.’

‘Right. A few weeks.’

My board is empty. The mortar left in the bucket has become too dry to work with, but I scoop a pile out anyway. It’s either that or go back down. I can hear the gendarme’s boots creak as he shifts his weight.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

I nod.

‘You speak good French. Where did you learn?’

‘I just picked it up.’

‘Really? You must have a knack.’

‘I got a good grounding at school.’

‘Ah. That’ll be it.’ He takes out a handkerchief and mops his face. ‘What’s your name?’

I’m tempted to invent one, but that will only make things worse if he wants to see my passport. There’s no reaction when I tell him.

‘So what brings you to France, Sean?’ he asks.

I run the trowel blade across the wall, needlessly smoothing the mortar. ‘Just travelling.’

‘If you’re a tourist you shouldn’t be working.’ My face burns as blood rushes to it. After a pause he laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only joking. So were you here last night, for the trouble?’

‘Some of it.’

‘Some of it?’

‘I heard the commotion. I didn’t really see it.’

‘But you knew something was going on.’

‘It was hard to miss.’

He wipes the back of his neck with the handkerchief. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I heard some windows smash. There was shouting. From the woods. It sounded like there were quite a few of them in there.’

‘What were they shouting?’

‘Things about Arnaud and his daughters.’

‘Pretty nasty, eh?’

‘It wasn’t nice.’

‘So how many times did Arnaud fire the rifle?’

‘Oh …’ I frown as though I’m trying to remember. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Once, twice? Six times?’

‘I’m not sure. It was all a bit confused.’

‘Was he aiming into the wood?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Where were you when all this was going on?’

‘At the end of the house.’

‘But you couldn’t see what was happening?’

‘It was dark. By the time I got there it was all over.’

‘Didn’t you run up to see what was going on?’

I hold up my foot so he can see the bandage. ‘Not with this.’

Even as I’m doing it I know it’s a mistake. He looks at it without surprise. ‘What did you do?’

‘Trod on a nail,’ I say, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘A nail. Right.’

There’s a harder look on his face now, replacing the superficial friendliness. I turn away, pretending to point the wall with the too dry mortar.

‘Do you know who it was?’ I ask, trying to sound casual. ‘Last night, I mean?’

‘Probably just local youths.’ He sounds indifferent. I get the impression no one’s going to be arresting Didier and his friends for throwing a few stones. The gendarme puts on his sunglasses, hiding his small eyes. ‘How long will you be staying?’

‘Until the house is finished, I suppose.’

‘And then you’ll be moving on.’

I’m not sure if that’s a question or not. ‘I expect so.’

The sunglasses continue to stare up at me. I think he might say something else, but then the kitchen door opens again and the other gendarme comes out. The two of them talk, their voices too low to make out, but the smaller one shakes his head in obvious annoyance. Then the big gendarme says something and they both look at me.

I turn away again. After a second I hear them walk across the courtyard. I continue pretending to work, daubing almost dry mortar onto the stones until I’m sure they’ve gone.

My legs are weak as I sink down onto the platform. I put my head between my knees and try not to throw up.

‘Are you up there?’

It’s Mathilde. I take a deep breath and get to my feet. She’s at the foot of the scaffold, holding a plate of food. The spaniel stands next to her, eyeing it hopefully.

‘I’ve brought your lunch.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

I’ve no appetite but I don’t want to stay up here any longer. Not where everyone can see me. I take my time climbing down the ladder, expecting Mathilde to have left the plate on the window-ledge as usual. But when I get to the bottom she’s still there. Her face is pale, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced than usual.

‘The police were here. About last night.’

‘I know. One of them was asking me about it.’

She gives me a quick glance, then looks away. Her hand goes up to push her hair back in what I’ve come to recognize as her habitual expression of unease.

‘Are they going to press charges?’ I ask.

‘No. They warned him about firing his rifle in future. That’s all.’

I try to sound indifferent. ‘So will they be coming back?’

‘They didn’t say. I don’t think so.’

She almost seems to be reassuring me.

When she’s gone I set off across the courtyard. Slowly at first, trying to seem normal, but by the time I reach the barn I’m almost running, jabbing the walking stick into the earth like a third leg. It’s only when I get to the steps that I realize I’m still holding the plate. Bread and meat spill from it as I put it down and rush up to the loft. I drag my rucksack onto the bed and start tugging at the drawstring. I’ve kept it fastened since Gretchen went in it for the MP3 player, and now I swear as I struggle to untie the knot, listening for any footsteps that might announce the return of the police.

There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat as I reach in and grab the package. Its smooth weight is a reminder of everything I’d rather forget. I’ve had plenty of time to decide what to do, but it was easier to avoid thinking about it altogether. Now I don’t have any choice. I look wildly around the piled junk in the loft for somewhere to hide it, but everywhere seems too obvious. I need a place where it’ll be safe from a casual search, where it won’t be found by accident.