Stone Bruises (22 page)

It takes a while, but eventually I think of one.

A bee grumbles over the vines, droning like a crippled plane. There’s a half-heard thrum in the air, as though the sun is making even the silence vibrate. The heat seems to have a physical weight, sapping will and energy alike.

I gaze out at the day through the barn entrance. I’m sitting on the concrete strip with my back against one of the old wine vats. It’s much cooler down here than in the loft, although ‘cool’ is still a relative term. My lunch was still on the step where I’d left it when I came back from hiding the package. Or rather the plate was: Lulu had discovered it in my absence.

I wasn’t hungry anyway.

The springer spaniel lolls next to me, digesting my lunch and enjoying the shade. I should get back to work, but I can’t find the motivation. The morning’s events have left me hollowed out. The gendarmes’ visit has unsettled me even more than the violence in the square. At least then I’d been able to return to the farm’s sanctuary, to shut myself away behind its gate. Now the outside world has followed me inside, reminding me that any sense of refuge is no more than an illusion. I can’t hide here indefinitely.

The question is where do I go?

Cocooned in shade, I stare through the barn entrance at the sunlit vines, absently picking at the crack in the concrete surface. The broken edge crumbles away easily. There’s something hypnotic about letting the grains sift through my fingers, like sand at a beach.
Not enough mortar in the mix
. The crack has grown bigger, worn away by my walking over it to the steps. At its widest point it’s maybe an inch across, and as I run my fingertips along it they touch something that rustles.

Too lethargic to move, I turn my head to look. There isn’t enough light in the barn to make out what it is, but it feels like a scrap of cloth. Probably something that was mixed in with the concrete; yet another example of Louis’s less than stellar workmanship. I give it a half-hearted tug, but there’s not enough of it to grip.

Losing interest, I brush the sand from my hands and leave the scrap where it is. The barn’s cavernous interior is spicy with old wood and grape musk. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to feel tired after what’s happened, but heat and reaction are a potent combination. Resting my head against the rough vat, I stare at the sunlit day beyond the barn entrance, a rectangle of light in the darkness …

Something hits my foot, and for an instant I think I’m caught in the trap again. Then the last vestiges of sleep drop away and I see a blurred figure looming over me.

‘What?’ I gasp, scrambling to sit up.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or not to find it’s Arnaud. He stares at me coldly, foot cocked ready to kick me again. Lulu is frantically wagging her tail at him, managing to seem both cowed and guilty.

‘What are you doing?’ he demands.

I rub the sleep from my eyes. ‘It’s my lunch break.’

‘It’s after four.’

Looking past him, I see that the light outside has changed. A high haze, like a sheet of muslin, has turned the sky a uniform white, reducing the sun to a formless glare.

But I’m not in the mood to apologize. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it.’

I expect Arnaud to make some comment, but he isn’t really listening. There’s a preoccupied scowl on his face.

‘Mathilde said the gendarmes spoke to you.’

‘One of them did.’

‘What about?’

‘He wanted to know what happened last night.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘What did you tell him?’

I’m tempted to let him sweat, but my heart isn’t in it. ‘That it was too dark for me to see anything.’

Arnaud scans my face, looking for signs that I’m lying. ‘Was that all they wanted to know?’

‘He asked what I’d done to my foot.’

His smile is bitter. ‘So you told him about the traps, eh?’

‘I said I’d stepped on a nail.’

‘Did he believe you?’

I shrug.

His jaw works as though he’s chewing that over, then he turns and walks away.
Don’t mention it
, I think, staring at his back. I don’t want the police sniffing round here any more than he does, but a simple thank you wouldn’t kill him. Arnaud’s only gone a few paces, though, before he pauses.

‘Mathilde’s cooking something special tonight,’ he says grudgingly. ‘You can eat with us.’

Before I can answer, he’s gone.

THE COURTYARD IS
in shadow as I limp across it towards the house. A lone hen refuses to get out of my way, so I usher it aside with my walking stick. The bird clucks and flaps before settling down to resume picking at some invisible speck. My freshly washed hair and beard are still damp, and I’ve even dressed for the occasion, putting on a fresh T-shirt and my cleanest pair of jeans. I feel uncomfortable, the familiar setting made strange by the occasion.

I keep reminding myself it’s only dinner.

Lulu has been banished to the courtyard. She lingers hopefully outside the kitchen, fussing over me briefly when I walk up but more concerned with getting back inside. The windows are open, letting out the smell of roasting meat. I raise my hand, catch myself hesitating, and knock on the door.

Gretchen opens it. She stands back to let me in, blocking the dog’s attempt to dart past with a terse ‘No, Lulu!’

The kitchen is warm and humid with cooking. Saucepans are simmering on the old range. Mathilde is stirring one briskly with a spoon. She gives me a perfunctory smile.

‘Sit down.’

I go to the table, which is set with four places, and pull out one of the unmatching chairs.

‘That’s Papa’s,’ says Gretchen.

She lingers by the table while I move to another seat. Except for when I told her to stay in the house last night, we haven’t spoken since her tantrum – I don’t know what else to call it – outside the barn. There’s nothing in her manner now to indicate either embarrassment or hostility. She acts as though nothing’s happened.

‘Ask him if he’d like an aperitif,’ Mathilde tells her.

‘I know, I was going to,’ Gretchen snaps. She turns to me, awkwardly. ‘Would you like an aperitif?’

‘That sounds good.’

I’m going to need a drink to help me get through this evening; I’m on edge enough as it is. I expect Gretchen to tell me what they have, but she looks enquiringly at her sister. Mathilde keeps her eyes on her saucepans.

‘There’s pastis.’

I wait, but that seems to be it.

‘Pastis is fine,’ I say.

Arnaud comes in as Gretchen’s taking the bottle from a cupboard. He’s carrying Michel, who looks sleepy and fractious.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, frowning when he sees what she’s doing.

Gretchen pauses in unscrewing the cap from a bottle of Ricard. ‘Mathilde told me to get him an aperitif.’

Arnaud looks over at me for the first time. I’m sure he’s going to tell her to put the bottle away, but he only shrugs.

‘If he wants to rot his gut with that stuff it’s up to him.’

Gretchen pours a big measure into a small glass and fills another with water. She sets them both on the table in front of me. I smile thanks and pour a little water into the clear amber liquid. It swirls, turning opaque and milky. I take a drink and feel the liquorice warmth burn down my throat.

Arnaud is watching me as I lower the glass. ‘Gut rot,’ he says again.

I raise the glass in an ironic toast. Gut rot or not, it tastes better than his wine. Michel begins squirming irritably. Arnaud jogs him up and down.

‘Hey, hey, none of that, eh?’

‘He should be in bed,’ Mathilde says, glancing over from the saucepan she’s stirring.

‘He didn’t want to go.’

‘He’s tired. If you put him down he’ll—’

‘I said he didn’t want to go.’

The sound of saucepans bubbling is suddenly the only noise in the room. Mathilde keeps her head down. The flush on her cheeks could be from the heat of the range, but it wasn’t there a moment ago. Arnaud stares at her, then holds out Michel to Gretchen.

‘Here. He needs changing.’

‘But Papa—!’

‘Do as you’re told.’

Mathilde puts down the spoon.

‘I’ll take him.’

‘You’re cooking. Gretchen can do it.’

‘I’d rather—’

Arnaud silences her with a raised finger, levelling it at her like a gun until she lowers her head and turns back to the pan. He motions to Gretchen.

‘Take him.’

Gretchen flounces out of the kitchen with the baby. Arnaud wanders over to the range and sniffs at the steaming pans. He takes the spoon from Mathilde and tastes the sauce.

‘More pepper.’

As she obediently grinds peppercorns he sits at the table, lowering himself with a sigh that’s almost a grunt into the chair. His chair, of course.

‘I see the top section of wall’s nearly done,’ he says, settling.

I take a sip of Ricard. ‘It’s getting there.’

‘How much longer do you think it’ll take?’

I put down my glass. I don’t want to think about the future. ‘To finish the entire wall? I don’t know, a few weeks maybe.’

‘And the rest of the house?’

‘Longer than that. Why?’

‘Just so I know.’

As we’re talking Mathilde takes the saucepan from the heat and quietly slips out. If Arnaud notices he doesn’t object. He picks up the opened bottle of wine from the centre of the table and pours himself a glass. He takes a sip and grimaces. There’s a basket of bread next to the bottle. He breaks off a chunk and chews it as he drinks.

We sit at the table in a silence that’s broken only by the bubbling pans. I still don’t know why I’ve been invited. I’d assumed it was because I’d covered for him with the police, but now I’m starting to suspect there’s another reason. Arnaud isn’t the grateful sort.

Gretchen comes back into the kitchen. Without fuss, she goes straight to the range and puts the sauce back on the heat. Arnaud doesn’t spare her a glance, either unaware of the subtle collusion between his daughters or choosing to overlook it. Mathilde and Gretchen can evidently co-operate when they need to, despite the tension between them.

I’ve finished my pastis. Arnaud sees the empty glass and slides the bottle of wine over. ‘Here. Make yourself at home.’

I’m not sure if he’s being facetious or not.

The ‘something special’ is a boneless pork loin, rolled and rubbed with salt and rosemary and roasted with unpeeled cloves of garlic. The kitchen fills with its heavy scent when Mathilde lifts it steaming from the oven. She carves it by the range, cutting off oozing slices and laying them on plates that Gretchen then brings to the table. There are dishes of shallots, puréed chestnuts, chard and sautéed potatoes already set out, all of which Arnaud helps himself to first.

Gretchen brings her own plate over to the table. As she sits down she catches my eye and smiles. I pretend not to notice, hoping her father won’t either. It’s a vain hope.

‘What are you smirking at?’

‘Nothing.’

Arnaud glares at her. ‘Is there something I’m missing here? Some joke?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you grinning like a donkey?’

‘I’m not.’

‘You think I’m blind?’ Arnaud’s face is growing darker, but as he’s about to say something else Mathilde puts a dish on the table and knocks over the wine.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’

She quickly rights it, but not in time to stop the crimson stream spreading. Arnaud pulls back his chair to keep it from dripping on him as the spill runs off the table edge, and Mathilde runs for a cloth.

‘Watch what you’re doing,’ he snaps as she mops it up.

But it’s diverted him. Mathilde brings another bottle, filling mine and Arnaud’s glasses before pouring smaller measures for herself and Gretchen. Gretchen frowns.

‘Is that all?’

‘For now,’ Mathilde says, setting down the bottle.

‘Papa!’ Gretchen protests.

Arnaud gives a short nod of indulgence. Shooting her sister a triumphant look, Gretchen fills her glass to the brim.

Mathilde quietly takes her seat.

Arnaud is at the table’s head, facing me, with Gretchen and Mathilde on either side. He’s already started eating, but I wait for Mathilde. The sauce is mustard and cream, not too hot and cooked with the meat’s juices. The pork is delicious.

‘This is great,’ I say.

The praise is aimed at Mathilde, but Arnaud intercepts it.

‘It should be. You won’t find better pork than this.’

He stabs up a piece of meat. His jaws work as he chews, muscles bunching below his ears. He swallows, looking at me.

‘Recognize it?’

I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. He forks up another piece of meat and waves it at me.

‘This. Don’t you recognize it? You should; you helped kill it.’

I pause as I cut into a slice, but only for a second. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. ‘I thought it looked familiar.’

‘Makes it taste better, eh? Gives it a certain flavour, knowing where it came from.’ Arnaud refills his glass without offering the bottle to anyone else. ‘Of course, Mathilde doesn’t agree. She thinks pork is “unclean”. Don’t you, Mathilde?’

For the first time I notice that Mathilde’s plate holds only vegetables. She keeps her eyes downcast.

‘I just don’t like it,’ she says quietly.

‘She just doesn’t like it.’ Arnaud consumes half his glass of wine at one go. His expression is mean. ‘Chicken is fine, or duck, or rabbit. But not pork. Why is that, do you think, eh?’

‘People like different things,’ I say.

I wasn’t intending to defend her. All I want to do is get the meal out of the way and go back to my loft. He looks at me, thoughtfully.

‘Is that right,’ he says dryly, and drains the rest of his wine.

The remainder of the bottle quickly goes the same way. Arnaud eats and drinks with bellicose concentration, dominating the table like a hair trigger waiting to go off. But the main course passes without explosion. Afterwards there’s goat’s cheese, the usual strong, half-set stuff that Mathilde makes. I decline, but Arnaud smears it thickly on pieces of bread with his knife.

It’s grown dark inside the kitchen. When Mathilde switches on a tall floor lamp the twilight outside becomes full night. I get up with my plate as she and Gretchen begin to clear the table, but Arnaud waves me back down.