Stone Bruises (31 page)

‘I’ve told you often enough to use more when you’re cooking. It kills the flavour putting it on afterwards.’

‘Then why do it?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

Arnaud gives me a poisoned look. ‘Because then at least it tastes of something.’

‘It tastes fine to me,’ I say to Mathilde. ‘It’s delicious.’

She flickers a nervous smile. Her father stares at me across the table, chewing slowly. He swallows, taking his time before answering.

‘And you’d know, would you?’

‘I know what I like.’

‘Is that so? I didn’t realize you were such a gourmand. All this time I thought it was just some no-hope hitch-hiker I’d got living in my barn.’ Arnaud raises his glass in an ironic salute. ‘I’m honoured to have your opinion rammed down my throat.’

The sound of the rain is loud in the sudden silence. Gretchen is watching us wide-eyed. Mathilde starts to get up.

‘There’s some sauce left in the pan—’

‘Sit down.’

‘It’s no trouble. I can—’

‘
I said sit down!
’

The plates jump as Arnaud’s hand crashes onto the table. Even before the reverberations die away the sound of Michel’s crying comes from upstairs. But no one makes a move to go to him.

‘Why don’t you leave her alone?’ I hear myself say.

Arnaud slowly turns to stare at me. His face is already flushed from the wine, but now it darkens even more. ‘What?’

It feels like I’m running downhill, knowing I’m heading for a fall but carried away by the rush. ‘I said why don’t you leave her alone?’

‘Don’t—’ Mathilde begins, but Arnaud silences her with a raised hand.

‘You hear that, Mathilde? You’ve got a champion!’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his voice becoming dangerously low. ‘You sit there, eating my food, drinking my wine, and
question
me? In my own
home
?’

Mathilde’s face has paled, while Gretchen’s pretty features have developed an ugly twist. At any other time I might recognize that as a warning, but I’m too focused on Arnaud. His expression is murderous, and a vein beats rapid time on one temple. It makes me glad he doesn’t have his gun to hand.

And then, suddenly, something changes. A glint of calculation comes into his eyes. He shrugs, unclamping his jaw enough to give a forced smile. ‘Ah, to hell with it. I’m not going to argue about a plate of pork. A man’s entitled to his own opinion.’

For a second I’m at a loss, then I get it. He thinks this is about the conversation we had in the woods; his suggestion that I should take Mathilde off his hands. The pent-up tension that’s been building in me all day abruptly deflates.

Arnaud sets about his food again with gusto. ‘So, you like Mathilde’s cooking, eh? Good for you. Perhaps I was a little hasty. You know what they say, a woman who knows how to cook for a man knows how to keep him happy in other ways as well.’

Jesus
. I look across at Mathilde, hoping she doesn’t think I’m party to this. Her eyes are averted, but the same can’t be said for her sister’s. Gretchen is glaring at me with a fury that’s drawn the skin of her face taut against its bones. The force of it slaps me like a physical jolt, and then she turns to her father.

‘Papa, I’ve got something to tell you.’

Arnaud waves his fork indulgently, without looking up. ‘Go on.’

I stare at her, not wanting to believe she’s going to do this. But of course she does.

‘I saw Georges in the woods this afternoon. Didn’t he mention it?’

‘No, why should he?’

She looks at me, angelic face dimpling in a vindictive smile. ‘Sean can tell you.’

Arnaud lowers his knife and fork, suspicion replacing his earlier indulgence. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Gretchen, why don’t you—’ Mathilde tries to intervene, but their father isn’t going to be put off.

‘Tell me
what
?’

They’re all staring at me. The three faces show differing expressions: Arnaud anger, Mathilde fearfulness and Gretchen growing uncertainty, as though she’s belatedly regretting what she’s started. Strangely enough, I feel calm. As though I’ve been trying to find my way to this moment but didn’t realize it until now.

‘I’m leaving.’

The announcement is met with silence. It’s Arnaud who breaks it.

‘What do you mean, leaving?’

‘Just that. There’s something I need to do.’ Now I’ve said it all my indecision and uncertainty have gone. It’s as though a weight’s been lifted from me.

Arnaud’s face has grown thunderous. ‘You’ve been here all this time and you never mention this before? What’s so urgent that it needs doing now?’

‘It’s personal. I know it’s sudden, but I can’t put it off any longer.’

‘What about your obligations here? It’s all right to put those off, I suppose?’

‘The wall’s in a better state than it was. But I can stay a few more days, at least until—’

‘Don’t bother!’ Arnaud bellows. ‘If you’re going to desert us you’re not spending another night under my roof! Go on, Judas! Pack your things and get out!’

‘No!’ Gretchen cries. She looks angry and upset, but that could just be frustration. ‘No, he can’t leave!’

Her father waves aside her objection. ‘Yes, he can! And good riddance! We don’t need him!’

Mathilde has been silent till now. She seems genuinely shaken. ‘Wait, can’t we—’

‘No, let him go!’ Arnaud roars. ‘Didn’t you hear me, you ungrateful bastard? I said get out!’

I push my chair back and head for the door. Mathilde hurries to stop me. ‘At least let’s wait until tomorrow to talk about it! Please!’

I’m not sure if the plea is aimed at me or her father. Arnaud glowers at her, jaw working as though he’s gnawing a bone.

‘Please!’ she says again, and this time there’s no question who she’s addressing.

Arnaud throws up his hand in a dismissive gesture that ends with him grabbing the wine bottle. ‘Let him do what he likes, I don’t care. Stay or go, it’s all the same to me.’

He sloshes wine into his glass. Mathilde takes hold of my arm and hurries me into the courtyard. Before she shuts the door after us, my last view is of Gretchen, staring after us with her face pinched and intent.

Outside, the rain has eased up but a fine drizzle still hangs in the air. It’s cool and damp enough to make me shiver. Mathilde leads me across the slick cobbles until we’re out of earshot.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

She shakes her head. Her hair is misted by the drizzle. ‘You don’t have to go.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘My father’s just angry. He didn’t mean what he said.’

I’d beg to differ, but it doesn’t matter anyway. ‘It’s not him. I’ve stayed too long as it is.’

She glances back at the house. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. ‘Won’t you change your mind?’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

She’s silent for a moment, then sighs. ‘Where will you go? To England?’

I just nod. It’s only now starting to sink in. Mathilde tucks rain-damp hair behind her ear.

‘Will you come back? Here, I mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m surprised and moved that she’s asked. I wish I could say, but the decision won’t be mine to make.

‘You should stay until morning, at least.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘My father will calm down. Besides, there won’t be many cars on the road this late.’

She has a point. If I go now I’ll either be walking all night or still outside the gate come morning. I glance back at the house. ‘I don’t want to cause any more trouble …’

‘You won’t. And I have to talk to you before you go.’

‘What about?’

‘Not now.’ She’s standing close to me. Her grey eyes seem huge. ‘Can I come to the loft later? After midnight?’

‘I … OK. Sure.’

Her hand rests lightly on my chest. ‘Thank you.’

I stare after her as she hurries back to the scaffolded house and disappears inside. Then I’m alone in the post-rain quiet. A breeze causes the old weathervane to twist and creak on top of the stables, carrying a rustle of the distant trees. Clouds slide across the not yet dark sky, fitfully obscuring a rising moon. My thoughts are in a tumult as I set off across the wet courtyard to the barn. Everything seemed so clear only minutes ago. Now I don’t know what to think.

Or what Mathilde might want.

A sudden wave of doubt takes the strength from my legs.
Christ, what am I doing?
I lean against the barn wall, sucking in air, and it’s only then I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the kitchen. There’s a moment of panic, but it quickly passes. I’m not going back for it, and once I accept that I feel calm again. With a last deep breath, I straighten and carry on back to the loft to pack my things.

It’s time to face up to what I’ve done.

IT’S DARK WHEN
I arrive in Docklands. I’ve no idea what the time is – the numbers on my watch face seem part of an illegible code – but it’s late. The bars and restaurants I pass are closed, and the only sound is the echo of my footsteps.

I’ve reached that stage of pseudo-clarity that feels like being sober. Jez said the gym was near an undeveloped quay, but after wandering at random all I’ve accomplished is to get myself completely lost. The area is a maze of unlit tower blocks, gentrified dock buildings and derelict warehouses overlooked by faltering regeneration.

It’s beginning to sink in how stupid this is. Even if I find Jules, what would I do? Any idea of retribution now seems pathetic, an alcohol-fuelled fantasy to stave off my own guilt. As I walk the empty streets Yasmin’s accusations play in my head like a looped recording.
You just walked out and abandoned her. She wanted to make it easy for you, and you let her, didn’t you?
Did I? Is that really what happened? I don’t know any more. The thought that the baby might have been mine leaves a physical ache under my breastbone. I’ve gone over and over everything Chloe said, trying to decipher the truth. I can’t, but much as I want to believe that Yasmin was just hitting out I know it isn’t only Jules who’s to blame.

The beginning of a hangover is starting to throb in my temples. I feel tired, sick with regret and self-disgust. All I want now is to go back to my flat, but I’ve no idea how to get there. The streets all look the same; tunnels of brick, chrome and glass that as often as not lead to dead-ends of dark water and silent boats.

Then I turn a corner and see light coming from an open doorway in a warehouse. A car is parked on the other side of the road, but other than that the street is deserted. I walk faster, hoping to find someone who can tell me where I am. I’ve wandered well away from the more affluent parts of Docklands. Apart from the warehouse, all the buildings around here are derelict. Beyond a fenced-off strip of wasteland is the black sheen of water and a run-down quayside. But it isn’t until I notice the developer’s board outside the warehouse and the skeletal frames of exercise machines through the ground-floor windows that I fit it all together. I slow down, still not quite believing this can be what I think, and then someone comes out of the doorway and crosses the road to the car.

The electronic squeal of it unlocking carries in the quiet street. I’ve stopped, watching as the man goes around to the back and opens the boot. I lose sight of him for a few moments, then the boot is slammed shut and the figure goes to the driver’s side and gets in. I stand motionless, no more than twenty or thirty feet away, as Jules is revealed by the dim interior light. Whatever stomach I had for confrontation has gone as I watch him slumped at the steering wheel. There’s nothing smug or arrogant about him now. The stubbled face looks tired and defeated, his eyes shadowed.

Not daring to move in case he sees me, I wait for him to go. Instead he rummages for something out of sight. I only realize what he’s doing when he bends his head, pressing a finger to the side of his nose as he snorts something from the back of his hand. Suddenly more purposeful, he straightens and starts the car engine. A moment later the road is lit up by bright halogen headlights.

And so am I.

I shield my eyes from the glare, hoping even now he might not notice me. For a moment nothing happens. Then the engine and headlights are turned off. As I try to blink away their afterimage I hear the car door open. It chunks shut as Jules comes to stand in front of the car.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Still dazzled, I try to make him out in the darkness. ‘Chloe’s dead.’

It’s the only thing I can think of to say. There’s a pause. For a second or two I actually hope we might be able to put aside any rivalry.

‘And?’

‘Did you know?’

‘Yeah. So if that’s what you came to tell me you can turn around and piss off.’

The anger that had drained away starts to seep back. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘
I
didn’t do anything, she did it all herself. That’s why they call it suicide. Now why don’t you do us both a favour and fuck off, because I’m really not in the mood for a sermon.’

‘You threw her out.’

‘Big deal. I didn’t ask her to jump off a bridge.’ There’s something defensive behind his aggression. ‘Anyway, what the fuck’s it got to do with you? I can’t remember you being so concerned when you walked out and left her. You want to blame anyone, look in a fucking mirror!’

It’s close enough to what Yasmin said to make me want to hit out. ‘Did you know she’d had an abortion?’

That’s met with silence. My eyes have adjusted enough to see him shrug. ‘So what?’

‘She said it was yours.’

‘Yeah? She should have been more careful. At least she had the sense to get rid of it.’ The callousness sounds forced, but it’s quickly replaced by rage. ‘You want to know why I kicked her out? Because she’d got to be a fucking liability. An
embarrassment
! She was a fucking cokehead, it’s not my fault she couldn’t keep her shit together.’

‘And who made her like that?’

This time the silence is threatening. ‘You need to watch what you’re saying.’

‘You got her hooked and then dropped her when she wouldn’t courier for you!’

‘Last chance. Shut the fuck up and go. Now.’

‘Why, so you can ruin someone else’s life? You’re just a fucking pimp!’