Stone Bruises (33 page)

I badly want to swim back and get dressed. But I can’t do that, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I dive down. The water slips ice-picks into my ears. Everything’s dark. I can’t see a thing, but then the moon comes out from behind a cloud and suddenly an otherworldly light filters down from the surface. The looming hulk of the truck takes form below me. My vision’s blurred but I can see it’s a pick-up. The open flatbed behind the cab is exposed and empty. I kick deeper as my chest starts to heave. Too many cigarettes. Fighting my body’s buoyancy, I grab for the door handle and almost let go when it swings open in slow motion.

My heart’s begun a timpani beat as I pull myself nearer. The interior of the cab is hazy and full of shadows. I peer inside for two or three heartbeats, and then the moon is covered and it’s dark again. Letting go of the door, I push for the surface. I burst into the night air, gulping in breaths as the banging in my temples begins to subside.

Nothing.

The murky water made it hard to be certain, but I didn’t see anything inside the cab; no bulky shadow or slow wave of limbs. I contemplate taking another look to make sure, but the thought makes my flesh crawl. I can’t bring myself to dive down again.

Teeth chattering, I start swimming back. I force myself to go steadily, fighting the urge to rush. Then something – a trailing weed or twig – brushes against my ankle and my restraint shatters. I thrash towards the shore, splashing through the shallows until I’m back on the shingle. Shivering, I rub my arms and stare back at the lake. The ripples from my wake are already settling, leaving the water still and black once more. There’s nothing to suggest what’s hidden below its surface.

I begin dragging on my clothes. There’s no doubt in my mind who the truck belongs to. It was impossible to see its colour, but I’m guessing it’ll be dark green. The same as the one in the photograph Jean-Claude showed me. The last known sighting of Louis was in Lyon, so I’d assumed that whatever happened to him must have happened there. I was wrong.

He came back.

I struggle to pull my jeans over my wet skin. Try as I might, I can’t think of an innocent explanation for why his pick-up is in the lake. Jean-Claude tried to tell me that Arnaud was responsible for his brother’s disappearance and I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to. I can’t believe even now that Mathilde knows anything about this, but I’m not going to stay and find out. The farm’s been hiding at least one secret.

I don’t want to become another.

My boots won’t go on. The wood seems threatening and watchful as I struggle to force my feet into them. I keep looking around, half-expecting to see Arnaud materialize from the shadows with his rifle. But except for a lone statue in the trees, I’m alone. I’m reaching down to pull on my boot before I remember there aren’t any statues this close to the lake, and at that same moment it steps out of the woods.

Gretchen is alabaster pale in the moonlight, skin bleached white as stone. She stares at me without coming any closer.

‘I went to the loft. You weren’t there.’

I find my voice. ‘No, I, uh … I needed some air.’

‘I saw your rucksack. All your things are packed.’

I don’t know what to say to that. Gretchen looks out at the water. Her earlier anger has been replaced by an eerie calm that’s even more unsettling.

‘You’ve been in the lake.’

‘I was hot. I wanted to cool down.’

‘You were underwater for a long time. What were you doing?’

‘Just swimming.’

I’m trying to gauge how much she knows, if it’s possible she isn’t aware of what’s in there. But I’m shivering so much it’s hard to think straight.

‘I told you, Papa says you shouldn’t swim in there. It isn’t safe.’
Safe for who?
‘If I tell him he’ll be angry.’

‘Then don’t tell him.’

‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re leaving tomorrow anyway.’ Her gaze is cold and distant. ‘You don’t care about me or you wouldn’t be abandoning us.’

‘I’m not abandoning anybody.’

‘Yes, you are. I thought you were different but you’re not. We trusted you, and now you’ve betrayed us.’

She said the same about Louis. ‘Look, I’m sorry if—’

‘No, you’re not. You led me on.’

‘That’s not true—’

‘Then promise you’ll stay.’

‘Gretchen—’

‘You have to promise. Or I’ll tell Papa.’

Christ. I glance back at the water. Whether she knows about the truck or not, I don’t want her saying anything to Arnaud. Not until I’m well away from this place.

‘OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll stay.’

Gretchen stares at me. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand on end.

‘Liar.’

‘No, I—’

‘I don’t like you any more.’

‘Gretchen, wait—’ I shout, but she’s already running up the track. After a frozen second I set off after her. I’ve no idea what I’ll do, I only know that I can’t stay down here while she tells her father. But I’m out of shape, and with my boots unlaced and flapping it’s like running in a bad dream. Gretchen races through the wood ahead of me, flickering in and out of the moonlight like a wraith. My chest and legs are burning as I pass the statues, and then one of my boots slips off and I’m tumbling onto the track. The breath explodes from me. Winded, I push myself up in time to see Gretchen’s white figure running out of the wood and through the vines. A cloud obscures the moon, dimming her from sight, but it’s obvious I’m not going to catch her now. Not before she reaches the house.

I bend double, wheezing for air. Shit,
shit
! I try to think clearly. Maybe I’m overreacting, and there’s an innocent explanation. Maybe the truck’s just an old one that was dumped. I desperately want to believe it but the memory of what I found in the lake is too strong. And I can’t take the chance: if the pick-up is Louis’s then Arnaud won’t risk me telling anyone.

He isn’t going to let me leave the farm.

As if on cue, his raised voice carries distantly from the courtyard, bellowing incoherently. I think I can hear Mathilde as well, a pleading counterpoint, then a door slams and there’s silence.

He’s on his way.

I look around for my missing boot, but the moon is still overcast and all I can see are shadows. There’s no more time. Stones and twigs stab into my bare foot – the newly healed one – as I hurry off the track to hide in the trees. Once Arnaud’s gone past I can cut back to the road: I’ll worry about my rucksack later.

I’ve not gone far when there’s a sudden
snap
as I step on something sharp. I throw myself back, heart banging as I tense for the bite of iron jaws. It doesn’t come: it’s only a dead branch. But in my panic I’d forgotten the woods down here are still full of Arnaud’s traps. I daren’t go any further, not when it’s too dark to see where I’m treading.

There’s a flicker of movement off through the trees. I look back towards the vine field. The moon is obscured and for a moment all is shadows. Then it reappears, and I see the unmistakable figure of Arnaud hurrying down the track. He’s carrying something that glints in the moonlight, and when I realize what it is any hope of reasoning with him vanishes.

It’s his rifle.

The moon goes behind another cloud, cutting off my view as though a curtain’s been drawn. But he’s much closer than I expected. It’s too late to retrace my steps and make a run for the lake. Even if I avoid the traps he’ll be close enough to see me, and on the track I’ll make an easy target. Desperate, I look around for somewhere to hide. I’m not far from where we cut down the silver birch, and most of the trees around me are either saplings or stumps. None are big enough to provide cover, but then a ripple of moonlight breaks through the branches and reveals the statues.

I run over before the brief light fades, hoping Arnaud won’t have put traps near them. Throwing myself to the wet ground, I huddle behind the monk’s stone robes. I’m out of breath and my bootless foot is throbbing. It feels sticky: I must have gashed it on the dead branch, or maybe the wounds have reopened. But that’s the least of my problems. I peer round the statue. Without the moon the woods are made up of different depths of black. Nothing moves, and then I see a shadow coming down the track.

I duck back, pressing myself against the cold stone. Above me the sky is a patchwork of clouds and stars, but down here all is dark. I stare up through the trees, praying for the moon to stay hidden. I want to take another look but I’m afraid he’ll see me. So I lie there, listening for his approach. The breeze stirs the leaves and branches, drowning out other sounds. I shut my eyes, trying to visualize where he’ll be. I tell myself if I count to thirty he’ll have gone past by then. But when the half-minute’s passed I still don’t move. What if I’m wrong, or he’s stopped? I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to decide. I can’t stay here indefinitely: my best chance of making it to the road is while Arnaud is down at the lake. He must have gone by now. I tense, getting ready to look again.

There’s a muffled
crack
of a twig breaking.

I lie perfectly still. I’m holding my breath, not daring to breathe. I strain to hear past the rustling trees, willing the clouds to stay for a few moments longer. But the high wind is already dragging them clear, their black silhouettes becoming edged with an argent glow. I watch helplessly as the moon slides out from behind them, flooding the world with opal light. Then another twig snaps only a few feet away.

‘Sean?’

Mathilde’s voice is hushed. The release of tension takes the strength from me.

‘Here.’

She’s looking towards the other statues. She turns at my whisper and hurries over, glancing off through the trees towards the track as the Judas moon hides its face again, plunging the wood into shadows.

‘You have to leave,’ she says in a low voice, crouching down beside me. ‘My father thinks you’re still at the lake. You need to go before he comes back.’

Even now I’d been hoping she’d reassure me I’d nothing to worry about, that it was a misunderstanding. I start to get to my feet again but she pulls me back down. She’s just a shadow herself, her face all but invisible in the dark.

‘Not yet. Give him a little longer to get out of sight. Here, put this on.’

She pushes something at me. I can’t see it but I recognize it by touch as my boot.

‘I found it on the path,’ she whispers. ‘That’s why I thought you’d be here.’

‘Where’s Gretchen?’ I ask, blindly trying to pull on the boot. My foot is slick with blood but too swollen for it to fit.

‘With Michel.’

‘What did she tell your father?’

‘Never mind. Take these.’ Mathilde presses something else into my hands. Keys and what feels like a small roll of money. ‘It’s not much but it’s all I have. And you’ll need this.’

She passes me something thin and flat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s my passport.

‘You’ve been in my rucksack?’ My thoughts are still sluggish, but I can’t see how she’d have had time to go up to the loft.

‘Not tonight. I took it the first time you went into town.’

I don’t know which shocks me more, the fact she took my passport or that I never noticed it was missing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to leave without telling me. I have a favour to ask, but now we need to go. Are you ready?’

Favour? ‘I can’t get the boot on,’ I say, more confused than ever.

‘Do it later. We have to hurry.’

She’s already ushering me from behind the statue. I’ve no choice but to carry the boot, the rough ground gouging into my bare foot.

‘Careful,’ she says, steering me away from a patch of shadow. At first I don’t know what she means, then I make out something hard-edged hidden in it.

So much for Arnaud not setting traps near his statues.

But Mathilde seems to know where to tread as she hurries me back to the track. I limp along as fast as I can, fresh hurt coming from my foot each time I set it down. The clouds covering the moon are shredded, allowing a sickly light to dapple through. I risk a glance towards the lake, but can’t see Arnaud.

‘What favour?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.

There’s enough light to see her tuck her hair behind her ear in the familiar gesture. I can’t make out her face but I can sense her agitation.

‘I want you to take Gretchen with you.’

‘You
what
?’

‘Shh, just listen.’ Mathilde grips my arm, her voice low and hushed. ‘I have to get her away from here, and she’ll go with you. I know it’s a lot to ask but I don’t expect you to support her. I’ll send more money, as much as I can.’

‘Jesus, Mathilde …’

‘Please! I could have told the police about the drugs in your rucksack.’

Of course she’d know, I think, too stunned to feel shocked. I was feverish for three days. A stranger: did I really expect her not to search my things to see who she was looking after? The only surprise is that she let me stay anyway.

Unless she had her own reasons.

The overhanging leaves cast a shadowplay on Mathilde’s face as moonlight breaks through the clouds. The track comes to life around us. Past the wood, the vine field is thrown into sharp relief, the rutted track clearly etched on it like lines drawn in charcoal. I think I see a flicker of movement on it as Mathilde urges me to walk faster.

‘Hurry, we—’

The sudden crack of a gunshot rings out. It comes from behind us, the direction of the lake, and we both flinch as it’s followed by a second. Mathilde pulls me off the track.

‘Down here!’

The trees close in like a tunnel as she leads me down the fork to the sanglochon pens. Branches whip at me as I run just behind her, favouring my cut foot, and then we’re in the ammoniac stink of the clearing. The full moon shines overhead like a beacon, picking out the sows slumped asleep like hairy bolsters. Hoping they don’t wake, I limp behind Mathilde. I expect her to head towards the wood at the far side, but instead she goes to the cinderblock hut.

‘In here,’ she pants, pushing open the door.

There’s no time to argue. I hurry inside and the light is cut off as both halves of the stable door swing shut. The reek of offal and old blood closes in around us. It’s pitch black and our laboured breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space. There’s no window, but as my eyes adjust I see chinks of light seeping through gaps in the mortar. Mathilde brushes past me and peers through one.