Stone Bruises (4 page)

‘Can you leave the hatch open?’ I ask. ‘There’s no air up here.’

Gretchen’s laugh is light and girlish. ‘Of course there is, or how could you breathe? You’d be dead.’

The trapdoor settles shut behind her. Even though I’m waiting for it, I still flinch when I hear the bolt slide home.

I don’t remember falling asleep. When I wake the loft is dusky and full of shadows. Tilting my watch to catch the light, I see that it’s after nine. I listen for some sounds of life outside, but there’s nothing. Not a whisper, not so much as a bird or insect.

I feel like the last man on earth.

The tray of food that Gretchen brought is still by the bed. There’s a wine bottle filled with water, a bowl of milk and two chunks of what looks to be homemade bread. I’m surprised to find that I’m famished. The milk is cool and thick, with a strong taste that makes me think it might be goat’s. I dunk the bread in it, convinced it won’t even scratch the surface of my hunger, but whoever prepared it knew better than I do. After a few mouthfuls my appetite withers and dies. I push away what’s left and lie back.

Sated for the moment, I stare at the darkening roof beams as my foot throbs like a metronome. I can’t decide if I’m a prisoner or a patient. I’ve obviously been well looked after, and if the farm’s wood is full of illegal traps that explains why they didn’t want to risk taking me to a hospital.

But after that my reasoning takes a darker track. I’m still locked in a barn, and nobody knows I’m here. What would have happened if I’d got worse? And what happens when I’m recovered? Are they just going to let me walk out of here?

Sweating and fretful, I toss and turn on the lumpy mattress, trying to get comfortable. At some point I drift off to sleep again. I’m back in the copse, scrubbing at the bloodstains on the seatbelt. They won’t come off, and the belt is thumping against the seat. It’s getting louder, and then I’m awake and in the loft, and the thumping is coming from the floor. There’s time to realize that someone is coming up the steps, then there’s the screech of the bolt being drawn and the trapdoor is flung open.

It falls back with a bang. A man stamps up the last few steps, carrying a lamp and a hunting rifle. He’s in his fifties, thickset and barrel-bodied with iron-grey hair and a seamed, sun-dried face. Right now it’s set in angry lines. The rifle isn’t pointed at me but it’s held in such a way I can see he’s thinking about it.

I back up against the wall as he clomps over the boards. Mathilde hurries up the steps after him.

‘Don’t! Please!’

He ignores her. He stops at the foot of the bed and glares down at me. The yellow glow from the lamp forms a cavern of light around us, throwing the rest of the room into darkness.

‘Get out,’ he snarls. There’s an aura of suppressed fury about him, a barely checked desire to drag me from the bed.

Mathilde takes hold of his arm. ‘At least let him stay till the morning—’

He shrugs her off without taking his eyes from me. ‘Get out,’ he repeats.

I don’t have much choice. I throw back the sheet, pretending to be unconcerned about my nakedness. Hobbling over to the commode, I sit down while I get dressed, trying not to wince as my jeans drag over my bandaged foot. There’s no way I can force it into a boot, so I cram the damaged one into my rucksack with the rest of my things. That done, I precariously stand up.

The man – I’m guessing he’s the father – jerks the stock of the rifle towards the trapdoor. ‘Go on.’

‘All right, I’m going,’ I tell him, trying for a scrap of dignity.

And I want to; I’m just not sure I can make it across the loft. I pause, gathering all my strength for the long trek across the room. Mathilde’s face is expressionless, as if she’s isolated herself from what’s going on.

He takes a step towards me. ‘Move.’

I’m in no condition to argue. Gripping the aluminium frame of my rucksack with both hands, I push it in front of me, using it for support. The distance to the trapdoor is covered in a series of slow, painful hops. Mathilde and her father follow. In the light from his lamp I see Gretchen standing on the steps with the baby. Amazingly, it’s still asleep, slumped bonelessly across her shoulder. But her eyes are wide, and she looks scared as she moves out of my way.

I push the rucksack right up to the trapdoor’s edge. Anger and humiliation have got me this far, but I don’t know how I’m going to get any further. The clean clothes are already sticking to me. I can smell my own body, the stink of illness in my sweat. Lowering myself carefully, I sit on the edge of the trapdoor and slip my arms through the rucksack’s straps. Then, sliding forwards, I grope with my good foot for a step and put my weight on it. Holding onto the lip of the trapdoor, I feel a sense of triumph as I hop to the next step down. I’ve barely chance to register the quick footfalls behind me before something thumps into my back and I fly into the darkness.

The breath bursts from me as I tumble to the bottom of the steps. I crash into bottles, scattering them across the floor in a tuneless jangle. I lie where I’ve fallen, stunned and breathless. The rucksack’s dead weight pins me down. I try to push myself up, and then someone is there helping me.

‘Are you all right?’

It’s Mathilde. Before I can answer her father comes down the steps, the light from his lamp glinting off the scattered bottles. Behind him I can make out Gretchen in the shadows. The baby has woken and started crying, but no one seems to notice. We’re on a wooden gallery, a platform midway between the loft and what I guess, beneath the shadows, is the ground. I shrug free of Mathilde’s hands and grab a bottle by its neck, struggling to my feet to face him.

‘Keep back!’ I yell in English, my French deserting me. I raise the bottle warningly, my injured foot clamouring as I totter for balance.

The man reaches the bottom of the steps, the centre of the yellow aura thrown by the lamp. His hands tighten on the rifle as he gives the bottle a contemptuous glance, then starts forward again. Mathilde steps between us.

‘Don’t. Please.’

I’m not sure which of us she’s talking to. But her father stops, glaring at me with silent venom.

‘I was trying to leave!’ I shout.

My voice is unsteady. The adrenalin has left me weak and trembling. All at once I’m aware of the cool heft of the bottle in my hand. I sway, nauseous, and for an instant I’m back on a dark street, with another scene of blood and violence about to replay itself.

I let the bottle drop. It rolls slowly across the dusty floorboards and bumps against the others with a muted chink. The baby is still howling, struggling in Gretchen’s arms, but no one says anything as I lurch towards the next flight of steps. Almost immediately my legs give way and I collapse to my knees. I’m nearly weeping with frustration but I don’t have the strength to get up. Then Mathilde is there again, sliding her arm under mine.

‘I can manage,’ I say petulantly. She doesn’t take any notice. She eases me back against a wooden beam before turning to her father.

‘He’s in no condition to go anywhere.’

His face is made hard by the lamplight. ‘That’s not my problem. I don’t want him here.’

If not for your trap I wouldn’t be, I want to say, but nothing comes out. I feel dizzy. I close my eyes and put my head back against the beam, letting their voices swirl around me.

‘He’s a stranger, he wasn’t to know.’

‘I don’t care, he’s not staying.’

‘Would you rather the police pick him up?’

The mention of the police makes me lift my head, but the warning doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me. In my febrile state it seems that they’re locked in some private contest, adults talking over the head of a child who won’t understand. Probably they don’t want the police to know about the traps, I think, but I’m too tired to wonder about it for long.

‘Just let him stay for a few days,’ Mathilde’s voice pleads. ‘Until he’s got his strength back.’

Her father’s answer is a long time coming. He glares at me, then turns away with a contemptuous snort. ‘Do what you like. Just keep him out of my sight.’

He goes to the steps. ‘The lamp,’ Mathilde says, when he reaches them. He pauses, and I can see him contemplating taking it and leaving us without light. Then he sets the lamp down and descends into the darkness below without another word.

Mathilde fetches it and crouches next to me. ‘Can you stand?’

When I don’t respond she repeats it in English. I still don’t say anything, but begin to heave myself up. Without asking, she takes the rucksack from my shoulders.

‘Lean on me.’

I don’t want to, but I’ve no option. Beneath the thin cotton, her shoulder is firm and warm. She puts an arm around my waist. Her head comes to my chin.

Gretchen moves out of the shadows as we reach the bottom of the steps. The baby is still red-faced and teary, but more curious now than upset.

‘I told you to stay in the house with Michel,’ Mathilde says. There’s the slightest edge to her voice.

‘I only wanted to help.’

‘I can manage. Take him back to the house.’

‘Why should I have to look after him all the time? He’s your baby.’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

Gretchen’s face hardens. She brushes past us, her flip-flops slapping angrily on the steps. I feel rather than hear Mathilde’s sigh.

‘Come on,’ she says, wearily.

She supports most of my weight as we go up the steps and over to the bed. It takes for ever. I collapse onto the mattress, barely aware of her going away again. A minute later she’s back, carrying the rucksack and lamp. She sets both by the bed.

‘Your father didn’t know I was here, did he?’ I say. ‘You didn’t tell him.’

Mathilde is outside the lamp’s circle of light. I can’t make out her face, don’t know if she’s looking at me or not.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ she says, and leaves me alone in the loft.

THE RUCKSACK BOUNCES
on my back as I run to where the car waits on the slip road, its engine ticking over. It’s a yellow VW Beetle, battered and rust-pitted but right now the most beautiful car in the world as far as I’m concerned. It’s going dark and I’m numb from standing in the cold for the past two hours, cursing the drivers who’ve whipped past me onto the motorway without a glance.

I open the passenger door, surprised to see that the driver is a lone girl.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘London, but the next services will do,’ I tell her, desperate to get out of the bitter wind.

‘I’m going to Earl’s Court, if that’s any good?’

‘Thanks, that’s fantastic.’ I can catch a tube from there. I’m staying in Kilburn, renting the spare room in a flat whose owner is away for a month. After that I haven’t a clue what I’ll do.

But that’s a problem for another day. I dump my rucksack on the back seat, careful to avoid the large artist’s portfolio lying there, and then sit up front. She has the window wound down slightly on her side but turns the heating up full blast to compensate.

‘I’ve got to have the window open because the exhaust leaks in,’ she explains. ‘I mean to get it fixed, but …’

Her shrug eloquently suggests a combination of what-can-you-do and can’t-be-bothered.

‘I’m Sean.’ I have to raise my voice over the competing roar of the open window and hot air blowing from the heater.

She gives me a quick smile. ‘Chloe.’

She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, slender, with pale-blonde cropped hair and deep-blue eyes. Pretty.

‘Are you warm enough now?’ she asks. ‘If I leave the heater on full for too long it overheats.’

I tell her I’m fine. She reaches out to the dash and adjusts the temperature. Her hand is long-fingered and fine-boned. A thin silver band encircles her wrist.

‘I’m surprised you stopped. You don’t often find girls taking a chance on hitch-hikers. Not that I’m complaining,’ I add.

‘You’ve got to take some chances. Besides, you looked harmless enough.’

‘Thanks,’ I laugh.

She smiles. ‘What are you going to London for?’

‘Looking for work.’

‘So it’s a permanent move?’

‘If I can find a job, yeah.’ Although just the word
permanent
makes me feel uneasy.

‘What sort of work are you looking for?’

‘Whatever’s going. Bar work, labouring. Anything that pays.’

She glances over. ‘You a graduate?’

‘I was, a while back. But I wanted to travel, so I took some time out.’
Some time
is deliberately vague: I’m uncomfortably aware of how it’s slipped by. Most of my peers have settled into careers by now, but I’ve drifted from one job to the next without any real direction.

‘Good for you,’ Chloe says. ‘I went backpacking to Thailand for six months. God, absolutely brilliant! Where’d you go?’

‘Uh … just to France.’

‘Oh.’

‘I plan to go back,’ I add, defensively. ‘You know, when I’ve got enough money together.’

That’s not likely to be any time soon. Even though I’ve stopped smoking, the casual jobs I’ve been doing don’t pay much. She nods, but isn’t really listening. I grip my seat as she suddenly switches lanes to overtake a van, pulling out in front of a speeding Jaguar that’s forced to brake. It flashes its lights indignantly, jammed right up to our rear bumper. The VW’s engine becomes shrill, gathering just enough speed to draw alongside the van without being able to pass.

‘Come on, dickhead,’ Chloe mutters, glaring past me at the van driver. I watch anxiously as she keeps her foot down until we’re just ahead before darting back into lane. The van blares its horn and drops back, putting space between itself and the mad young woman in the VW. I let go of the seat, my hands aching from the pressure.

‘So what did you study?’ Chloe continues, unperturbed.

‘Film.’

‘Making or theory?’

‘Theory.’ I realize I’m sounding defensive.

She grinned. ‘Ah, now I get it.
That’s
why you went to France. Don’t tell me – Truffaut’s your hero. No, Godard.’

‘No,’ I say, stung. ‘Well …’

‘I knew it!’

I can’t keep from grinning as well, happy to find someone to argue with. ‘You don’t like French cinema?’