Stone Bruises (5 page)

‘I don’t
dis
like it, I just think the whole New Wave thing was overrated. It’s just
dull
. Give me the Americans any day. Scorsese.
Taxi Driver
.’ She turns one hand palm up in a there-you-are gesture. ‘And he didn’t have to use black and white to make his point.’

‘What about
Raging Bull
?’

‘That was a deliberate reference to the boxing footage of the forties and fifties. And it made the blood in the fight scenes more effective. What has Truffaut done to compare with that?’

‘Oh, come
on
…!’

The argument runs on, both of us warming to it, until she has to stop at a services for petrol. I’m surprised to see from a road sign that London is only twenty miles away; the journey has passed too quickly. Chloe waves away my offer of a contribution towards the fuel, but as we set off again she seems distracted.

‘So what about you?’ I ask after a while. I motion towards the portfolio on the back seat. ‘Are you an artist?’

‘That’s what I tell myself.’ She smiles, but there’s something sad about it. ‘For a day job I work as a waitress and try to sell the odd illustration to advertising agencies. I’m on my way back from a pitch now. A big-eyed little kitten for a cat-food manufacturer.’

I’m not sure what to say. ‘Congratulations.’

‘They didn’t go for it.’ A shrug. ‘It was rubbish anyway.’

The conversation dies after that. Suburbs have sprung up around us, and it isn’t long before we reach the outskirts of London. She taps her fingers on the wheel in frustration with the slow-moving traffic. When we get to Earl’s Court she pulls up by the tube station, leaving the engine running. I look for an excuse to delay the moment, but she’s waiting for me to go.

‘Well … thanks for the lift.’

‘No problem.’

I’d made up my mind to ask for her phone number, but she seems miles away already. I climb out and start to pull my rucksack from the back seat.

‘I know some people at a private language school,’ she says abruptly. ‘The place is short of an English teacher. I could put a word in for you, if you like.’

The offer takes me by surprise. ‘I don’t have any teaching qualifications.’

She shrugs this away. ‘You can do a TEFL course easily enough. Do you speak French?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Well, there you go. They get a lot of French students.’

I’ve never taught a thing in my life, never even considered it as a possibility. Still, it isn’t as though I’ve any other plans.

‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I take a deep breath. ‘How about, I don’t know … going for a drink sometime?’

I’M BY THE
stream where I left the car. The water is clear and fast-running, but when I immerse my hands I can’t feel it. It’s warm, the same temperature as my body. I try to clean the clotted blood from beneath my nails, but the more I try the more there seems to be. The water is stained by it, a dark viscous red that now flows above my wrists. I know my own blood is somehow leaching into it but that only makes me scrub harder. When I take my arms from the stream they’re red and dripping up to the elbows.

I’m about to put them back in when I feel a cramp in my foot.

I turn to look at it, and I’m lying in bed. Sunlight fills the loft. This time there’s no lapse, no confusion. I know straight away where I am. I lie staring up at the roof, waiting until the last vestiges of the dream have faded and my heart rate has returned to normal.

The dream might have passed but my foot still hurts. And now other aches announce themselves throughout my body in a roll-call of abuse. Remembering, I look at my rucksack.

A boot print is clearly stamped on it.

Seeing it brings a rush of feeling.
Jesus. What was all that about?
I feel angry and shamed, and more confused than ever, but beneath all that is a sense of relief.

At least I’m not a prisoner.

The black rocking horse regards me evilly from one rolling eye as I take my morning painkillers, washing them down with lukewarm water from one of the wine bottles by the bed. According to my watch, it’s eight o’clock, but there’s no sign of breakfast. I’m hungry again, which I take to be a good sign. I’m still weak, but not with the will-sapping fatigue of yesterday. Apart from a few grazes and a lump where I hit my head, even the tumble downstairs doesn’t seem to have damaged anything. Except my pride.

A distant sound disrupts the morning quiet: the whiplash of a shot, quickly followed by another. Probably Mathilde’s father out venting his aggression on the local wildlife, I think, remembering the hunting rifle the old bastard was carrying. I stare up at the cobwebbed ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. I’ve got to get out of this place, that much is certain. Yet as soon as I start to think beyond the immediate future, despair overwhelms me. I was in enough trouble before I stepped in the trap. No matter what happens here, that won’t have changed.

But I can’t let myself dwell on that. First things first. Pain spears my bandaged foot when I try putting my weight on it, ending any hope of walking. Keeping it off the ground, I hop over to the window. The glass is dirty and hung with cobwebs that resemble rotting muslin. One of them, suspended from a rafter, strokes almost imperceptibly across my eyes. I wipe it off and look outside. Below me is a sunlit field striped with rows of grapevines. They run down to a wood, beyond which is a small lake. It must be the same one I saw just before I stepped in the trap, but from here its surface looks mirror smooth, coloured pale blue with reflected sky.

There’s another unemphatic report of a rifle, this time followed by the excited barking of a dog. I can’t see anyone, but just thinking of the man I met last night knots my stomach. Careful to avoid the photograph this time, I rummage in my rucksack for the pack of Camels I took from the car. The cigarette tastes foul but I need something to calm my nerves. I smoke it sitting propped up on the bed, legs stretched out and my back against the rough wall. The pack is half empty now; I’ll need to ration what’s left.

I don’t know how long they’ll have to last.

After I finish the cigarette I dig out a pair of boxer shorts, a psychological prop in case Papa comes calling again. I’ve only just pulled them on when I hear someone on the steps. I tense before realizing the footsteps aren’t heavy enough to be his.

The trapdoor swings open to reveal Mathilde. I look past her, and relax when I see she’s alone. Her face is unreadable as she approaches the bed.

‘Good morning.’

She’s carrying a tray on which is my breakfast and a bowl of water. There’s also a roll of bandage and an old first-aid tin, and she has a worn towel folded over one arm.

‘I’ve brought a clean dressing for your foot,’ she says. ‘It needs changing.’

She puts the tray, down on the mattress and perches on the edge beside it. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turns her attention to my foot.

‘How is it?’ she asks, unwrapping the bandage.

‘No better for being kicked downstairs.’

I don’t mean to snap, but I can’t help it. My nerves are ragged as Mathilde continues to remove the soiled bandage. Underneath, my foot is covered with clotted pads of surgical dressing, glued to my flesh with dried blood. One sticks when she tries to peel it away, making me suck in my breath.

‘Sorry.’

Taking a wad of cotton wool from the tin, she dips it in the water and begins to soak the dressings. One by one they come away, pulling only slightly. Her shoulder obscures my view as she works.

‘I heard someone shooting earlier,’ I say.

‘My father. He goes hunting.’

‘I assume that was him last night?’

‘Yes.’ She pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. It’s always the same side, I notice; her left. ‘I’m sorry. My father’s a private man. He’s doesn’t like strangers.’

‘So I gathered.’ There’s no point taking it out on her, though. She’s not responsible for her father, and she’s evidently created problems for herself by helping me. ‘Why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Because you knew he’d get in trouble over the traps?’

She looks up at me, the grey eyes solemn. ‘I thought it was best to treat you myself. But if you’d needed urgent attention I would have made sure you had it.’

Bizarrely enough, I believe her. She looks at me for a moment longer, then continues removing the dressings.

‘So I’m free to leave whenever I want?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why was the trapdoor locked?’

‘You were delirious. I didn’t want you to fall down the steps and hurt yourself.’

The irony of that almost makes me laugh. ‘Or risk your father seeing me?’

Her silence confirms it. I can’t imagine how she hoped to keep my presence a secret, but having met the man I can understand why she didn’t want him to know. I’m just glad it was his daughters who stumbled across me in the wood.

‘How did you get me up here without him knowing about it?’ I ask.

‘My father has a bad back and sleeps most afternoons. We used a blanket to carry you from the woods. And we rested a lot.’ Mathilde gently works at the last dressing, which doesn’t want to come off. ‘The barn’s basic but it’s dry and comfortable. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. At least until you’re stronger.’

‘Aren’t you worried I’ll tell the police what happened?’

‘That’s up to you.’

Again, I find myself wanting to believe her. Until I remember the plastic package hidden in my rucksack. Maybe she has a reason for thinking I won’t go to the police, I think, suddenly clammy. But then Mathilde removes the last dressing, and when I see what’s underneath I forget everything else.

‘Oh shit!’

My entire foot is swollen and discoloured. The toenails look like tiny mother-of-pearl buttons against the purple skin, and matching arcs of puncture wounds march from above my ankle to my instep. They’re puffy and inflamed; ugly little mouths crusted with dried blood and yellow pus. The black bristles of stitches protrude from them like the legs of dead spiders.

‘Is it all right?’ I ask anxiously.

Mathilde’s face is expressionless as she soaks another piece of cotton wool and begins cleaning the puncture wounds. ‘It’s healing.’

‘Healing?’ I stare at my foot. The throbbing seems to grow worse now I can see it. ‘Don’t you think a doctor should take a look?’

She continues to dab away calmly. ‘I told you there was an infection. That’s what the antibiotics are for. But if you’d rather I fetched a doctor …’

The sight of the deformed thing on the end of my leg makes me tempted. But a doctor would mean questions, for me as well as them. And there’s something about Mathilde that instils trust.

‘So long as you think it’s OK …’

She gives a nod of assent. Picking up a clean piece of cotton wool, she resumes her gentle wiping. The skin of her hands is rough, her fingernails cut short and square. No rings, I notice.

When the last wound is clean she exchanges the cotton wool for a tube of ointment. ‘This will sting.’

It does. But by the time she’s finished my foot doesn’t look nearly so bad, more like a limb than a piece of chopped meat. Mathilde puts on clean dressing pads and winds the fresh bandage around them. Her movements are deft and economical. The tip of a white ear pokes through her dark hair. The shadows beneath her eyes seem more distinct than I’ve noticed before. There’s a vulnerability about her, and yet an air of inviolability too, a self-containment that’s not easily breached. Even though there’s been no real apology over what’s happened, I somehow feel that I’m the one who’s been unreasonable.

I clear my throat when she finishes binding my foot. ‘Thanks.’

Mathilde begins putting the first-aid things back in the tin. ‘I’ll bring hot water later, so you can wash. Would you like something to read? I can pick out some books if you like.’

I’m too restless to read. ‘No thanks. How long before I can get out of here?’

‘It depends on how soon you feel able to walk.’ Mathilde looks around the junk stacked against the loft’s walls. ‘There should be a pair of crutches in here somewhere. I can try to find them later.’

‘Whose were they?’ I ask, suddenly worried that I might not be the first person confined here.

‘My mother’s.’

Picking up the tray, she goes to the trapdoor. I watch her descend through the hatch, half-expecting to see it swing shut behind her. But this time she leaves it open.

Breakfast is more substantial today, soft-boiled eggs broken up with butter and black pepper, a piece of bread, a glass of milk. I’m famished, but I eat slowly, wanting to make it last. When I’ve finished I look at my watch. Hardly any time seems to have passed since I last checked. The loft is already growing hot, filling with a resinous scent of warm wood and dust. I’ve started to sweat already. The stubble on my jaw – several days’ worth – has begun to itch and I’m conscious that I smell, a rank odour born of illness and heat. No wonder Mathilde wanted me to wash. I run my tongue over my teeth, aware also of how bad my mouth tastes. I didn’t need the bottle last night: I could have knocked Papa out just by breathing on him.

I take my toothbrush and paste from my rucksack and scrub my teeth till my gums hurt. That done, I lie back down on the bed. But I’m too fretful to sleep, and with nothing to occupy it my mind starts to swarm.

Supporting myself against the wall, I hop across to the maze of old furniture to look for the crutches. Mathilde said she’d find them but I can’t see any reason to wait. Everything up here seems maimed or incomplete, covered by a grey blanket of dust. There are three-legged chairs and mildewed suitcases, dressers with gaping drawers like missing teeth. Stacked behind a topless bureau I come across half a dozen old picture frames, ornate but empty of canvas or glass. Without thinking I begin sorting through the pile before remembering I don’t know anyone now who’d use them. The thought brings a dull ache of guilt.

Pushing the frames out of sight, I carry on searching for the crutches.

I find one thrust under a tangle of broken chairs, but there’s no sign of its twin. Still, one is better than nothing. The crutch is made of scuffed and battered aluminium. Once I’ve brushed it free of cobwebs and adjusted its height, I practise clumping up and down the loft. The effort soon tires me, but it feels good to be mobile again.