The Returned (31 page)

If the impossible had really happened, there was one way he could prove it. A plan formed in his mind. A plan he needed help to carry out.

He stood outside the town cemetery and called Lucho. Lucho had probably had as much to drink that night as Frédéric, but without the sobering-up that Frédéric had
been through.

‘Where?’ Lucho said drowsily.

Frédéric told him again. ‘You’re not chicken, are you?’ he said. ‘And I need you to bring some things. A shovel, a torch and a crowbar.’

‘What is this? Some kind of practical joke?’

‘It’s important,’ said Frédéric. ‘Just come.’

Lucho must have heard something in Frédéric’s voice, though, because when he arrived twenty minutes later he didn’t look as though he thought it was a joke.

They climbed over the gate, Frédéric first. Lucho was showing little sign now of being drunk; the surroundings had sobered them both, thought Frédéric. Row after row
of gravestones lurked in the space beyond the torchlight.

‘Tell me what we’re doing here,’ said Lucho as they walked, but Frédéric said nothing until they reached the grave.

He looked at the headstone, thinking back to the funeral; to seeing her name there for the first time, carved into it. Camille Séguret. Frédéric looked at the date
underneath the name, and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve stood here so often,’ he said.

‘
Tell
me,’ said Lucho, getting anxious. ‘What are we doing here?’

Frédéric looked him in the eye. ‘Alice. Last night. What Léna said.
It’s Camille
.’

Lucho’s eyes widened. He shook his head, but Frédéric nodded. Both looked at the grave in front of them. ‘You’re crazy,’ said Lucho.

‘So go home,’ said Frédéric, but Lucho stayed where he was – scared, but unwilling to abandon his best friend.

Frédéric grabbed the shovel and took the first turn at digging.

The ground was sodden. Every lump of earth he dug out oozed the same smell, like stagnant water. But the digging was easy otherwise; it didn’t take them long to reach the
coffin.

Frédéric glanced up at Lucho. ‘Crowbar,’ he said.

Lucho passed it down and took a long step back from the grave. He looked tense, ready to turn and run.

‘Hold the fucking light, Lucho,’ Frédéric hissed.

Frédéric braced himself. The coffin lid didn’t give up easily, but when it came it opened wide along its length. He shrank back as the same stench of stagnant water came from
within.

It wasn’t the smell he’d expected, not the appalling reek of decay. He stared, lost for words, knowing what he’d been wanting to see, if
want
was the
right word: Camille, shrivelled and rotting in the coffin she’d been buried in four years ago.

But Camille wasn’t there.

Lucho edged closer and peered down, the torchlight picking out the clear water that filled the empty coffin. They looked at each other, frozen by the sight, until shouts came from across the
cemetery. They both ran.

Once he’d taken Camille home from the Lake Pub, Jérôme had gone back to searching for Léna. The look on Claire’s face when he’d arrived
with Camille, sobbing and angry with her father, had been one of accusation.
This is your fault
, the look said, even though it had been Jérôme who’d brought her back,
while Claire hadn’t even realized Camille had gone. She’d thought she was in her room, asleep.

He’d said nothing, though; Claire still had every right to be angry with him. Only when he got back to his search did he understand what must have gone through Claire’s mind: when
Jérôme appeared on the doorstep Claire would have thought, just for an instant, that it was Léna with him. Hopes raised, hopes dashed.

He went to the hospital again, just in case they’d heard anything. On the way, the dying street lamps announced another power cut. When he arrived there was no news of Léna. The
staff were a little less patient with him this time, but he could forgive that. The hospital still had power, so presumably it had its own generators; even so, every now and again the lighting
flickered off, returning in a cacophony of brief alarms, tired faces everywhere.

As he was leaving he saw Alcide, a young police officer who often drank in the Lake Pub. Alcide asked if there had been any sign of Léna, which was encouraging; when Jérôme
had called at the station earlier, they’d handled it with such blatant indifference that he was shaking when he left.

‘I’m here to see Lucy,’ Alcide told him. He was holding a small bunch of flowers. ‘These are to brighten her room.’

Jérôme nodded. The mention of Lucy left him sombre. ‘She’s still holding on?’

Alcide looked just as sombre, but he surprised Jérôme by smiling slightly. ‘She’s actually doing well, they say. They’re amazed by how well. I heard one of them
describe it as a miracle.’

‘They think she’ll pull through?’ At least there might be good news for
somebody
, he thought.

‘She might,’ said Alcide, emotional. ‘She really might.’

Jérôme went back to his apartment, wondering if Alcide had a crush on the girl. Must have been tough on him, hearing everything that had surely gone around the station about the
company she kept, about what she did. If Jérôme had heard it himself, rather than experienced it first-hand, he didn’t think he would have believed it.

Alcide was sitting in Lucy’s room when she woke. It was three in the morning, deep into a blackout that was longer than he had ever known in the town. The hospital
generators were struggling to keep the lights on.

He was off work the next day, and he liked to spend time with her. He liked to look at her, as well, in a way he’d never been able to while he was in the Lake Pub. It had always been
enough for him to share a few brief words of conversation, even if she didn’t know his name. He’d never found the courage to introduce himself, let alone to ask her out on a date. He
knew the rumours about her, but he didn’t care. She was perfection to him.

At first, there had been an official police presence posted outside Lucy’s room, but that hadn’t lasted long. Now Alcide had taken to spending whatever spare time he had near her,
day or night. He slept well enough in the small chair outside the room, even if he woke cramped and disoriented. A small price, he thought, to spend time near such a woman, to make sure she was
safe.

The doctors had been astonished, day by day, as the horrific wounds healed so rapidly. The only word they had to describe it was ‘miracle’. Lucy should have died.

And then as he watched, she opened her eyes at last, for the first time since she’d been brought in. She looked at him, then her eyes widened in terror, and she started to scream.

The lights in the room stuttered. Alcide pressed the alarm next to Lucy’s bed, and tried to soothe her, but nothing he said seemed to calm her. She looked around the room, overwhelmed with
a desperate fear.

He was almost bowled out of the way by the doctors who came running, despite being overstretched and weary. Gradually she settled, and the doctors began to ask her questions, assess how she was
feeling. There were half a dozen people in the room, then, but most of them were only there to do what Alcide had been doing for days: they were simply watching, grateful to witness such a
thing.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ Lucy called to them. ‘Why are you all looking at me like that?’

The group of doctors glanced at each other before one of them answered: ‘You were healed by a miracle,’ he said, with something approaching awe.

By daybreak, Alcide had managed some sleep in the chair outside her room. When he woke, he asked if he could speak to her.

He entered to find her sitting up in bed, still in her hospital gown, looking at the vase that held the flowers he’d brought with him the night before.

‘Hello,’ he said, and could think of nothing to follow it with. Small talk. He was terrible at small talk, and he’d never been so acutely aware of it.

‘These are beautiful,’ she said, her fingers touching the petals.

‘I brought you them yesterday,’ he said. Beautiful as they were, he thought, none of the flowers even held a candle to her. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘A little better, thanks,’ she said. ‘When I woke I was so confused, but I still can’t remember much. I didn’t even know my name until they told me. The doctors say
it’ll improve over the next day or two. I hope they’re right.’ She looked at Alcide carefully. ‘I feel like I know you. Were you here while I was asleep?’

‘I was keeping an eye on you. My name’s Alcide.’ He smiled; finally, he’d managed to tell her his name.

‘Thanks, Alcide,’ she said.

‘Lucy, I was wondering . . .’ He paused. ‘It may be too soon, and tell me if you think it is, but I was wondering if you remembered anything about the attack. If you saw your
attacker’s face, and could give a description.’

Lucy was thoughtful for a moment, then she nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember much about
anything
, but I remember that face.’

Alcide fetched his laptop. He’d brought it every time he came, just in case – hopeful that this moment would come, the photofit software ready to run the instant it was required. He
sat by her bed and guided her through the process, helping her assemble an image of the man who had brutally stabbed her, the man who had left her for dead.

It was the only way he could help her, Alcide knew. The only way to prove himself.

He was patient, flinching now and then if her hand should brush his as he pointed out something onscreen, but buoyed by the rare smiles she gave him. And the image built up, inexorably, until
Alcide saw the recognition fill Lucy’s face. He could feel a chill down his spine.

‘That’s him,’ she said.

Alcide looked at the image on his screen and felt the full weight of justice on his side. They would have their man soon enough.

He would have nowhere to hide.

Claire got a call from Pierre early that morning. He asked after Léna and Claire told him that she’d still not come home. A stubborn girl, Claire said, managing to
hold in the deep fear she had for her daughter. But then, she’d always had that fear. For both of them.

She told him too of Frédéric, that Camille believed he knew the truth. Pierre didn’t seem fazed by the news. He said he wanted to see Claire, to talk to her in person about
something very important. She thought he sounded odd, and it was only when he arrived at the house that she could see how tired he looked.

‘Are you well, Pierre?’ she asked, but he waved it away, almost impatiently.

‘I didn’t sleep much,’ he said. ‘I was thinking. I realized that I’d been selfish to keep the news of Camille back from the other parents. I think it’s time
to tell them.’

Claire nodded. Since she’d kicked Jérôme out, the prospect of moving away had vanished. She needed to share the news, and get what support she could. ‘Can I ask what
changed your mind?’

For a moment he looked uneasy; haunted, almost. ‘I believe I was tested, Claire. To show me that I was failing, and had to try harder. To do better. There are
others
, Claire. Not
just Simon and Camille.’ She could see a sudden excitement in his eyes; she felt it herself, too. ‘They will all need our help, so we have to have more people on our side. Do you think
Simon managed to get out of town?’

‘He left here before the power went off yesterday,’ she said. ‘I think he was headed for the bus station.’

Pierre looked disappointed. ‘Very well. I think we should ask as many of the other parents as we can to come here and meet Camille. That would be enough of a shock for now. With your
permission, of course.’

‘And Camille’s,’ said Claire.

Pierre smiled and nodded. Then his expression became guarded. ‘And Jérôme?’

She shook her head. ‘Jérôme doesn’t get to make decisions like that for us. Not any more.’

She went to fetch Camille, and the three of them talked. Camille was easily persuaded – the idea of not having to hide was welcome, and Pierre’s confidence was hard to resist. Pierre
set about contacting the parents, telling them only that something important had happened, something they should know about. With almost everywhere closed due to the power cut, most of those he
called agreed to come. Two hours later, the small group convened in Claire’s living room, everyone looking a little uneasy, a little awkward, having no idea why they’d been brought
there. Outside, the day was cold and the midday sky overcast; the room was gloomy without artificial light, and there was a chill in the unheated air.

‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything hot,’ Claire told them, smiling.

‘Any idea when the power might come back?’ one of them asked. ‘Pierre, surely you’ve heard something by now?’

Pierre shook his head. ‘The dam and power plant are both undergoing some maintenance. The recent brief power cuts weren’t unexpected, apparently, but I’ve not heard anything
encouraging about this one. Nobody seems to know when the power will be back. Of course, you can all stay at the Helping Hand if you like. We have a generator, and plenty of supplies. The
dormitories are warm and we have more than enough beds.’

There were smiles and nods from around the room, but Claire thought most of them would be happier staying in their own homes until everything was resolved.

‘Now,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m sure you realize we have something important to say. A few days ago, Claire . . .’ He paused, and smiled at her. ‘Claire had an
experience that was extraordinary. She shared it with me, for which I’ll always be grateful. Now we both want to share this news with you – because we trust you, and we need your help.
What you are about to see goes beyond reason, and it will change how you view the world. I know it won’t be easy, but you have to open your minds. From now on, we’re all on the same
journey.’ The parents in the room looked suddenly wary, sharing anxious glances. Pierre turned to the stairs and called: ‘Camille? It’s time.’

Camille came slowly down the stairs. She was nervous, looking around the room as every mouth fell open, all eyes went wide.