The Returned (38 page)

‘One what?’

‘I think that I’ve come back.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Julie looked at her solemnly. ‘After I was attacked, Laure . . . I was clinically dead. They told me that I was a miracle.’

‘Julie, things like that happen more than you realize. But
them
?’ She looked downstairs, meaning Victor and his ilk. ‘They’ve been dead for years. They were
buried. You’re not like them. I know you’re not.’

Julie was shaking her head, desolate. ‘You don’t understand, Laure. You have no idea. I’m not
scared
to be like them. It’s the opposite. Since the attack
I’ve felt incapable of living. I’ve felt like I didn’t belong. What if it’s because I’ve been dead all these years?’

By the time Laure had set off for work Julie had her emotions under control again. What had happened with Laure had taken them both by surprise and she didn’t know how
she felt about it. Victor had to be her first priority, though – Laure would have to understand that, if she wanted any part in Julie’s life.

She cooked some eggs for her and Victor on the camping stove she’d brought with her. Then she lit the fire in the fireplace and sat by it, glad of the heat, while Victor brought his pens
and paper over and drew nearby.

She dozed for a while. Then she woke, suddenly aware that Victor had gone.

She called for him. As she approached the window she could see a trampoline in the garden of the house next door – the police captain’s house, she recalled, the house where
Adèle Werther now lived. There were two small figures on the trampoline, and one of them was Victor.

‘Shit,’ she said. She’d wanted to keep him out of sight, hidden and protected. Parading him to the outside world would invite too many questions. She put on some shoes and a
warm jumper and headed outside. She stood by the waist-high split-rail fence that separated the two gardens, waving to try and get Victor’s attention, but he didn’t see her. She sighed
and climbed over, then walked to the trampoline where Victor and a girl were bouncing.

‘Hello,’ she said to the girl. ‘I’m Julie.’

‘I’m Chloé,’ said the girl, waving at her.

‘Good to meet you, Chloé,’ she said, and scowled at Victor before heading to the neighbour’s back door and knocking.

It was Adèle who answered. ‘Hello, Julie,’ she said, her smile broad. She stepped out through the door. ‘It’s been so long.’

‘Hello,’ said Julie, flustered. Beyond the professional relationships she had with her patients, social interaction had become almost alien; her people skills were rusty, to say the
least. ‘Sorry, do you mind if he plays on the trampoline with Chloé?’

Adèle looked at the two children and smiled. ‘No, of course not. Come on in, I’m making some coffee.’ She went inside again.

Julie turned to the trampoline. ‘Play nicely, Victor,’ she said, and Victor smiled back.

Adèle sat Julie down at the table in the kitchen and went to get the coffee. As she put everything on a tray, she suddenly looked a little faint. She knocked a cup from
the side: it broke on the floor and she looked at it in a daze.

‘Are you OK?’ said Julie.

‘I just stumbled,’ said Adèle. ‘I think I’m a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘Please, sit down. Let me carry the tray over.’

Julie took the tray from Adèle and led her across to a seat, then cleaned up the broken cup.

They both sat again. Adèle looked at Julie with a sad smile. ‘Weren’t we less formal, once?’

‘That was a while ago,’ said Julie.

The conversation stalled for a moment. ‘So,’ said Adèle brightly. ‘You’re back with Laure again! I’m so glad. I’ve not seen much of her, in all this
time. Even as neighbours.’ She leaned over, conspiratorial. ‘I think she works too hard.’

‘It’s temporary,’ said Julie. Putting work first was something else that Laure would have to change, if she wanted things to progress. ‘Until the power cut sorts itself
out, anyway.’

Adèle nodded. ‘Thomas works hard too,’ she said, frowning. Julie tried and failed to come up with a way to keep the conversation going, but thankfully Adèle spoke
again. ‘So who’s the boy?’

‘My . . . nephew. He chose a bad time to come and stay.’ Julie changed the subject quickly. The less they talked about Victor, the better. ‘You know, a man came to my
apartment, looking for you.’

‘Really?’

‘He called himself Simon,’ said Julie. She wondered if he’d actually paid Adèle a visit. ‘At the time I didn’t really think much of it, but now . . . Was it
him?
Your
Simon?’

Adèle shook her head. ‘Simon’s dead.’

Julie could see the truth in her eyes, though. ‘I know,’ she said, putting her hand on Adèle’s. ‘But was it him? Did he find you?’

Adèle looked at her for a moment, feigning confusion. Then, with a mixture of fear and sorrow, she slowly nodded.

In the apartment above the Lake Pub, Simon Delaître woke.

‘Hello,’ said Lucy, grinning at him.

He sat up sharply, looking at her with suspicion. ‘Did you drug me?’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she said. ‘And why are you angry? How long’s it been since you last slept? I bet it feels like a thousand
years.’

Simon kept scowling. He threw on his clothes and headed for the door.

Lucy smiled at him. ‘Where are you going?’ she said, pouting. ‘You aren’t still going after Adèle? What’s the point? You can’t have been that
happy.’

Simon turned to her. ‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ he snarled, his fists balled by his side. ‘You know nothing about me. You know nothing about
us
.’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I think I know plenty. I mean, look at yourself. You’ve changed. You can feel it, right? Simon, you’re dead. Face it. Come with me. I know where to go. I
know what to do.’

He thought. Then he shook his head. ‘I need to understand,’ he said, and left.

Father Jean-François heard the door of the church open behind him. He didn’t turn. He felt it in his blood, without having to see which of them it was. He’d
known it was only a matter of time before one of them came.

‘Hello, Father,’ said the voice behind him. ‘Remember me?’

Reluctant, he turned round. ‘Of course, Simon,’ he said.

‘You’re not surprised?’

‘No. I was expecting that you, or someone like you, would come to see me. Just give me one minute, and I’ll be with you.’ He put his hand into his pocket, checking that his
mobile phone was there, then went to the vestry to do what he needed to do. Before he returned, though, he sought out the bottle of brandy he always kept hidden, and took a drink. Usually it was
only brought out when he delivered bad news to someone who might need it afterwards. This time, it was he who needed the lift.

Simon was sitting in a pew, waiting, a look of absolute desperation on his face.

‘What brings you to me, Simon?’ said the priest, avoiding the dead man’s eyes.

‘I died, Father. I think I came back to understand why. To understand my own death. Do you think that’s possible?’

The priest nodded slowly, still not quite looking at him. ‘Yes, it’s possible.’

‘You’ve known me all my life,’ said Simon. ‘You know my story better than I do. I need your help. I don’t remember it, you see. I don’t remember anything
about that last day, and I need to know why I did it.’

Father Jean-François was at a loss for words. He could hardly come straight out with it, could he? ‘It’s difficult to say. You were a very withdrawn child.’

‘When you heard about my suicide, were you surprised?’

‘I was very sad,’ the priest said, looking at his hands.

‘But were you surprised, Father?’

‘Surprised?’ He shook his head. If Simon wanted to know, he had that right, surely. He made himself look up, eye to eye. ‘No. It didn’t come as a surprise. We had all
been worried about you, for so long. I doubt anyone was surprised.’

Simon looked distraught. ‘But I’ve changed,’ he said. ‘I know I have. I think I can make Adèle happy.’

Father Jean-François shook his head and felt his courage fail him. With courage, he would have told Simon that he’d heard him say exactly those words before, more than once.

And then the doors of the church opened again, and the priest stood, stepping back from Simon as the police filed inside.

‘Don’t move!’ came the shout. ‘Stay where you are.’

Father Jean-François had only enough courage left to meet Simon Delaître’s angry gaze.

‘Thanks,’ said the dead man bitterly, and then the police were upon him.

Toni and Serge reached the lake quickly; too quickly for either of their liking. They found themselves at the same spot where they would have been if they’d headed
straight downhill from the old house. They shared a look but didn’t comment on it. Hours of walking had got them precisely nowhere, and it wasn’t something Toni wanted to dwell on.

Ahead of them in the low water of the lake the steeple of the ruined church was fully exposed, and the tops of other walls were visible nearby.

‘OK,’ said Toni, making sure he had his bearings while he got his breath back. ‘Now we head to the north-west, and hope the road there is beyond any roadblock the police might
put up.’ He started to walk along the shore, but Serge wasn’t following. Instead, his brother was calmly taking off his shoes.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Toni.

Serge gestured at the lake. ‘It’s quicker to swim across.’

Toni looked fearfully at the cold, still water. ‘Please, Serge. I can’t swim all that way, not now. I’m shattered.’

‘Come on. It’s not that wide. We did it as kids.’

Toni shook his head, unconvinced. Yes, they’d done it as kids, but now he was overweight, out of shape and exhausted.

‘Come on,’ said Serge. ‘Trust me.’ He tied the laces of his boots to his belt at the back and stepped into the water. ‘It’s OK. It’s not that cold. Come
on.’

Toni shook his head again, but he sat and began to take off his boots. When he put a foot in the water, he yelped. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Serge, it’s freezing.’

‘It’s not freezing,’ said Serge, smiling in encouragement. ‘Chilly, maybe.’

Toni looked across to the other side, worried. The far shore looked impossibly distant. ‘I won’t make it.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘What about what’s underneath? What if I hit something under the surface?’

‘We’ll avoid the old village, Toni. Look . . .’ He pointed to a large rock on the other side. ‘See that rock? We aim for that, and we’ll avoid any trouble.
OK?’

And with that, Serge waded out and started to swim. Toni had no choice but to follow, the shock of the cold taking his breath from him again, his weak strokes moving him slowly forward in the
water while Serge powered on.

He could see his brother forging ahead. ‘Slow down, Serge,’ he yelled, having trouble keeping the water from his mouth. ‘Wait for me.’

Serge stopped, treading water. ‘Come on, then,’ he called. ‘We’re almost half—’ His voice cut off as he suddenly disappeared below the surface, almost as if
he’d been dragged under.

‘Serge!’ Toni yelled, swimming urgently towards the spot where his brother had been. ‘Serge!’

Toni took a breath and went under, opening his eyes and trying to see through the murky water. He dived down but he couldn’t stay under for more than a few seconds before he had to
resurface. He tried again and again, desperately searching, but there was simply no sign of his brother.

It wasn’t long before Toni could feel his fatigue start to overwhelm him. He knew he couldn’t stay out there any longer, so he swam back to the near shore and dragged himself out. He
sat, shivering, watching the water, stunned that his brother had gone.

‘Forgive me, Serge,’ he said, and held his head in despair.

Thomas sat in his office, watching the CCTV feed from the station’s cells. Every now and again, the power from the hard-pressed emergency generator in the basement would
flicker, sometimes enough to bring his PC down. Then, he would have to wait until it rebooted before he could watch again.

Watch Simon Delaître refuse to stay dead.

Everyone was exhausted. A third of his force had gone now, not turning up for shifts, unable to be contacted. All his remaining officers were having to pull extra hours, and he was rotating
staff, sending them home for six-hour breaks. He hoped that most of those left recognized the sense of emergency and would rise to the task.

The town was still managing to get calls through to the station. It had its own cellular mast, drawing its power from the generator. And thank God, Thomas thought. The priest’s call had
come through, and Thomas had rustled up every officer he could spare. It was only when they’d reached the church and had their man in handcuffs that the stares began, the whispers, the wary
eyes.

Here was the man their captain had killed. They’d seen the body bag. They’d seen him go to the morgue. Now he was back as though nothing had happened.
Welcome to my life
,
thought Thomas grimly.

Some of those officers hadn’t returned to the station, he noted. He couldn’t entirely blame them, of course. If he’d been a weaker man, he thought he would have done the same.
Run from it, rather than face it down. Whatever
it
was.

The last he’d heard from the mayor’s office was that the power situation would be resolved within twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours, he thought. They could hold out for one more day before going begging for extra help from outside. As long as that hadn’t just been a lie, too. He called Bruno into his
office. ‘Bring the prisoner up here,’ he said.

‘Delaître?’ said Bruno.

Thomas nodded, and he could see the unease flicker across Bruno’s face.

Three officers brought him up, cuffed. They sat him down.

‘The three of you can go,’ Thomas told them.

Bruno seemed uneasy. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

Thomas looked at Delaître. The dead man was watching him with a dark smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Leave us.’

Thomas showed Delaître some images. One was a picture of Camille Séguret, taken from the school’s commemorative website. One was of the woman who had called herself Viviane
Costa, something Thomas now had no doubt was true. ‘Look familiar?’