The Returned (43 page)

‘You’ll find what you need here,’ said Pierre. ‘Help her,’ he said to the two others. ‘She’ll need you.’

‘But I don’t know . . .’ said Julie.

He looked at her, and gave her the bad news. ‘The hospital was evacuated,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one who can save him.’

Julie turned to her patient, and got to work.

Thomas returned to the station to the worst news possible. All the way back, their radios had become almost useless; what fragments of voice they could hear were so chopped up
it was unintelligible.

He was met with a serious and shame-faced look from Bruno, who took him to the empty cell.

‘How did he get out?’ growled Thomas, barely above a whisper.

Bruno looked ill. ‘He just wasn’t there, sir. I checked the CCTV. There must have been a power glitch or something, because one moment he’s sitting in the cell, the next
he’s not. The Clarsen woman was here, I’m sure of it, but then she vanished. And Delaître had gone as well. I . . . I don’t know what happened.’

‘Lucy Clarsen was here?’ said Thomas. She was involved too, then? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. Whatever had happened, it didn’t matter. And he doubted it could
have been stopped. ‘How many officers are in the station?’ he said.

‘Ten, I think. And two patrols should be back shortly.’

‘Radio them, if you can. Drive out and
find
them if you have to. Then get them to follow me. Armed response. Everything we have.’

‘Where are you going, sir?’

‘To get my family, before Delaître does.’

The door of Thomas’s house was open. He ran inside, calling her name, hurrying and ignoring every rule, every procedure. There was no time.

He saw the blood in the kitchen, on the floor, and then saw the cellar door, bloody handprints across it. He froze.
If that bastard has hurt them
. . . He called again, desperation in
his voice.

‘Adèle!’

A noise from the cellar.

‘Adèle!’

A slow dragging sound. His hand went to his gun but he refused to draw it here, inside his own house.

A key turned. The door opened and Adèle fell through the doorway, grasping at the handle to keep herself upright.

‘Thomas . . .’ she said, blood on her face, on her hands.

He ran to her, supported her while he checked her over for injuries. ‘Are you hurt?’

She shook her head. ‘The blood’s not mine,’ she said. ‘It’s Simon’s.’ She looked at him with terror in her eyes, terror that was contagious. ‘They
took her,’ she said. Thomas felt his guts clench. ‘They took Chloé with them.’

By the time his officers arrived, Thomas had cleaned much of the blood from her and she’d told him everything. He knew where they should look first. The man who’d
offered Simon a refuge, right at the beginning.

Pierre Tissier, at the Helping Hand.

‘Where is he?’ Thomas said.

Five vehicles in the convoy. Twelve officers in all, including himself. Thomas was satisfied with the response, but now he had to find Delaître. Adèle was standing next to him; he
didn’t plan to let her out of his sight again.

He took a step towards Pierre Tissier, who was standing in the doorway of the Helping Hand as though it was his own personal kingdom. He repeated the question. ‘Where is he?’

The Helping Hand was busy, Thomas saw. People were already rushing across, intrigued, supportive of their leader.

‘If you mean Simon,’ said Pierre, ‘he isn’t here.’

‘And the others?’ said Thomas. The man acted ignorant. ‘You know who I mean. The other
dead
.’

‘The Helping Hand is open to all,’ said Pierre sanctimoniously.

Answer enough for Thomas. He moved closer, his voice furious. ‘Do you have any idea of the
risk
you’re taking? All these people are in your care, and you allow this kind of
danger to be among you?’

Maddeningly, Pierre looked unfazed. ‘If anything, we’re the ones who are safe. Everyone would have left if they thought there was somewhere better, don’t you think?’

Another patrol car arrived, and they all turned. It was Alcide, and he looked fearful.

‘Sir,’ he called, running across. ‘I was at the back of the convoy. I stopped because I saw something, and—’

‘Spit it out,’ interrupted Thomas. ‘For God’s sake, tell me.’

‘I saw them.’

‘Them?’

‘A hundred, maybe more.’ He held up a pair of binoculars as explanation. ‘I
saw
them, sir. Like the one in the Lake Pub.’

Thomas felt the air leave his lungs. ‘All of them were like him?’

Alcide nodded.

‘Where were they heading?’

‘Here, sir. They were coming this way. Heading for the Helping Hand.’

Toni was dying. Julie could see it.

Laure had come down to offer her assistance, but Julie sent her out of the room, not wanting her here for this – an inevitable failure to save a life.

The medical room was astonishingly well stocked, but there was very little she could do. The bullet had gone right through him, leaving havoc in its wake. She’d dressed the entry and exit
wounds, getting her helpers to apply pressure to minimize the blood loss, but she could see he was going into severe shock. He was just losing too much blood, and serious internal bleeding seemed a
certainty.

She went through every cupboard and gave Toni a rapid drip of saline and glucose to attempt to get some fluid volume back, but everything she did, everything she tried, she knew . . .

She knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Toni’s breathing was rapid and he’d remained unconscious since their arrival. The man was slipping away. She left her assistants keeping pressure on the wounds as she prepared an
injection of adrenaline, but it was pure desperation. She reconsidered and set it down again. Dignity was what was needed, not panic and self-deception.

She found that she couldn’t speak, only shake her head and direct the two helpers to the door. The keys were still in the lock; she shut the door again behind them and locked it. It was a
time for privacy, but she didn’t want Toni to be alone.

She stood, holding his hand.

Suddenly she became aware of someone standing behind her.

She turned. From the shadows stepped a hooded man. A man in tears, looking at Toni’s body. It was the man who’d attacked her, seven years ago. She stared at him, thinking she was
imagining it, just as she had when Victor had stopped her from stabbing herself with those scissors.

‘What happened to him?’ the man asked, coming to stand right with her at Toni’s side.

Julie couldn’t move. The terror she felt turned her insides to ice. ‘You’re not here,’ she said.

Serge turned to her, angry. ‘What the fuck happened?’

‘You’re in my head,’ said Julie desperately. She looked at the door, the door that was still locked. But she knew the man was really there.

Then she felt Toni’s hand move, leaving hers, and saw it reach out to her attacker. Reach out, and take hold of his arm. Toni’s eyes had opened, and there was a smile on his face.
‘Serge . . .’ he said, weak and fading, and Julie looked from Toni’s face to her attacker’s, and it made a terrible sense.

She stepped back. Toni’s life was ebbing away. His hand fell from his brother’s arm as he died.

‘Help him,’ said Serge, pushing her towards Toni’s body. ‘Help him.’

‘He’s gone.’

‘
Help
him.’

She locked eyes with the man, then moved to Toni and started chest compressions. After a dozen she stepped back again. There was no point.

‘Why have you stopped?’ said Serge. ‘Don’t stop. Keep going.’

‘He’s gone,’ she told him. ‘He’s
gone
.’

Serge pushed her aside, and started to mimic what she’d been doing, getting more and more desperate with each thrust, until Julie could take no more.

She reached out, took Serge’s shoulder, and pulled hard. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ she said. ‘It’s over. It’s over.’

The man sobbed, and his head fell onto Julie’s shoulder. He pulled her close, arms around her, holding on as the grief trembled through him.

Julie felt the bile rising in her throat, the rage rising too. She pushed him away and went to the door, looking back at the two brothers. The man who tried to kill her, and the man who tried to
save her.

Both had failed, she thought.

She wouldn’t look back again. She left the medical room, taking the keys. Locking the door behind her, she went out of the corridor to the base of the stairs, locking the door there too
before going up into the open air. She found the medical room key again and removed it from the keyring, then threw it as far as she could into the scrubland behind her. Then she turned to the main
building, desperate to find the one person who could comfort her now.

Victor.

She saw him through the windows, looking at her with his hand on the glass. The man who ran the Helping Hand was standing at the door. He looked at her questioningly; she shook her head and
handed him the remaining keys as she passed.

She hurried inside to Victor and they held each other. Only then did she notice that the police had come; only then did she notice that something had changed up here, too.

The people around them were muted, fearful, watching the police outside.

‘What’s happening?’ she said to Victor.

Victor looked at her, afraid. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘The dead are coming for me.’

Thomas gave his orders.

The Helping Hand was surrounded by low fencing. He posted officers around the perimeter, and three on the roof of the building. All were armed, and had orders to shoot only on his command.

The dead were visible behind the line of trees at the bottom of the field adjoining the Helping Hand’s courtyard.

Thomas watched them from the front of the main building; Pierre stood beside him.

‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Pierre.

Thomas looked at him. The man seemed to have nothing but hope for the encounter: a beneficent smile, a relaxed air. It was hard, Thomas thought, to imagine how someone could be any more
wrong.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he replied. ‘They’re waiting for the dark.’ Around them, Thomas felt the unease grow.

Pierre must have felt it too. He turned to the others. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They must be more afraid than we are.’

Thomas looked at the frightened expressions on the faces around him, and doubted it very much.

The unease grew as day became evening, and evening turned to night. The people inside the building were sitting, waiting, praying. He saw Laure in there, but ignored her; she had abandoned her
post.

He also saw Adèle and made sure to smile at her, wanting to give her some kind of reassurance. Whatever happened, Thomas had a single priority. Chloé. He had to get Chloé
back, and safe.

Then the dead were moving again, the floodlights in the courtyard bright enough for the people inside the building to see what was coming for them. They rose as one and came to the windows, then
filed out of the door to stand and watch.

Thomas looked to the men on the roof and signalled to ask if they were surrounded. The nod came back.

The dead halted again, but now their numbers were clear. More than the hundred they’d first guessed. Beyond the main gate, one of them stepped forwards into the full force of the
lights.

Lucy Clarsen, Thomas saw.

He started to move towards her.

‘Wait,’ said Pierre. ‘Let me talk to her first.’

Thomas wasn’t willing to let this imbecile take charge. He kept moving, Pierre beside him. He stopped five metres away from the woman.

‘Where’s Chloé?’ he asked.

‘She’s with her father,’ said Lucy. She was smiling placidly.

‘We were expecting you,’ said Pierre. ‘You’re very welcome here.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. Her eyes were as cold as her voice. ‘But we don’t need welcoming.’

Thomas looked from her to Pierre, and could see that Pierre’s smile suddenly had an edge of desperation to it; Lucy’s had only certainty. ‘What do you want?’ he
asked.

‘There are others here who are trying to stay with you,’ she said. ‘They must join us. You’ll know them. Let them go.’

‘And what if they don’t want to go?’ said Thomas.

Her smile widened. ‘It only matters that
we
want them to come.’

Pierre’s smile had fallen completely. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. You can all stay. We’ll—’ Lucy shot him a dismissive glare that
silenced him at once.

‘If we do as you ask, you’ll let Chloé go?’ said Thomas.

‘Of course,’ said Lucy.

Pierre was shaking his head. ‘But you have nothing to fear from us. I can
help
you!’

‘We don’t need your help,’ she said, the disdain clear.

Thomas turned and walked all the way back to the watching people. He took a torch from Alcide and went through the crowd, searching.

He stopped at Viviane Costa. ‘Please come with me,’ he said.

She looked to the people around her, then back at him with a sneer. Her reluctance surprised him, but he steeled himself. He pointed to the gate. ‘Stand there,’ he said. She shrugged
and moved off.

Then he walked over to Julie Meyer who was holding the boy close to her, both watching Thomas with trepidation.

‘Let him go,’ said Thomas.

‘Don’t
touch
him,’ said Julie fiercely. The boy looked up at him with fear in his eyes and Thomas paused. The thought of Chloé hardened his heart, and he nodded
to two nearby officers. They came over and took Julie’s arms, pulling to restrain her and free the boy.

‘Don’t touch him!’ she screamed. ‘No!’

‘Let him go,’ said Thomas again.

‘Get off me!’

Thomas saw someone move. Laure. He glared at her, and at the others. He sensed the building of resistance here, the discomfort with what had to be done, sensed it even in the faces of his own
officers. It was time to make things clear. ‘Listen to me,’ he said to them all. ‘If you think the dead aren’t dangerous, then there can be nothing wrong with handing them
over to their own kind. And if you think they
are
dangerous? Would you have the rest of us trapped here, with
them
among you, while their kin try and break down the
doors?’