Stone Bruises (13 page)

‘My mother taught me. She was a teacher, before she got married. Languages. English, German and Italian.’

‘So do you speak all of those?’

‘Not really. A little Italian, but I’ve forgotten most of that now.’

‘How about Gretchen?’ I ask, remembering her sister’s blank face when I lapsed into English.

‘No. My mother died before Gretchen was old enough to learn,’ Mathilde says flatly, and then: ‘We’re here.’

She pulls into the forecourt of a dirty white building. It’s little more than a shack with a garage at one side and a bar-tabac at the other. A rusted sign for Stella Artois hangs outside, and a few battered tables and chairs stand under a faded awning.

Mathilde pulls up by one of the pumps. She seems calm enough, but there’s a tiny pulse visible in the open neck of her shirt, fluttering like a trip hammer. For some reason I feel sorry for her, and what I say next surprises me as much as her.

‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’

She looks at me, and for a second there’s a flash of what could be alarm. Then it’s gone. ‘No, thank you. But I need fuel, so there’s time if you want one.’

My face is red as I unfasten my seatbelt. As it slithers over me I have a sudden flashback to the bloodstained seatbelt in the Audi, and quickly climb out. The hum of the pump starts from behind me as I settle the crutch under my arm and go across the dusty concrete to the bar.

Inside it’s dark, unlit except by the window and open doorway. There aren’t many customers: three or four men at the tables and an older one sitting at the bar. The barman is drawing a beer as I enter, expertly flipping up the tap to stop the flow, then whisking the foam from the top with a wooden spatula. He sets it down for the old man, who doesn’t look up from his newspaper. I get one or two glances as I limp in, but it feels so good to be in a bar again, back in society, that I almost commit the unforgivable sin of smiling.

Instead, keeping my face acceptably deadpan, I go and sit on one of the high stools.

‘Six packs of Camels and a beer,’ I say, in response to the enquiring lift of the barman’s chin.

He’s a thin man in his fifties, receding hair brushed sideways to hide a balding crown. I know how John Mills felt in
Ice Cold in Alex
as I watch him pour the beer, angling the stemmed glass so that the foam doesn’t become too thick. I’ve worked in enough bars myself to appreciate the practised way he does it, but the associations that accompany the memory are unwelcome. I put them from my mind as he sets the beer down in front of me.

The glass is cold and beaded with condensation. Slowly, I raise it to my lips and drink. The beer is icy and clean, with a faint flavour of hops. I make myself stop before I empty the glass completely, lower it, and breathe a sigh.

The barman is watching me. ‘Good?’

‘Very.’

‘Another?’

I’m tempted, but I don’t want to keep Mathilde waiting. From where I am I can see the van through the window, but she’s out of sight around the far side. ‘Better not.’

The barman wipes the counter. ‘Travelled far?’

‘No, I’m staying round here.’

‘Whereabouts?’

I’m already regretting saying anything. But he’s looking at me, waiting. ‘A farm, just up the road.’

‘The Dubreuil place?’

‘No.’ I tell myself it hardly matters: no one here knows me. ‘They’re called Arnaud.’

The barman pauses his wiping to stare at me. Then he calls to someone behind me at the tables. ‘Hey, Jean-Claude, this guy’s staying at Arnaud’s farm!’

Conversations stop. There’s a rustle as the old man reading the newspaper lowers it to watch. Bewildered, I look around. Everyone’s attention is on a burly character in dust-covered bib-and-brace overalls. He’s around forty, with a dark growth of stubble and black eyebrows that form a single line across the bridge of his nose. He puts down his beer glass and looks at me, taking in my red hair, bandaged foot and the crutch.

‘English?’ His voice is brusque but not hostile.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’re working for Arnaud?’

I give what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just passing through.’

‘Passing through his daughters, you mean,’ someone from another table comments. He’s younger than me, with oil-stained jeans and a nasty grin. There’s a general chuckling from the group he’s with, but the burly man doesn’t join in.

‘Watch your mouth, Didier.’

The laughter dies away. I finish my beer without tasting it. I glance outside to see if Mathilde’s finished filling up. I can’t see her.

‘What happened to your foot?’ the man asks.

‘I trod on a nail.’ It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

‘Must have been a big nail.’

‘It was.’

The barman puts my cigarettes down. My face is flaming as I cram them in my pockets and fumble for the money. He halfdrops my change so the coins roll on the counter. As I gather it up the door opens.

It’s Mathilde.

Her footsteps are the only sound as she comes over to the bar. Her face is composed, but there’s a flush to her throat and cheeks.

‘I’d like to pay for the fuel.’

The barman looks over at the burly individual in bib and braces, then rings in the sale. Only then does Mathilde acknowledge the other man’s presence, although the way she turns to face him tells me she’s known he’s there all along.

‘Jean-Claude.’

‘Mathilde.’

It’s agonizingly formal. Nothing else is said as the barman hands her the change. More politely than he did mine, I notice. He even inclines his head slightly as she takes it.

‘Thank you.’

I can feel them all watching us as we walk to the door. I let her go out first, so I’m not sure if she hears the quick pig-grunt from the one called Didier or the stifled laughter that follows it. I close the door without looking back and limp after her as quickly as I can. Neither of us speaks as we get into the van. I wait for her to say something, but she starts the engine and pulls out without a word.

‘Nice neighbours,’ I comment.

Mathilde stares through the insect-flecked windscreen. ‘They’re not used to strangers.’

I don’t think it was my being a stranger that was the problem. I want to ask why Arnaud’s name prompted such a reaction, and who Jean-Claude is. But Mathilde’s manner makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.

As we drive back to the farm in silence, I wonder if I’ve just met Michel’s father.

It’s a relief to be inside the farm’s borders again. A fragile sense of security returns as Mathilde closes the gate behind us and re-fastens the padlock. She’s filled fuel cans as well as the van’s tank, but declines my offer to help unload them. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later,’ is all she says.

The beautiful evening is lost on me as I go back down to the barn. I know I can’t stay hidden on the farm for ever but I wish I’d never let Mathilde take me to the bar. I’ve drawn attention to myself needlessly, all for the sake of a beer and a few packs of cigarettes. And I don’t even know why. I’m not surprised that there’s no love lost between Arnaud and his neighbours – God knows, it’s hard to imagine him getting on with anybody. Even so, the atmosphere in the bar seemed about more than the usual small-town feud.

He must have really pissed someone off.

I take the cigarettes up to the loft. I’m getting adept at handling the steps, and when I stop when I reach the first-floor gallery it isn’t because I’m out of breath.

The trapdoor is open.

I remember closing it when I left. I pause, listening, but there’s no noise coming from inside. I go up the rest of the steps as quietly as I can, although anyone up there must have heard me by now. Then I look through the open hatchway.

Gretchen is sitting on the bed. Her back is to me and my rucksack is beside her, half its contents scattered on the mattress. I don’t see the polythene package, but it was buried right at the bottom. Gretchen evidently found what she wanted before she got that far. She’s moving her head rhythmically, the earphones almost hidden in her thick hair. I can hear the tinny whisper of music from them as I go up the rest of the steps and walk up behind her, no longer trying to be silent.

She opens her eyes in surprise as I lean down and switch off the MP3 player. ‘Oh! I didn’t hear you.’

‘What are you doing?’

I try not to sound angry but it comes out accusing. Gretchen looks instantly guilty.

‘Nothing. I was only listening to some music.’

I grab a handful of clothes and begin stuffing them back into the rucksack. As I do I feel to make sure the package is in there. Some of the tension leaves me when I touch the plastic wrapper, but my hands are still shaking.

‘You should ask.’

‘I did! You said I could!’

Now she mentions it, I can vaguely recall saying something. It was when I thought I was leaving the next day, though, and I’d forgotten all about it. Gretchen obviously hasn’t. ‘I meant when I was here,’ I say, less heatedly.

‘It’s our barn. I don’t need your permission.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can go through my things.’

‘You think I’m interested in your old socks and T-shirts?’ She’s becoming angry herself. ‘I don’t like your stupid music anyway! And if Papa knew I was here you’d be in trouble!’

There seems a flaw in that logic, but I don’t have the energy to argue. ‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped. I just wasn’t expecting anyone up here.’

Gretchen seems mollified. Showing no sign of wanting to leave, she leans against the rocking horse, stroking its mane as I take the cigarettes and lighter from my pockets and drop them on the mattress.

‘Can I try one?’

‘Do you smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Then you shouldn’t start.’

I know I’m being hypocritical but I can’t help it. Gretchen pouts. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’

‘I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day.’

She considers that, fingers twirling a hank of black horsehair. ‘How long are you going to stay? Until you’ve finished the whole house?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying hard not to think that far ahead.

‘Papa says you’re running away from something.’

‘Papa doesn’t know everything.’

‘He knows more than you. I’m not sure he even likes you. But if you’re nice to me I’ll put in a good word.’

I don’t say anything to that. Hoping she’ll take the hint and leave, I gather up another T-shirt from the bed. Something falls from it.

It’s the photograph.

‘Who’s that?’ Gretchen asks.

‘No one.’

I go to pick it up but Gretchen beats me to it. She holds the photograph away from me, teasingly.

‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then why are you carrying her picture around with you?’

‘I forgot to throw it away.’

‘Then you won’t care what happens to it.’ Grinning, she picks up the cigarette lighter from the mattress and holds it under the photograph.

‘Don’t,’ I say, reaching for it.

She twists away, still holding the photograph poised over the lighter. ‘Ah-ah, I thought you weren’t bothered?’

‘Look, just give it to me.’

‘Not until you tell me who it is.’ She flicks a flame from the lighter. ‘You’ll have to be quick …’

I make a grab for the photograph. Gretchen gives a delighted laugh and snatches it away, and as she does one corner dips into the flame. There’s a bloom of yellow as the glossy card ignites. Gretchen squeals and drops it. I knock the burning photograph away from the mattress, trying to put it out as the image blackens and curls. But it’s fully alight, and the loft is a tinderbox of dry wood. Snatching up the bottle of water from by the bed I quickly douse the flames.

There’s a hiss as the fire is snuffed out.

A burnt smell fills the loft. I stare at the puddle of ash and water on the floor.

‘You made me burn my fingers,’ Gretchen pouts.

I set the bottle down. ‘You’d better go.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have grabbed for it.’

‘Your father will wonder where you are.’

She hesitates, but mention of Arnaud does the trick. I don’t look round as she goes through the trapdoor. When her footsteps have died away I bend down and pick through the wet ash. There’s nothing left of the photograph except a small piece of white border, blackened at the edges.

I let it drop back onto the floor and go to find something to clean up.

CHLOE GOES MISSING
one night after work. I’ve been out with Callum and a couple of students after the last class. Not to the Domino, though: not any more. Where I used to enjoy being able to look up and see Chloe working behind the bar, anticipating the quiet moments when she’d be able to join us, now there’s no pleasure in it.

‘Do you feel you have to check on me?’ she asked one night, when I’d said I’d see her there later.

‘No,’ I’d said, surprised. ‘If you don’t want me to come, just say so.’

She’d shrugged, turning away. ‘It’s up to you.’

It’s almost one o’clock by the time I leave Callum and walk back to the flat. The smell of oil and turpentine is less strong now. Chloe hasn’t painted since before we went to Brighton, but that’s something we don’t talk about.

She won’t finish at the bar till two at the earliest, so I make myself a coffee and pick out a DVD. I settle on
L’Été meurtrier
, which like all the others in my collection I’ve seen several times. Chloe claims I like it because Isabelle Adjani spends virtually the entire film naked. She has a point, but the film’s cinematography is beautiful even without that.

I watch the cycle of passion and tragedy run its inevitable course. Only when the film ends do I realize how late it is: Chloe should have been back an hour ago.

No one answers when I phone the bar. I wait it out for another half-hour, then leave a note in case she comes back and set off for the Domino. The streets are empty. I follow the same route to the King’s Road that Chloe and I used to walk, although since I’ve stopped meeting her she usually gets either a lift or a taxi. The doors of the bar are locked, no lights showing from inside, but I bang on them anyway. When the echoes have died down the building remains dark and silent.