Stone Bruises

1

The car is running on empty. There’s been no sign of a garage for hours, and the petrol gauge is needling into red. I need to get off the road but the fields seem endless, intent on funnelling me along to the engine’s last gasp. Even though it’s still early the day is arid and hot. The breeze that whips through the open windows only stirs the air without cooling it.

I drive hunched over the wheel, expecting the car to die at any moment, and then I see a break in the green barrier. On my left a track cuts out of sight between wheat fields. I turn off, bumping over the rutted surface, not caring where it leads providing it’s out of sight. The track dips down to a copse. Branches scratch at the windows as I edge the Audi into it and switch off the engine. It’s cooler in the trees’ shade. In the ticking quiet I can hear running water. I close my eyes and lean my head back, but there’s no time to rest.

I need to keep moving.

I check the car’s glove compartment. There’s nothing identifying in it, only junk and a nearly full packet of cigarettes. Camels, my old brand. As I reach across the passenger side for them I become aware of a smell. Faint but unpleasant, like meat left out in the sun.

There’s something smeared on the rich leather of the passenger seat, and also on the unspooled seatbelt that hangs on the floor. The tough fabric is nearly severed at one point, and when I touch it my fingers come away sticky and dark.

My head swims to think I’ve driven all this way with it in plain view. I want to put as much distance as I can between myself and the car, but I can’t leave it like this. Branches push against the door as I get out. There’s a stream running through the copse, and my hands are shaking as I soak a cloth from the glove compartment in it. The seat wipes down easily enough but the blood has clogged in the seatbelt’s weave. I rub off as much as I can, then rinse out the cloth in the stream. Water flares over my wrists like manacles of glass as I scrub my hands, scouring them with sand from the bottom. Even then they don’t feel clean.

I splash water over my face, wincing as it stings the grazes on my cheek, and go back to the car. It’s coated with dust from the roads, camouflaging the black paintwork. I use a rock to smash off the UK number plates, then fetch my rucksack from the boot. As I lift it out it snags on the mat covering the spare wheel. There’s a glimpse of something white underneath. I pull the mat aside and my stomach knots when I see the polythene-wrapped parcel.

I lean against the car, my legs suddenly weak.

It’s about the size of a bag of sugar, but the white powder it contains is far less innocent. I quickly look around, as though someone might be there to see. But there are only the trees, and the background hum of insects. I stare at the package, too tired to process this new complication. I don’t want to take it with me, but I can’t leave it here. Snatching it up, I cram it deep into my rucksack, slam the boot and walk away.

The wheat fields are still empty of life when I leave the copse. I fling the car’s number plates and keys out into the tall stalks before taking out my phone. It’s broken beyond hope of repair. Still walking, I remove the SIM card and snap it in two, then throw the pieces into one field and the phone in another.

I’ve no one to call anyway.

The road’s grey tarmac ripples and distorts as the sun climbs higher. The few cars on it hardly seem to move, caught in the heat until they flash past in a sudden blare of colour. The rucksack rides high on my back, my own private monkey. I walk for almost an hour, until I feel I’ve put enough distance between myself and the car. Then, holding out my thumb, I begin to hitch.

My red hair is both an advantage and a handicap, attracting attention and announcing that I’m a foreigner in one single message. The first lift is from a young couple in an old Peugeot.

‘Où allez-vous?’ he asks, cigarette barely moving.

I struggle to switch linguistic gears. I’m more used to hearing French than speaking it recently, but that isn’t what makes me pause. Where am I going?

I’ve no idea.

‘Anywhere. I’m just travelling.’

I sit in the front passenger seat, the girl having moved uncomplainingly into the back. I’m glad the driver’s wearing sunglasses, because it gives me an excuse to keep mine on. They cover the worst of the bruising on my face.

He glances at my red hair. ‘British?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your French is pretty good. Been over here long?’

For a second I struggle to answer. It already feels like a lifetime. ‘Not really.’

‘So how’d you learn?’ the girl asks, leaning between the seats. She’s dark-haired and plump, with an engagingly open face.

‘I used to come over a lot when I was younger. And I’m … I like French films.’

I shut up then, realizing I’m giving away more than I intended. Luckily, neither of them seem interested. ‘I prefer American movies myself,’ he shrugs. ‘So how long are you over for?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

They drop me off at the outskirts of a small town. I dip into my small fund of euros to buy bread and cheese, a bottle of water and a disposable cigarette lighter. I also buy a baseball cap from an open-air market in the square. It’s a cheap Nike copy but it’ll keep the sun off me and help conceal my bruises. I know I’m being paranoid but I can’t help it. I don’t want to attract any more attention than I have to.

It’s a relief to leave the town behind and head out into open country again. The sun burns down on the exposed back of my neck. After a kilometre or so I stop under a row of poplars and try to eat some of the baguette and cheese. I manage a few bites and then puke everything back, dry-heaving until my stomach’s sore. When the spasms have passed I slump against a tree, feeling so wasted I want to just lie there and give up.

But I can’t do that. My hand trembles as I flick a tongue of flame from the disposable lighter and draw on the cigarette. It’s the first I’ve had in two years, but it tastes like a homecoming. I breathe out some of my tension along with the smoke, blessedly thinking of nothing for a few moments.

I finish the cigarette, then get to my feet and start walking again. I’ve only the vaguest idea of where I am but since I don’t have any plans that doesn’t matter. I stick out my thumb whenever a car passes, but that isn’t often. The roads here are all secondary ones, backwaters where there’s little traffic. By mid-afternoon, a Citroën and a Renault later, I’ve covered less than twenty kilometres. The lifts have all been short, locals travelling to the next town or village, but now even they have dried up. The road is so quiet I can believe the rest of the world has forgotten about me. The only sound is the scrape of my boots and the incessant drone of insects. There’s no shade, and I’m thankful for the cap’s protection.

After I’ve been walking for what seems an age, the open fields are replaced by a dense wood of chestnut trees. It’s fenced off by strands of old barbed wire, but the broad-leaved branches still offer some respite from the sun.

I carefully ease the rucksack from my sore shoulders and take a drink of water. There’s only a couple of inches left. Blood warm, it barely touches my thirst before it’s gone. I should have bought another bottle, I think. But then I should have done a lot of things. It’s too late to change any of them now.

I squint down the road. It runs arrow straight, shimmering in the heat and empty as far as the eye can see. I screw the top back on the water, willing a car to appear. None does. Christ, but it’s hot. I feel parched again already. I take off my hat and push my fingers through my sweat-damp hair. A little way back down the road I remember passing a farm gate. I gnaw my lip, reluctant to retrace my steps. But my dry throat decides me. I’ve no idea how long it’ll be till I reach another town, and it’s too hot to go without water.

Picking up my rucksack, I head back the way I came.

The gate is trimmed with the same rusty barbed wire that borders the woods. A track runs from it, disappearing into the chestnut trees. A mailbox is fixed to the gatepost, on which faded white letters spell out the single word Arnaud. An old but solid-looking padlock hangs from a hasp on the gate, but it’s been left unlocked.

I look once more down the road, but there’s still nothing in sight. Mindful of the barbs, I push open the gate and go through. The track slopes gently uphill, then curves down to reveal a cluster of roofs through the trees. I follow it and find myself in a dusty courtyard. A dilapidated old farmhouse stands at its head, half-covered by a flimsy-looking scaffold. Opposite it is a large barn, and at one side a stable block in which is set an ancient, one-handed clock. There are no horses, but several dusty vehicles are parked in the open archways in various attitudes of permanence.

No one is in sight. A goat bleats from somewhere nearby, and a few hens scratch around in the dirt. Other than them the place could be deserted. I stop at the edge of the courtyard, reluctant to go any further. The farmhouse door is ajar. I go up to its unpainted panels and knock. There’s a pause, then a woman’s voice answers.

‘Qui est-ce?’

I push open the door. After the bright courtyard the interior seems impenetrably dark. It’s a second or two before I make out a woman sitting at a kitchen table, a moment longer to see that she’s holding a baby.

I raise the empty bottle, hesitating while I marshal my question into French. ‘Can I have some water, please?’

If she’s discomfited by being disturbed by a stranger she doesn’t show it. ‘How did you get in here?’ she asks, her voice calm and unhurried.

‘The gate was open.’

I feel like a trespasser as she regards me. She sets the baby down in a wooden high chair. ‘Would you like a glass of water as well?’

‘That’d be great.’

She takes the bottle to the sink, filling first it and then a large glass at the tap. I drink it gratefully. The water is icy and has an earthy tang of iron.

‘Thank you,’ I say, handing her the empty glass.

‘Will you padlock the gate behind you?’ she asks. ‘It shouldn’t have been left open.’

‘OK. Thanks again.’

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk across the sunny courtyard.

I follow the track up through the wood to the road. It’s as quiet as before. I lock the gate and keep on walking. Every now and then I’ll glance back to see if a car is coming, but there’s only the sun-baked tarmac. I hook my thumbs under the rucksack straps to take some of the weight. It feels heavier when I remember what’s in it, so I clear my mind and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

The drone of an engine gradually detaches itself from the overheated silence. I turn and see something approaching, a dark speck distorted by the heat. At first it seems to hover unmoving above a reflection of itself. Then its tyres stretch downwards and touch the road, and it becomes a blue car speeding towards me.

I’m already stepping out from the shade of the trees when I notice there’s something on its roof. Realization comes a moment later. I vault over the barbed-wire fence, snagging my jeans and landing awkwardly because of the rucksack. Without stopping, I plunge into the woods as the note of the car’s engine grows louder. When it sounds almost on top of me I duck down behind a tree and look back at the road.

The police car blurs past. I listen for any signs of it slowing, any indication that they’ve seen me. But the sound of its engine steadily dwindles to nothing. I rest my head against the tree. I know I’m overreacting, that the French police probably won’t care about me, but I’m too jumpy to take the chance. And I daren’t risk my rucksack being searched.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. Blood; I’ve bitten through my lip. I spit to clear it and take the water bottle from my rucksack. My hands are trembling as I rinse my mouth, then take stock of where I am.

The wood is set on a shallow hillside, and some distance away I can see the glimmer of a lake through the trees. To one side of it are the roofs of farm buildings, small and insignificant at this distance. I guess they must be where I asked for water, so I’m probably still on their land.

I stand up and brush off the twigs and soil that cling to my jeans. My T-shirt is stuck to me with sweat. It’s so hot the air seems scorched. I look at the lake again, wishing I could swim in it. But that’s not going to happen, and I need to keep moving. Taking another swig of water, I step away from the tree and cry out as something seizes my foot.

I drop to my knees as pain lances up my leg. My left foot is engulfed in a pair of black, semicircular jaws. I try to pull free but the movement sends fresh hurt searing up the length of my leg.

‘Jesus!’

I stop moving, sucking in panicked breaths. I’ve stepped in some sort of iron hunting trap, hidden away in a knotted tangle of tree roots. It clamps my foot from mid-instep to above the ankle, its jagged teeth piercing the tough leather of my boot. They’ve stabbed so deep into my flesh that I can feel them nuzzling coldly against the bone.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to deny the sight. ‘Oh, fuck! Fuck!’

But that doesn’t get me anywhere. Shucking off the rucksack, I shift to a better position and take hold of the trap’s jaws. They don’t budge. Bracing my free foot against a tree root I try again. This time I’m rewarded by the tiniest sense of give, but not nearly enough. My arms quiver with the strain as the metal edges bite into my hands. Slowly, I let it ease shut and sit back, gasping.

Rubbing the sore patches on my hands, I study the trap more closely. It’s crudely made, lightly ochred with rust but not enough to suggest it’s been lying here very long. If anything, the oil on the hinges looks fresh. Worryingly so, in fact. Trying not to think what that might mean, I turn my attention to the chain that tethers it in place. It’s short and leads to a wooden spike buried among the tree roots. A few tugs are enough to convince me that I’m wasting my time trying to pull it out.

Sitting with my trapped leg stuck out in front of me, I put my hand down to push myself upright and feel something wet. The bottle of water is lying where I dropped it, most of its contents soaking into the dry earth. I snatch it up, even though it’s already spilled as much as it’s going to. Taking a careful sip, I re-cap what’s left and try to think.

OK, stay calm. The initial pain has evolved into a throbbing, like toothache, that extends up my shin. Blood is beginning to soak through the leather of my boot. Except for the buzz of insects the sun-dappled woods are silent. I look over at the distant roofs of the farm buildings. They’re too far away for anyone to hear me shout, but I don’t want to do that anyway. Not unless I have to.

I rummage through my rucksack for my pocketknife. I know it’s in there somewhere, but as I search for it my fingers encounter something else. I pull it out and a shock runs through me.

The photograph is dog-eared and faded. I’d no idea it was in the rucksack; I’d forgotten I even had it. The girl’s face is almost obscured by a crease, distorting her smile. Behind her is the whiteness of Brighton Pier, vivid against a blue sky. Her hair is blonde and sun-bleached, her face tanned and healthy. Happy.

I feel dizzy. The trees seem to tilt as I put the photograph away. I take deep breaths, willing myself not to lose it. The past’s gone. There’s nothing I can do to change it, and the present is more than enough to worry about. I find my pocketknife and open it up. There’s a three-inch blade, a bottle opener and a corkscrew, but nothing for dismantling iron traps. Jamming the blade between the jaws, I try to prise them open and fall back as it snaps.

I throw the broken knife down and look around for something else. There’s a dead branch nearby. It’s out of reach but I use a smaller one to drag it closer, then wedge its thickest end between the jaws. The metal gouges at the wood but the trap slowly begins to open. I apply more pressure, gritting my own teeth as the iron ones start to pull out of my flesh.

‘Yes! Come on!’

The stick breaks. The jaws spring together again.

I scream.

When the pain subsides I’m lying flat on my back. I push myself up and fling the stick impotently at the trap. ‘Bastard!’

I can’t pretend any longer that this isn’t serious. Even if I could free my foot I doubt I could walk very far on it. But I’d willingly settle for that problem, because not being able to free myself is far more frightening.

Happy now? You’ve brought this on yourself. Blanking out those thoughts, I try to focus on the more immediate problem. Using the knife’s corkscrew, I start digging around the spike that holds the trap in place. It’s a futile attempt but allows me to vent some emotion by stabbing the ground and tree roots. Eventually, I let the knife fall and slump back against the trunk.

The sun has sunk noticeably lower. It won’t be dark for hours yet, but the thought of having to lie there all night is terrifying. I rack my brain for ideas, but there’s only one thing left I can do.

I take a deep breath and yell.

My shout dies away without an echo. I doubt it will have carried to the farm I went to earlier. I yell louder, in English and French, shouting until my voice grows hoarse and my throat hurts.

‘Somebody!’ I half-sob and then, more quietly, ‘Please.’ The words seem absorbed by the afternoon heat, lost amongst the trees. In their aftermath, the silence descends again.

I know then that I’m not going anywhere.

By next morning I’m feverish. I’ve taken my sleeping bag from the rucksack and draped it over me during the night, but I still shivered fitfully through most of it. My foot throbs with a dull agony, pulsing to the beat of my blood. It’s swollen to above the ankle. Although I’ve unlaced the boot as best I can, the leather, which is now black and sticky, is stretched drum tight. It feels like a vast boil, waiting to burst.

At first light I try to shout again, but the dryness of my throat reduces it to a hoarse croak. Soon even that is too much effort. I try to think of other ways to attract attention, and for a while become excited at the idea of setting fire to the tree I’m under. I go as far as pawing in my pockets for the cigarette lighter before I come to my senses.

The fact that I was seriously considering it scares me.

But the lucidity doesn’t last long. As the sun rises, stoking itself towards a mid-morning heat, I push off the sleeping bag. I’m burning up, and have accomplished the neat fever-trick of being soaked with sweat while I’m shaking uncontrollably. I look at my foot with hate, wishing I could gnaw it off like a trapped animal. For a while I think I am, can taste my own skin and blood and bone as I bite at my leg. Then I’m sitting propped against the tree again, and the only thing biting into my foot is the half-moon of iron.

I come and go from myself, submerged in garbled, overheated fantasies. At some point I open my eyes and see a face peering at me. It’s a girl’s, beautiful and Madonna-like. It seems to merge with the one in the photograph, racking me with guilt and grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, or think I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

I stare at the face, hoping for a sign of forgiveness. But as I look the shape of the skull behind it begins to shine through, peeling away the surface beauty to show the rot and dissolution underneath.

A new pain bursts in me, a fresh agony that bears me away on its crest. From far away there’s the sound of someone screaming. As it grows fainter I hear voices speaking a language I recognize but can’t decode. Before it fades altogether, a few words present themselves with the clarity of a church bell.

‘Doucement. Essayez d’être calme.’

Gently, I can understand. But I’m puzzled by why they need to be quiet.

Then the pain sweeps me up and I cease to exist.

The skylight is fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.

Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blonde hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.

The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.

I feel her stir beside me.

‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.