Stone Bruises

15

‘You awake up there?’

The words are a towline to consciousness. I open my eyes as it drags me up, not knowing who called or even if I dreamed it. The thump of someone banging on the trapdoor convinces me that I haven’t.

‘Come on, wake up, you lazy bastard!’

It’s Arnaud. My first thought is Gretchen. I jack-knife upright in bed, half-convinced she’s still there. But I’m alone, thank God. The chest of drawers is still on the trapdoor, where I pushed it the night before. Overkill to keep out an eighteen-year-old girl maybe, but just as effective against her father. In a waking panic I think he must know his daughter was here, before I remember I’m supposed to be helping him with the traps.

‘All right,’ I call. My head is thumping from the rough wine and Arnaud’s cognac, and the rude awakening hasn’t helped.

‘About bloody time!’ I can hear the wooden steps creak under his weight. ‘Hurry up and get your arse down here!’

‘Give me five minutes.’

‘Make it two!’

His footsteps clump away from the trapdoor. I groan, hanging my head. It can’t be much past dawn. A grey early light filters into the loft. Wanting nothing more than to fall back onto the mattress and sleep for another hour, I pull on my overalls and go downstairs. I stop off at the tap to drink thirstily and splash water on my face and neck. Beads of it cling to my beard and its cold is a temporary salve for my headache.

Arnaud is waiting outside with Lulu, a canvas workman’s bag slung over his shoulder. He carries the rifle broken over one arm. There’s a hangover pallor, and the white stubble looks like a skim of frost against his brown face. He glowers at me.

‘I told you to be ready early.’

‘I didn’t know you meant at the crack of dawn. What about breakfast?’

‘What about it?’

He’s already walking across the courtyard. Lulu fusses around me like a long-lost friend as I go after Arnaud. I expect him to follow the track towards the road, but instead he goes down the side of the stable block. I thought I knew the farm well by now, but there’s a path here that I never knew existed. It makes me wonder what else there is here I don’t know about.

I trudge along it behind him. There’s a clamour of birdsong, bell clear in the chilled air and lowlying mist. Wishing I’d put on a T-shirt under the overalls, I rub my arms and feel the outline of the plaster. The morning feels momentarily colder as I remember Gretchen’s amnesia of the night before. In some ways it’s even more disturbing than her attacking me in the first place. It could have been an act; God knows she’s certainly capable of histrionics. But this isn’t the only time it’s happened: I remember after she set fire to the photograph she never so much as mentioned it again. At the time I thought she’d just developed a convenient memory, choosing to ignore an awkward incident.

Now I wonder if it wasn’t something more than that.

The path has taken us into the deep woods above the house, the buffer between the farm and the rest of the world. Trying to put Gretchen from my mind, I concentrate on not tripping over tree roots. Ahead of me, the back of Arnaud’s neck is stiff and uncompromising, seamed with horizontal creases. Looking at the gun, I belatedly wonder if coming into these lonely woods with him is such a good idea. I don’t know what Gretchen might have told him but Arnaud is hardly the type to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. The sound of a shot would pass unnoticed out here, and a body could lie undisturbed amongst the tree roots indefinitely.

I shake off the morbid thoughts. Arnaud is nothing if not direct: if he meant me any harm I’d know about it by now. Besides, the way my head is aching he’d only be putting me out of my misery.

There’s a stillness to the woods, a sharp silence through which every sound seems heightened. Something rustles a few yards to one side. Lulu bristles and bounds after it, until Arnaud checks her with a sharp word. The dog reluctantly slinks back to him, casting regretful looks behind her.

At a bend in the path Arnaud leaves it and heads off into the trees. The grass is beaded with dew, darkening the bottoms of my overalls where they swish against it. Lulu begins to run ahead, but Arnaud again calls her, taking hold of her collar to thrust her behind him.

‘Aren’t you worried she’ll get caught in a trap?’ I ask.

‘I don’t let her near them.’

‘What happens if she wanders into the woods by herself?’

‘Then it’d be her own fault.’ He scans the ground ahead of him. ‘Here.’

There’s an open trap concealed in the grass. Arnaud picks up a dead branch and jabs at the square plate at its centre, springing the jaws in a snap of breaking wood. He slips the knapsack from his shoulder and takes out what looks like an old army entrenching tool, folded in half. My first impulse is to back away, but he only opens it and hands it to me.

‘Dig up the spike.’

I take the spade and lean my walking stick against a tree. I sometimes wonder how much I really need it any more, but I don’t feel confident enough to do without. The trap is tethered to the buried spike by a length of chain. One end of the entrenching tool is a pointed spade, the other a pick. I hack with the pick until the ground is broken up, then prise out the spike in a shower of dark earth.

Arnaud is waiting with a sack. I drop the trap into it and hold out the entrenching tool.

‘You can carry it,’ he says, setting off back to the path.

We dig up another two traps before we come to an area of woodland that’s familiar. I look at the scene below me. The view of farm, trees and lake is ingrained in my mind like a bad dream. Arnaud is waiting by a tree. Its exposed roots are gashed where a knife stabbed into them. Nearby an empty water bottle lies on its side. The trap is still sprung shut at the tree’s base, the edges of its clamped jaws clotted with black.

‘Well?’ Arnaud demands. ‘What are you waiting for?’

I put the entrenching tool down. ‘You can do this one.’

There’s a malicious spark in his eye. ‘Brings back bad memories, does it? Don’t worry, it can’t hurt you now.’

I don’t answer. His smile fades. Dumping the bag and rifle, he snatches the tool from me and begins chopping at the ground around the spike, gouging indiscriminately at earth and tree roots. He’s a powerful man, but the spike is well buried, as I know from experience. It takes longer than the others to work loose and Arnaud is sweating before it’s done. He opens his shirt, revealing his white and hairless torso. When he bends to pick up the trap he abruptly stops and presses a hand to the small of his back.

‘Put it in the sack,’ he says as he straightens, grey-faced. ‘Or is that against your principles too?’

He stalks off, leaving me to finish up. I lift the trap by the spike. There are bright scratches still from where I tried to prise it open. It spins slowly on the chain, an ugly pendant of bloodstained metal.

I drop it in the sack.

There are traps all over the woods. Each time we fill one of the sacks Arnaud has brought we leave it by the side of the path to collect later. The traps are all well hidden, concealed among tree roots and clusters of grass, even, on one occasion, in a shallow hole skilfully camouflaged with twigs and branches.

Arnaud goes unerringly to each one, locating them without hesitation. The half-full sack bumps against my leg as I follow him to another. A thick growth of grass has sprung up around it, so that only the chain is visible. He searches for a stick to clear it.

‘What’s the point?’ I ask.

‘The point of what?’

I drop the sack of traps to the ground. ‘Of these things.’

‘To keep people out, what do you think?’

‘It didn’t work the other night.’

Arnaud’s cheek muscles bunch. ‘They were lucky.’

‘And you weren’t?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You think the police would only have given you a warning if somebody had stepped in one?’

‘You think I’d care?’

‘Then why are we taking them up?’

‘Because I won’t give them the satisfaction of finding them. In a week or two, when this has blown over, I’ll set them again.’ He gives me an odd sideways glance. ‘And if I catch somebody in one, what makes you think they’ll be able to tell the police about it?’

He clears the last of the grass from the trap and gives a short laugh.

‘No need to spring this.’

The remains of a rabbit hang from the trap’s closed jaws. It must have been there for months. The flies and maggots have already done their work, leaving only a desiccated bundle of fur and bones.

Arnaud prods it with his foot.

‘Take it up.’

The morning chill and mist have burned off by the time Arnaud eventually calls a break. The sun drips through the branches, not yet hot but intimating at the heat to come. We stop where a flat-topped rock breaks through the earth to form a natural seat. Leaning the rifle against it, Arnaud takes it himself. I lower myself to the ground, glad of the respite.

‘How many more traps are left?’

‘Plenty more in the woods down by the lake. Why? Getting tired?’

‘No, I’m loving every minute.’

He snorts but doesn’t deign to reply. I try not to think about how long it’ll be before breakfast as Arnaud rummages in his knapsack and brings out a greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcel. Both Lulu and I watch him unwrap it. Inside are two cold chicken breasts. To my surprise he offers one to me.

‘Here.’

I take it before he changes his mind. He rummages in the knapsack again, this time coming out with a plastic bottle of water and a length of bread.

‘The bread’s yesterday’s,’ he says disparagingly as he breaks it in half.

I don’t care. We eat in silence, sharing water from the same bottle, although I notice we both wipe the neck before we drink. I throw occasional scraps to Lulu, who’s convinced herself that she’s starving. Arnaud ignores her.

When he’s finished he takes out his pipe and fills it. I’d join him, but in my rush to get out of the loft I came without my cigarettes.

‘How’s your back?’ I ask.

It’s meant as a peace offering after the food. Arnaud bites on his pipe and stares through the smoke.

‘No better for digging.’

We’re silent after that. Arnaud seems as intransigent as the rock he’s sitting on. I catch him watching me at one point, but he looks away again without speaking. There’s a tension about him that rekindles my earlier paranoia. He picks up the rifle, sights along its length.

‘So, are you enjoying my daughter’s generosity?’

Oh shit, I think, wondering what Gretchen’s said. ‘What do you mean?’

He gives me an irritated glance. He sets down the rifle and fiddles with his pipe. ‘Mathilde. She’s been pampering you like a newborn. Cooking your meals, changing your bandage.’

‘Right. Yes, she’s been … very generous.’

He takes the pipe from his mouth, flicks an invisible mote from the bowl and replaces it. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘It’s a simple enough question. What do you think of Mathilde? She’s an attractive woman, no?’

Arnaud’s capable of taking offence no matter what I say, so I opt for the truth. ‘Yes, she is.’

That seems to be what he wants to hear. He pulls on his pipe. ‘It’s been hard on her. Running the house. Taking care of Gretchen when their mother died. Now being left to look after a baby by herself. Not easy.’

I haven’t noticed him trying to make things any easier for her.

‘It hasn’t been any better for me, either, God knows,’ he goes on. ‘Bringing up two daughters. A place like this, a man needs a son. Someone who can work with him, take over eventually. I always hoped Marie would give me a boy, but no. Only girls. I thanked Christ when Michel was born, I can tell you. It’s no joke being surrounded by women.’

Arnaud taps out his pipe on the rock, looking at it instead of me.

‘Still, it’s worse for Mathilde. A good-looking woman, still young. She needs a man. A husband, ideally, but you’ve got to be realistic.’ He purses his lips, still considering the pipe. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

I tip my head, non-committally.

‘Trouble is, the men around here aren’t worth much. Small minds, that’s all they’ve got. Half of them would screw a cow if they could find a stool to stand on, but when it comes to an unmarried woman with another man’s child …’

His sigh is a shade too theatrical.

‘You’d think they’d have more sense than to let their prejudices blind them. I’m not going to live for ever, and Mathilde’s my eldest. Michel won’t be old enough to take over for years, and there’s no saying I’ll still be around to help him when he does. I’m the first to admit this place needs work, but … Well, it doesn’t take much to see the potential. You understand me?’ he asks, looking at me directly for the first time.

‘I think so.’ I understand, all right. It’s not so much that he’d make such a proposal that shocks me, as that he’d make it to me.

He nods, satisfied. ‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to make up his mind straight away. But, for the right sort of man, it’s worth giving some thought, wouldn’t you say?’

‘What would you call the right sort of man?’ I ask, keeping my voice neutral. But perhaps not as neutral as I intend, because Arnaud gives me a shrewd glance.

‘Somebody who can recognize an opportunity when he sees one,’ he retorts. And then, less tartly, ‘Someone I can trust.’

‘Like you trusted Louis?’

Arnaud’s face closes like a trap. He thrusts his pipe into his pocket and stands up.

‘Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.’

I get wearily to my feet and bend to pick up the sack. The snick of the rifle bolt being slid back is unmistakable in the quiet. I turn to find Arnaud standing with the barrel pointing at me.

I don’t move. Then with relief I see that his attention is on Lulu. She’s staring into the trees, ears cocked.

‘What’s she—?’

‘Shh!’

He motions me to one side. The dog is so tense she’s quivering. Arnaud raises the rifle stock to his shoulder, readying himself.

‘Go.’

The word is little more than a whisper, but Lulu begins moving into the woods, stalking in a slow-motion walk. A little way off she halts, one forepaw poised in the air. I still can’t see anything. Suddenly she hurls herself forward. At the same time two birds burst from the grass ahead of her, wheeling into the air in a clatter of wings.

The crack of Arnaud’s rifle makes me jump. One of the birds tumbles from the sky. There’s another crack. The remaining bird veers away, climbing higher. A third shot sounds, but the bird has already lost itself beyond the higher branches.

There’s a muttered curse from Arnaud. He lowers the rifle, clicking his tongue in exasperation. Lulu comes trotting back with her head held high, the bird lolling from her mouth. Arnaud takes it from her and tousles her ears.

‘Good girl.’

For all his disappointment, the shooting has put him in a better humour. He tucks the bird — a partridge, I think — into his knapsack.

‘Time was I’d have got them both. My reactions aren’t what they were. Aim and shoot automatically, that’s what it comes down to. You’ve got to let instinct take over. Make the first shot count.’ He gives me a cold glance. ‘Stop to think about it and you miss your chance.’

I choose to take him literally. ‘Why don’t you use a shotgun?’

‘Shotguns are for people who can’t shoot.’ He rubs the stock of the rifle. ‘This is a 6mm Lebel. Used to be my grandfather’s. Older than me and still fires .22 cartridges true to fifty yards. Here. Feel the weight.’

Reluctantly, I take it from him. It’s surprisingly heavy. The wooden stock is polished a warm satin from use, marred by a crack that runs for half its length. A sulphurous, used-firework smell comes from it.

‘Want to try?’ he asks.

‘No thanks.’

Arnaud’s grin is infuriatingly cocksure as I hand it back. ‘Squeamish again, or just frightened of loud noises?’

‘Both.’ I hoist the sack. ‘Shall we get on?’

It’s late morning when we return to the house. We’ve filled half a dozen sacks with traps, and haven’t even started on the woods by the lake.

‘We’ll do them some other time,’ Arnaud says, rubbing his back. ‘If the police come again they’ll look near the road first.’

The sacks are cumbersome and heavy, so we take one each and leave the rest in the woods. Arnaud dumps his with a clank in the courtyard and gruffly instructs me to fetch the others myself. No surprise there, I think sourly, as he goes into the house. It take me several trips to collect them, lugging one sack at a time over my shoulder like a scrap-iron Santa. By the time the last of them has been safely stowed in the stable block, I’m aching all over and dripping with sweat. Sucking a skinned knuckle, I stand in the courtyard to catch my breath. There’s a movement in the kitchen doorway and Mathilde comes out.

‘Is that the last of them?’ she asks, shielding her eyes from the sun.

‘For now. There’s still the woods around the lake, but we’ve finished up here.’

I can’t tell if she’s pleased or not. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

I follow her inside. Except for Michel, who’s sitting in a wooden playpen, we’re alone in the kitchen. I sit at the table, remembering at the last minute not to sit in Arnaud’s chair.

‘It’s all right, he’s gone to lie down,’ Mathilde says, seeing me avoid it. ‘His back.’

I can’t find it in myself to be sympathetic. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’

‘Collecting eggs. She won’t be long.’ Mathilde spoons ground coffee into the aluminium percolator and sets it on the range. ‘How’s her English progressing?’

It’s the first time she’s asked. I try to be diplomatic. ‘Let’s say I don’t think she’s very interested.’

Mathilde makes no comment to that. She occupies herself at the sink until the percolator begins making choking noises, then takes it from the heat and pours the black liquid into a cup.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ I ask as she brings it over.

‘Not right now.’

She hesitates by the table, though, and then surprises me by sitting down as well. She looks tired and I find myself remembering her father’s proposal. To take my mind off it I sip at the scalding coffee, searching for something to say.

‘Are you sorry the traps have gone?’

It isn’t the best conversational opening, but Mathilde takes it in her stride. ‘No. I never wanted them.’

‘Your father seems to think the farm needs protection.’

She looks at me, then away. The grey eyes are unfathomable. ‘No one can cut themselves off completely.’

For some reason that feels like a reproach. We both watch Michel in his pen, as though hoping he’ll break the silence. He carries on playing, oblivious.

‘Do you—’ I begin, then stop myself.

‘Yes?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She looks at Michel, as though guessing what I’m going to ask. ‘Go on.’

‘I just wondered … do you ever hear from his father?’

I half-expect her to grow angry. She only shakes her head, still watching Michel. ‘No.’

‘Where is he?’

There’s the slightest of shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t he want to see his own son?’

I regret it the moment it’s out. Of all people, I’ve no right to ask something like that. There’s a beat before Mathilde answers.

‘Michel wasn’t planned. And Louis never liked responsibility.’

I’ve already asked more than I should. Yet there’s a sense of intimacy between us I’m sure I’m not imagining. Something about the way she sits there makes me want to reach out: instead I wrap both hands around the coffee cup.

‘Haven’t you ever thought about going away? Just you and Michel?’

She looks startled by my bluntness. So am I, but the more I see of her father and sister — even Georges — the more I think that Mathilde is the only sane person on this farm. She deserves better.

‘This is my home,’ she says quietly.

‘People leave home all the time.’

‘My father—’ She breaks off. When she carries on I have the feeling that it isn’t what she was going to say. ‘My father dotes on Michel. I couldn’t take him away.’

‘He’d still have Gretchen.’

Mathilde looks out of the window. ‘It’s not the same. He always wanted a son. Daughters were always … a disappointment. Even Gretchen. Now he has a grandson, he expects him to be brought up on the farm.’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. You’ve got your own life.’

Her chest silently rises and falls. The only sign of any agitation is the quick pulse in her throat. ‘I couldn’t leave Gretchen. And she wouldn’t come with me.’

No, she probably wouldn’t, I think, remembering what her sister has said about her. Still, Mathilde’s acceptance is infuriating. I want to ask if she thinks Gretchen would do the same for her, to tell her she’s wasting her life at the beck and call of a man who’s just tried to barter her away like damaged goods. But I’ve already said more than I should, and at that moment the kitchen door opens and Gretchen walks in.

‘The hen with the bad eye’s getting worse,’ she says, hugging a bowl of eggs to her stomach. ‘I think we should—’

She stops when she sees us. Mathilde stands up and quickly moves away from the table. I feel myself colouring, as though we’ve been caught out.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Gretchen asks.

‘Just taking a break,’ I say, getting to my feet.

Mathilde begins washing the percolator. ‘What’s that about the hen?’

Gretchen doesn’t answer, but her face says it all.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say, going past her to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Mathilde gives a quick nod of acknowledgement but doesn’t look round. Gretchen ignores me completely, her eyes locked on her sister’s back. I go outside, but I’ve not gone far before raised voices come through the open kitchen window. They’re indistinct at first, but then one of them — Gretchen’s — gains in pitch and volume until the words themselves become audible.

‘… do what you say? Why do you always try to spoil everything!’

I can’t make out Mathilde’s reply, only its placating tone. Gretchen’s voice grows more strident.

‘Yes, you do! What gives you the right to tell me what to do? I’m sick of you acting like—’

There’s a sharp crack of flesh on flesh. A moment later the door is flung open and Gretchen bursts out. I quickly move into the stable block as Mathilde appears in the doorway.

‘Gretchen!’

She sounds anguished. Gretchen spins around to face her, revealing a reddened imprint on her cheek.

‘I hate you!’

She runs across the courtyard. Mathilde starts after her, but halts at the sound of Michel’s crying. The unhappiness is written plain on her face before she notices me. Turning away, she goes back inside to her son.

I step out of the stable block’s shelter, making sure first that Gretchen has gone. Whatever problem she has with Mathilde, I’d rather not be caught in the middle of it. The farm’s usual quiet has returned. I head back for the barn, unsure what to do. There’s no point in mixing up a batch of mortar; it must be nearly lunch time and after my early start I don’t feel like clambering up the scaffold straight away. The coffee has left me thirstier than ever, so I go to the tap for a drink. As usual, the barn is cool and smells of old wood and sour wine. I turn the tap on, cupping my hands under the cold spatter. Over the top of its splashing I hear another noise. Turning off the tap, I go out of the barn, wiping my wet hands on my overalls. There’s a ruckus coming from the woods down by the lake. It’s too far away to make much out, but from the squeals it sounds like another sow is meeting its maker.

Then I hear the scream.

It’s Gretchen.

I set off down the track, stabbing my walking stick down in a gait that’s half-run, half-skip. The commotion becomes louder as I near the sanglochon pens. Shouts, barking, squealing. When I reach the clearing I see Georges, the boar and Lulu engaged in a complex dance. The old man is trying to herd the boar back into its pen while Lulu makes mad dashes at it. Enraged, the boar is wheeling round to try to get at her, thumping against the piece of board Georges is using to push it and almost barging the old man off his feet.

Nearby, Gretchen presses her hands to her mouth, transfixed.

‘Get the dog!’ Georges is shouting at her, struggling to block the boar and kick the spaniel away at the same time. ‘Get hold of it!’

Gretchen doesn’t move. I can see the old man is tiring. His attempts to keep the two animals apart are growing laboured. He glances around as I enter the clearing, and Lulu takes that moment to dart behind his legs. He staggers, losing his grip on the board, and as the dog tries to jink away the boar surges forward. There’s a shrill cry and an audible crunch as its jaws close on the spaniel’s hind leg.

I plough straight into the boar without slowing, hoping to knock it away from the dog. It’s like running into a tree trunk. My momentum carries me over its back, the breath huffing from me as I pitch onto the ground on the other side. I scramble away, frantically kicking at the thing’s tusks as it turns on me, and then Georges thrusts the board between us.

‘Get the other one!’ he shouts.

It’s propped against the fence. I grab it and rush back, snatching up my walking stick from where it landed. Pushing my board next to Georges’s, I bring the stick down on the boar’s head.

‘Not so hard!’ Georges snaps.

The boar doesn’t feel it anyway. It butts and thrusts at our boards as the spaniel crawls and flops away, her leg trailing behind her. Then Arnaud is there as well, adding his weight to ours. The three of us push and slap at the pig, using the boards to block its vision until at last we manage to steer it back inside its pen. It throws itself against the fence but Arnaud has already slammed and fastened the gate.

His face is grim as he turns to Georges, breathing heavily. ‘How did he get out?’

‘The gate was open,’ Georges states flatly. He’s the least winded of the three of us.

‘Christ almighty, didn’t you check it?’

The old man gives Arnaud a reproving look. ‘Yes.’

‘It couldn’t have opened itself!’

‘No,’ Georges agrees.

Arnaud’s face sets. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’

She’s nowhere in sight. Mathilde is there, though, crouching by the spaniel. It’s panting in shock, one hind paw hanging by threads of bloody tissue. Arnaud looks down at it, tight-mouthed.

‘I’ll fetch my rifle.’

Mathilde begins trying to lift the dog.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

‘I’m taking her to the veterinarian.’

‘No, you’re not. A bullet’s the best thing for her.’

Mathilde doesn’t answer. She struggles to her feet, hugging Lulu to her chest. The dog screams as its leg flops against her.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Arnaud demands.

‘I heard.’

She takes a step forward. He’s blocking her way.

‘You’re not going anywhere! Put her down and—’

‘No!’

The refusal stops him dead. It’s the first time I’ve seen her stand up to him. Arnaud glares at her, but Mathilde stares back, white-faced to his mottled anger.

‘I’m not going to let you kill her.’

She doesn’t raise her voice this time, but there’s no doubting the purpose in it. For a moment I think Arnaud is going to hit her. Then he moves aside.

‘Please yourself. Just don’t expect me to pay for the vet.’

Mathilde goes past him, straining under the dog’s dead weight.

‘Let me,’ I say.

‘I can manage.’

But she doesn’t resist. Lulu whimpers as she’s passed over. I feel Arnaud watching me. I have a sudden intuition that he might think that I’m helping Mathilde because of what he said earlier, that I’m fulfilling my part of a tacit bargain. The thought angers me as I turn and find Gretchen standing behind us.

Her face is smeared with tears. She looks anywhere but at Lulu, although her eyes seem to be constantly drawn towards the dog’s leg.

Arnaud pushes past me and seizes her arm.

‘Did you open the gate?’ Her head is down on her chest. He grabs her shoulders and shakes her. ‘Answer me! Did you open the gate?’

‘No!’

‘Then how did the boar get out!’

‘I don’t know! Leave me alone.’

She tries to pull free but he twists her around to face the dog. ‘Look! Look what you’ve done!’

‘I didn’t do anything! Get off!’

She wrenches free and runs into the wood. Arnaud stares after her, then turns on us.

‘Go, if you’re going!’ he snaps, and stamps off towards the pens.

I do my best not to jolt the dog as I carry her back to the courtyard, letting Mathilde bring my walking stick. My foot holds up well, considering. When we get to the van she spreads out an old blanket on the passenger seat. The spaniel is shivering but still licks my hand as I set her down. Her hind leg looks as though it’s been minced. Splinters of white bone pierce the bloodied flesh, and for once I think Arnaud might be right. We’re only prolonging her suffering. But she isn’t my dog, and it isn’t my place to say.

Mathilde shuts the door and goes around to the driver’s side.

‘Do you want me to take her?’ I ask, knowing how she feels about going into town.

‘It’s all right.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

‘No, thank you. We’ll be fine.’

She’s like a stranger. I watch her drive up the track, easing over the bumps. The van reaches a bend and is lost in the trees, leaving behind a slowly settling trail of dust. When the sound of its engine fades it’s just as though nothing has happened.

Jules comes back to the bar the following week. It’s early and the bar is quiet. Kai, Sergei’s boyfriend, has brought me a coffee and is chatting to Dee about the best way to cook a rice timbale. I’m half-listening, keeping an eye on the entrance. I’m about to take a drink of coffee when the door opens and Lenny walks in.

I put the coffee cup down. He’s alone, but if he’s here then there’s a good chance Jules will be on his way as well. He looks over at me, indifferent but letting me see he knows who I am. He goes to where Dee is serving.

‘Bottle of Stella,’ he says to her, paying me no further attention. As he reaches out to take his change I see the gold watch on his wrist. It’s a Rolex or a copy, chunky and jewelled. He notices me looking at it.

‘What?’

‘Just admiring your watch.’

I’m thinking about how he’d asked the time when Chloe and I encountered him in the dark street. I don’t expect him to remember, or make the association if he does. But I’ve underestimated him. I feel a chill as the stubbled face stares at me.

‘I don’t give a fuck about you,’ he says. ‘If you’ve any sense you’ll keep it that way.’

With a last look to make sure I’ve got the message, he takes his drink over to a table.

‘What was that all about?’ Dee asks, coming over.

‘Private joke.’

There’s nothing funny about this, though. You don’t go out of your way to cross people like Lenny. I don’t even know why I did it.

After that I’m waiting, knowing it’s only a matter of time. The coffee I’ve drunk sours in my stomach. I think I’m ready, but my pulse still leaps when Jules comes through the door. When I see the girl with him my first emotion is relief, because it isn’t Chloe. Then they walk into the light and I feel a physical shock. It is her; it just isn’t the Chloe I knew. Her hair is styled and more obviously blonde, and she’s wearing a short red dress that shows off her legs in the high heels. When I knew her she hardly wore any make-up at all; now she’s almost unrecognizable behind the eyeliner and lipstick.

She walks slightly behind Jules as he goes over to greet Lenny. She hasn’t seen me, and I’m certain from her distant expression that Jules hasn’t told her I work here. I don’t realize I’m staring until Sergei comes out of the kitchen with two unopened bottles of Absolut.

‘Here, Sean, put these in the freezer,’ he says, thrusting them at me. He glances at my face. ‘And for God’s sake, smile! You look like you’re going to kill somebody.’

I take the vodka from him and go to the freezer beneath the bar. But I don’t open it, because now Jules and Chloe are coming over.

Jules is looking straight at me, but Chloe hasn’t noticed who he’s steering her towards. As they get near he puts his arm around her shoulders. She looks up at him in surprise, and the grateful flicker that crosses her face breaks my heart.

Then she sees me and stops dead. Still smiling, Jules tightens his arm around her and forces her forward.

‘Surprise. Look who’s here,’ he says.

I put the bottles down. Chloe is staring down at the counter. Her throat works, but no sound comes out. She’s lost weight; she was always slim but now she’s rake thin. One look is enough to tell me she’s using again.

‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ Jules says, tightening his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl.’

Obediently, she raises her head.

‘Hello, Sean.’ Her voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. There’s an unfocused look to her eyes that makes me think she’s on more than just coke these days.

‘Hi.’

My face feels turned to stone. Jules is watching, missing nothing. ‘Quite the reunion, isn’t it? Tell you what, I’ve got some business to sort out, so why don’t you two catch up? I expect you’ve got lots to talk about.’

‘Jules, no, I—’

‘Oh, and we’ll have two vodkas on the rocks. Bring mine over, will you?’

He gives me a wink, stroking Chloe’s shoulder in a demonstration of possession before swaggering over to join Lenny. The silence is awful as Chloe and I face each other across the bar.

‘So … how are things?’ I make myself ask.

‘Great. Really good.’ She’s nodding as if trying to convince herself. ‘You?’

‘Top of the world.’ It’s hard to look at her. I wish the bar were busy so at least I’d have other people to serve, but it’s still perversely quiet. ‘How’s the painting going?’

It’s a cruel question. There’s a quick flare of satisfaction when I see the hurt on her face, and then I hate myself for it.

‘Oh, I’m not really … I’m sort of helping Jules with his business now. He’s a bit short-staffed, so … Anyway, he says he might want some of my work for his gym when things … you know …’

I’m not sure I do, but I nod. ‘That’s good.’

She’s still smiling as her eyes start to brim. ‘It’s all right, I’m fine. Really,’ she says. ‘I just wish …’

I feel something give in me as she starts to cry. Pride wars with the instinct to reach out to her. Not for long, but long enough.

‘Chloe! Get over here.’

The shout comes from Jules. She dashes the tears away with the heel of her hand, and the moment when I might have said or done something is gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, averting her face as she hurries away.

I ask Dee to take their drinks over and go into the kitchen. When I come out again the place is starting to fill up. For a while I’m blessedly busy. The next time I look across, Chloe and the others are gone and another group of people are sitting at their table.