Stone Bruises

16

Replacing the stones is a slow business. The section of house I’ve started working on is in even worse condition than the rest, having faced directly into the teeth of the weather blowing up from the lake. I’ve had to remove a lot of stones completely, cleaning them of the old mortar before putting them back. They’re big and heavy, squeezing out the wet mortar like coffee-coloured icing when I push them back into the gaps. Sometimes their weight makes them settle too far, so that they don’t line up with the stones on either side. Whenever that happens I take them out and start again. I doubt anyone on the ground would notice, or care very much if they did.

I would, though.

I trowel mortar onto the top and sides of another stone and lift it up. The hole is at shoulder height, so I have to bench-press the stone into place. Bracing it on my chest, I ease it in, praying it will sit level this time, thankful when it does. I scrape off the surplus mortar and flex my sore shoulder muscles. I’ve made good progress this morning, which would normally be enough to make me feel pleased. Not today.

My bucket is empty. I take it back down the ladder and go into the dank storeroom. A pile of empty plastic sacks confronts me: I’m down to my last bag of sand.

I’m going to have to go into town again.

I swear and throw the bucket down. I’ve known this was coming for days. It’s taken a lot of mortar to replace the stones, and while there’s plenty of cement I’ve almost used up all the sand that was in the storeroom. If I’d known there wasn’t enough I could have fetched more when I went for the cement, but I’d assumed my predecessor knew what he was doing. My mistake.

In addition to his other failings, Louis wasn’t much of a builder either.

I find Mathilde in the vegetable garden at the back of the house. She’s kneeling at the tiny bed of flowers, uprooting the weeds that have sprung up since last time. She looks up as I approach, and again I feel I’ve somehow disturbed her in a private moment.

‘I need more sand.’

She doesn’t question it this time. Her expression is resigned, as if there’s no longer anyone who can do or say anything to surprise her. She only nods and silently gets to her feet.

I go with her and wait in the kitchen while she fetches her wallet. Gretchen is sitting at the table with Michel. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Since the boar escaped she’s withdrawn into herself. It isn’t so much that she ignores me as that she no longer seems to register I’m even there.

If I’m honest, it’s a relief.

‘Will that be enough?’ Mathilde asks, handing me a few notes. They’re all small denomination.

‘I think so.’

‘The keys are in the van.’

She returns to her garden as I go to the Renault. It’s greenhouse hot inside, but I don’t bother waiting for it to cool. After I’ve gone through the usual rigmarole of unlocking and locking the gate, I stand for a moment, looking out at the road. A car shoots past, coming from the direction of the town and heading off towards its own destination. As I watch it go something uncurls at the back of my mind, so indistinct I don’t recognize it for what it is at first.

Restlessness.

The feeling has been growing ever since the gendarmes came. I don’t worry any more about them coming back: if they were going to they would have by now. But the disruption that arrived with them has never really left.

Without enthusiasm, I climb back into the van. The drive into town seems to take no time at all. The roadside bar hardly seems to flash by before I’m at the square. The boules players are already out, although I can’t tell if they’re the same ones. The fountain is still spraying gaily in the sunshine. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel as I pull into the builders’ yard. The engine dies with a shudder. Taking a deep breath, I climb out.

There’s no sign of Jean-Claude.

I allow myself to relax, though only a little. I reach into the van for my walking stick, then pause. My foot is all but healed. The stitches are almost ready to come out and I’ve started leaving off the bandage when I’m not working. I still use the rubber boot that Mathilde made, but that’s only because my own chafes the wounds. The stick is starting to feel more like a habit than a necessity, and I know the time is coming when I’ll have to stop relying on it.

But not yet. Picking it up, I lean on it and limp into the hangar-like building.

I order and pay for the sand and am directed back out into the yard. There are wide wooden bays filled with pebbles, grit and sand. No one’s about, but there’s a shovel sticking out of the sand and a pile of empty plastic sacks, so I begin filling them myself.

I work with my back to the yard, mechanically driving the shovel into the mound of sand, ignoring the impulse to keep looking behind me. When the sacks are full I bring the van over. The blanket that Lulu was on is balled up in the back, the bloodstains on it dried black. I push it aside and start loading the sacks, stacking them upright so the sand doesn’t spill. Now I’ve almost finished some of the nervous energy begins to bleed off. I pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

‘Need any help?’

Jean-Claude is standing by the van, wearing the same bib-and-braces overalls as before. He moves quietly for such a big man.

‘Thanks, I can manage.’

I turn away and continue with the loading. He takes hold of a sack anyway, effortlessly slinging it into the van and then hefting the next. The last few sacks are stacked away in a few seconds.

I give him a grudging nod of thanks and close the doors. Of course, he isn’t about to let me go that easily.

‘Someone told me Mathilde was in town a few days ago. Taking an injured dog to the vet’s. What happened to it?’

‘It got too close to a boar.’

‘Ah. I thought it might have trodden on a nail. How is it?’

I choose to think he means Lulu. ‘Not good.’

‘Kinder to put it out of its misery. Mathilde always had a soft heart, but it doesn’t always do anyone any favours. Will it live?’

‘If it does it’ll be with three legs. Thanks for the help.’

I climb into the van. Jean-Claude takes hold of the door, preventing me from closing it.

‘I want to talk to you.’

Whatever he’s got to say, I doubt I want to hear it. ‘I’ve got to get back.’

‘It won’t take long. Anyway, it’s lunch time. There’s a café near here where the food is OK. On me.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You have to eat, don’t you? All I want is a few minutes of your time. But if that’s too much to ask …’

He takes his hand away and gestures towards the gates. Much as I’d like to shut the door and drive away, I owe him for intervening with Didier and his friends.

‘Get in,’ I say.

We sit at the back of the café, away from the other customers. I look at the small plastic menu without really seeing it.

‘The omelettes are good,’ Jean-Claude suggests.

They might be, but I’ve had enough eggs lately. I order the plat du jour and a beer; I need something to steady my nerves.

‘So,’ I say.

He sets down the plastic menu. ‘I hear Arnaud had a visit from the police.’

‘That’s right.’

Jean-Claude waits a moment, then continues when I don’t say anything else. ‘I respect a man’s right to protect his property as much as anyone, but Arnaud goes too far.’

I can’t argue with that, but Arnaud wasn’t the only one at fault. ‘How’s Didier? No unexplained gunshot wounds, I hope?’

‘Didier’s an idiot. He gets worse when he’s had a few beers. Hopefully he’ll outgrow it.’

‘I wouldn’t put money on that.’

That earns a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t cause any more trouble. I’ve had a word.’

The look on his face suggests it wasn’t gentle. I take a drink of beer, to give myself something to do. Jean-Claude still hasn’t touched his wine. He seems ill at ease as well, and despite myself I’m starting to feel curious.

‘What do you know about my brother?’ he asks.

Here it comes, I think. ‘Not much. They don’t really talk about him.’

‘But you know he’s Michel’s father? And that he got involved in a few … well, let’s say business schemes with Arnaud?’

‘I’ve heard something about it.’

‘Then did you know that Louis is missing?’

Bizarrely, my first thought is one of regret: I knew coming here was a mistake.

‘No,’ I say.

Reaching into his pocket for a leather wallet, he takes out a well-creased photograph and sets it in front of me on the table. In it he’s standing beside a green pick-up truck with a younger man, taller and not so heavily built. Jean-Claude’s hair is plastered to his head and his face and chest look wet. He’s wearing a strained smile as the other man laughingly holds up an empty beer glass to show the camera.

‘That’s Louis. His sense of humour’s rowdier than mine.’ Jean-Claude’s tone is somewhere between exasperated and fond. ‘He disappeared eighteen months ago. Supposedly went off on some business trip to Lyon and never came back. No one’s seen or heard from him since. Not me, none of his friends. Nobody.’

There’s something about the other man with him in the picture that strikes a chord, but I can’t place it. Then I do. He has on the red overalls that I’m wearing. I instinctively glance down at myself. Jean-Claude nods.

‘They’re an old pair he kept at Arnaud’s. He said he didn’t want to take the pig smell home with him.’

At another time I might take that as an insult. I slide the photograph back across the table. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because I want to find out what’s happened to him. And I think Arnaud knows more than he claims.’

He breaks off as the food arrives. Glad of the chance to collect my thoughts, I pick at the plate of steak and frites in front of me. Under other circumstances I’d welcome the change from pork, but I’ve lost my appetite.

‘What makes you think Arnaud knows something?’ I ask, far from certain I want to hear the answer.

Jean-Claude mops up the oil from his omelette with a piece of bread. Talking about his brother doesn’t seem to have affected his appetite.

‘The business trip was connected with one of the schemes he’d dreamed up with Arnaud. I don’t know what, because Louis liked to play his cards close to his chest, but I’m certain he was involved. And Arnaud’s story doesn’t add up. Has he told you that Louis asked Mathilde to marry him because he got her pregnant?’

I nod, reluctant even now to give too much away.

‘No disrespect to Mathilde, because she’s a good woman. But I know my brother, and believe me he isn’t the marrying kind. Most of the rest of it I could accept, but the idea of him suddenly doing the decent thing and proposing to Mathilde? No way. Louis puts Louis first, always has. If he was going to leave town because he got some girl into trouble, he’d have done it years ago.’

‘Maybe he wanted the farm,’ I say, repeating what Arnaud told me. Belatedly I remember that I wasn’t going to say anything.

Jean-Claude snorts. ‘Right, because it’s such a goldmine. Look, all Louis wanted was to screw around and make money, the easier the better. He wasn’t interested in owning a farm, and certainly not a struggling one that’s mortgaged to death. If Arnaud wasn’t so up his own arse he’d realize no one in his right mind would want anything to do with the place.’

‘Then why would he lie?’

‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ He looks across at me, chewing a piece of omelette. ‘Maybe it suits him for people to think Louis shafted them and ran out on Mathilde. I don’t know and Arnaud won’t talk about it.’

‘Have you asked him?’

‘Of course I have. At least, I’ve tried. He ranted on about Louis and warned me not to bother them again.’ His expression darkens. ‘Michel’s my flesh and blood as well, but Arnaud won’t even let me see my own nephew. He keeps them all buried away in that place, and what sort of life is that for a child? Or his daughters, come to that. He’s always tried to keep them on a tight rein, especially Gretchen. Not that I blame him with that one. She’s had half the town’s boys sniffing after her at some time or another. I sometimes think …’

‘What?’ I ask, when he doesn’t continue.

But he only shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. The point is that ever since Louis went missing Arnaud’s cut the farm off from town completely, and why do that if he doesn’t have something to hide?’

‘Maybe because of people like Didier.’

I don’t mean to defend Arnaud, but the situation doesn’t seem as one-sided to me as Jean-Claude makes out. He finishes his omelette and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.

‘Maybe. I’m not making excuses for Didier. But Arnaud acts like he’s under siege. He’s always had a chip on his shoulder, but barbed wire and man-traps?’ Jean-Claude gestures at my foot with his knife. ‘And please, don’t insult us both by pretending that was an accident. I never actually believed the rumours about the traps before, but Christ! Why would you stay there after something like that?’

He seems genuinely puzzled, but that’s a door I’m not about to open. ‘I still don’t see what you want from me.’

‘Like I said, Arnaud knows more than he’s saying or he wouldn’t have bothered making up that bullshit story. You’re living on the farm, you could look around, ask questions. Maybe see if the old guy, Georges, has seen or heard something he hasn’t told anyone about. Find out what Arnaud’s hiding.’

Spy on them, in other words. It puts me in an awkward position, but I’m more distracted by something else Jean-Claude’s said: he keeps them all buried away. He was talking about Arnaud’s family, but it’s another image entirely that comes to my mind.

The crumbling patch of concrete in the barn.

I push my plate away, the food almost untouched. ‘If you’re so convinced he’s lying why don’t you go to the police?’

‘You think I haven’t? I tried the local gendarmerie and the National Police in Lyon, for all the good it did. Without proof, they don’t want to know. They said Louis is a grown man, he can do what he likes.’

It takes me a moment to realize what that implies. Rural areas of France like this come under the jurisdiction of the gendarmerie: the National Police only operate in cities. There’s only one reason I can think of why Jean-Claude would have approached both, and I seize on it.

‘Where did you say he was last seen?’

Jean-Claude hesitates. He lowers his eyes to his glass, turning it in both hands. ‘There was a sighting of him at a garage on the outskirts of Lyon, two days after he left here. He was caught on the security camera when he stopped for fuel. But that doesn’t prove anything.’

He’s wrong. It proves his brother only went missing after he left town. From the way Jean-Claude’s been talking I assumed Louis never actually made it to Lyon, that his disappearance must be directly linked to Arnaud and the farm. If the last sighting of him was in a city halfway across the country, that’s something else entirely.

It feels like a weight’s gone from my shoulders.

‘Have you thought that the police could be right? Maybe he had a good reason for running away.’ The irony of that only occurs to me as I’m saying it. It prompts a twinge of shame I deliberately ignore.

Jean-Claude stares at me, big arms resting on the table. I have the uncomfortable feeling that he’s weighing me up, reconsidering what to make of me.

‘My wife and I, we haven’t been blessed with children,’ he says. ‘Apart from her, Louis is my closest family. And I’m his. Whenever he fucks up, sooner or later he comes to me to sort it out. Because I’m his brother, that’s what I do. Except this time.’

‘Look—’

‘Louis is dead. I don’t need the police to tell me that. If he were still alive I’d have heard from him by now. And Arnaud’s got something to do with it. I don’t care where Louis was last seen, the old bastard’s hiding something. So what I want to know is if you’ll help me find out what happened to my brother?’

Despite his gruffness, the loss and frustration are plain. God knows I can sympathize with the need to find someone to blame, but it doesn’t change anything. ‘I still don’t see what I can do. I don’t even know how much longer I’ll be staying there. I’m sorry.’

It sounds like I’m making excuses, even to me. Jean-Claude stands up, taking out his wallet and dropping a note onto the table to cover lunch.

‘There’s no need to—’

‘I said it was on me. Thanks for your time.’

His broad shoulders briefly block the doorway as he turns his back and walks out.

The cabin of the van is like an oven, stifling with the smell of hot plastic and oil. It drives sluggishly, the bags of sand in the back weighing it down like an anchor. I keep my foot on the accelerator, trying to force the speed from it. It’s only when the van begins to rattle that I ease off, and then only slightly. The engine vibrates, complaining as I drive along the almost empty road.

I don’t know why I’m so angry, or who at. Myself probably: I should never have agreed to listen to Jean-Claude. Still, at least now I know the reason for the hostility towards Arnaud. The town’s been given a juicy scandal to chew on, and someone as antisocial and belligerent as him would make a convenient target.

But I can’t see how he can be held responsible for Louis going missing. From what I’ve heard, Michel’s father seemed more than capable of antagonizing any number of people himself. Either he crossed the wrong person or decided to cut his losses and start afresh.

Good luck with that, I think bleakly.

My mood doesn’t improve as I near the farm. The last time I ventured out I couldn’t wait to get back: now I find myself slowing down as the gate comes into view. I pull up onto the verge alongside, sitting with the engine running instead of getting out. The road carries on past it into the distance, heading in the direction I first came. For the first time since I arrived, I find myself seriously contemplating the prospect of going back.

But back to what?

I climb out to unlock the gate, repeating the process again once I’ve driven through. I guide the van down the rutted track and park in the courtyard. Opening the back, I start transferring the bags of sand one at a time into the storeroom. There are a lot of them: I bought as many as I could fit in, not wanting to run out again.

It feels now that I’ve bought too many.

A sense of impatience begins to build up in me as I unload the van. At first I don’t know its cause, but then some sand spills out onto the floor and I make the connection. There’s no reason for the conversation with Jean-Claude to bother me, not now I know Louis got as far as Lyon.

But I can’t stop thinking about the patch of concrete in the barn. And whatever it was I saw caught in it.

Mathilde comes from the house as I’ve almost finished emptying the van. She’s carrying Michel astride her hip.

‘Was there a problem?’

‘No.’ I slide the last bag of sand towards me across the van floor.

‘You were a long time.’

‘I stopped off for lunch.’

She watches me lift the sand, as though waiting for me to continue. ‘My father says you can eat dinner in the house with us again tonight,’ she says when I don’t.

‘OK.’

I walk past her, the heavy sack hugged to my body. Going into the cool storeroom, I drop it to the floor with the others, already regretting being abrupt. I’m not looking forward to spending another evening with Arnaud, but there’s no use taking my bad mood out on Mathilde. If there’s one victim in all of this, it’s her.

I go back out, intending to apologize, but the courtyard’s empty.

I close the van’s doors and look up at the scaffold. But I already know I’m not going up it just yet. There’s something I have to do first.

I set off across the courtyard to the barn.

The cavernous interior is cool and dark. I go inside and look down at the cracked scab of concrete. I’ve walked over it every day for weeks without really noticing it. It’s rectangular, about five or six feet long and half that wide. Big enough to hold a body. I think again about what Jean-Claude said.

He keeps them all buried away.

An awful feeling is starting to form. I tell myself I’m being stupid, but I have to know. I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then crouch down. I can just make out the small scrap that’s protruding from the crack. It could be anything. A sweet wrapper, a dirty rag. Anything at all.

So why don’t you find out?

I squeeze my thumb and forefinger into the gap. The object is stiff but pliable, and held fast. Pinching hold, I work it backwards and forwards, skinning my fingers and causing more concrete to crumble away. Whatever’s caught in there resists for a few more seconds, and then breaks free with a scatter of grit.

I climb to my feet and take my prize into the sunlight. It’s a torn strip of cloth, the same dusty colour as the concrete. I examine it, turning it in the light, and then give a laugh as I realize what I’m holding. It isn’t cloth, it’s paper. Thick paper.

A piece of cement bag.

Chalk one up for an over-active imagination, I think, brushing sand off my scraped fingers.

I work later than usual that afternoon, making up for lost time and trying to exorcise some of the tension that still lingers. The sun is only just above the trees when I finally call it a day. My shoulders ache and my arms and legs are heavy as I lower myself down the ladder. I trudge back to the barn to wash under the freezing tap. Stripping off the overalls, I remember something else Jean-Claude said and pause to sniff them. Dirt and sweat, but if there’s a smell of pig I can’t detect it.

Maybe I don’t notice any more.

I change into my own clothes and then head up to the house for dinner. The door is open so I go straight into the kitchen. The table has already been set for four. I take the same seat as last time. My seat. Arnaud sits at his usual place at the head. He opens a bottle of wine and silently pushes it towards me. Gretchen gives me a smile as she helps Mathilde serve the food, as if she’s emerging from whatever distant place she’s been. They join us and we begin to eat.

Just like a normal family.

I only go on the date as a favour to Callum.

‘Come on, why not? I’ve been trying to get Ilse out for a drink for ages, but she wants to bring her friend. You’ll like her, Nikki’s a great girl.’

‘So you’ve met her?’ We’re standing at the bar in Callum’s local, a packed pub with large-screen TV showing different sports. It’s his idea of a quiet drink.

‘Well, no, but Ilse says she is,’ he admits. ‘And she’s Australian. Come on, Sean, it’s like falling off a horse. If you don’t get your feet back in the stirrups soon you’re going to forget how to ride. Then when you finally do get in the saddle again you’ll fall off, and we don’t want that, do we?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I say, but I’m laughing.

‘I’m talking about going out and having a good time. What have you got to lose? God forbid, you might even enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t know …’

He grins. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll fix it up.’

We meet in a bar near Leicester Square. The plan is to have a drink before taking in an early screening of the latest Tarantino. It’s Callum’s suggestion, but I’m not a fan of Tarantino’s newer work and I’m not sure blood and violence is the right sort of film for a first date. As we wait in the bar I’m nervous, already regretting agreeing to this. When the two girls arrive I’m even more convinced I’ve made a mistake. Nikki is a copywriter for an advertising agency, and it’s soon obvious that she’s as reluctant to be there as I am. Strangely, that makes things easier, and once we’ve established that neither of us expects anything from the other we’re both able to relax.

One drink slides into two, and then three, so that we have to hurry to make the film. Callum’s already bought the tickets, and as we cross the foyer I take my phone out to switch it off. I’ve no sooner got it in my hand than it rings.

The caller ID says it’s Chloe.

I stare at the screen. I’ve not seen or heard anything from her since the night Jules brought her into the Zed. I’ve no idea why she might be calling now.

‘We need to go in, Sean,’ Callum says, giving me a look.

My thumb hovers above the Answer and Ignore keys. Before I can press either the ringing abruptly stops. Chloe glows up at me from the screen for a moment longer, then winks out.

I feel a stir of guilt as I turn the phone off and put it away. But the others are waiting for me, and Chloe made her choice. If it’s anything important she’ll leave a message or call back.

She doesn’t.