Stone Bruises

19

It doesn’t take long to pack. My few clothes and belongings are soon tucked away in the rucksack. I could have left it until morning, but it feels more like a statement of intent to do it now. I’m not going to change my mind this time.

If anything, that makes me even more nervous about Mathilde’s visit.

After that, there’s nothing to do but wait. It’s fully dark outside, though it’s not yet nine o’clock. Another sign that summer’s almost over. Three hours till Mathilde comes. Her copy of Madame Bovary lies beside the mattress. Something else I’ll be leaving unfinished. In the glow from the lamp, I look around the shadowed loft. Even with all its junk and cobwebs, it’s come to feel like home. I’ll be sorry to leave it.

I lie on the bed and light another of my last cigarettes. I flick off the flame from the lighter, remembering the photograph from Brighton curling to ash. I wish Gretchen hadn’t burned it, but then I wish a lot of things. Maybe I couldn’t have altered what happened to Chloe, but I’ll always wonder. And even if I could somehow absolve myself of failing her, no one made me go to Docklands that night. Because I did a man is dead. Never mind that it was accidental, or that I was only trying to get away. I killed someone.

There’s no escaping that.

I blow smoke at the ceiling. I have to go back, I know that now. The thought of what will happen is still terrifying, but for my own peace of mind I’ve got to take responsibility for what I’ve done. Yet whenever I think about Mathilde, and what she might want, I feel my resolve wavering.

Then there’s another complication. The plastic package from Jules’s car is still where I hid it after the gendarmes’ visit. I can’t leave it there, but I can hardly take a kilo of cocaine back into the UK with me.

So what do I do with it?

The loft is close and humid, too airless for me to think. I go to the open window. Beyond the grapevines and woods, I can just make out the lake, silver against the darkness. Seeing it gives me a sudden sense of purpose. Mathilde won’t be here for a while yet, and I promised myself I’d swim in it once the stitches came out.

This is my last chance.

I don’t bother with the lamp as I descend from the loft, trusting to familiarity to negotiate the wooden steps. Moonlight floods through the open barn doors, illuminating the crumbling concrete I became so paranoid about. I barely give it a thought as I pass by on my way outside.

The drizzle has stopped. The night smells unbelievably sweet, a fresh breeze stirring the vine leaves. There’s a full moon, but the torn clouds that pass over it cast scurrying shadows on the field. There’s a constant rustle of movement as I enter the woods. Water drips from the branches, darkening the statues hidden among the trees. The white flowers that Gretchen hung around the nymph’s neck seem luminescent when the moonlight touches them, but fade away as another cloud crosses the moon.

Then I’ve left the stone figures behind and ahead of me is the lake. There’s an iron tang to the air, and the black water is shivered by the breeze. A sudden movement makes me start, but it’s only a duck ruffling its feathers. As the moon re-emerges I see there are more of them, dotted around the bank like stones. I make my way to the patch of shingle and strip off. My bare feet look mismatched, one of them unmarked and familiar, the other thin and white, criss-crossed with angry weals.

The frigid water takes away my breath when I walk out into the lake. I reflexively rise onto tiptoe as it laps up to my groin, then wade further out. I pause when the bottom abruptly shelves away, bracing myself before plunging in.

It’s like diving into ice. Cold stabs into my ears as the water closes over my head, then I break into a clumsy crawl. I thrash out towards the centre of the lake, forcing blood into my sluggish limbs. Gasping, I tread water and look around. My wake has left a ragged tear across the surface. Everything seems different out here, strange and still. The water feels bottomless and deep. Below me there’s a flicker of silver as a fish catches the moonlight. Looking down, I see my body suspended in blackness, so pale it looks bloodless.

God, it feels good. I start swimming again, this time in an easy breaststroke. The bluff where I’ve spent so many afternoons rises up in front of me, the sweeping branches of the chestnut tree spread like wings against the sky. Seeing it brings home that I’ve been there for the last time, and as quickly as that any pleasure is snuffed out.

I wanted to swim in the lake, and now I have. There’s no point staying out any longer. I turn to head back, but as I kick out my foot touches something hard. I jerk away before realizing it’s only the submerged rock I’ve seen from the bluff. Tentatively, I stretch out a foot again.

And quickly recoil.

The rock is smooth. Not with the expected slime of algae or weed, but a hard, polished smoothness. I lower one foot, then the other, until I’m standing on it. The water comes up to my chin. The surface below me is flat and slightly convex, pitted with tiny blisters of corrosion. But I don’t need those to tell me it isn’t rock I’m standing on.

It’s a car roof.

I probe around with my toes, mapping its shape. One foot slips off the edge and suddenly there’s nothing beneath me but water. I flail around as the lake closes over my head, coughing and choking as I stand on the roof again. At least I’ve established that it isn’t a car. The roof’s too narrow and truncated for that.

More like the cab of a truck.

Shivering, I look at the lake’s banks. They’re a long way off and too soft and muddy to drive across anyway. No, the only way anything could end up here is if it came off the bluff. I stare up at the overhanging edge, trying to imagine a truck rolling off by accident. It’s too far away, though. For whatever I’m standing on to have got this far out it must have been driven off deliberately.

I badly want to swim back and get dressed. But I can’t do that, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I dive down. The water slips ice-picks into my ears. Everything’s dark. I can’t see a thing, but then the moon comes out from behind a cloud and suddenly an otherworldly light filters down from the surface. The looming hulk of the truck takes form below me. My vision’s blurred but I can see it’s a pick-up. The open flatbed behind the cab is exposed and empty. I kick deeper as my chest starts to heave. Too many cigarettes. Fighting my body’s buoyancy, I grab for the door handle and almost let go when it swings open in slow motion.

My heart’s begun a timpani beat as I pull myself nearer. The interior of the cab is hazy and full of shadows. I peer inside for two or three heartbeats, and then the moon is covered and it’s dark again. Letting go of the door, I push for the surface. I burst into the night air, gulping in breaths as the banging in my temples begins to subside.

Nothing.

The murky water made it hard to be certain, but I didn’t see anything inside the cab; no bulky shadow or slow wave of limbs. I contemplate taking another look to make sure, but the thought makes my flesh crawl. I can’t bring myself to dive down again.

Teeth chattering, I start swimming back. I force myself to go steadily, fighting the urge to rush. Then something — a trailing weed or twig — brushes against my ankle and my restraint shatters. I thrash towards the shore, splashing through the shallows until I’m back on the shingle. Shivering, I rub my arms and stare back at the lake. The ripples from my wake are already settling, leaving the water still and black once more. There’s nothing to suggest what’s hidden below its surface.

I begin dragging on my clothes. There’s no doubt in my mind who the truck belongs to. It was impossible to see its colour, but I’m guessing it’ll be dark green. The same as the one in the photograph Jean-Claude showed me. The last known sighting of Louis was in Lyon, so I’d assumed that whatever happened to him must have happened there. I was wrong.

He came back.

I struggle to pull my jeans over my wet skin. Try as I might, I can’t think of an innocent explanation for why his pick-up is in the lake. Jean-Claude tried to tell me that Arnaud was responsible for his brother’s disappearance and I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to. I can’t believe even now that Mathilde knows anything about this, but I’m not going to stay and find out. The farm’s been hiding at least one secret.

I don’t want to become another.

My boots won’t go on. The wood seems threatening and watchful as I struggle to force my feet into them. I keep looking around, half-expecting to see Arnaud materialize from the shadows with his rifle. But except for a lone statue in the trees, I’m alone. I’m reaching down to pull on my boot before I remember there aren’t any statues this close to the lake, and at that same moment it steps out of the woods.

Gretchen is alabaster pale in the moonlight, skin bleached white as stone. She stares at me without coming any closer.

‘I went to the loft. You weren’t there.’

I find my voice. ‘No, I, uh … I needed some air.’

‘I saw your rucksack. All your things are packed.’

I don’t know what to say to that. Gretchen looks out at the water. Her earlier anger has been replaced by an eerie calm that’s even more unsettling.

‘You’ve been in the lake.’

‘I was hot. I wanted to cool down.’

‘You were underwater for a long time. What were you doing?’

‘Just swimming.’

I’m trying to gauge how much she knows, if it’s possible she isn’t aware of what’s in there. But I’m shivering so much it’s hard to think straight.

‘I told you, Papa says you shouldn’t swim in there. It isn’t safe.’ Safe for who? ‘If I tell him he’ll be angry.’

‘Then don’t tell him.’

‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re leaving tomorrow anyway.’ Her gaze is cold and distant. ‘You don’t care about me or you wouldn’t be abandoning us.’

‘I’m not abandoning anybody.’

‘Yes, you are. I thought you were different but you’re not. We trusted you, and now you’ve betrayed us.’

She said the same about Louis. ‘Look, I’m sorry if—’

‘No, you’re not. You led me on.’

‘That’s not true—’

‘Then promise you’ll stay.’

‘Gretchen—’

‘You have to promise. Or I’ll tell Papa.’

Christ. I glance back at the water. Whether she knows about the truck or not, I don’t want her saying anything to Arnaud. Not until I’m well away from this place.

‘OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll stay.’

Gretchen stares at me. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand on end.

‘Liar.’

‘No, I—’

‘I don’t like you any more.’

‘Gretchen, wait—’ I shout, but she’s already running up the track. After a frozen second I set off after her. I’ve no idea what I’ll do, I only know that I can’t stay down here while she tells her father. But I’m out of shape, and with my boots unlaced and flapping it’s like running in a bad dream. Gretchen races through the wood ahead of me, flickering in and out of the moonlight like a wraith. My chest and legs are burning as I pass the statues, and then one of my boots slips off and I’m tumbling onto the track. The breath explodes from me. Winded, I push myself up in time to see Gretchen’s white figure running out of the wood and through the vines. A cloud obscures the moon, dimming her from sight, but it’s obvious I’m not going to catch her now. Not before she reaches the house.

I bend double, wheezing for air. Shit, shit! I try to think clearly. Maybe I’m overreacting, and there’s an innocent explanation. Maybe the truck’s just an old one that was dumped. I desperately want to believe it but the memory of what I found in the lake is too strong. And I can’t take the chance: if the pick-up is Louis’s then Arnaud won’t risk me telling anyone.

He isn’t going to let me leave the farm.

As if on cue, his raised voice carries distantly from the courtyard, bellowing incoherently. I think I can hear Mathilde as well, a pleading counterpoint, then a door slams and there’s silence.

He’s on his way.

I look around for my missing boot, but the moon is still overcast and all I can see are shadows. There’s no more time. Stones and twigs stab into my bare foot — the newly healed one — as I hurry off the track to hide in the trees. Once Arnaud’s gone past I can cut back to the road: I’ll worry about my rucksack later.

I’ve not gone far when there’s a sudden snap as I step on something sharp. I throw myself back, heart banging as I tense for the bite of iron jaws. It doesn’t come: it’s only a dead branch. But in my panic I’d forgotten the woods down here are still full of Arnaud’s traps. I daren’t go any further, not when it’s too dark to see where I’m treading.

There’s a flicker of movement off through the trees. I look back towards the vine field. The moon is obscured and for a moment all is shadows. Then it reappears, and I see the unmistakable figure of Arnaud hurrying down the track. He’s carrying something that glints in the moonlight, and when I realize what it is any hope of reasoning with him vanishes.

It’s his rifle.

The moon goes behind another cloud, cutting off my view as though a curtain’s been drawn. But he’s much closer than I expected. It’s too late to retrace my steps and make a run for the lake. Even if I avoid the traps he’ll be close enough to see me, and on the track I’ll make an easy target. Desperate, I look around for somewhere to hide. I’m not far from where we cut down the silver birch, and most of the trees around me are either saplings or stumps. None are big enough to provide cover, but then a ripple of moonlight breaks through the branches and reveals the statues.

I run over before the brief light fades, hoping Arnaud won’t have put traps near them. Throwing myself to the wet ground, I huddle behind the monk’s stone robes. I’m out of breath and my bootless foot is throbbing. It feels sticky: I must have gashed it on the dead branch, or maybe the wounds have reopened. But that’s the least of my problems. I peer round the statue. Without the moon the woods are made up of different depths of black. Nothing moves, and then I see a shadow coming down the track.

I duck back, pressing myself against the cold stone. Above me the sky is a patchwork of clouds and stars, but down here all is dark. I stare up through the trees, praying for the moon to stay hidden. I want to take another look but I’m afraid he’ll see me. So I lie there, listening for his approach. The breeze stirs the leaves and branches, drowning out other sounds. I shut my eyes, trying to visualize where he’ll be. I tell myself if I count to thirty he’ll have gone past by then. But when the half-minute’s passed I still don’t move. What if I’m wrong, or he’s stopped? I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to decide. I can’t stay here indefinitely: my best chance of making it to the road is while Arnaud is down at the lake. He must have gone by now. I tense, getting ready to look again.

There’s a muffled crack of a twig breaking.

I lie perfectly still. I’m holding my breath, not daring to breathe. I strain to hear past the rustling trees, willing the clouds to stay for a few moments longer. But the high wind is already dragging them clear, their black silhouettes becoming edged with an argent glow. I watch helplessly as the moon slides out from behind them, flooding the world with opal light. Then another twig snaps only a few feet away.

‘Sean?’

Mathilde’s voice is hushed. The release of tension takes the strength from me.

‘Here.’

She’s looking towards the other statues. She turns at my whisper and hurries over, glancing off through the trees towards the track as the Judas moon hides its face again, plunging the wood into shadows.

‘You have to leave,’ she says in a low voice, crouching down beside me. ‘My father thinks you’re still at the lake. You need to go before he comes back.’

Even now I’d been hoping she’d reassure me I’d nothing to worry about, that it was a misunderstanding. I start to get to my feet again but she pulls me back down. She’s just a shadow herself, her face all but invisible in the dark.

‘Not yet. Give him a little longer to get out of sight. Here, put this on.’

She pushes something at me. I can’t see it but I recognize it by touch as my boot.

‘I found it on the path,’ she whispers. ‘That’s why I thought you’d be here.’

‘Where’s Gretchen?’ I ask, blindly trying to pull on the boot. My foot is slick with blood but too swollen for it to fit.

‘With Michel.’

‘What did she tell your father?’

‘Never mind. Take these.’ Mathilde presses something else into my hands. Keys and what feels like a small roll of money. ‘It’s not much but it’s all I have. And you’ll need this.’

She passes me something thin and flat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s my passport.

‘You’ve been in my rucksack?’ My thoughts are still sluggish, but I can’t see how she’d have had time to go up to the loft.

‘Not tonight. I took it the first time you went into town.’

I don’t know which shocks me more, the fact she took my passport or that I never noticed it was missing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to leave without telling me. I have a favour to ask, but now we need to go. Are you ready?’

Favour? ‘I can’t get the boot on,’ I say, more confused than ever.

‘Do it later. We have to hurry.’

She’s already ushering me from behind the statue. I’ve no choice but to carry the boot, the rough ground gouging into my bare foot.

‘Careful,’ she says, steering me away from a patch of shadow. At first I don’t know what she means, then I make out something hard-edged hidden in it.

So much for Arnaud not setting traps near his statues.

But Mathilde seems to know where to tread as she hurries me back to the track. I limp along as fast as I can, fresh hurt coming from my foot each time I set it down. The clouds covering the moon are shredded, allowing a sickly light to dapple through. I risk a glance towards the lake, but can’t see Arnaud.

‘What favour?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.

There’s enough light to see her tuck her hair behind her ear in the familiar gesture. I can’t make out her face but I can sense her agitation.

‘I want you to take Gretchen with you.’

‘You what?’

‘Shh, just listen.’ Mathilde grips my arm, her voice low and hushed. ‘I have to get her away from here, and she’ll go with you. I know it’s a lot to ask but I don’t expect you to support her. I’ll send more money, as much as I can.’

‘Jesus, Mathilde …’

‘Please! I could have told the police about the drugs in your rucksack.’

Of course she’d know, I think, too stunned to feel shocked. I was feverish for three days. A stranger: did I really expect her not to search my things to see who she was looking after? The only surprise is that she let me stay anyway.

Unless she had her own reasons.

The overhanging leaves cast a shadowplay on Mathilde’s face as moonlight breaks through the clouds. The track comes to life around us. Past the wood, the vine field is thrown into sharp relief, the rutted track clearly etched on it like lines drawn in charcoal. I think I see a flicker of movement on it as Mathilde urges me to walk faster.

‘Hurry, we—’

The sudden crack of a gunshot rings out. It comes from behind us, the direction of the lake, and we both flinch as it’s followed by a second. Mathilde pulls me off the track.

‘Down here!’

The trees close in like a tunnel as she leads me down the fork to the sanglochon pens. Branches whip at me as I run just behind her, favouring my cut foot, and then we’re in the ammoniac stink of the clearing. The full moon shines overhead like a beacon, picking out the sows slumped asleep like hairy bolsters. Hoping they don’t wake, I limp behind Mathilde. I expect her to head towards the wood at the far side, but instead she goes to the cinderblock hut.

‘In here,’ she pants, pushing open the door.

There’s no time to argue. I hurry inside and the light is cut off as both halves of the stable door swing shut. The reek of offal and old blood closes in around us. It’s pitch black and our laboured breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space. There’s no window, but as my eyes adjust I see chinks of light seeping through gaps in the mortar. Mathilde brushes past me and peers through one.

‘Is he there?’ I whisper.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

I go to look for myself, and there’s a muted clinking as my shoulder brushes something. I give a start before realizing it’s the chain hanging from the pulley. Groping in the dark to quieten its swaying, I feel my way around the stone slab standing in the middle of the hut. I press my face against one of the chinks in the rough wall, blinking as my breath huffs away dirt and sand. The small crack doesn’t allow much of a view, and the clearing is already darkening as another cloud covers the moon. But there’s no sign of Arnaud.

‘If he’d seen us he’d be here already,’ Mathilde murmurs. At least the hut’s walls won’t let our voices carry: Arnaud would have to be right outside to hear us. ‘He must have been shooting at shadows.’

‘Then let’s go.’ I’m already regretting coming in here. I move towards the thin line of light leaking around the door, but Mathilde reaches out to stop me.

‘Not yet.’

‘Why? Shouldn’t we go while he’s still at the lake?’

‘He could be on his way back by now. We could walk right into him.’

She’s right, but I’m loath to stay where we are. The cinderblock walls might stop a small-calibre bullet, but if Arnaud guesses we’re in here we’ll be trapped.

‘What about the woods on the other side of the clearing? Can we get out that way?’

‘No, it’s too dangerous. There’s no path and my father laid traps in there as well.’

Oh Christ. I try to think. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘We wait. In a few minutes I’ll go out and see if it’s clear.’

‘What if it isn’t?’

‘Then I’ll tell him you slipped away while he was at the lake. Once he’s gone to bed I’ll come and get you.’

Mathilde sounds as calm as ever. For an instant I feel a sudden fear that she might bring her father here, but of course that’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t be doing all this if she meant me any harm. I have to trust her.

I lower myself to the floor as she takes another look outside, hoping I’ll be able to get my boot on. My foot feels raw and swollen. I brush the dirt from it and give an involuntary gasp as I catch the torn flesh.

‘Are you all right?’ Mathilde asks.

I nod before I realize she can’t see me. ‘It’s just my foot.’

‘Here, let me.’

There’s a rustle as she crouches down. Her hands are cool on my skin as she gently feels my foot in the darkness. I draw in a breath as she probes something tender.

‘You’ve reopened some of the wounds and gashed your instep. Have you anything to bind it with?’

‘No.’

‘Never mind. I’ll help you get your boot on.’

Her hair brushes against my arm as she starts to work the boot over my foot. ‘Why do you want Gretchen to leave so badly?’ I ask, trying to ignore the discomfort. ‘Because of what’s in the lake?’

There’s the smallest of pauses. ‘That’s one reason.’

So she does know about it. I feel a sense of unreality that we’re having this conversation. I wish I could see her but she’s just another shape in the darkness.

‘What happened to Louis, Mathilde?’

She continues trying to ease the boot onto my foot. For a moment I don’t think she’s going to answer. When she does her voice is quiet and resigned.

‘I found out I was pregnant while he was in Lyon. I was going to tell him when he came back. I had a little money, so I hoped I could persuade him to take us away somewhere. Gretchen too. She was … fond of Louis. But I should have known she’d tell my father. There was a scene. He and Louis fought …’

I flinch as the boot slips home. ‘So then your father drove his truck into the lake?’

‘He wanted to get rid of everything that showed Louis had been at the farm. He came straight here from Lyon. It was night, so no one knew he was back. Afterwards … we just pretended nothing had happened.’

I feel her hands fall away from my boot as though her mind’s already elsewhere. I reach down and start to fasten the laces as she gets to her feet.

‘What about the body?’ The truck’s cab was empty, but now I can’t help but think about the crumbling patch of concrete in the barn again.

‘My father brought it down here.’

‘Here?’

‘For the sanglochons.’

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. Jesus. Horrified, I look around the blackness of the small hut, remembering the stunned sow being hauled off the floor, the sound of the blood spattering into the bucket. Something Arnaud said suddenly takes on an awful significance.

Pigs eat anything.

‘How much does Gretchen know?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’ Mathilde sounds weary. ‘She was dazed and hysterical afterwards, and she’s never spoken about it. Ever since she was a little girl, Gretchen’s been able to block out anything she doesn’t want to think about. As though it never happened.’

I’ve seen that for myself. But the memory of Gretchen’s bizarre amnesia is swept away by a far worse thought. I’ve been assuming that Arnaud killed Louis.

Maybe he didn’t.

My foot hurts when I stand up, though not so much that I won’t be able to run if I have to. I peer out through the chink in the wall. What I can see of the clearing in the leprous moonlight is empty.

‘Your father didn’t kill Louis, did he?’ I ask, without turning round.

There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘No.’

‘Gretchen’s sick, Mathilde. She needs help.

‘Sick?’

‘You can’t keep on protecting her. Even if she didn’t mean to kill Louis, sooner or later she’s going to hurt someone else. Or herself.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ she says, as though she’s explaining to a child. ‘Gretchen didn’t kill Louis. I did.’

Something cold uncoils in my stomach. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Louis was beating my father. Hurting him.’ Her voice is flat, as though all the emotion has been drained out of it. ‘When Gretchen tried to stop him he punched her. Hard, in her face. So I picked up a spade and hit him.’

The crook on Gretchen’s nose, I think, numbly. I turn towards Mathilde. I can barely see her in the darkness, but she’s so close we’re almost touching.

‘If it was an accident why didn’t you go to the police?’

‘I can’t go to prison.’ For the first time since I’ve known her she sounds scared. ‘It’d be hard enough for Michel, but I couldn’t leave Gretchen alone here. Not with my father.’

‘Why not? I know she’s your sister, but—’

‘She isn’t my sister. Gretchen’s my daughter.’

There’s a second when I think I must have got it wrong. Then I realize. Arnaud? The foul air in the hut seems to congeal around us.

There’s a soft movement as Mathilde brushes at her cheeks.

‘I was thirteen. My father told my mother the baby was some boy’s from town. He said they had to pretend it was theirs to protect my reputation. Then he told the school I was ill and kept me at home until Gretchen was born. No one ever questioned it. After that it was as though she really was their daughter.’

‘Couldn’t you have told someone?’ I say, appalled.

‘Who? My mother must have known, but she wasn’t strong enough to stand up to him. And when she died who else was I to tell? Georges?’

‘Does Gretchen have any idea?’

‘No!’ Her sudden vehemence takes me aback. ‘She mustn’t, not ever. I won’t let him destroy her life as well. I told him if he ever touched her I’d kill him. The only time he tried, I pushed him so hard downstairs he was bedridden for a month.’

She says it with cold satisfaction. It makes her sound like a different woman from the one I know. Or thought I did.

‘What about Michel? Is he …?’

‘He’s Louis’s. But my father regards him as his own. He always wanted a son, an heir to leave the farm to. Daughters aren’t the same, not even Gretchen. I think that’s why …’

‘Why what?’ I ask, when she falls silent.

I hear her sigh, as though she’s drawing breath from a long way away. ‘After my mother died, there was another baby. A little girl. My father never let me see her. He told me she was stillborn, but I … I thought I heard her cry.’

The farm is like a macabre set of Russian dolls, I think. Each time I’m convinced I’ve reached the last secret there’s another, even uglier, inside. ‘For God’s sake, how can you stay here? Why don’t you leave?’

‘It isn’t that easy.’

‘Yes, it is! You pack your things and go! He can’t stop you!’

‘I couldn’t leave without Gretchen.’

‘Then take her with you!’

‘Haven’t you been listening?’ she flashes, again giving a glimpse of the emotion dammed up behind the façade. ‘What do you think I was doing with Louis? She won’t leave her father. At least, not with me.’

So now we’re back where we started. I turn away and look outside again, as much to give myself time as anything. Torn clouds pass over the moon. The small section of clearing that’s visible looks harmless and tranquil, but all around it the trees form a wall of impenetrable shadow.

‘Now you see why I have to get Gretchen away from here,’ Mathilde says from the darkness. ‘I don’t care how or where. Anything’s better than this. She’ll go with you.’

I’m grateful it’s dark in the small hut so I don’t have to face her. It’s a sign of her desperation that she’s still trying to persuade me to take her daughter after all this. Or maybe she hopes I’ll feel obliged now she’s confided in me. Either way it makes no difference.

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

I hear something behind me. Turning, I see the thin light around the door blocked out as Mathilde passes in front of it, and then there’s another sound. Only faint, barely more than a whisper: the soft scrape of steel on stone. And I suddenly remember the butchering knife that Georges picked up from the slab.

‘Will you reconsider?’ Mathilde asks from the darkness.

The moment seems to hang. I remember the hammer that also sits on the slab. There’s a muscle twitch that might be the start of my hand moving, then a noise comes from outside. It’s quickly stifled, but there’s no mistaking it.

A child’s whimper.

There’s a flurry of movement and moonlight floods into the hut as Mathilde wrenches open the door. As she rushes out I see her hands are empty. I hurry after her, half-expecting to find Arnaud waiting with his rifle.

But it isn’t her father who’s standing outside. It’s Gretchen.

She’s clutching Michel to her like a shield. Her hand is clamped across his mouth, pinning him as he struggles. There’s no need to ask how much she’s heard.

Mathilde falters. ‘Gretchen …’

‘It isn’t true. You’re not my mother.’

‘No, of course not.’ Mathilde tries to smile.

‘Papa didn’t do those things. I don’t believe you, you’re lying!’

‘That’s right. I was making it up.’ Mathilde holds out her hands. ‘You’re hurting Michel. Here, let me—’

‘Stay away!’ Gretchen backs off. Michel twists his face away from her hand and begins to wail. Mathilde takes a step towards her.

‘I only want to—’

‘Stay away from me!’

Still holding Michel, she turns and runs. Ignoring the pain in my foot, I overtake Mathilde as she chases after her, but Gretchen has already reached the sanglochon pen. She hoists Michel into the air above the boar’s enclosure.

‘Get away! I mean it!’

Mathilde stumbles to a halt next to me as Gretchen holds Michel poised over the fence. The boar is nowhere in sight, but the baby’s howling has disturbed the sows in the next pen. Their agitated grunts add to the commotion.

‘Come on, Gretchen, you don’t want to hurt him,’ I say.

‘Shut up!’ she yells, her face blotched and wet with tears. ‘You don’t care about me, you’re as bad as her!’

There’s movement in the pen behind her. The boar’s snout appears in the cave-like entrance of its shed. Small, mean eyes regard us from under the heavy flaps of its ears.

‘Gretchen, please listen to me!’ Even in the moonlight Mathilde’s face is ashen. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘No, you’re not! You’re lying! Papa didn’t do that! My mother’s dead, you’re not her!’

Behind her, the boar has emerged. It begins to pace, watching us.

‘You’re frightening Michel,’ Mathilde says. ‘Give him to me, and then—’

‘No!’ Gretchen shouts, and with a squeal the boar charges. It thuds into the fencing, and as Gretchen recoils I lunge forward. But she sees me and thrusts Michel towards the enclosure again. ‘Get away!’

I back off. The boar butts against the planks, enraged. The baby is wailing, legs kicking in the air.

‘No!’ Mathilde’s hands have gone to her mouth. ‘Don’t, please! You don’t want to hurt Michel, he’s—’

‘He’s what? My brother?’ Gretchen’s face slowly crumples as Mathilde says nothing. ‘It’s not true! I don’t believe you!’

Beginning to sob, she hugs Michel to her. Thank God. Beside me, I can feel the tension ebb from Mathilde.

‘Come up to the house,’ she says as she steps forward. ‘Let me take Michel, and—’

Gretchen’s head snaps up. ‘Whore!’

Her face is contorted as she lifts Michel again. The wooden planks buck and creak under the boar’s attack. Oh God, I think, getting ready to launch myself forward, knowing neither Mathilde nor I can reach her in time.

Mathilde stands with her arms out. The moon clears a cloud, illuminating the scene like a floodlight. ‘Please, just let me explain—’

‘Whore! Lying whore!’

‘Gretchen, please—’

‘Shut up! I hate you, I HATE YOU!’

Gretchen pivots towards the pen, and there’s a sound like a whip cracking. She staggers, losing her grip on Michel as her legs buckle. I run towards them as she collapses but Mathilde is there first. She snatches up Michel, quickly checking that he’s unhurt before thrusting him at me and turning to her daughter.

There’s a dark stain spreading on the front of Gretchen’s T-shirt. Even now I don’t understand what’s happened, not until I hear a moan and turn to see Arnaud at the edge of the woods. The rifle stock is still set to his shoulder but as I watch the barrel drops to point harmlessly at the ground.

He stumbles into a run towards us as Mathilde kneels beside Gretchen. She’s lying on her back, limbs moving spastically as she blinks up at the sky.

‘Mathilde …?’ It’s a small girl’s voice, lost and confused. ‘Mathilde, I don’t …’

‘Shh, it’s all right, don’t try to speak.’

Mathilde takes hold of one of her hands as Arnaud reaches us. He pauses to rest a hand on Michel, then drops down beside Gretchen.

‘Oh, Jesus! God, no …!’

My mind seems stalled. I stand there helplessly, awkwardly holding Michel. I tell myself that the rifle is too small bore to do much damage, that it’s only lethal for birds and rabbits. But blood is still soaking into Gretchen’s T-shirt, and now she begins to cough black gouts of it.

‘No,’ Mathilde says, as if she’s reproving her. ‘No!’

Gretchen is staring up at her, eyes wide and scared. With her free hand Mathilde presses at the small hole in her chest. Gretchen tries to speak, but then an arterial gush bursts from her mouth and she starts to choke. Her back arches, feet kicking in the dirt as she spasms. For a moment she’s rigid, straining against it. Then all the tension leaves her body, and it’s over.

A stillness seems to descend, a bubble of quiet that neither Michel’s crying nor the boar’s squeals can break. Mathilde half-sits, half-slumps, so that one leg is pinned under her. She’s still holding Gretchen’s hand. She lowers it as Arnaud weeps and strokes his daughter’s face.

‘I’m sorry. She was going to throw him, I had to,’ he keens. ‘Oh God, no, I’m sorry.’

Mathilde stares at her father across Gretchen’s body, then her hand cracks across his face louder than the rifle shot. He doesn’t seem to notice, rocking backwards and forwards with the bloody print on his cheek.

Behind them, the boar hammers at the fence in a frenzy, goaded by the scent of blood. Mathilde gets unsteadily to her feet. She absently tucks her hair behind her ear, but the gesture is broken and automatic, accomplishing nothing except to leave a dark smear. She walks drunkenly to where Arnaud dropped the rifle.

‘Mathilde,’ I say, my voice a croak.

I might as well not have spoken. She picks up the rifle and comes back, no more steadily than before. Her hands and arms have red gloves to her elbows.

‘Mathilde,’ I repeat, struggling to hold onto Michel. But I’m no more than a spectator now. She stands over her father as he kneels by Gretchen. He doesn’t look up when she chambers a round and raises the rifle to her shoulder.

I flinch away as the rifle fires. The report is followed by a shriek from the boar. When I look back Arnaud is still weeping beside his daughter. Mathilde fires again. This time I hear the bullet slap into the boar’s flesh. It roars and spins around, then charges the fence once more. Mathilde calmly works the rifle bolt to reload. She walks closer until she’s firing right down onto the animal’s back. Each shot is accompanied by a frenzied squeal as the boar continues to attack the planking. Its dark-grey hide is black with blood as it shrieks its pain and rage.

Then Mathilde puts the barrel to its ear and pulls the trigger, and the screams are abruptly cut off.

Silence settles, shroud-like, around the pens. Only the soft weeping from Arnaud disturbs it, but gradually other sounds begin to filter in. The pigs’ frightened squeals, Michel’s cries, the rustle of the trees. As the land comes back to life around us, Mathilde lets the rifle drop from her hands. She stares off at nothing while her father kneels over Gretchen’s body, and I stand apart from them both, convinced that this moment will go on for ever.