Stone Bruises

2

There’s an eye staring down at me. It’s black but clouded at the centre by a cataract, a grey fog hung with dark shapes. A series of lines spread out from it like ripples. At some point they resolve into the graining on a piece of wood. The eye becomes a knot, the fog a spider’s web stretched over it like a dusty blanket. It’s littered with the husks of long-dead insects. No sign of the spider, though.

I don’t know how long I stare up at it before I recognize it as a wooden beam, rough and dark with age. Sometime after that I realize I’m awake. I don’t feel any compulsion to move; I’m warm and comfortable, and for the moment that’s enough. My mind is empty, content to stare up at the spider’s web above me. But as soon as I think that it’s no longer true. With consciousness come questions and a flurry of panic: who, what, when?

Where?

I raise my head and look around.

I’m lying in bed, in a place I don’t recognize. It isn’t a hospital or a police cell. Sunlight angles in through a single small window. The beam I’ve been staring at is a rafter, part of a triangular wooden ribcage that extends to the floor at either side. Slivers of daylight glint through gaps in the overlapping shingles of the roof. A loft, then. Some kind of barn, by the look of it. It’s long, with bare floorboards and gables at either end, one of which my bed is pushed against. Junk and furniture, most of it broken, is stacked against the unplastered stone walls. There’s a musty smell that speaks of age, old wood and stone. It’s hot, though not uncomfortably so.

The light coming through the dusty glass has a fresh, early quality. I’m still wearing my watch, which tells me that it’s seven o’clock. As if to confirm that it’s morning the hoarse crowing of a cockerel sounds from somewhere outside.

I’ve no idea where I am or what I’m doing here. Then I move and the sudden pain at the end of my leg gives an effective jolt to my short-term memory. I throw back the sheet that covers me and see with relief that my foot is still there. It’s bound in a white bandage, from which the tips of my toes poke like radishes. I give them a tentative wiggle. It hurts, but not nearly so much as before.

It’s only then I realize that I’m naked. My jeans and T-shirt are on the back of a wooden chair next to the bed. They’ve been folded and look freshly washed. My boots are on the floorboards next to them, and an attempt has been made to clean the damaged one. But the leather is darkened with bloodstains, and the rips from the trap’s teeth are beyond repair.

Lowering the sheet, I try to recall what happened between my stepping in the trap and waking here. There’s nothing, but now other memories are presenting themselves. Caught in the wood, hitch-hiking and abandoning the car. And then I remember the events that led to me being here in the first place.

Oh, Jesus, I think, passing a hand over my face as it all comes back.

The sight of my rucksack leaning against an old black rocking horse snaps me out of it. Remembering what’s in it, I sit up. Too quickly: I close my eyes, fighting a wave of nausea as the room spins. It’s only just begun to fade when I hear footsteps approaching from below. Then a section of the floor gives a loud creak and swings open.

An arm pushes the trapdoor back, and then a woman steps up into the loft. I’ve seen her before, I realize; at the farmhouse with the baby. Which settles the question of where I am, if not why. She hesitates when she sees me.

‘You’re awake,’ she says.

It takes a moment to register that she’s spoken in English. Strongly accented and a little halting, but fluent enough. Feeling rough stone behind me, I find I’ve backed myself up against the wall. One hand has gripped the sheet into a sweaty knot.

I make myself let go. She stops a little way from the bed, which I’ve realized is just a mattress lying on the floorboards.

‘How do you feel?’ Her voice is low and quiet. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and well-worn jeans. There’s nothing threatening about her, but the sluggish computer of my brain seems stalled. My throat hurts when I try to speak. I swallow, try again.

‘My foot …’

‘It was badly cut. But don’t worry, it’s all right.’

Don’t worry? I look around. ‘Where am I?’

She doesn’t answer straight away, struggling either to understand the question or formulate her answer. I repeat it, this time in French.

‘You’re at the farm. Where you came for water.’ Her voice is more fluid in her own language, but there’s still a hesitancy about it, as though she’s vetting herself before she speaks.

‘Is this … it looks like a barn?’

‘There’s no room in the house.’ Her grey eyes are calm. ‘My sister found you in the woods. She fetched me and we brought you here.’

I have a fleeting image of a girl’s face, then it’s gone. None of this is making sense. My head is still so muzzy that I’m not sure how much of what I remember is real or delirium.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘We found you three days ago.’

Three days?

There are vague impressions of pain and sweat, of cool hands and reassuring words, but they could just be dreams. I can feel panic bubbling up in me again. I watch anxiously as she takes a twist of tissue from her pocket and unwraps a large white tablet.

‘What’s that?’

‘Only an antibiotic. We’ve been giving them to you while you were unconscious. You’ve been feverish, and the wound’s infected.’

I glance at the tent made by my foot under the sheet, all my other fears suddenly relegated.

‘How bad is it?’

She picks up a bottle from by the bed and pours water into a glass. ‘It’s healing. But you won’t be able to walk on it for a while.’

If she’s lying, I can’t tell. ‘What happened? There was a trap …’

‘Later. You need to rest. Here.’

She holds out the tablet and glass. I take them, too confused to think straight. But there’s an air of quiet reserve about her that’s strangely calming. She could be a year or two either side of thirty, slim but with a fullness of breast and hip. The dark hair is cut straight above the nape of her neck, and every now and again she tucks one side back behind an ear in a gesture that seems more habit than affectation. The only striking feature about her is her eyes, which, above the tired-looking shadows, are a dark and smoky grey.

I feel them on me now, solemn and unreadable as I swallow the tablet. I wash it down with water, first taking only a sip, then gulping it as I realize how thirsty I am.

‘More?’ she asks, as I finish. I nod and hold out the glass. ‘There’s fresh water in the bottles by the bed. Try to drink as much as you can. And if the pain gets bad take two of these.’

She holds up a bottle of tablets. On cue my foot begins to throb, the pain only a shadow of its former glory but there all the same. I try not to show it, but there’s something about the calm grey eyes that makes me think I’m not fooling her.

‘How did you know I was English?’

She answers without hesitation. ‘I looked in your passport.’

My mouth is abruptly dry, regardless of the water. ‘You went in my rucksack?’

‘Only to find out who you were.’

Her expression is grave without being apologetic. I try not to glance over at the rucksack, but my heart is thumping harder in my chest.

‘I have to go now,’ she tells me. ‘Try to rest. I’ll get you something to eat soon.’

I just nod, suddenly anxious for her to leave. I wait until she’s gone, the trapdoor lowered behind her, then drag my rucksack over. Relieved of its weight, the rocking horse nods backwards and forwards. I open the rucksack and plunge my hand inside, feeling nothing except clothes. Then, just when I’m convinced it’s gone, my fingers encounter a crinkle of plastic.

I don’t know whether I’m relieved or sorry.

The package doesn’t seem to have been disturbed. It sits heavily in my hand, its solid weight like an accusation. I should have got rid of it when I had the chance. Too late now. I wrap it in a T-shirt and tuck it back at the bottom of my rucksack, covering it with the rest of my clothes. I check that my passport and money are also still there. They are, but as I put them back my fingers touch a square of glossy card.

Not wanting to, but unable to help myself, I take the photograph out again. There’s a pain lodged under my breastbone as I look at the girl’s face smiling in the sunlight, and on impulse I grip the photograph’s edge to tear it in half. But I can’t do it. Instead, I smooth out the crease and put it back into the pocket.

Suddenly I’m exhausted. And more confused than ever. The woman didn’t really tell me anything, especially not why I’m in a barn instead of a hospital. Belatedly, something else registers. After the woman closed the trapdoor there was another noise, the solid thunk of metal on wood.

The sound of a bolt being shot into place.

My bandaged foot throbs as I swing my legs off the mattress. Ignoring it, I stand up and almost fall over. I lean against the stone wall, waiting until the loft has stopped spinning, then try taking a step. My foot shrieks under my weight and I pitch forward, grabbing onto the chair and causing something to rattle hollowly inside its base. It’s a commode, I realize, noticing for the first time the pressure in my bladder.

But that will have to wait. It’s obvious I’m not going to get far, but I can’t go back to bed until I know. Supporting myself on the dusty furniture stacked against the walls, I lurch over to the trapdoor. There’s an iron ring set into it. Gripping onto an old bureau, I take hold and pull. There’s a slight give, then it sticks fast.

It’s bolted.

I fight down a fresh surge of panic. I can’t imagine any reason for me to be locked up here, at least nothing good. But there’s no question of trying to force the bolt. Even if I could find something to wrench it open, just getting this far has taken everything out of me. I use the commode, glad of that small relief, then collapse back onto the mattress. I’m coated with a greasy sheen of sweat, and my head and foot are both throbbing.

I take two painkillers and lie back, but I’m too fretful to sleep. My foot is starting to quieten when there’s a soft noise from the trapdoor. There’s a grating whisper as the bolt is eased back, then with a creak the hatch swings open.

It’s someone else this time, a girl. I haven’t seen her before, but as she lowers the trapdoor the play of light on her face strikes a discordant note of memory. She’s carrying a tray, and smiles shyly when she sees I’m sitting up. I hastily drape the sheet over my groin, preserving my modesty like a Renaissance nude. She lowers her eyes, trying not to grin.

‘I’ve brought you something to eat.’

She looks in her late teens, strikingly pretty even in a faded T-shirt and jeans. She’s wearing pink flip-flops, and the sight of them is both incongruous and oddly reassuring.

‘It’s only bread and milk,’ she says, setting the tray beside the bed. ‘Mathilde said you shouldn’t have a lot just yet.’

‘Mathilde?’

‘My sister.’

The other woman, of course. There isn’t much of a resemblance between them. The girl’s hair is lighter, almost blonde, and hangs to her shoulders. Her eyes are a paler shade of her sister’s grey, and the bridge of her nose has a slight bump where it’s been broken; a minor imperfection that somehow adds to the whole.

She keeps darting quick looks at me, smiling all the while. It puts engaging dimples in her cheeks.

‘I’m Gretchen,’ she says. It isn’t a French name, but as soon as she says it I think it fits. ‘I’m glad you’re awake. You’ve been ill for days.’

Now I understand why she looks familiar: the Madonna-like face from my delirium wasn’t a hallucination after all. ‘You’re the one who found me?’

‘Yes.’ She looks embarrassed but pleased. ‘Well, it was Lulu really.’

‘Lulu?’

‘Our dog. She started barking. I thought she’d seen a rabbit. You looked dead at first, you were so still. There were flies all over you. Then you made a noise, so I knew you weren’t.’ She gives me a quick look. ‘We had an awful time getting you out of the trap. We had to prise it open with a crowbar. You were struggling and yelling all sorts of things.’

I try to keep my voice level. ‘Like what?’

‘Oh, just rambling.’ She goes to the other side of the bed and leans against the rocking horse. ‘You were delirious, and most of it was in English, so I didn’t understand. But you stopped when we got your foot out.’

From the way she talks there might be nothing unusual about the situation. ‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and Mathilde.’

‘Just the two of you? You brought me up here by yourselves?’

‘Of course.’ Her mouth forms a playful moue. ‘You’re not so heavy.’

‘No, but … How come I’m not in hospital? Didn’t you phone for an ambulance?’

‘We don’t have a phone.’ She doesn’t appear to see anything odd about it. ‘Anyway, there was no need. Mathilde knows how to look after wounds and things. Papa was out with Georges so she didn’t want to— Well, we managed by ourselves.’

I don’t know what she was about to say or who Georges is, but there are too many other things to think about. ‘Is Mathilde a nurse?’

‘Oh, no. But she cared for Maman before she died. And she’s used to looking after the animals when they hurt themselves. The sanglochons are always squabbling or cutting themselves on the fence.’

I haven’t a clue what a sanglochon is and don’t care. ‘You didn’t even fetch a doctor?’

‘I’ve told you, there was no need.’ She sounds annoyed. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. You should be grateful we looked after you.’

This whole situation is becoming more surreal, but I’m in no position to antagonize anyone. ‘I am. It’s just … a bit confusing.’

Mollified, she perches on the rocking horse. Her eyes go to my face. ‘What happened to your cheek? Did you fall when you stepped in the trap?’

‘Uh … I must have.’ I’d forgotten the bruising. I touch it, and the soreness sparks memories that set my heart thumping. I drop my hand and try to focus on the present. ‘The trap didn’t look very old. Any idea what it was doing there?’

She nods. ‘It’s one of Papa’s.’

I don’t know what shocks me more, the casual way she admits it or the implication that there are more of them.

‘You mean you knew about it?’

‘Of course. Papa made lots. He’s the only one who knows exactly where they are, but he’s told us whereabouts in the woods we need to be careful.’

She pronounces it p’pah, two soft expellations that push out her lips. The diminutive sounds more reverential than childish, but I’ve other things on my mind right now.

‘What’s he trying to catch? Bears?’

I’ve a vague notion that there might still be brown bears in the Pyrenees, even though that’s nowhere near here. I know I’m clutching at straws, but it’s the only halfway innocent explanation I can think of.

Gretchen’s laughter kills even that faint hope. ‘No, of course not! The traps are to stop people trespassing.’

She says it as though it’s all perfectly normal. I look at my foot, unwilling to believe it even now. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘The woods are our property. If anyone goes in them it serves them right.’ Her manner has cooled, become haughty. ‘What were you doing on our land anyway?’

Hiding from a police car. It’s starting to seem the lesser of two evils. ‘I needed to pee.’

Gretchen giggles, her temper vanishing. ‘Bet you wish you’d waited.’ I manage a weak smile. She considers me, running her fingers over the rocking horse’s coarse mane.

‘Mathilde says you’re a backpacker. Are you here on vacation?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You speak French very well. Do you have a French girlfriend?’

I shake my head.

‘An English one, then?’

‘No. When can I leave?’

Gretchen stops stroking the horse’s mane. ‘Why? Are you in a hurry?’

‘People are expecting me. They’ll be worried.’

The lie sounds unconvincing even to me. She leans back, bracing her arms on the rocking horse so that her breasts push against the T-shirt. I look away.

‘You can’t leave yet,’ she says. ‘You aren’t well enough. You almost died, you know. You should be grateful.’

That’s the second time she’s said that: it almost sounds like a threat. Behind her the trapdoor is still open, and for a moment I consider making a run for it. Then reality kicks in: running isn’t an option at the moment.

‘I’d better get back,’ she says.

The rocking horse nods violently as she stands up. Her jeans mould themselves around her as she bends to lift the heavy trapdoor. She makes more of a production of it than is strictly necessary, and the quick look she shoots my way as she straightens makes me think it isn’t accidental.

‘Can you leave the hatch open?’ I ask. ‘There’s no air up here.’

Gretchen’s laugh is light and girlish. ‘Of course there is, or how could you breathe? You’d be dead.’

The trapdoor settles shut behind her. Even though I’m waiting for it, I still flinch when I hear the bolt slide home.

I don’t remember falling asleep. When I wake the loft is dusky and full of shadows. Tilting my watch to catch the light, I see that it’s after nine. I listen for some sounds of life outside, but there’s nothing. Not a whisper, not so much as a bird or insect.

I feel like the last man on earth.

The tray of food that Gretchen brought is still by the bed. There’s a wine bottle filled with water, a bowl of milk and two chunks of what looks to be homemade bread. I’m surprised to find that I’m famished. The milk is cool and thick, with a strong taste that makes me think it might be goat’s. I dunk the bread in it, convinced it won’t even scratch the surface of my hunger, but whoever prepared it knew better than I do. After a few mouthfuls my appetite withers and dies. I push away what’s left and lie back.

Sated for the moment, I stare at the darkening roof beams as my foot throbs like a metronome. I can’t decide if I’m a prisoner or a patient. I’ve obviously been well looked after, and if the farm’s wood is full of illegal traps that explains why they didn’t want to risk taking me to a hospital.

But after that my reasoning takes a darker track. I’m still locked in a barn, and nobody knows I’m here. What would have happened if I’d got worse? And what happens when I’m recovered? Are they just going to let me walk out of here?

Sweating and fretful, I toss and turn on the lumpy mattress, trying to get comfortable. At some point I drift off to sleep again. I’m back in the copse, scrubbing at the bloodstains on the seatbelt. They won’t come off, and the belt is thumping against the seat. It’s getting louder, and then I’m awake and in the loft, and the thumping is coming from the floor. There’s time to realize that someone is coming up the steps, then there’s the screech of the bolt being drawn and the trapdoor is flung open.

It falls back with a bang. A man stamps up the last few steps, carrying a lamp and a hunting rifle. He’s in his fifties, thickset and barrel-bodied with iron-grey hair and a seamed, sun-dried face. Right now it’s set in angry lines. The rifle isn’t pointed at me but it’s held in such a way I can see he’s thinking about it.

I back up against the wall as he clomps over the boards. Mathilde hurries up the steps after him.

‘Don’t! Please!’

He ignores her. He stops at the foot of the bed and glares down at me. The yellow glow from the lamp forms a cavern of light around us, throwing the rest of the room into darkness.

‘Get out,’ he snarls. There’s an aura of suppressed fury about him, a barely checked desire to drag me from the bed.

Mathilde takes hold of his arm. ‘At least let him stay till the morning—’

He shrugs her off without taking his eyes from me. ‘Get out,’ he repeats.

I don’t have much choice. I throw back the sheet, pretending to be unconcerned about my nakedness. Hobbling over to the commode, I sit down while I get dressed, trying not to wince as my jeans drag over my bandaged foot. There’s no way I can force it into a boot, so I cram the damaged one into my rucksack with the rest of my things. That done, I precariously stand up.

The man — I’m guessing he’s the father — jerks the stock of the rifle towards the trapdoor. ‘Go on.’

‘All right, I’m going,’ I tell him, trying for a scrap of dignity.

And I want to; I’m just not sure I can make it across the loft. I pause, gathering all my strength for the long trek across the room. Mathilde’s face is expressionless, as if she’s isolated herself from what’s going on.

He takes a step towards me. ‘Move.’

I’m in no condition to argue. Gripping the aluminium frame of my rucksack with both hands, I push it in front of me, using it for support. The distance to the trapdoor is covered in a series of slow, painful hops. Mathilde and her father follow. In the light from his lamp I see Gretchen standing on the steps with the baby. Amazingly, it’s still asleep, slumped bonelessly across her shoulder. But her eyes are wide, and she looks scared as she moves out of my way.

I push the rucksack right up to the trapdoor’s edge. Anger and humiliation have got me this far, but I don’t know how I’m going to get any further. The clean clothes are already sticking to me. I can smell my own body, the stink of illness in my sweat. Lowering myself carefully, I sit on the edge of the trapdoor and slip my arms through the rucksack’s straps. Then, sliding forwards, I grope with my good foot for a step and put my weight on it. Holding onto the lip of the trapdoor, I feel a sense of triumph as I hop to the next step down. I’ve barely chance to register the quick footfalls behind me before something thumps into my back and I fly into the darkness.

The breath bursts from me as I tumble to the bottom of the steps. I crash into bottles, scattering them across the floor in a tuneless jangle. I lie where I’ve fallen, stunned and breathless. The rucksack’s dead weight pins me down. I try to push myself up, and then someone is there helping me.

‘Are you all right?’

It’s Mathilde. Before I can answer her father comes down the steps, the light from his lamp glinting off the scattered bottles. Behind him I can make out Gretchen in the shadows. The baby has woken and started crying, but no one seems to notice. We’re on a wooden gallery, a platform midway between the loft and what I guess, beneath the shadows, is the ground. I shrug free of Mathilde’s hands and grab a bottle by its neck, struggling to my feet to face him.

‘Keep back!’ I yell in English, my French deserting me. I raise the bottle warningly, my injured foot clamouring as I totter for balance.

The man reaches the bottom of the steps, the centre of the yellow aura thrown by the lamp. His hands tighten on the rifle as he gives the bottle a contemptuous glance, then starts forward again. Mathilde steps between us.

‘Don’t. Please.’

I’m not sure which of us she’s talking to. But her father stops, glaring at me with silent venom.

‘I was trying to leave!’ I shout.

My voice is unsteady. The adrenalin has left me weak and trembling. All at once I’m aware of the cool heft of the bottle in my hand. I sway, nauseous, and for an instant I’m back on a dark street, with another scene of blood and violence about to replay itself.

I let the bottle drop. It rolls slowly across the dusty floorboards and bumps against the others with a muted chink. The baby is still howling, struggling in Gretchen’s arms, but no one says anything as I lurch towards the next flight of steps. Almost immediately my legs give way and I collapse to my knees. I’m nearly weeping with frustration but I don’t have the strength to get up. Then Mathilde is there again, sliding her arm under mine.

‘I can manage,’ I say petulantly. She doesn’t take any notice. She eases me back against a wooden beam before turning to her father.

‘He’s in no condition to go anywhere.’

His face is made hard by the lamplight. ‘That’s not my problem. I don’t want him here.’

If not for your trap I wouldn’t be, I want to say, but nothing comes out. I feel dizzy. I close my eyes and put my head back against the beam, letting their voices swirl around me.

‘He’s a stranger, he wasn’t to know.’

‘I don’t care, he’s not staying.’

‘Would you rather the police pick him up?’

The mention of the police makes me lift my head, but the warning doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me. In my febrile state it seems that they’re locked in some private contest, adults talking over the head of a child who won’t understand. Probably they don’t want the police to know about the traps, I think, but I’m too tired to wonder about it for long.

‘Just let him stay for a few days,’ Mathilde’s voice pleads. ‘Until he’s got his strength back.’

Her father’s answer is a long time coming. He glares at me, then turns away with a contemptuous snort. ‘Do what you like. Just keep him out of my sight.’

He goes to the steps. ‘The lamp,’ Mathilde says, when he reaches them. He pauses, and I can see him contemplating taking it and leaving us without light. Then he sets the lamp down and descends into the darkness below without another word.

Mathilde fetches it and crouches next to me. ‘Can you stand?’

When I don’t respond she repeats it in English. I still don’t say anything, but begin to heave myself up. Without asking, she takes the rucksack from my shoulders.

‘Lean on me.’

I don’t want to, but I’ve no option. Beneath the thin cotton, her shoulder is firm and warm. She puts an arm around my waist. Her head comes to my chin.

Gretchen moves out of the shadows as we reach the bottom of the steps. The baby is still red-faced and teary, but more curious now than upset.

‘I told you to stay in the house with Michel,’ Mathilde says. There’s the slightest edge to her voice.

‘I only wanted to help.’

‘I can manage. Take him back to the house.’

‘Why should I have to look after him all the time? He’s your baby.’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

Gretchen’s face hardens. She brushes past us, her flip-flops slapping angrily on the steps. I feel rather than hear Mathilde’s sigh.

‘Come on,’ she says, wearily.

She supports most of my weight as we go up the steps and over to the bed. It takes for ever. I collapse onto the mattress, barely aware of her going away again. A minute later she’s back, carrying the rucksack and lamp. She sets both by the bed.

‘Your father didn’t know I was here, did he?’ I say. ‘You didn’t tell him.’

Mathilde is outside the lamp’s circle of light. I can’t make out her face, don’t know if she’s looking at me or not.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ she says, and leaves me alone in the loft.

The rucksack bounces on my back as I run to where the car waits on the slip road, its engine ticking over. It’s a yellow VW Beetle, battered and rust-pitted but right now the most beautiful car in the world as far as I’m concerned. It’s going dark and I’m numb from standing in the cold for the past two hours, cursing the drivers who’ve whipped past me onto the motorway without a glance.

I open the passenger door, surprised to see that the driver is a lone girl.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘London, but the next services will do,’ I tell her, desperate to get out of the bitter wind.

‘I’m going to Earl’s Court, if that’s any good?’

‘Thanks, that’s fantastic.’ I can catch a tube from there. I’m staying in Kilburn, renting the spare room in a flat whose owner is away for a month. After that I haven’t a clue what I’ll do.

But that’s a problem for another day. I dump my rucksack on the back seat, careful to avoid the large artist’s portfolio lying there, and then sit up front. She has the window wound down slightly on her side but turns the heating up full blast to compensate.

‘I’ve got to have the window open because the exhaust leaks in,’ she explains. ‘I mean to get it fixed, but …’

Her shrug eloquently suggests a combination of what-can-you-do and can’t-be-bothered.

‘I’m Sean.’ I have to raise my voice over the competing roar of the open window and hot air blowing from the heater.

She gives me a quick smile. ‘Chloe.’

She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, slender, with pale-blonde cropped hair and deep-blue eyes. Pretty.

‘Are you warm enough now?’ she asks. ‘If I leave the heater on full for too long it overheats.’

I tell her I’m fine. She reaches out to the dash and adjusts the temperature. Her hand is long-fingered and fine-boned. A thin silver band encircles her wrist.

‘I’m surprised you stopped. You don’t often find girls taking a chance on hitch-hikers. Not that I’m complaining,’ I add.

‘You’ve got to take some chances. Besides, you looked harmless enough.’

‘Thanks,’ I laugh.

She smiles. ‘What are you going to London for?’

‘Looking for work.’

‘So it’s a permanent move?’

‘If I can find a job, yeah.’ Although just the word permanent makes me feel uneasy.

‘What sort of work are you looking for?’

‘Whatever’s going. Bar work, labouring. Anything that pays.’

She glances over. ‘You a graduate?’

‘I was, a while back. But I wanted to travel, so I took some time out.’ Some time is deliberately vague: I’m uncomfortably aware of how it’s slipped by. Most of my peers have settled into careers by now, but I’ve drifted from one job to the next without any real direction.

‘Good for you,’ Chloe says. ‘I went backpacking to Thailand for six months. God, absolutely brilliant! Where’d you go?’

‘Uh … just to France.’

‘Oh.’

‘I plan to go back,’ I add, defensively. ‘You know, when I’ve got enough money together.’

That’s not likely to be any time soon. Even though I’ve stopped smoking, the casual jobs I’ve been doing don’t pay much. She nods, but isn’t really listening. I grip my seat as she suddenly switches lanes to overtake a van, pulling out in front of a speeding Jaguar that’s forced to brake. It flashes its lights indignantly, jammed right up to our rear bumper. The VW’s engine becomes shrill, gathering just enough speed to draw alongside the van without being able to pass.

‘Come on, dickhead,’ Chloe mutters, glaring past me at the van driver. I watch anxiously as she keeps her foot down until we’re just ahead before darting back into lane. The van blares its horn and drops back, putting space between itself and the mad young woman in the VW. I let go of the seat, my hands aching from the pressure.

‘So what did you study?’ Chloe continues, unperturbed.

‘Film.’

‘Making or theory?’

‘Theory.’ I realize I’m sounding defensive.

She grinned. ‘Ah, now I get it. That’s why you went to France. Don’t tell me — Truffaut’s your hero. No, Godard.’

‘No,’ I say, stung. ‘Well …’

‘I knew it!’

I can’t keep from grinning as well, happy to find someone to argue with. ‘You don’t like French cinema?’

‘I don’t dislike it, I just think the whole New Wave thing was overrated. It’s just dull. Give me the Americans any day. Scorsese. Taxi Driver.’ She turns one hand palm up in a there-you-are gesture. ‘And he didn’t have to use black and white to make his point.’

‘What about Raging Bull?’

‘That was a deliberate reference to the boxing footage of the forties and fifties. And it made the blood in the fight scenes more effective. What has Truffaut done to compare with that?’

‘Oh, come on …!’

The argument runs on, both of us warming to it, until she has to stop at a services for petrol. I’m surprised to see from a road sign that London is only twenty miles away; the journey has passed too quickly. Chloe waves away my offer of a contribution towards the fuel, but as we set off again she seems distracted.

‘So what about you?’ I ask after a while. I motion towards the portfolio on the back seat. ‘Are you an artist?’

‘That’s what I tell myself.’ She smiles, but there’s something sad about it. ‘For a day job I work as a waitress and try to sell the odd illustration to advertising agencies. I’m on my way back from a pitch now. A big-eyed little kitten for a cat-food manufacturer.’

I’m not sure what to say. ‘Congratulations.’

‘They didn’t go for it.’ A shrug. ‘It was rubbish anyway.’

The conversation dies after that. Suburbs have sprung up around us, and it isn’t long before we reach the outskirts of London. She taps her fingers on the wheel in frustration with the slow-moving traffic. When we get to Earl’s Court she pulls up by the tube station, leaving the engine running. I look for an excuse to delay the moment, but she’s waiting for me to go.

‘Well … thanks for the lift.’

‘No problem.’

I’d made up my mind to ask for her phone number, but she seems miles away already. I climb out and start to pull my rucksack from the back seat.

‘I know some people at a private language school,’ she says abruptly. ‘The place is short of an English teacher. I could put a word in for you, if you like.’

The offer takes me by surprise. ‘I don’t have any teaching qualifications.’

She shrugs this away. ‘You can do a TEFL course easily enough. Do you speak French?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Well, there you go. They get a lot of French students.’

I’ve never taught a thing in my life, never even considered it as a possibility. Still, it isn’t as though I’ve any other plans.

‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I take a deep breath. ‘How about, I don’t know … going for a drink sometime?’