Stone Bruises

4

I go outside for the first time next morning.

After Gretchen’s visit, I slept for most of the previous day, rousing at one point to find a tray of food beside the bed. I managed to keep awake long enough to eat the clear chicken broth and bread, and then fell asleep again, still intending to get up and practise some more on the crutch.

But when I wake in the morning the food and rest have done their work. I feel much better. The loft is brightly sunlit but not yet hot, and there’s a blessed freshness I know won’t last until midday. Yesterday’s supper tray has been replaced with one containing breakfast — eggs and butter again. I didn’t hear anybody, but I’m growing used to the idea of someone coming here while I’m asleep.

I eat ravenously, wiping the last of the yolk up with bread and wishing there was more. The bucket of water Gretchen brought is still by the mattress, so I wash the dried sweat off myself as best I can and then take out my razor to shave. By my reckoning there’s almost a week’s worth of stubble to hack off, but at the last second I change my mind. There’s no mirror in the loft, not even a broken one, but the bristles feel strange under my fingers. Not quite a beard but not like my own face either. It doesn’t feel like me any more.

I decide that’s no bad thing.

For a few minutes I feel deliciously clean, then I start to sweat again. The loft’s small window is open, but all that achieves is to stir the air slightly without cooling it. The heat is already building up, and with it my restlessness. I get up, intending to practise with the crutch, and then see the trapdoor standing open. I hobble over to it and look down into the barn.

Nobody said I had to stay up here.

Negotiating the steps is much easier this time. Tucking the crutch under one arm, I go down backwards, using them like a ladder. My foot gives a warning throb every now and then, but by leaning my knee on each step I can keep my weight off it.

I stop to rest on the small landing I fell onto when Mathilde’s father pushed me down the steps. The empty bottles I knocked over have been stood upright again, but even in daylight the barn is dank and gloomy. The stone walls are windowless, with the only light coming from the large open entrance. The air is cooler, and as I descend the last few steps I notice a scent of stale wine mixed in with the musty odour of stone and wood. At some time in the past the barn has been a small winery. There’s an empty metal vat and the cobbles are scarred from where other equipment has been removed. One section of them has been torn up and replaced with concrete, new-looking but already starting to crack.

There’s a tap jutting from one wall. Water spatters out onto the cobbles when I turn it and cup my hand underneath to take a few mouthfuls. It’s teeth-achingly cold but tastes wonderfully fresh. Splashing a little onto my face, I go to the tall wine rack that stands nearby. It’s half full of unlabelled bottles, but a good number of their corks are stained where the wine has seeped through. I sniff at one of them, wrinkling my nose at the sour taint, before going to the barn’s entrance.

Sunlight pours in from outside. I stand for a moment, taking in the scene through the open doors. The world outside is framed between them, a vivid picture set against the dark walls. Like a cinema screen.

Squinting against the brightness, I lean on my crutch and walk into it.

It’s like stepping into Technicolor. I breathe deeply, enjoying the scents of wild flowers and herbs. My legs are shaky, but after the smothering loft it’s good to feel sun on my face. Careful of my bandaged foot, I lower myself to the dusty ground to take in the view.

Directly in front of the barn is the vine field I saw from the loft’s window. It’s bordered by woods, and further off I can just make out the blue of the lake through the trees. Beyond that is the pale gold of surrounding fields, stretching as far as I can see. Whatever else the farm might be, it’s certainly peaceful. The air simmers with the drone of crickets and the occasional bleating of unseen goats, but nothing else disturbs the quiet. No cars, no machinery, no people.

I close my eyes and soak it up.

Gradually, another noise makes itself known. A rhythmic metallic creaking. I look up to see an old man walking towards me on a track through the grapevines. He’s a bandy-legged, wiry old thing, and the creaking is caused by the galvanized buckets he carries swinging slightly on their handles. His sparse hair is almost white, his face baked the colour of old oak. He barely seems taller than me even though I’m sitting down. But there’s a sinewy strength about him, and the forearms below his rolled shirtsleeves are thick with knotted muscle.

This must be the Georges Gretchen mentioned, I guess. I give him a nod. ‘Morning.’

There’s no acknowledgement. He continues unhurriedly towards the barn, walking right past me as though I’m not there. Unsettled, I turn my head to see what he’s doing as he goes inside. There’s the clatter of the buckets being set down, and a moment later I hear the tinny drumming of water as they’re filled at the tap. After a few minutes the sound of water cuts off and he re-emerges. He doesn’t so much as glance at me as he heads back down the track, forearms bulging as though they’re stuffed with walnuts under the weight of the buckets.

‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I say to his back.

I watch him trudge across the vine field and into the wood at the far side. He’s soon out of sight, and I wonder what he needs the buckets of water for down there. The farm doesn’t seem to have any livestock except for chickens and the goats I’ve heard bleating, and no visible crops except for the grapes. Judging from the sour-smelling corks and the spaces where wine-making equipment used to be in the barn, it hardly seems to be making a success as a vineyard, either.

I wonder how they survive.

I’ve rested enough, and my exposed skin is starting to sting and redden. Struggling to my feet, I settle the crutch under my arm and shuffle around the corner of the barn. There’s a roofless outhouse with an old hole-in-the-ground privy, and beyond that is the courtyard I remember from before. It’s even hotter here. Heat shimmers off the cobbles, and the scaffolded house where I asked for water looks bleached in the sun. A weathervane shaped like a cockerel leans precariously on its sway-backed roof, waiting for the air to move.

A few hens peck lazily at the dirt but there’s no one about. Thinking about water has made me thirsty again. There’s the tap in the barn, but after the old man’s indifference I feel a need to see another human face, if only briefly. I limp towards the house, the crutch slipping on the smooth cobbles. Off to one side, the broken clock on the stable block is still caught in its frozen sweep, single hand poised at twenty to nothing. The farm vehicles parked below it don’t seem to have moved since the last time I was here. A dusty van and trailer sit outside the stable block as though they’ve died there, while the radiator of a decrepit tractor pokes from one of the arched stalls like the muzzle of a sleeping dog. Another stall is occupied by an old blacksmith’s forge. Strips of iron are propped against it, but it isn’t until I see the crude triangular teeth on one that I realize what I’m looking at.

Feeling a memory-ache in my foot, I carry on to the house.

It’s even more run-down than I remember. The scaffold covers half of it, and unpainted shutters hang from the windows like the wings of dead moths. The ground at the foot of the wall is speckled with pieces of mortar that have fallen out, hardly any more cohesive than sand. A half-hearted attempt has been made to repair the crumbling stonework but it’s obviously been abandoned. And not recently: the scaffolding is rusted in places, and so is a chisel that lies on the ground under it. When I nudge it with my crutch it leaves a perfect imprint of itself on the cobbles.

The kitchen door stands open. Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I knock on it. ‘Hello?’

There’s no answer. As I turn away I notice another door further down, unpainted and warped. Labouring over on my crutch, I knock again, then tentatively push it open. It creaks back on unoiled hinges. Inside is dark, and even from the doorway I can feel the damp chill that spills out.

‘What are you doing?’

I spin round, performing an intricate dance with my crutch and good foot to keep my balance. Mathilde’s father has materialized from behind the stable block. There’s a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, from which the bloodied leg of a rabbit protrudes. More worrying is the rifle he carries, which is pointing right at me.

‘Are you deaf? I said what are you doing?’

In the daylight he’s older than I’d thought, nearer sixty than fifty, with brown melanomas of sun and age freckling his forehead. He isn’t particularly tall, short in the legs and long in the body, but he’s still a bull of a man.

I take a second to steady myself on the crutch, trying not to look at the rifle. ‘Nothing.’

He glances at the open door behind me. ‘Why are you prowling around?’

‘I wanted a drink of water.’

‘There’s a tap in the barn.’

‘I know, but I needed some fresh air.’

‘I thought you said you wanted water?’ Against the weathered skin his pale-grey eyes look like chips of dirty ice. They go to the crutch and harden even more. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

‘I found it in the loft.’

‘And who said you could use it?’

‘No one.’

I’m not sure why I’m protecting Mathilde but it doesn’t seem right to lay the blame on her. I’m acutely aware of the rifle as her father’s chin juts aggressively.

‘So you thought you’d just help yourself? What else were you planning on stealing?’

‘I wasn’t …’ All at once I’m too exhausted to argue. The sun seems to be pressing down on me, sapping what little strength I have left. ‘Look, I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll put it back.’

I start to go past him back to the barn, but he’s blocking my way. He makes no attempt to move, keeping the rifle pointed at me. Until now I’d thought he was just posturing, but looking into the hard eyes I feel a sudden doubt. I’m past caring though. I stare back at him, and as the moment drags on a rhythmic creaking gradually impinges on the silence. Looking across the courtyard, I see Georges unhurriedly walking towards us, a rusted bucket swinging from one hand.

If he’s surprised to find his employer holding someone at gunpoint he doesn’t show it. ‘I’ve repaired the fence as best I can, M’sieur Arnaud. It’ll do for now but it still needs replacing.’

I might as well be invisible for all the notice he takes of me. Arnaud — I’d forgotten the name on the mailbox at the gate until now — has flushed deeper than ever.

‘All right.’

It’s a dismissal, but the old man doesn’t take the hint. ‘Will you be coming down to have a look?’

Arnaud huffs in irritation. ‘Yes, in a while.’

Georges gives a satisfied nod and goes back across the courtyard, still without reacting to my presence. I’m forced to lean on the crutch again as Arnaud regards me, jaw working as though he’s chewing his words.

But before he can spit them out a dog bursts from behind the stables. It’s a young springer spaniel, all lolling tongue and flapping ears. When it sees us it comes bounding past Arnaud and prances around me. I try not to show how much I’m shaking as I reach down to tousle its head.

‘Here!’ Arnaud’s voice cracks out. The dog dithers, torn between obedience and enjoying the attention. ‘Get here, damn you!’

Obedience wins. The spaniel slinks over, cowering and wagging its tail frantically. It would tie a white flag to it if it could, but as Arnaud raises his hand to cuff it a spasm contorts his features. He stiffens, one hand going to his back as he straightens in pain.

‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ he bellows.

She hurries around the side of the house, the baby in one arm and a basket of soil-covered vegetables in the other. A flash of what could be dismay passes across her face when she sees us, then it’s wiped clean of any emotion.

‘What’s he doing out here?’ Arnaud demands. ‘I told you to keep him out of my way!’

Mathilde tries to soothe the baby, who has started crying at his grandfather’s raised voice. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘It’s not her fault,’ I say.

Arnaud turns back to me, his face livid. ‘I wasn’t talking to you!’

‘I only came out for some fresh air,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ll go back to the loft, OK?’

Arnaud sniffs. He looks at the baby, who is still howling, then reaches out for him.

‘Give him to me.’

His hands look huge as he takes the child from Mathilde and holds him at eye level, gently rocking him from side to side. He still has the rifle tucked under his arm.

‘Eh? What’s this, Michel? You don’t cry. Be a big boy for your grandfather.’

His voice is gruff but fond. The baby hiccups and beams toothlessly at him. Without taking his eyes from his grandson, Arnaud turns his head to speak to me over his shoulder.

‘Get out of my sight.’

I spend the rest of the day sleeping. Or rather half-sleeping: in the airless loft I drift in and out between consciousness and dreaming. At one point I rouse to find a tray of food and a fresh bucket of water has been left beside the bed. By Mathilde, I guess: even though I said I didn’t want a book there’s an old card-bound copy of Madame Bovary on the tray as well.

Maybe it’s by way of an apology for the run-in with her father.

The evening passes in a haze of heat and sweat. I lie in my boxers on top of the mattress, drugged by the spiced, cigar-box smell of the loft. For lack of anything else to do I make an attempt at Madame Bovary. But the archaic French is impenetrable, and I can’t concentrate. The words blur and the book keeps falling from my hands, until eventually I give up and put it aside. I think it’s too hot to sleep, but when I close my eyes I slide under so deeply it’s like drowning.

I wake with a cry, images of blood on a darkened street stark in my mind. For a few seconds I can’t remember where I am. The loft is in darkness, but a ghostly light spills through the open window. My hands are hot and sticky, and with the nightmare still vivid I expect to see them stained with blood. But it’s only sweat.

The moon’s light is bright enough for me to see my watch without turning on the lamp. It’s just after midnight. I reach shakily for my cigarettes. Only three left: I’ve started smoking them a half at a time. I light the burned end of one I started earlier and draw the smoke into my lungs. A weight of despair refuses to lift. When I finish the cigarette, making it last right down to the filter, there’s no question of going back to sleep.

The loft is humid and close, floodlit by the moon. A strip of light runs across the floor and hooks over the edge of the bed. I get out of bed and hop along its silver path to the window. The night has turned the landscape black and white. Beyond the shadows of the woods, the moon’s twin shines from the mirrored lake. There’s a metallic moistness to the air. I breathe it deeply, imagining submerging myself in the water, feeling its coolness lift even the weight of hair from my head.

An owl hoots. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. There isn’t enough air. Suddenly claustrophobic, I seize the crutch and lamp and go to the trapdoor. I’ve left it open, and it looks like a hole into nothing. In the lamp’s dull glow I lower myself down the steps.

I don’t think about what I’m doing. The barn below is dark, but once outside the full moon is so bright I no longer need the lamp. I turn it off and leave it in the entrance. The night air soothes my bare skin, scented with trees and grass. I don’t feel tired at all now, only a feverish desire to get to the lake.

I follow the track that Georges used earlier, limping past rows of vines. It’s a monochrome world, all light and shadow. I pause at the edge of the woods to catch my breath. The trees form a solid wall of black at the edge of the vine field. The air is cooler here, dampening any sound. Moonlight drips indiscriminately through the branches. I shiver, wondering what I’m doing. I know I should turn back, but the lure of the lake is too strong.

This is the furthest I’ve walked on the crutch, and my breathing is laboured as I go through the wood. I trudge with my head down, so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t notice the pale figure until it’s right in front of me.

‘Jesus!’

I stumble back. Now I see more of them, motionless shapes in the trees. My heart is thudding, but none of them move. As the shock of seeing them fades I realize why.

The wood is full of statues.

They crowd both sides of the track, stone men and women dappled by moonlight. I sag in relief, but still have to touch one to reassure myself that the lifelike limbs aren’t, after all, flesh and blood. My fingers encounter only the roughness of lichen and smooth, hard stone.

I smile, shame-faced, and as I do the wood’s quiet is shattered by a shriek. It’s high-pitched and inhuman, seeming to go on and on before it abruptly stops. I stare into the blackness, gripping the flimsy crutch. Just a fox or owl, I tell myself. But I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle upright. I turn and look at the statues. They haven’t moved, but now their blind scrutiny seems unnerving. Then the shriek comes again, and my nerve breaks.

All thoughts of the lake are forgotten as I lurch back up the shadowed track. My breath rasps in my ears, blood thumping as I struggle on the single crutch. Up ahead I can see the moonlit field through the trees, impossibly distant. Christ, have I really come so far? Then at last I’m out in the open, and orderly rows of vines replace the dark trees. I lumber on, panting for breath, until I reach the sanctuary of the barn once more. Gulping for air, I stop to retrieve the lamp and look back towards the wood. The track is empty, but I don’t relax until I’m in my loft again with the trapdoor shut behind me.

I collapse onto the mattress, chest heaving and legs like jelly. I’m drenched with sweat, as wet as if I’d actually been in the lake. The idea of going down there, as if I could swim with my foot bandaged up, seems ridiculous now. I don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t you? Really?

All I want to do is sleep. But before I do I go back over to the trapdoor and slide a chest of drawers on top.

Feeling safe at last, I go to bed and sleep like the dead.

Callum was still ranting when I came back from the bar.

‘Oh, come on! Did we see the same film? Tell me, did we? I was watching The Last Detail, what were you watching?’

‘All I’m saying is it’s still reinforcing character stereotypes. You’ve got the, uh, the hardened wiseguy, the rookie, the token—’

‘They’re archetypes, not stereotypes! I can’t believe you missed the entire fucking point of the—’

‘I didn’t miss anything, I just think it’s, uh, I don’t know—’

‘Exactly!’

‘Callum, why don’t you shut up and let Jez finish?’ Yasmin cuts in.

‘I would if he wasn’t talking shite!’

I put the drinks on the table. Beer for Callum, Yasmin and me, orange juice for Chloe, vodka for Jez. Chloe gives me a grin as I sit down.

Yasmin turns to me. ‘Sean, tell Callum it’s possible to object to aspects of a Jack Nicholson film without being burned at the stake for heresy.’

‘Sean agrees with me,’ Callum cuts in. Raw-boned and shaven-headed, his piercings add to the faintly pagan image he likes to cultivate. ‘Nicholson is the finest actor of his generation, bar none!’

‘He was a jobbing actor who got lucky,’ Chloe says. She darts a quick look at me to show she’s deliberately baiting Callum. As ever, he bites.

‘Bollocks! I’ve got one thing to say to you, Chloe. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. That’s it.’ He sits back, crossing his arms as if the argument’s won.

‘That was a dream role. Any halfway decent actor could have run away with it,’ Yasmin says, rolling her eyes. Her hair is tied back tonight, and she’s wearing the loose dark clothes that Chloe once confided show she’s feeling self-conscious about her weight.

‘Oh, come on! What about Chinatown? Or The Departed?’

‘What about them?’ Chloe begins ticking off on her fingers. ‘Witches of Eastwick. Mars Attacks. Batman. Best actor of his generation? Sure.’

Jez furrows his brow. ‘Batman was OK. Not as good as The Dark Knight, though.’

No one takes any notice of him. He’s been drinking all night and looks even more crumpled than usual, which is saying something. Like Callum, he’s a teacher at the language school in Fulham where I’ve been working for the past few months. Yasmin, his girlfriend and Chloe’s best friend from art college, used to work there as well before she got a better-paying job at the university.

I love Friday nights. Classes finish early, and afterwards a group of us will go for a drink before heading for one of the independent cinemas that are within a few tube stops of the school. Callum is passionate about film but blows hot and cold about his favourite actors, writers, directors. Not so many weeks before it was Terrence Malick he’d raved about. Recently, though, we’d seen a screening of Carnal Knowledge, so for the next few weeks Jack Nicholson was going to be It.

I take a drink of beer and stroke Chloe’s thigh under the table. She squeezes my hand and smiles, then stretches and pushes back her chair.

‘I’d better be getting back.’

She bends and kisses me, her short hair momentarily touching my face, then goes over to the bar. The Domino is off the King’s Road, close to one of our regular cinemas, but the main reason we go there is because it’s where Chloe works. Dark and modern, with cool blue lights illuminating the bottles behind the black granite counter, we’d never be able to afford to come here if Chloe couldn’t get us cheap drinks. She says her manager knows, so I suppose it must be OK. Still, I sometimes wonder if he realizes how generous he’s being.

I watch her go behind the bar, laughing at something Tanja, one of the other girls, says as she begins serving.

‘Chloe’s doing all right, isn’t she?’ Yasmin says.

I turn to see that she’s watching Chloe too. ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t she be?’

Yasmin smiles, throwing the comment away with a shrug. ‘No reason. I was just thinking out loud.’

It seems an odd thing to say. But I’m distracted when I hear Callum begin rubbishing Kurosawa.

‘Please, tell me you don’t mean that,’ I say, setting down my beer.

Five minutes later I’ve forgotten what Yasmin said.

But I remember again later that night. I have to wait until the last customers have gone, and Chloe has wiped down the bar and put away all the glasses, before we can go home.

Outside, Tanja is waiting for a lift from her boyfriend. We say goodnight and then set off back to the flat. It’s too late for the tube and taxis are a rare luxury, but Earl’s Court isn’t too far to walk. It’s cold, though. There’s a full moon, and the beginnings of frost on the pavement glint like diamond chippings.

I open my coat and wrap it around us. Chloe puts her arm around me, a source of warmth against my chest. The shops we pass are shuttered and closed, the wire-clad placards for yesterday’s London Evening Standard already old news. I suppose I should feel more nervous walking through this part of town at this time of night, but I never do. I’ve grown used to it, and with Chloe working at the bar it seems too familiar to harbour any threat.

We’re laughing, quietly so as not to wake anyone, as we cross the road to the flat. Parked cars line the street, dark metal outlines that radiate cold. Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure detach from the shadows and head for us.

I keep walking, my arm protectively around Chloe. The man is a tall and bulky shape in a thickly padded coat. He’s wearing a beanie hat pulled down almost to his eyes.

‘Got the time?’ he asks.

His hands are in his coat pockets, but on the wrist of one I can see the gleam of a watch. My heart starts racing. We should have got a taxi.

‘Ten past three,’ I say, barely glancing at my own watch. It’s a new one, a birthday present from Chloe. Without being obvious I try to put myself in front of her as he comes closer. One of his hands begins to slide from its pocket, and something metallic glints in the moonlight.

‘Lenny?’

The man stops. From the way he sways he’s either drunk or on something. Chloe steps forward.

‘Lenny, it’s me. Chloe.’

He looks at her for a moment, then gives the slightest of nods. His chin lifts in my direction. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A friend.’

She’s trying to hide it but I can hear the tightness in her voice. Whoever this man is, she’s scared of him.

‘A friend,’ he echoes.

His hand is still halfway out of his pocket, as though he’s not yet made a decision. I draw breath to speak, to ask who he is and what’s going on. But Chloe clamps hold of my arm, squeezing it to silence me.

‘Well … ’bye, Lenny.’

She pulls me away. Lenny stays where he is, but I can feel him staring after us. My legs move stiffly. When we reach the other side of the road I look back.

The street is empty.

‘Who was that?’

I’m angry to realize I’m half-whispering. I feel Chloe shiver. Her face looks small and pale, whether from the cold or something else I can’t tell.

‘No one. I’m frozen, let’s get inside.’

Our flat is on the top floor of a squat concrete block. We go up the stairwell that always smells of piss and unlock the door. The fumes of turpentine and oil paints settle thickly on the back of my tongue as soon as we enter. The place is hardly an ideal artist’s studio, but the rent’s affordable and the skylights set into the flat roof make it bright, if cold. Chloe’s paintings are stacked against the living-room walls, white-edged rectangles whose images it’s too dark to see. I’d been surprised at first by how representational her style is, expecting it to be bolder and more abstract. Instead there’s an impressionistic quality and an almost chiaroscuro treatment of light that reminds me of film noir. I like it, although I have secret doubts about the unfinished portrait of me that stands on an easel by the window. Technically it’s one of her best, but the expression on the face isn’t one I recognize. Maybe I just don’t know myself very well.

Neither of us makes any move to put on the light. I stand in the bedroom doorway, watching as Chloe switches on the electric fire. A faint hum comes from it as the elements begin to snap and glow yellow.

‘So are you going to tell me what that was about?’

Chloe keeps her back to me as she begins to undress. ‘Nothing. He’s just someone I used to know.’

Something swells in my chest and throat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s jealousy.

‘You mean you used to go out with him?’

‘With Lenny?’ Her shock is unfeigned. ‘God, no.’

‘What, then?’

She comes over to me in her underwear. ‘Sean …’

I move her arms from around me. I don’t know whether I’m angry because I felt helpless outside, or because I suddenly feel I don’t know her. She sighs.

‘He used to be a customer in a bar I used to work at. OK? You get to meet all sorts. That’s all.’

She looks up at me, eyes open and candid. In the familiar surroundings of the flat the memory of the encounter is already starting to fade. And I’ve no reason not to believe her.

‘OK,’ I say.

I undress and get into bed. We lie in the dark without touching, the air in the bedroom frigid even with the electric fire. Chloe stirs and moves over, kissing me, murmuring my name. We make love, but afterwards I lie awake, staring at the skylight.

‘Yasmin said something weird tonight,’ I tell her. ‘That you were “doing all right”. Why would she say that?’

‘I don’t know. That’s Yasmin for you.’

‘So there’s nothing I should know?’

In the dark I can’t see her face. But a glint of light from it tells me her eyes are open.

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘Why would there be?’