Stone Bruises

8

Yellow dust billows up around the van as it bounces over the track’s potholed surface. Mathilde is driving with the windows down, trying to dissipate some of the heat that’s built up inside during the day. The vinyl of the seats is torn, white wadding showing through in places. Mine has been mended, if it can be called that, with black electrical tape. Despite the open windows, the van smells of diesel, dog and stale pipe tobacco.

When I went back to the house after getting washed and changed Mathilde and Gretchen were arguing in the doorway. I stopped at the corner of the courtyard, not wanting to interrupt.

‘But it doesn’t need doing!’ Gretchen was insisting.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Georges cleaned it yesterday! They’re only pigs, they don’t mind what they eat!’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

‘Papa didn’t say I had to. Why do I always have to do what you say? You’re just trying to get me out of the way so you can go into town with him—’

‘Just do it!’

It was the first time I’d heard Mathilde raise her voice. Gretchen flounced away, not so much as pausing when she saw me at the bottom of the courtyard.

‘I hope you enjoy yourselves!’ she snapped, flip-flops cuffing the cobbles as she marched past.

I watched her stomp off down the track towards the woods, then looked back at Mathilde. She was staring at the cobblestones, her posture tired. Then, realizing I was there, she straightened. Wordlessly, she went to the van, leaving me to follow her.

She doesn’t speak a word as she drives up the track to the road. When we reach the closed gate she stops, leaving the ignition running as she climbs out.

‘I’ll do it,’ I offer.

‘It’s all right.’

The padlock is obviously stiff, but eventually she manages to unlock it. She swings the gate open, lifting it up the last few feet to keep it from dragging on the ground. Returning to the van, she drives out onto the road, then gets out again to shut the gate. In the wing mirror I see her fastening the padlock, securing the farm behind us.

‘Why do you keep it locked?’ I ask when she gets back in, remembering how I’d found the gate open when I came for water.

‘My father prefers it.’

She seems to think that’s all the explanation that’s needed. Maybe it is, but as she sets off I still wonder who’d left the gate open before.

Being outside again is like re-entering a world I’d forgotten exists. I’m not prepared for how exposed I feel, how used I’ve become to the farm’s insular universe. But I’m soon lulled by the warm evening, and the steady note of the van’s engine. Beginning to enjoy myself, I rest my arm on the open window and let the slipstream buffet my face. The air has a warm, summer smell of pollen and tarmac. Mathilde, though, is less relaxed. And in a hurry to get back, judging by how fast she’s driving.

The old van vibrates under the sustained speed. The grey strip of road stretches ahead of us. Wheat fields come right to the roadside, broken up with tall and feathery poplars and fatter trees that look like broccoli florets.

Mathilde’s hand brushes my arm as she shifts down a gear when the van begins to grumble on an incline. It’s accidental, but suddenly I’m aware of her rather than our surroundings. She’s wearing a white shirt, cotton sleeves rolled just below her elbows. Her hands look weathered on the steering wheel. Against the brown skin her chipped fingernails are pink with health.

The silence, which until then I haven’t noticed, begins to feel uncomfortable.

‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ I ask to break it.

She blinks as though her thoughts are far away. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You spoke English when I first woke in the loft. Did you learn it at school?’

‘My mother taught me. She was a teacher, before she got married. Languages. English, German and Italian.’

‘So do you speak all of those?’

‘Not really. A little Italian, but I’ve forgotten most of that now.’

‘How about Gretchen?’ I ask, remembering her sister’s blank face when I lapsed into English.

‘No. My mother died before Gretchen was old enough to learn,’ Mathilde says flatly, and then: ‘We’re here.’

She pulls into the forecourt of a dirty white building. It’s little more than a shack with a garage at one side and a bar-tabac at the other. A rusted sign for Stella Artois hangs outside, and a few battered tables and chairs stand under a faded awning.

Mathilde pulls up by one of the pumps. She seems calm enough, but there’s a tiny pulse visible in the open neck of her shirt, fluttering like a trip hammer. For some reason I feel sorry for her, and what I say next surprises me as much as her.

‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’

She looks at me, and for a second there’s a flash of what could be alarm. Then it’s gone. ‘No, thank you. But I need fuel, so there’s time if you want one.’

My face is red as I unfasten my seatbelt. As it slithers over me I have a sudden flashback to the bloodstained seatbelt in the Audi, and quickly climb out. The hum of the pump starts from behind me as I settle the crutch under my arm and go across the dusty concrete to the bar.

Inside it’s dark, unlit except by the window and open doorway. There aren’t many customers: three or four men at the tables and an older one sitting at the bar. The barman is drawing a beer as I enter, expertly flipping up the tap to stop the flow, then whisking the foam from the top with a wooden spatula. He sets it down for the old man, who doesn’t look up from his newspaper. I get one or two glances as I limp in, but it feels so good to be in a bar again, back in society, that I almost commit the unforgivable sin of smiling.

Instead, keeping my face acceptably deadpan, I go and sit on one of the high stools.

‘Six packs of Camels and a beer,’ I say, in response to the enquiring lift of the barman’s chin.

He’s a thin man in his fifties, receding hair brushed sideways to hide a balding crown. I know how John Mills felt in Ice Cold in Alex as I watch him pour the beer, angling the stemmed glass so that the foam doesn’t become too thick. I’ve worked in enough bars myself to appreciate the practised way he does it, but the associations that accompany the memory are unwelcome. I put them from my mind as he sets the beer down in front of me.

The glass is cold and beaded with condensation. Slowly, I raise it to my lips and drink. The beer is icy and clean, with a faint flavour of hops. I make myself stop before I empty the glass completely, lower it, and breathe a sigh.

The barman is watching me. ‘Good?’

‘Very.’

‘Another?’

I’m tempted, but I don’t want to keep Mathilde waiting. From where I am I can see the van through the window, but she’s out of sight around the far side. ‘Better not.’

The barman wipes the counter. ‘Travelled far?’

‘No, I’m staying round here.’

‘Whereabouts?’

I’m already regretting saying anything. But he’s looking at me, waiting. ‘A farm, just up the road.’

‘The Dubreuil place?’

‘No.’ I tell myself it hardly matters: no one here knows me. ‘They’re called Arnaud.’

The barman pauses his wiping to stare at me. Then he calls to someone behind me at the tables. ‘Hey, Jean-Claude, this guy’s staying at Arnaud’s farm!’

Conversations stop. There’s a rustle as the old man reading the newspaper lowers it to watch. Bewildered, I look around. Everyone’s attention is on a burly character in dust-covered bib-and-brace overalls. He’s around forty, with a dark growth of stubble and black eyebrows that form a single line across the bridge of his nose. He puts down his beer glass and looks at me, taking in my red hair, bandaged foot and the crutch.

‘English?’ His voice is brusque but not hostile.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’re working for Arnaud?’

I give what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just passing through.’

‘Passing through his daughters, you mean,’ someone from another table comments. He’s younger than me, with oil-stained jeans and a nasty grin. There’s a general chuckling from the group he’s with, but the burly man doesn’t join in.

‘Watch your mouth, Didier.’

The laughter dies away. I finish my beer without tasting it. I glance outside to see if Mathilde’s finished filling up. I can’t see her.

‘What happened to your foot?’ the man asks.

‘I trod on a nail.’ It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

‘Must have been a big nail.’

‘It was.’

The barman puts my cigarettes down. My face is flaming as I cram them in my pockets and fumble for the money. He halfdrops my change so the coins roll on the counter. As I gather it up the door opens.

It’s Mathilde.

Her footsteps are the only sound as she comes over to the bar. Her face is composed, but there’s a flush to her throat and cheeks.

‘I’d like to pay for the fuel.’

The barman looks over at the burly individual in bib and braces, then rings in the sale. Only then does Mathilde acknowledge the other man’s presence, although the way she turns to face him tells me she’s known he’s there all along.

‘Jean-Claude.’

‘Mathilde.’

It’s agonizingly formal. Nothing else is said as the barman hands her the change. More politely than he did mine, I notice. He even inclines his head slightly as she takes it.

‘Thank you.’

I can feel them all watching us as we walk to the door. I let her go out first, so I’m not sure if she hears the quick pig-grunt from the one called Didier or the stifled laughter that follows it. I close the door without looking back and limp after her as quickly as I can. Neither of us speaks as we get into the van. I wait for her to say something, but she starts the engine and pulls out without a word.

‘Nice neighbours,’ I comment.

Mathilde stares through the insect-flecked windscreen. ‘They’re not used to strangers.’

I don’t think it was my being a stranger that was the problem. I want to ask why Arnaud’s name prompted such a reaction, and who Jean-Claude is. But Mathilde’s manner makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.

As we drive back to the farm in silence, I wonder if I’ve just met Michel’s father.

It’s a relief to be inside the farm’s borders again. A fragile sense of security returns as Mathilde closes the gate behind us and re-fastens the padlock. She’s filled fuel cans as well as the van’s tank, but declines my offer to help unload them. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later,’ is all she says.

The beautiful evening is lost on me as I go back down to the barn. I know I can’t stay hidden on the farm for ever but I wish I’d never let Mathilde take me to the bar. I’ve drawn attention to myself needlessly, all for the sake of a beer and a few packs of cigarettes. And I don’t even know why. I’m not surprised that there’s no love lost between Arnaud and his neighbours — God knows, it’s hard to imagine him getting on with anybody. Even so, the atmosphere in the bar seemed about more than the usual small-town feud.

He must have really pissed someone off.

I take the cigarettes up to the loft. I’m getting adept at handling the steps, and when I stop when I reach the first-floor gallery it isn’t because I’m out of breath.

The trapdoor is open.

I remember closing it when I left. I pause, listening, but there’s no noise coming from inside. I go up the rest of the steps as quietly as I can, although anyone up there must have heard me by now. Then I look through the open hatchway.

Gretchen is sitting on the bed. Her back is to me and my rucksack is beside her, half its contents scattered on the mattress. I don’t see the polythene package, but it was buried right at the bottom. Gretchen evidently found what she wanted before she got that far. She’s moving her head rhythmically, the earphones almost hidden in her thick hair. I can hear the tinny whisper of music from them as I go up the rest of the steps and walk up behind her, no longer trying to be silent.

She opens her eyes in surprise as I lean down and switch off the MP3 player. ‘Oh! I didn’t hear you.’

‘What are you doing?’

I try not to sound angry but it comes out accusing. Gretchen looks instantly guilty.

‘Nothing. I was only listening to some music.’

I grab a handful of clothes and begin stuffing them back into the rucksack. As I do I feel to make sure the package is in there. Some of the tension leaves me when I touch the plastic wrapper, but my hands are still shaking.

‘You should ask.’

‘I did! You said I could!’

Now she mentions it, I can vaguely recall saying something. It was when I thought I was leaving the next day, though, and I’d forgotten all about it. Gretchen obviously hasn’t. ‘I meant when I was here,’ I say, less heatedly.

‘It’s our barn. I don’t need your permission.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can go through my things.’

‘You think I’m interested in your old socks and T-shirts?’ She’s becoming angry herself. ‘I don’t like your stupid music anyway! And if Papa knew I was here you’d be in trouble!’

There seems a flaw in that logic, but I don’t have the energy to argue. ‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped. I just wasn’t expecting anyone up here.’

Gretchen seems mollified. Showing no sign of wanting to leave, she leans against the rocking horse, stroking its mane as I take the cigarettes and lighter from my pockets and drop them on the mattress.

‘Can I try one?’

‘Do you smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Then you shouldn’t start.’

I know I’m being hypocritical but I can’t help it. Gretchen pouts. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’

‘I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day.’

She considers that, fingers twirling a hank of black horsehair. ‘How long are you going to stay? Until you’ve finished the whole house?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying hard not to think that far ahead.

‘Papa says you’re running away from something.’

‘Papa doesn’t know everything.’

‘He knows more than you. I’m not sure he even likes you. But if you’re nice to me I’ll put in a good word.’

I don’t say anything to that. Hoping she’ll take the hint and leave, I gather up another T-shirt from the bed. Something falls from it.

It’s the photograph.

‘Who’s that?’ Gretchen asks.

‘No one.’

I go to pick it up but Gretchen beats me to it. She holds the photograph away from me, teasingly.

‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then why are you carrying her picture around with you?’

‘I forgot to throw it away.’

‘Then you won’t care what happens to it.’ Grinning, she picks up the cigarette lighter from the mattress and holds it under the photograph.

‘Don’t,’ I say, reaching for it.

She twists away, still holding the photograph poised over the lighter. ‘Ah-ah, I thought you weren’t bothered?’

‘Look, just give it to me.’

‘Not until you tell me who it is.’ She flicks a flame from the lighter. ‘You’ll have to be quick …’

I make a grab for the photograph. Gretchen gives a delighted laugh and snatches it away, and as she does one corner dips into the flame. There’s a bloom of yellow as the glossy card ignites. Gretchen squeals and drops it. I knock the burning photograph away from the mattress, trying to put it out as the image blackens and curls. But it’s fully alight, and the loft is a tinderbox of dry wood. Snatching up the bottle of water from by the bed I quickly douse the flames.

There’s a hiss as the fire is snuffed out.

A burnt smell fills the loft. I stare at the puddle of ash and water on the floor.

‘You made me burn my fingers,’ Gretchen pouts.

I set the bottle down. ‘You’d better go.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have grabbed for it.’

‘Your father will wonder where you are.’

She hesitates, but mention of Arnaud does the trick. I don’t look round as she goes through the trapdoor. When her footsteps have died away I bend down and pick through the wet ash. There’s nothing left of the photograph except a small piece of white border, blackened at the edges.

I let it drop back onto the floor and go to find something to clean up.

Chloe goes missing one night after work. I’ve been out with Callum and a couple of students after the last class. Not to the Domino, though: not any more. Where I used to enjoy being able to look up and see Chloe working behind the bar, anticipating the quiet moments when she’d be able to join us, now there’s no pleasure in it.

‘Do you feel you have to check on me?’ she asked one night, when I’d said I’d see her there later.

‘No,’ I’d said, surprised. ‘If you don’t want me to come, just say so.’

She’d shrugged, turning away. ‘It’s up to you.’

It’s almost one o’clock by the time I leave Callum and walk back to the flat. The smell of oil and turpentine is less strong now. Chloe hasn’t painted since before we went to Brighton, but that’s something we don’t talk about.

She won’t finish at the bar till two at the earliest, so I make myself a coffee and pick out a DVD. I settle on L’Été meurtrier, which like all the others in my collection I’ve seen several times. Chloe claims I like it because Isabelle Adjani spends virtually the entire film naked. She has a point, but the film’s cinematography is beautiful even without that.

I watch the cycle of passion and tragedy run its inevitable course. Only when the film ends do I realize how late it is: Chloe should have been back an hour ago.

No one answers when I phone the bar. I wait it out for another half-hour, then leave a note in case she comes back and set off for the Domino. The streets are empty. I follow the same route to the King’s Road that Chloe and I used to walk, although since I’ve stopped meeting her she usually gets either a lift or a taxi. The doors of the bar are locked, no lights showing from inside, but I bang on them anyway. When the echoes have died down the building remains dark and silent.

I don’t know what to do. I stand on the pavement and look up and down the deserted street, as if I might see her walking towards me. I’ve no idea where most of the bar staff live, but I once went with Chloe to a party at Tanja’s. I don’t even know if she’s been working tonight, but it’s all I can think of.

Even though I walk quickly it’s nearly five o’clock when I reach her flat in Shepherd’s Bush. The entrance is unlit and I have to use the light from my phone to read the names on the intercom. I press hers and wait. It’s cold, but that isn’t why I’m shivering. When she doesn’t answer I press again, and this time keep on pressing.

‘All right, all right, who is it?’ The voice crackles through the intercom, angry and distorted.

‘Tanja, it’s Sean,’ I interrupt, putting my mouth close to the speaker grille. ‘Do you know where—’

‘Sean who?’

‘Chloe’s boyfriend. She—’

‘Jesus, do you know what time it is?’

‘I know, I’m sorry, but Chloe didn’t come home from work. Do you know where she is?’

‘No, why should I?’ She sounds tired and irritable.

My heart sinks. I’d hoped she’d say Chloe was there, that she’d gone to a party. Anything.

‘Did you see her leave?’

‘Yeah, she … Oh, no, that’s right, I left before her tonight. She was still talking to this guy who came in. She said for me to go.’

‘A guy? What guy? Who was he?’

‘Just some guy. Look, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow—’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘No, I’ve told you, he was just some guy! Flashy, but Chloe seemed to know him. Now can I get back to bed?’

The early-morning workers are beginning to filter onto the streets as I walk back to the flat. The note is still on the kitchen table where I left it. I look in the bedroom to check anyway, but the bed is empty.

At eight o’clock I call Yasmin. I don’t really expect Chloe to be there. She isn’t.

‘Have you called the police?’ Yasmin asks, instantly matter-of-fact.

‘No, not yet.’ That’s a last resort I’ve been putting off. ‘Do you think I should?’

‘Give it till noon,’ she says at last.

It’s nearly eleven o’clock when I hear someone unlocking the door. I’m at the kitchen table, my mouth foul from coffee and fatigue. When Chloe walks in there’s a moment’s breathless relief. She pauses on seeing me, then closes the door.

‘Jesus, where’ve you been? Are you all right?’

‘Yeah.’ She makes a vague gesture. ‘I stayed at a friend’s.’

‘I’ve been worried sick! Why didn’t you call?’

‘It was getting late. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

Chloe won’t look at me. Her face is pale, blue shadows marking the skin under her eyes. The relief I felt has already gone, replaced by something else.

‘What friend?’

‘No one you know.’ She starts moving towards the bathroom. ‘I’ve got to—’

‘What friend?’

Chloe stops with her back to me. ‘Someone I used to know, that’s all.’

‘Tanja told me you saw some man in the bar last night. Was it him?’

Her head jerks in surprise. Then she gives a quick nod.

‘Is he an ex-boyfriend?’

Again, a nod. The breath seems to be squeezed from my chest. ‘Did you sleep with him?’

She’s turned towards me now, her face drawn. ‘Don’t, please—’

‘Did you sleep with him?’

‘No!’ she shouts, suddenly angry. ‘Nothing happened, all right? Now leave me alone!’

‘Leave you alone? You stay out all night with another man and expect me to just ignore it?’

‘Yes! It’s none of your business!’

Stunned, I stare at her. My anger’s still there, but I know if I give in to it there’ll be no going back. ‘You really mean that?’

‘No. I don’t know.’ Quietly, she starts to cry. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’

She rushes into the bathroom and locks the door. I sit there feeling nothing, absolutely nothing at all.