The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  “Have you heard of Damien, the devil’s son?” his brother said. The boy shook his head, midway between terrified and thrilled. “He steals children. Steals them from their homes and buries them in boxes in his garden.”

  The boy wrote it down in his notebook. “He plants them? Do they grow?”

  “He doesn’t plant them, idiot. He keeps them there and trims off pieces when he’s hungry. He’ll cut off their toes and fingers and boil them for a snack. He’ll take their eyes as dumplings for a stew.”

  “Don’t they scream in the boxes?” asked the boy. “Don’t they scream for help?”

  “No,” said his brother, grinning. “Because the first thing he does is cut out their tongues.”

  The door to the bedroom opened suddenly, and both boys jumped.

  “OK, you two,” said his mother. She walked over and pulled the sheet away. “Time for bed.” She saw the nervous expression on his face and frowned at the older boy. “You haven’t been scaring him again?”

  “He asked me to!” said his brother, looking at him to confirm it.

  His mother looked at him too. He nodded.

  “Just because he asks doesn’t mean you should do it. Now, come on. Get to your own room. I’ll check on you in a minute.”

  His brother went, complaining. When he’d gone, the small boy’s mother looked at him and smiled. “Are you OK?”

  He nodded. She took his notebook and glanced through it, shaking her head. He had taken down the details of six monsters already and drawn little sketches. He had titled it “Monsters and How to Avoid Them.” So far he had gleaned only one piece of advice from his brother on the avoiding part: be silent.

  “You know,” said his mother, “I’m sure you can think of better ways to spend your nights than worrying about monsters.”

  He looked at her and thought how lucky he was to have the most beautiful mother in the world, the most loving, and the bravest.

  “What if the monsters come?” asked the boy. “I need to know how to fight them.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry,” she said, smiling. “We have an agreement. Monsters just aren’t allowed here. Now, lie down.”

  He reached across to the little bookshelf next to his bed and pulled out his favorite, The Fairy of the Woods. It had been his mother’s when she was his age; that was why he loved it so much. He offered the book to her. “Read to me? I’m worried I’ll have nightmares.”

  Gently, she shook her head. “It’s too late for a story,” she said. “And I’ll just be in my room next door.” She took the book from him and held it up for him to see. The Fairy of the Woods smiled out at him from the cover, a promise of safety. “And whenever I’m not here, you’ll always have the fairy.”

  “Does she really exist?”

  “Of course,” she said, putting the book back in its place. “If ever I’m gone, she’ll look after you until I come back.”

  “But how will I know it’s her?”

  She smiled. “You’ll see her, and you’ll just know. Now, it’s time to sleep.” She kissed his forehead, then left him with the night-light on in the corner. Slowly rotating, it projected jungle animals across the ceiling and walls. He didn’t think he would sleep easily, but he drifted off soon enough.

  Then he woke suddenly. The sound that had woken him had been brief, deep, and loud. He sat up. The sound came again, quickly followed by his brother’s worried voice.

  “Mum!”

  He heard his brother’s door open, heard feet run on wood. Then he heard his brother scream in fear: “Mum!”

  His brother screamed again, but it was cut off by that same deep sound he’d heard before, and he suddenly understood what it was.

  Gunfire.

  The monsters had come.

  Be silent, he thought. He stood and walked toward the wardrobe, his breathing rapid. He stepped inside.

  One of them came into his room. The boy gasped when he saw the figure, thin and dark, a man wearing a balaclava. He felt the urine flow down his leg, stream down and out under the base of the wardrobe door.

  The man heard his gasp and saw the liquid. He turned his gaze to the wardrobe and stepped toward the boy’s hiding place. “Don’t let him see you,” the man whispered. “Stay where you are, whatever happens. I’ll come for you later. You’ll be safe.”

  A different voice, a darker voice, came from outside the room. “Where are you?”

  The boy felt his panic rise. He thought of his mother and brother. He started to sob.

  “Calm down,” whispered the man in the room desperately. The boy knew his sobs were loud, that they would give him away, but he couldn’t stifle them. “You know what to do when you’re scared? Imagine yourself somewhere else, somewhere you’ve been happy. Imagine yourself there, and sing your favorite song. Sing it in your head.”

  Be silent, the small boy thought, and he tried to do what the man had told him. He thought of the beach at Toulon, his mother’s birthplace, where they’d had their last vacation as a family. His father had taught him a song then—an old one, with nonsense words but a tune that he’d thought he must always have known, it was so simple. He sang the song to himself. He concentrated on the words, how the music should sound, the tenor of his father’s voice. It was enough to calm his sobbing and let him stay quiet.

  Then the other monster came into the room, huge and fat, cold eyes visible beneath the balaclava.

  “What are you doing?” the monster said to the thin man. “Who were you talking to?”

  The thin man didn’t reply, but the fat one sensed something and turned his head to the wardrobe. He started to raise his arm, and on the end of that arm, the monster wore a gun.

  “He’s just a child,” said the thin man. “He’s just a child.”

  The small boy watched as the monster’s gun fired its bullet. He felt it strike his chest, felt the warm blood trickle down him, then pour.

  Then the boy felt nothing, for a long, long time.

  • • •

  Julie had woken early, lying on the sofa with her head on Victor’s lap and his hand on her hair. She sat up to find him asleep, the first time she’d ever seen him like that. He was still sitting upright, propped against the arm of the sofa; carefully, she moved him across and laid him down, then covered him with a blanket. She watched for a few moments, but he didn’t stir. She went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

  When she heard Victor’s cry ten minutes later, she hurried to him.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “Was it a nightmare?”

  He didn’t speak. He just put his arms around Julie and held her tightly, trembling.

  “You’re safe,” she said. “I’m here.” Under his breath Victor seemed to be humming. Julie could make out a simple tune. She wondered if she’d heard it before, but she couldn’t place it.

  There was a sudden scream from the hallway. Victor let go of her and looked fearfully at the apartment door, then back to Julie.

  With trepidation she stood and went out to the hall. Nathalie Payet’s door was open. Inside the apartment stood a woman with her hands clamped to her face, staring farther in. The woman turned and looked at Julie, terrified, then looked back inside.

  Julie stepped slowly across the hall and into the apartment. She looked to where the woman’s gaze was directed. Nathalie Payet lay on the rug in her living room. She was motionless, surrounded by a wide, red pool. Julie could see the vicious wounds to her stomach.

  The wounds where, even now, her five cats lapped at the blood.

  Julie retreated back into the hall, breathing fast, back into the safety of her own apartment. Then she turned every lock on the door and ran to Victor. She held him close.

  Together, they were safe, Julie knew. They would protect each other from the monsters in the world.

  31

  Claire had
woken before dawn that morning. For the first time in two years, she had looked at the empty space in her bed and wondered if she could—maybe—take her husband back. In some ways it would simplify the situation, and dear Lord it needed simplifying. Jérôme’s suggestion that they move had sounded like the right thing to do, but she’d been suspicious that his motives weren’t all about what was best for Camille.

  When she caught herself looking at the bed and thinking of Jérôme beside her again, she realized that she was rationalizing the decision she had already made. She wanted to move. Yes, it would be better for Camille. Better and safer. Yes, Léna would be angry, but she would come to understand. And Jérôme?

  That would take longer. But after everything they’d been through over the last four years, he would just have to accept that.

  In the meantime, her relationship with Pierre had completely stalled. From the moment Camille had returned, he had backed off; honorable, yes, but it left her disappointed. Tellingly, though, she had let him do it: her prayers had always been for her old life to return, and surely that included Jérôme.

  She got up and made coffee. When Jérôme emerged half an hour later from the spare room in the basement, she poured him a cup. He looked terrible. She was glad to have had the benefit of an hour up and about. “Still not sleeping?” she said.

  He shook his head. “Not much.”

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “About moving. It’s only a matter of time before she draws too much attention for us to fend off.”

  He smiled at her and put his hand on hers.

  “I’m doing it for Camille,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. “I don’t know about the rest. You didn’t make it easy for me, Jérôme. I can’t promise we could ever…” She trailed off.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” he said. “But I’ve changed. Everything has changed. We have another chance, and we have a responsibility to our daughters. I really will make this work, I promise.”

  She smiled. She could see the hope in Jérôme’s eyes and she knew some of that hope was within her too.

  Then the doorbell rang. Jérôme went to answer it.

  “Hello, Monsieur Séguret,” said a voice. Curious, Claire joined her husband. Two police officers stood there. Her first thought was of her daughters, and she immediately did a mental check: Camille was in her room, she was sure, and she had heard Léna stumble in from the pub in the early hours. “We have a few questions to ask you,” said one officer. “Can you come to the station with us?”

  Jérôme looked at Claire, baffled. “What’s it about?” he asked.

  “It’s about Lucy Clarsen.”

  Claire looked back at Jérôme, but the bafflement in his expression had gone. Instead, there was a weary recognition. Claire felt weary too: she’d heard the name several times before in the last year and knew the woman’s reputation. “You know her?” said Claire, not bothering to disguise the hostility in her voice.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s nothing. I’ll explain later.” He took her hand and squeezed it, but she let it sit there, limp, her eyes cold. She shut the door once he’d gone.

  “What was that about?” said Camille.

  Startled, Claire turned. Camille was on the stairs, already dressed.

  “You made me jump,” said Claire. “I didn’t hear you come down.”

  Camille shrugged. “I don’t always stomp around like an elephant, whatever Dad says. Is he in trouble?”

  Claire looked toward the door. She didn’t want Camille to see the anger and worry on her face. “Nothing serious,” she said, thinking, Like hell it’s not. “Sleep OK?”

  “No, but…”

  Claire recognized what words were coming next and joined in. “I’m hungry,” they said in unison. Camille laughed.

  “I’ll make you something,” said Claire. As she cooked, she talked the conversation around to the decision to move. Whatever Claire’s feelings for Jérôme, she knew it was the right choice. She hoped Léna would see that too, eventually, but she hadn’t expected any resistance from Camille. She’d been wrong.

  “Where would we go?” said Camille, and Claire could tell at once that she didn’t like the idea.

  “We haven’t gotten that far, not yet,” said Claire. “It’ll be better for you. You can see that, can’t you? You won’t have to hide. You can live a normal life.”

  “I already don’t need to hide.”

  “It’s not that simple, Camille.”

  “Alice,” she said. “My name is Alice. Besides, the only reason Dad wants to move is because he wants you back. And away from that Pierre guy.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Claire protested.

  Camille scowled. “Drop it. I know you and Dad broke up. I sure as hell don’t want to leave, and I think Léna will feel the same way.”

  Claire opened her mouth, ready to respond, but then she closed it again. She knew her daughter better than anyone and knew that Camille was coiled up and ready to spring into a serious argument if that was what it would take for her to get her way. Instead, Claire shrugged and took a drink of her coffee. As their plans became firmer, the task of talking her daughters into it would become more pressing; they were going, she was certain of that, but for now there was no need for an argument. She saw the confusion in Camille’s eyes, but Camille let it drop too. Maybe, thought Claire, she’d naively thought it a victory.

  As Camille ate, they heard Léna’s footsteps through the ceiling above them.

  “Ah,” said Camille. “She’s finally decided to show her face.” Claire could detect a hint of bile in Camille’s voice. She thought the two of them might have had some kind of falling-out, and the idea distressed her. She wondered what it could have been. Things had seemed to be going so well between them.

  “Mum…” Léna called as she came downstairs. Claire knew right away that something was badly wrong, and before she even managed to stand, Léna, dressed only in her underwear, stumbled down the final steps, falling unconscious in front of her.

  Claire gasped, horrified at what she saw: a long wound running down her daughter’s spine. Red, raw, and looking badly infected.

  32

  The previous night, Adèle had gotten a call from Thomas to let her know things at the station were busy, that he’d be catching what sleep he could in the makeshift beds there. He didn’t do it often; Adèle always told him she didn’t mind, but she did.

  Last night, however, not long after Thomas had called, Simon had come to the house. And for once, Adèle was grateful for Thomas’s heavy workload.

  When she answered the door, she stood looking at Simon, still only half believing he was real. After Léna had come to talk to her, she’d realized that her own understanding had been completely wrong, that it wasn’t her imagination. She brought him inside and closed the door, then put her hand on his chest, overwhelmed at his presence. “How is this possible?” she said. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

  Simon shook his head. “I don’t know how. I promise you, I don’t know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, anguished. “I thought you were just a ghost. I thought you were in my head. How could you let me think that?”

  He nodded. So, he’d at least suspected that had been what she thought. “I was scared, Adèle. When I came here that first night, you rejected me. Then at the library, when you spoke to me and accepted me, I didn’t dare say anything to break the spell. But I still hadn’t understood. I hadn’t known what had happened to me, or how long I’d been away. When I understood, I came back again. You showed me Chloé.”

  “And you still didn’t tell me you were real?”

  “In case I frightened you.”

  She drew him close. They kissed as they’d kissed ten years ago: no awkwardness, no distance, no anger or fear. Just them.

  Then th
oughts of Thomas intruded, and of Chloé. She pulled away, despairing. She knew there were no easy answers. “We can’t just pretend,” she said. “Things have changed.”

  “I know,” he said. He took her hands in his. “It’s up to you. It all has to be your decision. But whatever you decide, remember how much I love you.”

  She smiled at him, tears falling, then held him tightly. “Chloé comes first,” she said. “Before any of us.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She was filled with adoration, confusion, guilt, longing. And pride too, that Simon was so clear that the choice was hers. He had come back a better man, she thought. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “The Helping Hand shelter. I should probably get back there soon, or they might lock up without me.”

  “Stay here,” she said. “It’s too late for you to go back tonight.”

  He looked uncertain. “What about Thomas?”

  “Thomas won’t be back until morning, and even then it won’t be long before he goes out to work again. The attic is clean—I can make up a bed for you there.”

  To her relief, he agreed to stay. She told herself that being with him would let her make up her mind about what course of action to take, probably the most important decision of her life. She had to get to know the Simon who had come back to her.

  She took him up to the attic and found the camp bed and a sleeping bag. They kissed again. Only that. He was eager and wanted more, of course, but she knew her head needed to be clear if she was to take that kind of step.

  In the morning, she hurried to get Chloé off to school, desperate for time with her new secret.

  “I heard noises last night,” Chloé told her. “In the attic.”

  “Mice,” Adèle explained. “It must have been mice. Don’t worry. I’ll go up now and check.”

  “Aren’t you working?”

  “No, I took the day off.”

  “Wedding stuff?”

  The wedding. Adèle’s mind stalled for a moment. Less than two weeks, and she was supposed to marry Thomas. Her decision couldn’t be put off for long.