The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  Pierre let Sandrine show the officer out. He took Victor’s hand and brought him inside the dormitory. Beds lined both sides of the room, radiators giving off some pleasing warmth. The boy certainly needed some heat—his hand was like ice.

  “You can sleep in here,” he said. “See? It’s a bit like a summer camp. Pick whichever bed you want.” Pierre smiled, but the boy seemed troubled and entirely uninterested in what he was saying. Pierre kept his smile going all the same. “OK then, how about I choose for you? Here we are.”

  The boy sat on the edge of the bed and stared straight ahead of him. Pierre wondered if there might be deeper issues at play—autism perhaps? Still, the boy would be Social Services’s problem soon enough. There was little he could do except make him feel secure.

  “I’ll be next door,” he said. “Sandrine will look after you. So there’s no need to be worried—just come talk to us, OK?”

  Silence.

  Pierre still had that smile plastered on his face, and it was in danger of cracking. He could see the upset grow in Victor’s expression and felt a sudden concern for him. He had no idea what kind of ordeal the boy had gone through. “You’re not going to cry, are you?” Pierre asked. Victor just looked past him, anxious. Pierre knelt down and took the boy’s freezing hands in his. “There’s no need to be scared. You might not think it to look at me, but I was a little boy once. Just like you. And when I was scared, do you know what my grandmother would say?” The boy shook his head. “She would say, imagine yourself somewhere else, somewhere you’ve been happy. Imagine yourself there, and sing your favorite song. Sing it in your head.”

  The boy’s expression changed suddenly, and at last Pierre’s smile faltered and died away.

  With a mixture of recognition and fury, Victor was staring straight at him.

  39

  After dropping Victor off at the Helping Hand, Laure went back to the station. The boy had given her the creeps, silent the whole time but watching everything with such intensity that it put her on edge.

  She was glad to pass the responsibility on. Taking him from Julie had been one of the most difficult things she’d ever done, whatever the rights and wrongs, but of course, seeing Julie at all had been hard, old wounds reopened.

  Taking the boy from her had felt like a transgression Julie would probably never forgive, no matter how irrational her desire to keep him with her seemed. Before Julie had been assaulted, Laure had never given the idea of children much thought; Julie hadn’t either, as far as Laure knew. But the brutality of the attack had left Julie without any chance of conceiving, and in the weeks afterward, it had become clear how devastating this was for her.

  In her clumsy attempts to console and reassure, Laure had just made things worse. Julie had read everything Laure said as contempt for the very idea of them ever having children, for the idea of two women becoming parents. Then Laure had mentioned her career and Julie launched a barrage at her, calling every part of their relationship into question before shutting down. Within a few days Julie had made it known to the hospital staff that Laure was no longer welcome.

  Laure had hoped that giving her time might allow things to heal, and in the weeks and months after Julie left the hospital, she’d sent cards, hopeful and tentative, terrified that she was sending too many, fearful that she was sending too few. Julie never replied to any of them.

  It had come as a shock to Laure just how quickly the most important relationship she’d ever had—and one she’d believed would go the distance—could unravel. Whether the outcome would have been different if she’d handled it better she couldn’t know, but the self-recrimination that followed was long and bitter. Laure didn’t need the cold look in Julie’s eyes to punish her. She could manage that very well on her own.

  When she got back to the station after leaving Victor at the shelter, the pathologist’s report on Nathalie Payet was waiting for her. She read it over. At the scene, the pathologist’s opinion had been tentative, but the postmortem was conclusive; here it was, in black and white.

  She sought out Bruno, taking the report with her. When she found him and held it up for him to see, he just nodded. “I already heard,” he said.

  She frowned. “Christ, that got around quickly. I’ve only just read it.”

  “Well, good news travels fast.”

  Laure raised an eyebrow. Bad news traveled faster, in her experience. “Good news for us maybe,” she said. “Not so much for Nathalie Payet. Has there been anything on Simon Delaître?”

  “Nothing since he was spotted earlier. But we have three cars searching now.”

  “And Lucy Clarsen?”

  Bruno raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard?”

  She shook her head. “Too busy on the Payet case.”

  “Well, the first news on Lucy Clarsen is that she’s still hanging on,” said Bruno. “She might even make it.”

  “They think she could pull through?” Laure was amazed. Given the injuries, even the possibility was astonishing.

  “It’ll be touch and go,” said Bruno. “But yes, she might. As for the investigation, well…we found a diary in Clarsen’s apartment. Turned out to be a client appointment book. A dozen men admitted to having sexual relations with her. Some even admitted to paying, but they all denied she was a prostitute.”

  Laure was exasperated. “How do they work that one?”

  Bruno smirked. “They say it wasn’t the sex that they were paying for.”

  Laure laughed. “What, they went for a massage and got carried away?”

  “No. They all say she was some sort of clairvoyant. Getting them to talk about it was like pulling teeth, but they all said the same thing. She contacted the dead.”

  “Sure she did,” mocked Laure. “And was that before or after they slept together?”

  Bruno’s eyes widened. “During.”

  Laure whistled, impressed. “That’s a new one.”

  Leaving Bruno to his paperwork, she went back to her desk and readied herself to call Julie. When Laure had first heard about the Payet death, like everyone else, she’d assumed Lucy’s attacker—and almost certainly Julie’s—had struck again. Most of the officers there hadn’t known of the link with Julie, hadn’t known that a previous victim of the attacker was living right next door to another possible victim. Laure had found it deeply concerning that the person who had been attacked was Julie’s neighbor. Too big a coincidence, it would have been a significant move on the killer’s part.

  However, even the initial examinations at the scene had undermined this theory. There were too many disparities—in each of the three previous attacks, similar knife blades had been used on women walking alone in isolated areas; and of course, there was the cannibalism.

  None of that featured in the Payet case, and the weapon had been a pair of scissors found beside the body. Now that she’d read the pathologist’s report, Laure found that the truth was even more unexpected.

  And it was something Julie deserved to know, immediately. Laure took a breath and dialed her number.

  “Hello,” answered Julie.

  “It’s me,” said Laure. She carried on speaking quickly before Julie had the chance to hang up. “I wanted to tell you, I took Victor to the Helping Hand. He’s safe there. He’ll be well looked after. And I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Julie sighed heavily. “Will I be able to see him?”

  “Maybe,” said Laure. “I’ll try to find out. But there’s something else. We found your neighbor’s cause of death. It wasn’t him, Julie. It wasn’t the man who attacked you.”

  There was another pause. “Who was it then?”

  “She did it to herself,” said Laure. “It looks like a suicide. I’m sorry to break it to you like this, but I just wanted to let you know.” Julie was silent. “Are you st
ill there?” asked Laure.

  “Yeah,” said Julie. She sounded relieved.

  “Will you be OK?” said Laure. “Shall I come over? I finish soon. If you want some company, I can—”

  “No,” said Julie quietly. “Good-bye.” She hung up.

  Laure stared at the phone in her hand. The offer to come over had surprised her as much as it had—presumably—surprised Julie, but Laure still cared. However much she tried to forget it.

  Good-bye, she thought and put the phone down.

  40

  After his interrogation, Jérôme found himself sitting in the police station for almost an hour, waiting on a vague promise of a patrol car to give him a lift home—a promise that didn’t seem likely to materialize any time soon. He finally gave up and told them he would get the bus. The desk officer shrugged.

  On the journey he decided to confess to Claire that he’d been seeing Lucy. He could have made up something to cover his tracks, but she would probably find out sooner or later. In a small town, he supposed there was a good chance Claire had already heard rumors about Lucy being a prostitute, and he was sure that Léna suspected.

  Even confessing to seeing a prostitute, he thought, would probably be easier than the full truth. Much easier than going through the pain of the confession he’d given the police.

  He walked in.

  “Hello?” he called. “Claire?”

  He took off his coat and walked through to the kitchen, almost jumping when he saw Claire sitting at the table, weary eyes trained his way.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, concerned. He started toward her.

  The bitterness in her voice stopped him short. “You couldn’t even have called?”

  “I tried earlier, as soon as they’d finished with me. Nobody answered. What’s wrong?” Oh shit, he thought. She’s heard about Lucy already.

  “How could you, Jérôme?”

  He hung his head and steeled himself for what was coming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d been seeing Lucy for a while, but it was nothing, and—”

  “I don’t care about the whore,” said Claire, almost spitting out the words. “I already knew you were up to something like that.”

  He looked at her, baffled. If the anger wasn’t about Lucy, then what the hell was it about?

  “Your daughter is in the hospital,” she said loud and slow, as if she thought his hearing had gone.

  “Camille?” Jesus, he thought. If they started running tests, what would they find?

  Claire shook her head. “Didn’t you even get the message? Léna, Jérôme. Léna’s in the hospital.”

  “I didn’t get a message,” he said, hurt that she was holding that against him. He couldn’t have known. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “An old injury, one that hadn’t healed properly. On her back.”

  His face fell suddenly, and Claire saw it in his eyes.

  “How could you do it? How could you hit Léna?”

  “But I didn’t.” How on earth had she found out? “I didn’t hit her,” he explained. “She fell, Claire. I mean, yes, I—”

  She stood up. If she’d had anything heavy to hand, Jérôme was sure she’d have thrown it at him. “Get out,” she spat. “I want you to leave. Now.”

  “Did Léna tell you this?” he said. She’d been as keen as he was to keep it quiet, but maybe so much had changed…

  “Léna would only say that she’d fallen over in the Lake Pub. I could see there was more to it, but asking her about it just upset her.”

  “So if Léna didn’t tell you, who did?” he said. “The hospital?” He saw something in her eyes just before Claire looked away, and suddenly it clicked into place. “Pierre,” said Jérôme, thinking aloud. “Was that who you heard this from?”

  She ignored the question, and he knew he was right. “How could you hit your daughter?” she said.

  Pierre, Jérôme thought. Interfering with his family’s lives. “That’s not what happened. The bastard wasn’t even there!”

  “Jérôme,” she said, teeth gritted, purposeful. “Just look me in the eyes and answer me. Did you hurt Léna?”

  Hurt her. Yes, of course he had. He’d been in the Lake Pub, and they’d told him he’d had too much. They refused to give him any more to drink, and he started to shout at them. Léna came over, half humiliated, half concerned, trying to persuade him to go home. And he’d pushed her away. She’d fallen over a chair and hit the ground, hard, then she’d followed her dad out, the anger overriding the pain from the gash the chair leg had opened on her back.

  They’d both been horrified. He’d taken her to the hospital at once. She’d only agreed to let him take her so she could get away from her friends and limit her embarrassment.

  And that was all it was. Almost all. There was also what he’d said to her, something that had probably cut even deeper.

  Léna had been wary around him ever since.

  So, yes. He’d hurt her. He couldn’t deny it, and any attempt to explain would make things worse.

  “I want you out of here,” she said. “It’s over.”

  And for the second time in their marriage, Jérôme left.

  41

  Léna had woken in the dark, with the touch of Frédéric’s hand on her arm.

  But the room was empty. She sat up too quickly—the pain from the wound on her back flared. She swore.

  Carefully, she got out of the hospital bed and went to the window. The town was in darkness, save for the headlights on the sparse traffic—a power outage, she realized. The familiar streets looked almost forlorn, lost without light.

  She glanced at the door to the room and was relieved to see dim lighting in the hall. Of course, the hospital had its own emergency power; the light in her room was off to let her sleep.

  She raised her arms, flexing the skin on her back, gently testing the injury. It had thrown the doctors for a while. They’d swabbed the wound and taken samples, then claimed it was an old scar opening up again. A spontaneous keloid, they called it, but the rapid spread of it had them flummoxed.

  The puzzled-looking doctor had stood beside her, all white coat and efficiency, trying to be a reassuring presence. As if they had any clue as to what was really going on. “They can form over any kind of abrasion. Do you remember getting scraped or burned there, maybe?” the doctor had asked.

  “Maybe,” she’d said. Her mum had been with her and noted Léna’s reluctance to answer. She pressed and pressed until Léna told her the bare essence of it: she’d hurt it when she was knocked over in the Lake Pub a year before.

  Her mum pressed for more, and it all suddenly became too much. Hell, she was tired, and worried, and her back hurt, and Léna knew exactly why her mum was so eager to find something to blame.

  Because the real cause was right there: Camille, hovering near the far wall like a ghost, a constant reminder of everything that was fucked up in her life at the moment.

  And still her mum pushed for answers, until Léna overreacted. She shouted at them to leave, to give her some peace and quiet. Her mum was reluctant, but she eventually went, promising to be back first thing in the morning. Camille trailed out behind her, delivering one final pointed look at Léna before she left.

  Meanwhile, with test results pending, the doctors had warned her of the risk of infection and ulceration. They’d given her an injection of antibiotics—oh, and promises of some more swabs and samples to be taken in the morning. Painful ones, she presumed. They almost seemed pleased by the novelty of a mystery. Hah, she thought—if they loved medical conundrums, they should take a look at Camille. She’d love to see what they made of that.

  She sighed and gingerly tested her limits with the wound. It didn’t hurt, as long as she kept her movements within sensible boundaries.

  Then, standing in the dark, she felt Frédéric’s fingerti
ps on her arm again.

  Her hands shot to her mouth. The sensation had been far too real. She had a sudden image of Frédéric, with Camille. Surely not…

  Her clothes were in the closet on the far side of the room. She put them on over the hospital gown. The Lake Pub was maybe a thirty-minute walk. She was feeling fine. If she’d insisted, they would probably have had to discharge her anyway, she reckoned.

  She crept out of her room. The dim corridors, with their emergency lighting, were almost empty; dressed, nobody would think her a patient. She left unchallenged. It was only when she was halfway to the pub that the power came back. As it did, a thought occurred to her: How did she even know where Frédéric and Camille were? It was like…

  Like it used to be. Before Camille had died, back when—rare, fleeting—each could sense what the other was doing.

  She reached the pub and went inside, feeling horribly weak the instant she saw them. Frédéric and Camille sitting alone, sitting close. Laughing. She saw red, suddenly, knowing the risk Camille was taking, knowing she shouldn’t even be out of the house.

  And knowing too that it was more than that: a deep stab of jealousy as she saw the way they had their heads together, the playful smile Camille gave him, the deliberate brush of her hand on his leg. Léna gathered herself and strode across to them.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “Léna?” said Camille, guilt and anxiety washing across her face. “Are you OK?”

  Caught you, thought Léna. Fucking caught you. “They discharged me, didn’t they?” She turned to Frédéric and sneered at him. “Having fun?”

  Frédéric looked sheepish but defiant. “I invited your cousin in for a drink,” he said.

  “My cousin?” said Léna, bitter. “I don’t have one.”

  Frédéric’s smile grew nervous. “You don’t?”