Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  It’s my turn to walk off. I’ve not gone far when I hear her footsteps hurrying after me. ‘Sean!’

  I stop and turn. She puts her arms around me and rests her head on my chest. ‘Don’t go.’

  My relief is so strong it scares me. ‘I can’t handle you seeing somebody else. If you are, tell me now. Just don’t play games with me.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she says, her voice muffled. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t, I promise.’

  The pressure of her body snuggled against me feels warm and right. I stare over her head at the bleak chain of yellow lights running up the street. The frigid air carries an acrid tang from the unseen river. I stroke the familiar contours of Chloe’s back, feeling cold and remote with the certainty that she’s lying.

  10

  ‘I NEED CEMENT.’

  Mathilde looks up at me. The kitchen was empty when I returned my breakfast tray, so I guessed she’d be here in the vegetable garden. There’s a plastic bowl of freshly picked beans beside her, but at the moment she’s kneeling by the small flowerbed. She turns back to it, plucking out one of the weeds that have snaked up between the plants.

  ‘Isn’t there anything else you could be doing?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve hacked out as much as I can get to, and I better repoint that before I start anywhere else.’

  The work’s gone quickly this past week. But I’ve had to remove so many loose stones that the upper level of the house looks ready to collapse. I hope that’s only superficial, and there was no option if I was going to do the job properly. Even so, I’d rather not leave the wall in this state for too long.

  I’ve known this was coming for a few days, although I’ve been putting off telling Mathilde. After what happened at the roadside bar I’m not looking forward to venturing outside the farm again, and I doubt that she is either.

  Whatever she’s feeling, though, she keeps it to herself. She plucks another weed from the soil. ‘When do you want to go?’

  That was easier than I expected. I shrug. ‘I’ll have to make a list of what I need. But that won’t take long.’

  She doesn’t look up from her flowerbed. ‘Come up to the house when you’re done.’

  I realize I’ve been hoping she’d find an excuse not to go. But there’s nothing more to say. Leaving her to her weeding, I limp back round to the courtyard, leaning on the old walking stick Mathilde gave me to replace the crutch eaten by the boar. Its dark wood has teeth marks where one of Lulu’s predecessors chewed it, but it’s thick and substantial, with a tarnished silver collar on the handle.

  I look quite the dandy.

  I try to disregard my nerves as I block open the storeroom door so I can see what I’ll need to buy. Cement, for a start, but there seems to be plenty of sand. Another bucket and trowel, though, to replace the rusting ones. And a spade, I think, prodding the one frozen in the pile of mortar. It vibrates, twanging like a giant tuning fork. I search around until I find the grubby notepad and pencil stub I discarded from the overall’s pocket. I leaf through the pages for a clean one to make a shopping list. It’s full of scribbled measurements for old building projects, but one page catches my attention. It’s a crude drawing of a naked woman, and talentless as the artist was there’s one telling detail.

  The woman’s hair is tucked behind an ear.

  My first thought is that it’s Mathilde, that this is further confirmation of who Michel’s father is. Then I look again and I’m not so sure. There’s a dot on one cheek that could be a dimple, and I’ve occasionally seen Gretchen tuck her hair back in an unconscious echo of her sister. But the drawing is so primitive it’s impossible to tell who it’s supposed to be. If anybody: for all I know it could be a random doodle.

  I guiltily snap the notebook shut when a noise comes from outside. It’s only Georges, though. The old man is trudging across the bottom of the courtyard, a clanking bucket in each hand. I smile ruefully at my reaction. That’ll teach you. Turning to a clean page, I begin jotting down what I need.

  When I’ve finished I go back to the house. The door is open and Mathilde is busy dissecting a skinned rabbit. The bowl of freshly picked beans is beside her as she cuts and twists, deftly separating a leg joint.

  ‘I’m ready when you are,’ I say.

  There’s a snort from the other side of the room, which is hidden behind the open door. ‘About time. It’s taken you long enough.’

  I didn’t realize Arnaud was there. I push the door further back so I can see him. He’s sitting at the scarred dining table with a large cup of coffee, Michel on his knee gnawing at a crust of bread.

  ‘It’s a big house,’ I say, stung despite myself.

  ‘Not that big. Makes me wonder what you do up on that scaffold all day.’

  ‘Oh, you know. Sunbathe, read. Watch TV.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. You’re certainly not doing much work.’

  There’s no real heat in the exchange. The bickering between us has become almost routine. It doesn’t mean we like each other.

  Arnaud feeds a coffee-soaked crust to Michel. ‘He shouldn’t have that,’ Mathilde tells him.

  Her father chuckles as his grandson crams the soggy mulch into his mouth. ‘He likes it. He knows what’s good for him.’

  ‘He’s too young.’

  Arnaud is already dipping another piece. ‘It’s only coffee.’

  ‘I don’t want—’

  The flat of Arnaud’s hand cracks on the table.

  ‘Are you deaf?’

  Michel jumps at the shout, his face puckering. Arnaud gives Mathilde a final glare.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He bounces the baby up and down on his knee, his voice and expression softening as soon as he turns to his grandson again. ‘Shh, there’s a man. Here, there’s plenty more.’

  Michel grasps the soggy piece of bread he offers and smears it around his mouth. Mathilde silently finishes disassembling the rabbit. The stiffline of her back and the red flush on her neck are her only protest.

  A door at the back of the kitchen opens and Gretchen enters. She smiles when she sees me, which is enough to spoil Arnaud’s good humour.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ he demands as she saunters across the room.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’

  ‘I can smile if I want to, can’t I?’

  ‘It depends what at.’

  His eyes go from his younger daughter to me, sharp and suspicious. There’s a world of difference between the posturing grumpiness of a moment ago and the hostility I’m confronted with now. The atmosphere in the kitchen is suddenly charged; even Michel falls silent as he looks up at his grandfather.

  Then Mathilde comes and stands between us. It’s done so casually it could be accidental.

  ‘You wait by the van while I get the keys,’ she says.

  I’m not sorry to go. I close the door behind me but I’ve gone only a few steps when there’s the muffled sound of breaking crockery, followed by the siren of Michel’s crying. I carry on across the courtyard to the van.

  Just another day chez Arnauds.

  Mathilde’s face gives nothing of her feelings away when she emerges from the house. She comes over and holds out a set of keys.

  ‘The big key is for the padlock on the gate. You’ll need to lock it behind you.’

  ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘No.’ Her usual inscrutability seems strained. ‘You can drive?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t looking forward to going, but thought at least Mathilde would be coming with me. ‘I don’t know where to go.’

  ‘The builders’ yard isn’t far from the garage. Keep following the road until you reach the town square. It’s on your right just after that.’

  She’s still holding out the keys. I take them reluctantly, still searching for objections. ‘What about my foot?’

  ‘The pedals are well spaced. You should be able to manage.’ She opens
the wallet-like purse and pulls out a few notes. ‘That should be enough for cement and whatever else you need. I’d give you an advance on your wages, but my father …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I’m too taken aback by this new development to care. Mathilde seems uncomfortable as well. As she turns away, she pushes her hair behind her ear. I’m reminded briefly of the drawing, but I’ve more pressing worries than Mathilde’s private life.

  Even though it’s still early the inside of the van is stale and hot. I prop my walking stick on the passenger side, then slide behind the wheel and try my bandaged foot on the pedal. Provided I don’t snag the homemade shoe, it should be OK. Fastening the seatbelt prompts an unwelcome flare of memory, so I distract myself by checking the controls. I try the pedals again, then waste some more time adjusting the seat before I accept I’m only putting things off.

  I turn the key.

  The engine catches on the third attempt, rattling and roaring as I pump the accelerator to keep it from dying. When it’s settled to a steady grumble I lower the window and slowly drive out of the courtyard. The gears are stubborn. I bump along the track’s uneven surface in second. When I reach the gate I go through the time-wasting routine of opening it and driving through, then getting out of the van again to padlock it behind me. I climb back into the van and sit with the engine running, looking at the open road. Get on with it, I tell myself.

  There are a few other cars about but not many. The old Renault is reluctant to come out of second. The gear lever is a fiddly thing that juts out from the dashboard, and the engine roars as I force it into third then up to fourth. There’s no fifth gear, but the old van cruises along happily enough once it’s got used to the idea. I point it straight down the grey strip of tarmac, heading into the heat-haze that retreats as fast as I head towards it. Already I can’t understand what I was so anxious about. I relax into the seat, beginning to enjoy myself.

  My sunglasses give the parched countryside on either side a blue tint, deepening the sky to an improbable sapphire. I lean my arm out of the window, enjoying the breeze as the wheat fields whip past, until I realize how fast I’m going. Reluctantly, I slow down: the last thing I want is to be stopped for speeding.

  Some of my tension returns as I near the garage and bar where Mathilde and I stopped. But there’s no one outside, and it’s gone in a flash. Given the evident tensions between her father and his neighbours, I can’t blame her for not wanting to come into town with me. Although calling it a town is flattering it, I see as I drive into it. It’s not much more than a village. There are a few houses and shops that open directly onto the narrow pavement, and then I’m at the main square. It’s small but pleasant enough, with plenty of trees for shade and a fountain in front of a boules court, on which two old men are already tossing steel balls at a tiny jack.

  The open-fronted builders’ yard is down a side street but still visible from the road. I park by the piles of sand, bricks and timber outside a corrugated, hangar-like building and go inside. Pallets of cement and plaster are stacked head-high against the walls. I buy what I need and then awkwardly load the heavy bags of cement into the back of the van. It’s tricky, since I can’t use my stick, and no one working there seems in any hurry to help. But I don’t mind. My earlier anxiety has gone. In its wake comes a glow of confidence, born from relief as much as anything. As I drive back to the square I’m actually sorry to be returning to the farm so soon. When I see a parking space up ahead it occurs to me that I don’t have to.

  On impulse I pull in and stop.

  The town has woken up during the time I’ve been buying supplies. I sit outside one of the cafés set around the square, enjoying the sense of freedom. The metal table rocks slightly on the uneven pavement when I hang my walking stick on its edge. After a few moments the waiter comes out, pad in hand.

  ‘Coffee and a croissant.’

  I sit back, content to wait. The street is still wet from its morning hosing. Water beads the aluminium legs of the chairs. There’s a fresh, early-morning feel about the place that will have gone in another hour. Glad to have caught it, I look over the narrow road that separates the shops from the square. The ornate fountain is the grandest thing about it, hinting at a now forgotten pre-war opulence. The clack of balls from the boules court carries over the whine of the occasional moped or deeper engine noise of a car. The two old players have been joined by a third, equally decrepit, who for now just watches. They laugh and smoke, exclaiming at bad shots and slapping each other’s shoulders at the good ones. One of them sees me watching and raises a hand in casual greeting. I nod back, feeling absurdly pleased at the acceptance.

  After weeks of nothing but eggs for breakfast, the croissant tastes wonderful. The coffee is thick and dark with a finish of brown froth. I take my time over both, until there’s only a broken carapace of crumbs left on the plate. Sitting back with a sigh, I order another coffee and light a cigarette.

  Two young men walk past as I’m smoking. They’re in their late teens or early twenties, both in jeans and trainers. I don’t pay them any attention until I feel one of them staring at me. He turns away when I look up, but the small flare of disquiet grows when I catch them both glancing back again as they turn off the square.

  I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m a strange face in a small town, and my red hair marks me out as a foreigner. But it sours my mood, and when I see a yellow VW Beetle go by I don’t feel like staying at the café any longer. Leaving the money in the saucer, I go to a tabac on the opposite side of the square to stock up on cigarettes. A boulangerie is open next to it, and when I come out the sweet aroma of its baking is too much to resist. The woman behind the high glass counter is buxom, with a cast in one eye. But she smiles as warmly as the bread smells when she finishes serving an old woman and turns to me.

  ‘Six croissants, please.’

  She picks out the sickle-shaped pastries from a tray behind her and drops them into a paper bag. I pay for them out of my own money. I daresay Mathilde and Gretchen will appreciate a change from eggs as much as I do. Arnaud can buy his own.

  ‘You sound foreign,’ the woman says as she hands me my change.

  I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, but it’s an innocent enough comment. ‘I’m English.’

  ‘Are you staying around here?’

  ‘Just passing through,’ I tell her, and leave before she can ask anything else.

  It’s time to go. I cut across the square to where I’ve left the van. All three old men are playing boules now, holding the silver balls in a backward grip and flipping them underhand. They land almost dead, hardly rolling on the gritty soil. One of the players, the newcomer, succeeds in knocking another ball away from the small wooden jack. There’s laughter and expostulations. Watching them, I’m not aware of the footsteps behind me until I hear a shout.

  ‘Hey, wait up!’

  I look back. Three men are walking towards me across the square. Two of them are the ones who went past my table earlier. The third is also familiar, and I feel my stomach knot when I recognize him.

  It’s the loudmouth from the roadside bar.

  I resist the temptation to glance towards the van, knowing I won’t be able to reach it in time. Gripping the walking stick, I stop by the fountain. Spray tickles the back of my neck in an icy spatter as the three of them face me, the loudmouth slightly in front.

  ‘How’s it going? Still at the Arnauds’ place?’

  He’s smiling, but it’s a mugger’s smile. I just nod. I remember his name now: Didier. He’s in his early twenties, muscular and wearing oil-stained jeans and a T-shirt. His scuffed work boots look as though they could be steel-capped.

  ‘So, what brings you to town?’

  ‘I had to buy a few things.’

  ‘Errands, eh?’ I can see him weighing me up; an unknown quantity but with a bad leg. And outnumbered. He points to the bag from the boulangerie. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Croissants.�
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  He grins. ‘Arnaud’s daughters come cheap, eh? Although Gretchen never charges me for a fuck.’

  There’s laughter from the other two. I start to turn away but Didier moves to block me.

  ‘What’s the matter, can’t take a joke?’

  ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘For Arnaud?’ He’s stopped pretending to smile. ‘What sort of work? Cleaning up pig shit? Or are you too busy fucking his daughters?’

  One of the others starts making pig-squealing noises. I look past them but the town square is empty. There’s no one except the old boules players. The day suddenly seems too bright. The soft splashing of the water in the fountain is crystal clear, the droplets shining in the sunlight.

  ‘What’s wrong? Pig got your tongue?’ Didier’s expression is ugly. ‘Tell Arnaud if he wants anything here he should come for it himself, not send his fucking English errand boy. Tell him he’s a fucking coward! Does he think he’s safe out there behind his barbed wire?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth!’

  He swipes the bag of croissants from my hand, knocking it into the water. I grip the walking stick more tightly as the other two step to either side, backing me towards the fountain. The boules players have finally noticed what’s going on. There are cries of ‘Eh, eh, eh!’ and ‘Stop that!’ from the old men, all of which are ignored.

  ‘I know you, Didier Marchant, I know who you are!’ one shouts, as another of them speaks into a phone.

  ‘Fuck off and die,’ Didier calls back without looking round.

  He’s been pumping himself up, getting ready to start. Suddenly he feints a punch, snapping his fist out and drawing back at the last second. They laugh as I step back against the edge of the fountain. I instinctively raise the walking stick but my arms feel cumbersome and heavy.

  ‘Yeah?’ Didier says. ‘You going to hit me with that? Come on, then!’

  He doesn’t really believe I will, and there’s an instant when I have a chance. The end of the walking stick is weighted and thick, and I can imagine the impact as it strikes his head. I can hear the crack of bone again as Georges brings the hammer down onto the pig’s skull, the thud of a falling body. For a heartbeat I’m back in a dark street, seeing blood black and sticky under a streetlight. It makes me hesitate, but Didier doesn’t.