Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  Very careful, judging by the grass growing around them. They’ve obviously been here for some time. ‘If you didn’t already have buyers, why did you get so many?’

  ‘I had a … business associate. He said he knew a dealer who would take them off our hands.’

  I stub out my cigarette. ‘What happened?’

  Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a bitter line. ‘He let me down. Betrayed my trust.’

  It’s almost the same phrase Gretchen used about Michel’s father. I’d put money on him and this ‘associate’ being the same man: the man whose dirty overalls I’m currently wearing. One way or another, Jean-Claude’s nameless brother certainly left a mess in his wake. No wonder they don’t want to talk about him.

  ‘So why don’t you just get rid of them?’ I ask.

  He snorts. ‘If you want to try lifting them, go ahead.’

  ‘You managed to get them down here.’

  ‘We had lifting gear.’

  ‘You mean your associate did.’

  Arnaud gives an angry nod. He considers the pipe bowl again. ‘I thought you might have some ideas. Contacts.’

  ‘What sort of contacts?’

  ‘The sort who wouldn’t be too interested in where the statues came from. There must be plenty of rich English bastards who’d pay for this sort of thing.’ When he looks at me there’s a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘There’d be something in it for you.’

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t know anyone.’

  His scowl deepens. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be any use.’

  I can’t help myself. ‘This “business associate”. Did he suggest making your own wine as well?’

  Arnaud’s look is answer enough. Snapping the knife shut, he rams it in his pocket as he pushes himself awkwardly to his feet.

  ‘You can start taking the wood back.’

  ‘By myself? How?’ I look at the pile of cut timber. It was hard enough bringing the wheelbarrow down here with just the chainsaw in it.

  He gives me a grim smile. ‘Smart-arse like you, you’ll think of something.’

  It’s early evening before I finish taking the sawn-up tree to the house. I make trip after trip, limping up and down the track until I’m aching all over. I keep telling myself that each trip is the last, that Arnaud can do the rest himself. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sneering that I couldn’t manage. And leaving the silver birch to litter the woods seems too wasteful, no better than vandalism after I’ve cut it down.

  So I carry on until all the logs are stacked under a lean-to at the back of the house. Only when I’ve put the wheelbarrow away do I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the woods. I almost don’t bother going back: I’ve coped without it all afternoon, and the wounds on my foot are healing nicely. But just thinking about it makes them hurt again.

  Besides, I’ve grown used to having something to lean on.

  After I’ve stripped off my overalls I try to wash myself at the tap in the barn. Water runs between the cobbles, pooling in the rough concrete depression before draining into the deepening crack in its surface. As I try to scrub myself clean I make a note to bring some mortar down here to patch it. The cold water takes away my breath, but not even the block of caustic homemade soap can cut through the coating of oil and tree-bark.

  I persevere until my skin is raw and wrinkled, then throw down the soap in disgust. Turning off the tap, I put my overalls back on and collect clean clothes from the loft. Then I go to the house and knock on the kitchen door.

  Mathilde opens it.

  ‘I could really use a bath,’ I tell her wearily.

  I’m ready for an argument, and if Arnaud was there I’d probably get one. But there’s no protest from inside the room. Mathilde just takes in my oil-spattered state and steps back.

  ‘Come in.’

  The kitchen is full of cooking smells. Pans are bubbling on the range, but the kitchen is empty except for her.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘My father’s with Georges and Gretchen’s taken Michel out. He’s teething again. The bathroom’s this way.’

  She leads me through the door at the back of the room and into a hallway. It’s gloomy, unlit at this time of day by either natural or electric light. The stairs are steep and narrow, tarnished brass rods gripping the worn carpet. I follow her up them, taking hold of the painted wooden banister for support and keeping my eyes on the stairs instead of Mathilde’s legs.

  This is the first time I’ve been beyond the kitchen. It feels strange. The house is threadbare but clean. The stairs end at a long corridor that runs off in both directions. There are doors on either side, all closed. I guess one of those on my left must open onto the unused bedroom that I look into from the scaffold. But I’m not sure which it is, and there’s no way of knowing what’s behind any of them.

  Mathilde goes down the corridor and pushes open a door at the far end. ‘Here.’

  The bathroom is so big that the ancient bath and washbasin look lost in it. The floor is bare boards except for a small rug beside the bath. But the room is bright and airy, even though the single window faces away from the sun this late in the afternoon.

  ‘You have to run the hot water first, then add the cold. The pipes don’t work properly if you try to run both at once. Be careful. It gets very hot.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, not quite looking at me. ‘You’ll need a clean towel.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  She goes out, quietly closing the door behind her. I could be imagining it, but there seems to be a subtle change in her since I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. A slight reserve towards me. It’s hardly surprising: God knows, I wouldn’t like strangers knowing about my private life. But I regret it, even so.

  The bath is a deep iron tub, the chipped white enamel discoloured by twin ferrous streaks where the taps have dripped. The hot one creaks as I turn it, producing nothing for a moment except a groaning shudder that seems to stem from the heart of the house. Then a bolt of water spatters out, followed by a thick gush. I put in the plug and find that the water is as scalding as Mathilde warned.

  The bathroom quickly fills with steam. When I turn off the tap the metal burns my fingers. I spin it closed, touching it as little as possible, and run the cold water. Deep as the tub is, it’s nearly three-quarters full before it’s cool enough to bear.

  I go to lock the door, not wanting Arnaud – or Gretchen, God forbid – to walk in. But while there are screw holes from a missing bolt, there’s no way of locking it. Hoping that Mathilde won’t let anyone disturb me, I undress and lower myself into the bath. The heat soaks through my aching muscles and joints. Resting my foot on the side to keep the bandage dry, I slide down until I’m submerged up to my chin.

  Bliss.

  I’m drifting away when there’s a knock on the door. Mathilde’s muffled voice comes from behind it.

  ‘I’ve brought you a towel.’

  I sit up. The water has developed a limestone scum, making it opaque. ‘You can come in.’

  There’s a delay before she opens the door. A towel is folded over one arm. Without looking over at the bath, she puts it on an old bentwood chair that stands against the wall.

  ‘Can you reach it there?’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  There’s an awkwardness. She turns to go.

  ‘I thought I’d take off the bandage,’ I say. ‘Bathe the wounds.’

  ‘All right.’

  She looks at where my foot dangles over the side of the bath. I wait, knowing what’s coming next.

  ‘Here,’ she says. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Mathilde sits on the edge of the bath while I raise my foot so she can unwind the bandage. The only sound is the faint rustle of cotton and the occasional drip of a tap. My exposed foot looks white and thin, as unfamiliar as a stranger’s. The wounds caused by the trap have closed up, like scabbed and puckered mouths. They’re still ugly but no longer inflame
d. I’ve long since finished with the antibiotics, and the last painkiller I took was for a hangover.

  Mathilde’s hands are gentle as she bends closer to examine the wounds. The cotton of her shirt whispers over my toes.

  ‘Are the stitches ready to come out?’ I ask.

  ‘Not yet.’

  They look it to me, but I accept her verdict. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Soon. But you can take the bandage off at night. It will do the wounds good to get some air.’

  I lower my foot into the water as Mathilde gets up from the bath. I’m conscious of her standing beside me. My arm, resting on the edge, is only inches from her leg. Neither of us looks at the other, but suddenly I’m certain that she’s as aware of me as I am of her.

  ‘I have to see to dinner,’ she says, but doesn’t act on the words. The steam seems to close around us, veiling us from the rest of the house. I’ve only to move my hand and I’ll touch her. Mathilde’s head is still averted but her lips are parted ever so slightly, her cheeks rouged with a flush not wholly due to the heat. I begin to lift my arm, and as though there’s an invisible connection between us Mathilde reacts at the same time.

  She steps away.

  ‘I’ll put a clean bandage on tomorrow,’ she says.

  I grip the edge of the bath and push myself up slightly in the water, as if that was what I intended all the time.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  The steam swirls, agitated by the opening and closing of the door as she goes out. After she’s gone it still carries the scent of her. I slide down in the bath and put my head under the water. The house’s quiet is replaced by a submarine echo of bangs and clicks. Eyes closed, I think that Mathilde has come back in. I visualize her standing above me. Or Gretchen.

  Or Arnaud.

  I jerk upright, streaming water. The bathroom is still empty except for the vapour demons that twist in the invisible currents. The water isn’t the only thing that’s overheated, I think.

  Taking up the bar of soap, I begin to wash myself.

  London

  ‘WHO’S JULES?’

  Jez freezes in the act of raising his bacon sandwich to his mouth. He sneaks a quick look at me, then sets it back down on the plate.

  ‘Jules who?’

  We’re at the café next door to the language school, which is actually no more than a cluster of first-floor rooms above an insurance broker’s. The café is small and smells of fried food and stewed tea, and there’s a main road noisily running outside its front window. But it’s convenient, and Jez doesn’t care about the aesthetics provided the food’s cheap.

  ‘Jules as in Chloe.’

  He tries to assemble his crumpled features into something like puzzlement. ‘Er … no, I don’t think …’

  He’s a bad liar. I’d still held out some hope that I might be wrong, but it dies now. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘What makes you think I know?’

  ‘Because you live with Yasmin and she’s Chloe’s best friend.’

  ‘You should ask Chloe.’

  ‘Chloe won’t tell me anything. Come on, Jez.’

  He rubs the back of his neck unhappily. ‘Yasmin made me promise not to say anything.’

  ‘I won’t tell her. This is between you and me.’ Jez doesn’t look convinced. ‘Please.’

  He sighs. ‘He’s Chloe’s ex. A real shit, but she split up with him ages ago, so it’s past history now.’

  I look down at my own coffee. ‘I think she might be seeing him again.’

  Jez winces. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, man.’

  ‘Does Yasmin know?’

  ‘That Chloe’s seeing him again? I doubt it. If she does she hasn’t said anything to me. And she hated Jules’s guts.’

  Some students from the class I’m due to take pass by outside and wave through the window. I raise my hand, relieved when they don’t come in.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I say.

  Jez plays uneasily with his cup. ‘The man’s a real bastard. He’d got some upmarket gym in Docklands, but he calls himself an entrepreneur. Flash sort, but hard as nails, you know?’

  I nod. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘So I don’t need to tell you. He gave Chloe a really bad time. She was sort of a trophy for him. You know, good-looking, an artist. Different from his normal type. He bought some of her paintings, that’s how they met. But he was a real control freak, the sort who gets a kick from putting people down, you know? He’s the one who got her onto coke and thrown out of art college.’

  ‘What?’

  Jez looks crestfallen. ‘Shit, I thought you knew.’

  This is all news to me. It’s like I’ve stepped into a parallel world. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, man, Yasmin’s going to kill me.’ He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. ‘Jules was into that whole drug scene. VIP lounges, clubs, parties. And it wasn’t just steroids you could get at his gym, if you know what I mean. There was this big guy who used to supply him with stuff. Evil bastard, you wouldn’t mess with him.’

  That sounds like Lenny. I feel numb. Jez is looking at me worriedly.

  ‘You sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Yasmin tried to help, but Chloe was … well, you know. Then one night she OD’d on some shit Jules had given her. Yas found her and got her to hospital, then into rehab. She made Chloe change her phone number and move in with her until she was up to getting her own place. Completely cut Jules out of the loop, which pissed him off no end. He made all sorts of threats, trying to find out where Chloe was, but Yas wouldn’t budge. And once Chloe was away from him she got herself straightened out. Started painting again, met you.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s it.’

  It’s as if he’s talking about a different person. Now I understand why Yasmin was so angry when Callum produced the coke at Chloe’s celebration. Why she didn’t want her hopes building up over the gallery. Painting was Chloe’s prop, a new addiction to replace the old. And it had been pulled away from her.

  The chair scrapes on the floor tiles as I stand up. ‘Sean? Where are you going? Sean!’ Jez shouts after me as I walk out.

  I take no notice. I feel as though I’m already too late as I catch a tube back to Earl’s Court. Chloe isn’t at the flat so I search each room, scattering clothes, books and DVD cases. I find it under a loose panel in the bathroom. An innocent plastic box with an airtight lid.

  Inside is a small bag of white powder, razor blade and makeup mirror.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table when she comes home from work. She pauses when she sees the box in front of me, then closes the door and begins to take off her coat.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m tired. Can we do this some other time?’

  ‘Like when? When you’re in rehab again?’

  She hesitates, then turns her back and starts filling the kettle. ‘Who told you? Yasmin?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me – why didn’t you?’

  ‘Why should I? It was a long time ago.’

  ‘And what about this?’ I push the plastic box across the table. ‘Is that from a long time ago as well?’

  ‘I’m a big girl, I can do what I like.’

  ‘So what happened to “I’m sorry, I won’t play any more games”?’

  She gives a humourless laugh. ‘You call this a game?’

  I want to yell at her, but if I give in to it I’m scared I won’t be able to stop. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  Even though I’ve known, it still feels like I’ve been punched. I can’t bring myself to say Jules’s name. ‘Jesus Christ, Chloe, why?’

  ‘Why?’ She bangs down the kettle, water slopping onto the worktop. ‘Because I can’t stand feeling this shit all the time! Because I hate being such a fucking failure! And I’m sick of pretending I’m not! What are we even doing here? I’m working in a bar and you don’t even live in the real world!’

/>   ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You don’t even know, do you? You think watching films is real life? You don’t even make your own, you just watch other people’s! Other people’s films, other people’s lives, that’s all you know about! Christ, you rave about French films and fucking France, but you never actually go there! When was the last time you even went?’

  I sweep the plastic box onto the floor and jump to my feet. Blood pulses behind my eyes.

  ‘Come on, then!’ she shouts. ‘Just for once in your life, why don’t you do something!’

  But I’m already moving past her. I walk out blindly, leaving the sound of Chloe’s sobbing behind me.

  12

  ‘I’M BORED.’

  Gretchen throws down what’s left of the small yellow flower she’s been steadily denuding of petals. I try not to sigh.

  ‘Come on, try to remember.’ I hold up my fork. ‘What’s the English word for this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do. We’ve done it before.’

  She doesn’t even look up. ‘Knife.’

  I put the fork back down on my plate. My attempts to teach Gretchen English haven’t exactly been a success, although I admit I’m no more enthusiastic than she is. Conversation with Arnaud’s youngest daughter is hard work at the best of times, and if I push her too much she subsides into her default state of sulk. Still, I promised Mathilde I’d try.

  I hadn’t planned on teaching her today, though. I’d gone down to the barn to wash before going to collect my lunch from the house. All morning I’ve been thinking about what happened in the bathroom yesterday, whether I misread the tension between Mathilde and me. Or even imagined it. I’ve wondered if I’d detect any difference in her today, but so far I haven’t had much chance to find out. My breakfast was once again left on the loft steps this morning, and there was no sign of Mathilde in the kitchen when I took the dishes back. I hoped I’d see her when I went for my lunch, if nothing else.

  But as I was coming out of the barn, Gretchen arrived with a plate of food. Mathilde had asked her to bring it, she told me with a coy smile, and I knew then that any hope I’d had of a peaceful lunch was gone. If nothing else, trying to teach her English would cover the awkward silences. Not that they ever seem to bother Gretchen.