Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Taking up the traps. The police were asking about them. Those bastards from last night must have said something.’ He looks at me with sudden suspicion. ‘You sure you didn’t tell anyone?’

  ‘I’ve already said I didn’t.’

  I told Jean-Claude I’d injured my foot in the wood, but nothing more than that. It doesn’t seem to occur to Arnaud that the neighbours he has such contempt for might not feel obliged to keep his secret, especially not after being shot at. But contradictions like that evidently don’t count for much with him.

  ‘That fat pig of a gendarme lectured me about traps being illegal. Illegal! On my own land!’ Fury makes his voice quaver. ‘I told them what I did here was my business, and unless they came back with a search warrant I didn’t want to hear anything about it.’

  That sends a chill through me. ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘How should I know? But I’m not about to give the bastards the satisfaction of finding anything if they do.’

  ‘And you want me to help you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Arnaud throws back his head to drain his cognac, the tendons standing out either side of his throat like a rungless ladder. Smacking his lips with pleasure, he lowers his glass and grins. It gives him a crafty expression in the firelight, but his eyes are as hard as ever.

  ‘Unless you’d rather explain to the police why you lied to them as well?’

  Arnaud’s cognac hums in my head as I go back to the barn. The night seems unnaturally clear, contrasting with the muzziness in my head. I meander a little across the courtyard, the walking stick skidding off the rounded tops of the cobbles. It’s dark in the recesses of the barn and I’ve left the lamp upstairs. I pick out an empty wine bottle by touch, knocking over several others. Icy slivers of water spatter on the floor as I fill it at the tap, then cup my hands and splash my face.

  Better.

  I haul myself up the steps, glad to reach the familiarity of the loft. It’s too much effort to close the trapdoor, so I leave it open. My walking stick slides to the floor when I try to lean it against the wall, but I can’t be bothered to pick it up. I manage to pull off my T-shirt before I flop down onto the bed still in my jeans. I want to take them off, I really do, but the rich food and alcohol are like lead weights on my eyelids. I close them, just for a few seconds. In a moment I’ll get up and finish undressing.

  In a moment …

  I’m back in the old room, the old bed. I feel the shift of the mattress and then the warmth of her next to me. Her lips brush my mouth, feather against my cheek. There’s a glow of happiness in my chest that she’s here, that everything’s back to normal. But even as I start to respond I know something’s wrong. The feeling grows as she presses against me, the scents and contours different. Soft hair drapes across my skin as a hand strokes me, and then I open my eyes and I’m back in the loft, and Gretchen’s face is only inches from mine.

  There’s a second or two when instinct almost takes over. Then I’m wide awake as shock kicks in. I sit up, tumbling her off me onto the mattress.

  She giggles. ‘Did I frighten you?’

  My head and heart are both thumping. I push myself away from her a little more. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Her teeth and eyes shine in the darkness. She’s wearing a short white T-shirt and nothing else. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Why not? Everyone’s asleep. And you are pleased, I can feel.’

  Her hand reaches for my jeans. I move it away. ‘You need to go.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  I swing my feet off the mattress and stand up. The last thing I want is any entanglement with Gretchen, but that’s easier to remember if I’m not lying next to her.

  Even in the moonlight I can see her confusion. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like me?’

  ‘Look …’ I stop myself before I say anything I’ll regret. ‘It’s not that. I just think you should go.’

  There’s a silence. I try to think of something else to say, some way of getting her out of here without prompting another tantrum. If she starts on about Mathilde now, things could turn ugly. Then I see her smile, teeth white in the darkness.

  ‘Are you scared of Papa? You are, aren’t you?’

  I stay quiet, let her draw her own conclusions. It’s easier to let her believe that, and it isn’t as if there isn’t some truth in it. She kneels up on the bed.

  ‘What did he want to talk to you about earlier? He can’t have been too cross if he gave you his best cognac. I know he did because I washed the glasses.’

  ‘It was just about the farm.’

  ‘Liar.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let him hurt you. Not unless you’re mean to me, anyway.’

  I don’t know if she’s joking or not. ‘Look, he wants me to help him with the traps. I’ve got to be up in a few hours …’

  ‘That’s plenty of time.’

  ‘Gretchen …’

  ‘All right, I’ll go. We don’t want Papa kicking you downstairs again.’ Her good humour’s returned. I go to the trapdoor as she gets off the bed. Her hair catches the moonlight, and her legs are long and bare in the short T-shirt. She looks lovely, and for a moment I’m glad I fell asleep in my jeans.

  She pauses in front of me, her smile impish as she strokes my arm.

  ‘Don’t I at least get a goodnight kiss?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘You’re no fun.’

  She pouts, not yet ready to let me off the hook. I feel her fingers stop when they encounter the plaster. I can see her frown as she examines it.

  ‘What did you do to your arm?’ she asks.

  London

  I’M CLEANING GLASSES behind the counter at the Bar Zed when the customer walks in. There’s something familiar about him, but not so much that I think anything of it. He shows no sign of recognizing me as Dee serves him a beer, which he takes to a table at the far side of the room.

  I soon forget about him. The Zed’s near Canary Wharf, and in the months I’ve been working here I’ve lost count of the number of faces I’ve served across the bar. I got the job when I handed in my notice at the language school. I wanted a clean break, and there were too many reminders there of my time with Chloe. After I moved out I stayed with Callum for a while, sleeping on his sofa until I found a tiny studio flat in Hackney. It isn’t much, but it’s somewhere to hang my film posters and store my DVDs. Besides, it’s only temporary until I’ve saved enough money to go to France. That’s my new plan, all part of making a fresh start.

  I’m still here, though.

  Somehow it’s never seemed the right time to make the move. It’s always next week, next month, next whenever. In the meantime the Zed isn’t so bad. It’s an upmarket place that by day attracts the city-types whose expense accounts can afford the lunch-time menu. The evening crowd are no less affluent and tend to appreciate the big mirrors behind the stainless-steel counter. Sergei, the owner, is OK. He and his boyfriend, Kai, help out when it’s busy. There are worse places to work.

  It isn’t as though it’s permanent.

  The man who came in earlier approaches the bar for another beer. This time I serve him myself. I still can’t place him. He’s big, with a hardened look about him that sets him apart from the Zed’s usual customers. As I’m pouring his beer he looks towards the door, then at his watch.

  That’s when I realize who he is.

  I keep my head down as I hand him the change. He goes back to his table. While I serve other customers I keep watching him. He’s obviously expecting someone, and not enjoying the wait.

  It could be anyone. But I know, with a certainty that feels like vertigo, who it’s going to be.

  I’m bringing ice out of the kitchen when Jules arrives. He’s with two gaudily attractive girls who teeter drunkenly, laughing as they head for th
e table where Lenny is sitting. The sight of him stops me in my tracks. I feel a breathless rush of feelings, a cocktail of fury, hate and dismay all combined, then I turn and go back into the kitchen.

  ‘Shit, Sean, watch where you’re going!’ Sergei grumbles, trying not to spill what’s on the tray he’s carrying as I barge through the door.

  ‘Sorry.’ I move aside. My limbs feel stiff and unnatural. ‘Uh, look, would it be OK if I took a break from the bar? Washed some dishes, or something?’

  ‘You’re joking, right? Perhaps you’d like to put your feet up while I bring you a coffee?’

  Still muttering, he bumps the door open with his hip and goes into the bar.

  ‘Shit,’ I say, as the door swings shut.

  ‘Problem?’ Dee looks up from where she’s spooning olives onto small plates.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  I manage to hold a smile until she turns away, then sag back against the wall. Jez had told me that Jules ran a gym in Docklands, but in the aftermath of breaking up with Chloe I’d forgotten all about it. I’d been so keen to get away from our old haunts in West London that it never occurred to me I’d be working in his territory.

  I take a deep breath and go back out. The place is busy, and for a while it looks as though I’ll get away with it. Lenny comes to the bar again but this time it’s Dee who serves him. He pays me no more attention than before, and I start to think they might finish their drinks and go without noticing me.

  It’s as they’re about to leave that my luck runs out. Through a gap in the crowd I look across and see the four of them getting up from their table. And at exactly the same moment, as if I’ve called to him, Jules looks up and sees me.

  I turn away and start serving someone else. I’m trying to act as though nothing’s happened, but as I snatch a glass from the shelf I knock off another two. They shatter on the floor.

  ‘Shit!’

  I’ve spoken too loudly, earning a cross look from Sergei, who’s serving nearby. There’s the usual lull in the noise level at the sound of breaking glass, then conversations resume. I take a dustpan from under the counter and duck down to sweep up the fragments, glad of the excuse to be out of sight.

  When I stand up Jules is leaning on the bar.

  I ignore him, emptying the broken glass into a bin before continuing to serve drinks. All the while I’m conscious of him watching me. Soon, there’s no one left at my end of the bar except him. I can’t pretend he isn’t there any longer.

  I face him across the stainless-steel counter. He looks fit and tanned, although as he moves his head the bar lighting exposes dark rings under his eyes, like bruises. But he has the same halfsmile on his face I remember.

  ‘Gave up teaching, eh?’ He makes a show of looking around. ‘Nice crowd you get in here. Do they tip well?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Oh, now you can do better than that. Aren’t you supposed to ask what I’d like to drink? “Excuse me, sir, what can I get you?” Something like that?’

  I’m clenching my jaw so tightly my teeth hurt. Jules smiles at me again. His pupils are like pin-pricks. I tell myself he’s nothing to me, that I should let him say whatever he has to and then leave. But I’m not prepared for his next words.

  ‘I’ll tell Chloe I’ve seen you.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You did know she’s living with me now?’

  No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen Chloe since I moved out. I’d considered offering to stay until she’d had the abortion, but in the end I hadn’t. What Chloe did with her life was no longer any of my business, she’d made that clear. I told myself a clean break was best for both of us.

  But I’d no idea she’d gone back to Jules. As far as I knew, the abortion was purely her decision, and I’d assumed that meant she’d broken with him as well. My feelings must be written on my face.

  ‘Oh, you obviously didn’t know,’ he grins.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Why should you care? You walked out on her, didn’t you?’

  My knuckles whiten on the glass I’m holding, but then Lenny comes over. Big as Jules is, the other man towers over him.

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘Just saying hello to an old friend of Chloe’s. You remember Sean, don’t you?’

  Lenny gives me an uninterested glance, but before he can say anything a smartly dressed man and a woman approach the bar. The man signals to me. ‘I’d like a glass of Chablis and—’

  ‘We’re talking,’ Lenny says without turning around.

  ‘Well, I’d like serving, so—’

  He breaks off as Lenny turns his head to stare at him. Although the big man’s expression doesn’t change the atmosphere is suddenly charged.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The customer begins to bluster, but it’s half-hearted. He allows the woman to lead him away. Lenny turns back to Jules as if I’m not there.

  ‘Hurry it up.’

  It’s more an order than a request. Jules flushes as the other man goes back to where the two drunken girls are waiting.

  ‘Business calls.’ He gives a hard smile, attempting to regain face. ‘I’ll tell Chloe I’ve seen you. She’ll be thrilled.’

  I stay where I am after he’s gone. A man waves his credit card at me.

  ‘Hey, you serving or just standing there?’

  I turn and walk into the kitchen. Sergei says something to me but I don’t hear what. I go through the fire-escape door and out into the alleyway at the back. There’s the sweet smell of garbage and urine.

  Letting the door close behind me, I slide down the wall and close my eyes.

  15

  ‘YOU AWAKE UP there?’

  The words are a towline to consciousness. I open my eyes as it drags me up, not knowing who called or even if I dreamed it. The thump of someone banging on the trapdoor convinces me that I haven’t.

  ‘Come on, wake up, you lazy bastard!’

  It’s Arnaud. My first thought is Gretchen. I jack-knife upright in bed, half-convinced she’s still there. But I’m alone, thank God. The chest of drawers is still on the trapdoor, where I pushed it the night before. Overkill to keep out an eighteen-year-old girl maybe, but just as effective against her father. In a waking panic I think he must know his daughter was here, before I remember I’m supposed to be helping him with the traps.

  ‘All right,’ I call. My head is thumping from the rough wine and Arnaud’s cognac, and the rude awakening hasn’t helped.

  ‘About bloody time!’ I can hear the wooden steps creak under his weight. ‘Hurry up and get your arse down here!’

  ‘Give me five minutes.’

  ‘Make it two!’

  His footsteps clump away from the trapdoor. I groan, hanging my head. It can’t be much past dawn. A grey early light filters into the loft. Wanting nothing more than to fall back onto the mattress and sleep for another hour, I pull on my overalls and go downstairs. I stop off at the tap to drink thirstily and splash water on my face and neck. Beads of it cling to my beard and its cold is a temporary salve for my headache.

  Arnaud is waiting outside with Lulu, a canvas workman’s bag slung over his shoulder. He carries the rifle broken over one arm. There’s a hangover pallor, and the white stubble looks like a skim of frost against his brown face. He glowers at me.

  ‘I told you to be ready early.’

  ‘I didn’t know you meant at the crack of dawn. What about breakfast?’

  ‘What about it?’

  He’s already walking across the courtyard. Lulu fusses around me like a long-lost friend as I go after Arnaud. I expect him to follow the track towards the road, but instead he goes down the side of the stable block. I thought I knew the farm well by now, but there’s a path here that I never knew existed. It makes me wonder what else there is here I don’t know about.

  I trudge along it behind him. There’s a clamour of birdsong, bell clear in the chilled air and lowlying mist. Wishing I’d put on a T-shirt under the overalls, I rub my arms
and feel the outline of the plaster. The morning feels momentarily colder as I remember Gretchen’s amnesia of the night before. In some ways it’s even more disturbing than her attacking me in the first place. It could have been an act; God knows she’s certainly capable of histrionics. But this isn’t the only time it’s happened: I remember after she set fire to the photograph she never so much as mentioned it again. At the time I thought she’d just developed a convenient memory, choosing to ignore an awkward incident.

  Now I wonder if it wasn’t something more than that.

  The path has taken us into the deep woods above the house, the buffer between the farm and the rest of the world. Trying to put Gretchen from my mind, I concentrate on not tripping over tree roots. Ahead of me, the back of Arnaud’s neck is stiff and uncompromising, seamed with horizontal creases. Looking at the gun, I belatedly wonder if coming into these lonely woods with him is such a good idea. I don’t know what Gretchen might have told him but Arnaud is hardly the type to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. The sound of a shot would pass unnoticed out here, and a body could lie undisturbed amongst the tree roots indefinitely.

  I shake off the morbid thoughts. Arnaud is nothing if not direct: if he meant me any harm I’d know about it by now. Besides, the way my head is aching he’d only be putting me out of my misery.

  There’s a stillness to the woods, a sharp silence through which every sound seems heightened. Something rustles a few yards to one side. Lulu bristles and bounds after it, until Arnaud checks her with a sharp word. The dog reluctantly slinks back to him, casting regretful looks behind her.

  At a bend in the path Arnaud leaves it and heads off into the trees. The grass is beaded with dew, darkening the bottoms of my overalls where they swish against it. Lulu begins to run ahead, but Arnaud again calls her, taking hold of her collar to thrust her behind him.

  ‘Aren’t you worried she’ll get caught in a trap?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t let her near them.’

  ‘What happens if she wanders into the woods by herself?’

  ‘Then it’d be her own fault.’ He scans the ground ahead of him. ‘Here.’