Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  It’s still raining, but the first flush of a summer dawn is lightening the sky when I pull up outside my flat. Almost feverish with the need to hurry, I let myself in. I’m shaking, hurting all over, but I can’t stay here. Lenny knows who I am, and it’s only a matter of time before he or his business associates find me. I can’t even hand myself in to the police, because I doubt I’d be any safer in prison. There’s only one thing I can think of to do.

  I cram clothes and what cash I have lying around into my rucksack, only remembering my passport at the last minute. I take a last look around the small flat, with its shelves of old DVDs and framed film posters. There’s a rare reproduction from Rififi, and a print of Vadim’s Et Dieu … créa la femme with a luridly breathy Bardot that nearly bankrupted me. None of it seems important now.

  I close the door and hurry back out to where I’ve parked Jules’s car. It’s an Audi, sleek and expensive. I don’t look like the sort of person to own an expensive car, but the urge to get away overwhelms everything else.

  There’s never any question of where I’m going to go.

  I throw my rucksack into the boot and go to open the driver’s door before I stop. I don’t want to see what might be on the passenger side, but I can’t leave without making sure. Checking that the street is still empty, I make myself go around the car. The black paintwork on the rear wheel arch is scraped and dented. But not so much that it will attract any attention, and the rain has washed off whatever blood was there.

  There’s nothing to show what I’ve done.

  It’s too early for much traffic, and I make good time to the Dover ferry terminal. By now reaction is setting in. I’m hungover and exhausted, aching from the fight earlier. Nothing seems real, and it’s only as I’m buying a ticket that it occurs to me that the car registration number might flag an alert. I’m stunned at my own stupidity for not having abandoned it and boarded as a foot passenger.

  But there are no sirens, no alarms. I drive the dead man’s car into the boat’s cavernous metal belly, then go up on deck and watch the white cliffs slowly recede.

  A few hours later I’m hitching on a dusty French road under a white sun.

  19

  IT DOESN’T TAKE long to pack. My few clothes and belongings are soon tucked away in the rucksack. I could have left it until morning, but it feels more like a statement of intent to do it now. I’m not going to change my mind this time.

  If anything, that makes me even more nervous about Mathilde’s visit.

  After that, there’s nothing to do but wait. It’s fully dark outside, though it’s not yet nine o’clock. Another sign that summer’s almost over. Three hours till Mathilde comes. Her copy of Madame Bovary lies beside the mattress. Something else I’ll be leaving unfinished. In the glow from the lamp, I look around the shadowed loft. Even with all its junk and cobwebs, it’s come to feel like home. I’ll be sorry to leave it.

  I lie on the bed and light another of my last cigarettes. I flick off the flame from the lighter, remembering the photograph from Brighton curling to ash. I wish Gretchen hadn’t burned it, but then I wish a lot of things. Maybe I couldn’t have altered what happened to Chloe, but I’ll always wonder. And even if I could somehow absolve myself of failing her, no one made me go to Docklands that night. Because I did a man is dead. Never mind that it was accidental, or that I was only trying to get away. I killed someone.

  There’s no escaping that.

  I blow smoke at the ceiling. I have to go back, I know that now. The thought of what will happen is still terrifying, but for my own peace of mind I’ve got to take responsibility for what I’ve done. Yet whenever I think about Mathilde, and what she might want, I feel my resolve wavering.

  Then there’s another complication. The plastic package from Jules’s car is still where I hid it after the gendarmes’ visit. I can’t leave it there, but I can hardly take a kilo of cocaine back into the UK with me.

  So what do I do with it?

  The loft is close and humid, too airless for me to think. I go to the open window. Beyond the grapevines and woods, I can just make out the lake, silver against the darkness. Seeing it gives me a sudden sense of purpose. Mathilde won’t be here for a while yet, and I promised myself I’d swim in it once the stitches came out.

  This is my last chance.

  I don’t bother with the lamp as I descend from the loft, trusting to familiarity to negotiate the wooden steps. Moonlight floods through the open barn doors, illuminating the crumbling concrete I became so paranoid about. I barely give it a thought as I pass by on my way outside.

  The drizzle has stopped. The night smells unbelievably sweet, a fresh breeze stirring the vine leaves. There’s a full moon, but the torn clouds that pass over it cast scurrying shadows on the field. There’s a constant rustle of movement as I enter the woods. Water drips from the branches, darkening the statues hidden among the trees. The white flowers that Gretchen hung around the nymph’s neck seem luminescent when the moonlight touches them, but fade away as another cloud crosses the moon.

  Then I’ve left the stone figures behind and ahead of me is the lake. There’s an iron tang to the air, and the black water is shivered by the breeze. A sudden movement makes me start, but it’s only a duck ruffling its feathers. As the moon re-emerges I see there are more of them, dotted around the bank like stones. I make my way to the patch of shingle and strip off. My bare feet look mismatched, one of them unmarked and familiar, the other thin and white, criss-crossed with angry weals.

  The frigid water takes away my breath when I walk out into the lake. I reflexively rise onto tiptoe as it laps up to my groin, then wade further out. I pause when the bottom abruptly shelves away, bracing myself before plunging in.

  It’s like diving into ice. Cold stabs into my ears as the water closes over my head, then I break into a clumsy crawl. I thrash out towards the centre of the lake, forcing blood into my sluggish limbs. Gasping, I tread water and look around. My wake has left a ragged tear across the surface. Everything seems different out here, strange and still. The water feels bottomless and deep. Below me there’s a flicker of silver as a fish catches the moonlight. Looking down, I see my body suspended in blackness, so pale it looks bloodless.

  God, it feels good. I start swimming again, this time in an easy breaststroke. The bluff where I’ve spent so many afternoons rises up in front of me, the sweeping branches of the chestnut tree spread like wings against the sky. Seeing it brings home that I’ve been there for the last time, and as quickly as that any pleasure is snuffed out.

  I wanted to swim in the lake, and now I have. There’s no point staying out any longer. I turn to head back, but as I kick out my foot touches something hard. I jerk away before realizing it’s only the submerged rock I’ve seen from the bluff. Tentatively, I stretch out a foot again.

  And quickly recoil.

  The rock is smooth. Not with the expected slime of algae or weed, but a hard, polished smoothness. I lower one foot, then the other, until I’m standing on it. The water comes up to my chin. The surface below me is flat and slightly convex, pitted with tiny blisters of corrosion. But I don’t need those to tell me it isn’t rock I’m standing on.

  It’s a car roof.

  I probe around with my toes, mapping its shape. One foot slips off the edge and suddenly there’s nothing beneath me but water. I flail around as the lake closes over my head, coughing and choking as I stand on the roof again. At least I’ve established that it isn’t a car. The roof’s too narrow and truncated for that.

  More like the cab of a truck.

  Shivering, I look at the lake’s banks. They’re a long way off and too soft and muddy to drive across anyway. No, the only way anything could end up here is if it came off the bluff. I stare up at the overhanging edge, trying to imagine a truck rolling off by accident. It’s too far away, though. For whatever I’m standing on to have got this far out it must have been driven off deliberately.

  I badly want to swim back and get dre
ssed. But I can’t do that, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I dive down. The water slips ice-picks into my ears. Everything’s dark. I can’t see a thing, but then the moon comes out from behind a cloud and suddenly an otherworldly light filters down from the surface. The looming hulk of the truck takes form below me. My vision’s blurred but I can see it’s a pick-up. The open flatbed behind the cab is exposed and empty. I kick deeper as my chest starts to heave. Too many cigarettes. Fighting my body’s buoyancy, I grab for the door handle and almost let go when it swings open in slow motion.

  My heart’s begun a timpani beat as I pull myself nearer. The interior of the cab is hazy and full of shadows. I peer inside for two or three heartbeats, and then the moon is covered and it’s dark again. Letting go of the door, I push for the surface. I burst into the night air, gulping in breaths as the banging in my temples begins to subside.

  Nothing.

  The murky water made it hard to be certain, but I didn’t see anything inside the cab; no bulky shadow or slow wave of limbs. I contemplate taking another look to make sure, but the thought makes my flesh crawl. I can’t bring myself to dive down again.

  Teeth chattering, I start swimming back. I force myself to go steadily, fighting the urge to rush. Then something – a trailing weed or twig – brushes against my ankle and my restraint shatters. I thrash towards the shore, splashing through the shallows until I’m back on the shingle. Shivering, I rub my arms and stare back at the lake. The ripples from my wake are already settling, leaving the water still and black once more. There’s nothing to suggest what’s hidden below its surface.

  I begin dragging on my clothes. There’s no doubt in my mind who the truck belongs to. It was impossible to see its colour, but I’m guessing it’ll be dark green. The same as the one in the photograph Jean-Claude showed me. The last known sighting of Louis was in Lyon, so I’d assumed that whatever happened to him must have happened there. I was wrong.

  He came back.

  I struggle to pull my jeans over my wet skin. Try as I might, I can’t think of an innocent explanation for why his pick-up is in the lake. Jean-Claude tried to tell me that Arnaud was responsible for his brother’s disappearance and I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to. I can’t believe even now that Mathilde knows anything about this, but I’m not going to stay and find out. The farm’s been hiding at least one secret.

  I don’t want to become another.

  My boots won’t go on. The wood seems threatening and watchful as I struggle to force my feet into them. I keep looking around, half-expecting to see Arnaud materialize from the shadows with his rifle. But except for a lone statue in the trees, I’m alone. I’m reaching down to pull on my boot before I remember there aren’t any statues this close to the lake, and at that same moment it steps out of the woods.

  Gretchen is alabaster pale in the moonlight, skin bleached white as stone. She stares at me without coming any closer.

  ‘I went to the loft. You weren’t there.’

  I find my voice. ‘No, I, uh … I needed some air.’

  ‘I saw your rucksack. All your things are packed.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. Gretchen looks out at the water. Her earlier anger has been replaced by an eerie calm that’s even more unsettling.

  ‘You’ve been in the lake.’

  ‘I was hot. I wanted to cool down.’

  ‘You were underwater for a long time. What were you doing?’

  ‘Just swimming.’

  I’m trying to gauge how much she knows, if it’s possible she isn’t aware of what’s in there. But I’m shivering so much it’s hard to think straight.

  ‘I told you, Papa says you shouldn’t swim in there. It isn’t safe.’ Safe for who? ‘If I tell him he’ll be angry.’

  ‘Then don’t tell him.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? You’re leaving tomorrow anyway.’ Her gaze is cold and distant. ‘You don’t care about me or you wouldn’t be abandoning us.’

  ‘I’m not abandoning anybody.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I thought you were different but you’re not. We trusted you, and now you’ve betrayed us.’

  She said the same about Louis. ‘Look, I’m sorry if—’

  ‘No, you’re not. You led me on.’

  ‘That’s not true—’

  ‘Then promise you’ll stay.’

  ‘Gretchen—’

  ‘You have to promise. Or I’ll tell Papa.’

  Christ. I glance back at the water. Whether she knows about the truck or not, I don’t want her saying anything to Arnaud. Not until I’m well away from this place.

  ‘OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll stay.’

  Gretchen stares at me. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand on end.

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I don’t like you any more.’

  ‘Gretchen, wait—’ I shout, but she’s already running up the track. After a frozen second I set off after her. I’ve no idea what I’ll do, I only know that I can’t stay down here while she tells her father. But I’m out of shape, and with my boots unlaced and flapping it’s like running in a bad dream. Gretchen races through the wood ahead of me, flickering in and out of the moonlight like a wraith. My chest and legs are burning as I pass the statues, and then one of my boots slips off and I’m tumbling onto the track. The breath explodes from me. Winded, I push myself up in time to see Gretchen’s white figure running out of the wood and through the vines. A cloud obscures the moon, dimming her from sight, but it’s obvious I’m not going to catch her now. Not before she reaches the house.

  I bend double, wheezing for air. Shit, shit! I try to think clearly. Maybe I’m overreacting, and there’s an innocent explanation. Maybe the truck’s just an old one that was dumped. I desperately want to believe it but the memory of what I found in the lake is too strong. And I can’t take the chance: if the pick-up is Louis’s then Arnaud won’t risk me telling anyone.

  He isn’t going to let me leave the farm.

  As if on cue, his raised voice carries distantly from the courtyard, bellowing incoherently. I think I can hear Mathilde as well, a pleading counterpoint, then a door slams and there’s silence.

  He’s on his way.

  I look around for my missing boot, but the moon is still overcast and all I can see are shadows. There’s no more time. Stones and twigs stab into my bare foot – the newly healed one – as I hurry off the track to hide in the trees. Once Arnaud’s gone past I can cut back to the road: I’ll worry about my rucksack later.

  I’ve not gone far when there’s a sudden snap as I step on something sharp. I throw myself back, heart banging as I tense for the bite of iron jaws. It doesn’t come: it’s only a dead branch. But in my panic I’d forgotten the woods down here are still full of Arnaud’s traps. I daren’t go any further, not when it’s too dark to see where I’m treading.

  There’s a flicker of movement off through the trees. I look back towards the vine field. The moon is obscured and for a moment all is shadows. Then it reappears, and I see the unmistakable figure of Arnaud hurrying down the track. He’s carrying something that glints in the moonlight, and when I realize what it is any hope of reasoning with him vanishes.

  It’s his rifle.

  The moon goes behind another cloud, cutting off my view as though a curtain’s been drawn. But he’s much closer than I expected. It’s too late to retrace my steps and make a run for the lake. Even if I avoid the traps he’ll be close enough to see me, and on the track I’ll make an easy target. Desperate, I look around for somewhere to hide. I’m not far from where we cut down the silver birch, and most of the trees around me are either saplings or stumps. None are big enough to provide cover, but then a ripple of moonlight breaks through the branches and reveals the statues.

  I run over before the brief light fades, hoping Arnaud won’t have put traps near them. Throwing myself to the wet ground, I huddle behind the monk’s stone robes. I’m out of breath and my bootless foo
t is throbbing. It feels sticky: I must have gashed it on the dead branch, or maybe the wounds have reopened. But that’s the least of my problems. I peer round the statue. Without the moon the woods are made up of different depths of black. Nothing moves, and then I see a shadow coming down the track.

  I duck back, pressing myself against the cold stone. Above me the sky is a patchwork of clouds and stars, but down here all is dark. I stare up through the trees, praying for the moon to stay hidden. I want to take another look but I’m afraid he’ll see me. So I lie there, listening for his approach. The breeze stirs the leaves and branches, drowning out other sounds. I shut my eyes, trying to visualize where he’ll be. I tell myself if I count to thirty he’ll have gone past by then. But when the half-minute’s passed I still don’t move. What if I’m wrong, or he’s stopped? I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to decide. I can’t stay here indefinitely: my best chance of making it to the road is while Arnaud is down at the lake. He must have gone by now. I tense, getting ready to look again.

  There’s a muffled crack of a twig breaking.

  I lie perfectly still. I’m holding my breath, not daring to breathe. I strain to hear past the rustling trees, willing the clouds to stay for a few moments longer. But the high wind is already dragging them clear, their black silhouettes becoming edged with an argent glow. I watch helplessly as the moon slides out from behind them, flooding the world with opal light. Then another twig snaps only a few feet away.

  ‘Sean?’

  Mathilde’s voice is hushed. The release of tension takes the strength from me.

  ‘Here.’

  She’s looking towards the other statues. She turns at my whisper and hurries over, glancing off through the trees towards the track as the Judas moon hides its face again, plunging the wood into shadows.