'I believe so. I believe they'll give me the answer you've given me now.'
I kissed her, and then I went out into the street. I heard her shut the door and bolt it behind me. I went under the Porte de Ville, and climbed into the car, and reached for my maps. They were where I had left them, in the pocket beside the driver's seat. I found the route I had marked with a blue cross a week ago. The last ten kilometres might be difficult in the darkness, but if I kept the Foret du Perche on my right, the road would take me to the Foret de la Trappe and to the Abbey after leaving Mortagne. I might be able to get there in not much more than an hour, or an hour and a half.
I put down the map, and glancing up at her window I saw that she had pulled the curtains back once more. The light was shining from the window down to the canal and the footbridge. I backed the car, and turned and went up the avenue, and as I passed the hospital I saw the Renault drawn up beside the pavement. It was not outside the hospital entrance, but by the small gate, leading to the chapel. It was empty, and there was no sign of Gaston. Whoever had come in the car had gone in to pay tribute alone.
I drove to the network of roads at the top of the town, turned left, and took the road to Belleme and Mortagne.
*Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead, CUP 2002.
The Scapegoat Page 38