Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

‘OK,’ I say.

I undress and get into bed. We lie in the dark without touching, the air in the bedroom frigid even with the electric fire. Chloe stirs and moves over, kissing me, murmuring my name. We make love, but afterwards I lie awake, staring at the skylight.

‘Yasmin said something weird tonight,’ I tell her. ‘That you were “doing all right”. Why would she say that?’

‘I don’t know. That’s Yasmin for you.’

‘So there’s nothing I should know?’

In the dark I can’t see her face. But a glint of light from it tells me her eyes are open.

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘Why would there be?’

I’M PACKED AND ready to leave when Mathilde comes to the loft next morning. I know who it is before I see her, can already distinguish between her steady tread and the slap of Gretchen’s flip-flops. Her eyes go to the fastened rucksack by the bed, but if she draws any conclusions she keeps them to herself. She’s carrying a tray, on which is a plate of food and a roll of clean bandage. And also an extra treat this morning: a steaming bowl of coffee.

‘I’ve brought your breakfast,’ she says, setting down the tray. ‘Can I change your dressing?’

I sit on the mattress and roll up the leg of my jeans. The bandage is frayed and filthy from my abortive night-time excursion. If not for that I could almost believe I’d dreamed the whole thing. In daylight, the memory of the silent assembly of statues seems unreal, and I’ve convinced myself the scream I heard was only a fox after all. Probably caught in one of Arnaud’s traps.

I can sympathize.

‘Will you drive me to the road later?’ I ask, as Mathilde begins to unfasten the bandage. She makes no comment on its soiled condition.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Straight after breakfast. I’d like to make an early start.’

The decision was fully formed when I woke. If I can make it down to the wood and back, then I’m fit enough to travel. I could walk to the road on my own, but there’s no point in tiring myself before I start. I still don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but my latest run-in with Arnaud has convinced me I’m better off taking my chances rather than staying here any longer.

Mathilde continues to unwrap the bandage. ‘Are you sure?’

‘If you can drive me as far as the road I can hitch from there.’

‘As you wish.’

Even though I’ve no reason to, I feel disappointed by her lack of reaction. I watch as she removes the bandage and peels off the dressing pads. When the last covering comes away I’m relieved that my foot doesn’t appear any worse. In fact it seems better; the swelling has gone down and the wounds themselves appear less livid.

‘It doesn’t look as bad, does it?’ I say, hoping for confirmation.

Mathilde doesn’t answer. She gently turns my foot this way and that, then lightly touches the lip of one wound.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘No.’ I study her as she continues to examine it. ‘Is it OK?’

She doesn’t answer. Her face is impassive as she lays her hand on my forehead. ‘Do you feel hot? Feverish?’

‘No. Why?’

‘You look a little flushed.’

She bends over my foot again. I put my hand on my forehead. I can’t tell if it’s hotter or not.

‘Is the infection getting worse?’

There’s the slightest of hesitations before she answers. ‘I don’t think so.’

The yellowish cast of the bruising around the wounds seems to take on a more sinister hue. I watch uneasily as she cleans my foot and begins to wrap it in the fresh bandage.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ She keeps her head down, denying me her face. ‘Sometimes these things need watching. But I understand if you’re in a hurry to leave.’

I stare down at my foot, wrapped in pristine white again. Suddenly I’m aware of my aching muscles. It might just be from the exertion of the night before, but then again…

‘Maybe I should give it another day?’ I say.

‘If you like. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.’

Mathilde’s expression gives nothing away as she collects her things together and goes back down the steps. When she’s gone I flex my foot, testing it. I don’t feel feverish, but the last thing I need is to fall ill on some deserted French road. And it isn’t as if I’ve anywhere specific to go, or a burning hurry to get there. Not any more. Another day won’t make any difference.

It crosses my mind that maybe this is what Mathilde intended, but I dismiss the idea. My being here has caused her nothing but trouble. She’s no more reason to want me to stay than I have.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. But as I swallow the antibiotic and reach for my breakfast, I’m aware that what I feel more than anything is relief.

By midday the loft is unbearably hot, and the musty scent from the old wooden furniture makes my skin itch. I listen to music and then doze, waking to find my lunch waiting beside the open trapdoor. Rubbing my eyes, I decide to eat it outside. Arnaud warned me to keep out of his sight, but even he can’t expect me to stay in the barn all day.

Going down the steps is tricky with the tray, but I manage by balancing it on them while I clamber down one at a time. Before I eat I use the outhouse and wash myself under the tap in the barn where Georges filled his buckets. The small act of self-sufficiency lifts my spirits, and I feel almost cheerful as I settle myself against the barn’s wall. Even in the shade it’s still stiflingly hot. As I chew the bread and cheese, I look over the vine field towards the lake. From where I sit, there’s just the glimmer of water visible through the trees. There don’t seem to be any ill effects from my stupid attempt to reach it last night. No fever has developed, no throb of renewed infection. Only an increasing tension that has nothing to do with my foot. God knows where I’ll be this time tomorrow, but it’d be good to at least see the lake before I go.

Finishing my food, I settle myself on the crutch and set off down the track. In the daylight I can see that the vines look half dead. The leaves are mottled and curling at the edges, and the sparse clusters of grapes droop like tiny deflated balloons. No wonder the wine smells so bad.

The sun is merciless. I thought it would be easier walking on the track now I can see what I’m doing, but in the heat it seems longer than it did last night. It’s rutted and uneven, with tyre marks set into it like concrete casts. The crutch skids and slips, and by the time I get to the end of the field I’m soaked with sweat. It’s a relief to reach the shade of the wood. The trees don’t seem remotely threatening in the daylight. Like the ones nearer the road, they’re mainly chestnuts, and I’m grateful to be under their green canopy.

As I follow the track through them I find myself listening for a repetition of the scream I heard the night before. But there’s nothing more sinister than the chirrup of crickets. The statues too have lost their menacing aspect. There are about a dozen of the stone figures by the track, clustered apparently at random in the thickest part of the wood. All are weathered and old, and now I see that most are damaged. A broken-hoofed Pan capers next to a featureless nymph, while nearby a noseless monk seems to raise his eyes in shock. Standing slightly apart from the others is a veiled woman, the stone artfully carved to resemble folds of cloth covering her face. A dark oil stain mars one of the hands clasped to her heart, staining it like blood.

I can’t imagine what they’re doing hidden away in the trees, but I decide I like the effect. Leaving them to their slow decay, I carry on down the track.