Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

The lake isn’t much further. Sunlight glints off it, dazzlingly bright. Edged with reeds, the water is so still it looks as though you could scoop a hole in its surface. Ducks, geese and waterbirds glide across it, dragging V-shaped trails in their wake. I breathe in the scented air, feeling the knots of tension ease from my shoulders. I’m realistic enough this morning to know that I won’t be going swimming, but the thought is no less seductive.

I walk up to the top of a bluff that overlooks the lake. A lone chestnut tree stands there, spreading its branches out over the water. It looks deep enough to dive into from here, but then I notice a murky shadow lurking like a basking shark a few yards out. A submerged rock, waiting for anyone careless enough to jump in from the bluff. I should have known, I think. Even the lake has traps in it.

I lower myself to the ground, leaning back against the tree as I gaze out over the water. Coming down here has been tiring but I’m glad I made the effort. I won’t get another chance, and my foot doesn’t seem any worse. The bandage Mathilde put on earlier is already grubby, but there are no fresh bloodstains and the ache is becoming more of an itch. My anxiety’s cost me another day, but there’ll be nothing to stop me leaving tomorrow. And then what?

I don’t know.

If there’s an upside to having stepped in the trap, it’s that it’s taken my mind off everything else. While I’ve been here I’ve been too preoccupied to worry about past or future, but that’s about to end. One more night and then I’ll be back where I started. On the run in a foreign country, with no idea what I’m going to do.

My hands are trembling as I reach for my cigarettes, but before I can light one the springer spaniel erupts from the woods. The ducks on the edge of the lake scatter noisily as it charges after them. Arnaud, I think, stiffening, but it isn’t Papa who follows. It’s Gretchen and the baby.

The spaniel notices me first. It runs up to where I’m sitting under the tree, stubby tail thrashing.

‘Good girl.’

Glad of the distraction, I fuss over it and try to keep it from trampling on my foot. Gretchen stops now that she’s seen me. She’s wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, a pale blue that accentuates her colouring. It’s thin and faded, and her legs are bare except for flip-flops. But she’d still turn heads in any city street.

She carries the baby, Michel, perched on one hip like an undeveloped Siamese twin. A faded red cloth, corners knotted to form a bag, dangles from her free hand.

‘Sorry if I startled you,’ I say.

She glances towards the track, as if debating whether she should go back. Then her dimples make a fleeting appearance.

‘You didn’t.’ She hoists the baby to a more comfortable position, flushed from carrying him in the heat. She raises the red cloth. ‘We’ve come to feed the ducks.’

‘I thought it was only people in towns who did things like that.’

‘Michel likes it. And if they know they’re going to be fed they’ll stay here, so we can take one every now and then.’

‘Take’ being a euphemism for ‘kill’, of course. So much for sentiment. Gretchen unfastens the cloth and tips out the bread, sending the birds into a frenzy of splashing. Their raucous cries are joined by the dog’s barks as it prances at the edge of the water.

‘Lulu! Here, girl!’

She throws a stone for the spaniel. As it chases after it she comes up to the top of the bluff and sits down nearby, setting the baby down beside her. He finds a twig and starts playing with it.

I look back at the track, half-expecting to see Arnaud there with his rifle. But the wood is empty. I’m starting to feel uneasy, although I’m not sure if that’s the thought of her father or if it’s just being around Gretchen. She seems in no hurry to get back. The only sound is the dog chewing on the stone and Michel blowing spit bubbles. Apart from the ducks and geese, we’re the only living souls here.

Giving a theatrical sigh, Gretchen takes hold of the front of her dress and wafts it back and forth.

‘I’m too hot,’ she says, glancing to see if I’m looking. ‘I thought it might be cooler by the lake.’

I keep my eyes fixed on the water. ‘Do you ever swim here?’

Gretchen stops fanning herself. ‘No, Papa says it isn’t safe. Anyway, I can’t swim.’

She begins picking the tiny yellow flowers that grow in the grass and making them into a chain. The silence doesn’t seem to bother her, though I can’t say the same. Suddenly it’s shattered by the same scream I heard last night. It comes from the woods behind us, not as unsettling in daylight but sounding no less agonized.

‘What was that?’ I ask, staring into the trees.

Neither Gretchen nor Michel seems concerned. Even the dog only pricks up its ears before resuming its gnawing. ‘It’s just the sanglochons.’

‘The what?’ She’s mentioned them before, I remember.

‘Sanglochons,’ she repeats, as if I’m an idiot. ‘They’re a cross between wild boars and pigs. Papa breeds them, but they smell bad so we keep them in the wood. They’re always squabbling over food.’

I’m relieved that’s all it was. ‘So this is a pig farm?’

‘No, of course not!’ Gretchen says, giving me a reproving glance. ‘The sanglochons are just Papa’s hobby. And it’s not a farm, it’s a chateau. We own the lake and all of the woods round here. We’ve nearly a hundred hectares of chestnut trees we harvest every autumn.’

She sounds proud, so I assume that must be a lot of chestnuts. ‘I’ve seen that you make your own wine as well.’

‘We used to. Papa wanted to call it Château Arnaud. He got a good deal on some vines and dug up our beet fields, but the grapes weren’t hardy enough for our soil. They got some sort of blight, so we only produced one vintage. We’ve still got hundreds of bottles, though, and Papa says we’ll be able to sell them once they’ve matured.’

I think about the sour-smelling bottles in the barn and hope they aren’t planning on selling them any time soon. Gretchen picks another flower and works it into the plait. She looks at me over the top of it.

‘You don’t talk about yourself very much, do you?’

‘There’s not much to say.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to be mysterious.’ She gives a smile that shows off her dimples. ‘Come on, tell me something. Where are you from?’

‘England.’

She gives my arm a playful slap. It hurts. ‘I mean whereabouts?’

‘I’ve been living in London.’

‘What do you do there? You must have a job.’

‘Nothing permanent. Bars, building sites.’ I shrug. ‘A bit of English teaching.’

There’s no clap of thunder, and the ground doesn’t split. Gretchen picks another flower and seems about to ask something else, but the dog chooses that moment to drop the stone it’s been chewing on my lap.

‘Oh, thanks a lot.’

I gingerly lift the saliva-coated offering and fling it away. The dog tears down the bluff and slows to a confused stop when the stone splashes into the water. It stares after it then back at me, heartbroken.

Gretchen laughs. ‘She’s so stupid.’

I find another stone and call the dog. It’s still distracted by the loss of the first, which was evidently its favourite, but catches on when I throw the substitute into the trees. Happy again, it sprints after it.

‘Gretchen’s a German name, isn’t it?’ I ask, glad of the chance to change the subject.

She adds another flower to the chain. ‘Papa’s family were from Alsace. I’m named after my grandmother. And Michel here has Papa’s middle name. It’s important to keep the family traditions going.’