Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

‘Good. Well, OK.’ I shrug, trying to see where I’ve hacked out. It’s hardly visible from down here. ‘I’ve made a start, anyway.’

Mathilde holds out her hand for my bundled-up clothes. ‘Would you like me to wash those?’

‘Thanks.’ I don’t argue. The freezing water in the barn won’t get rid of the sanglochon smell, and I don’t relish washing in it myself. I’m tempted to ask if I can take a shower or a bath, but I can imagine what Arnaud would say to that. Well, if I can’t have a hot bath or a cold beer, there’s one thing I’d like at least.

‘You said earlier there was somewhere I could buy cigarettes. How far away is it?’

‘A couple of kilometres. Too far for you to walk.’

‘I don’t mind. I can take my time.’

It isn’t as if I’ve anything else to do. Now I’ve stopped working the endorphin high is starting to fade and my nerves are already beginning to jangle. It’ll be worse knowing I can’t calm them with a cigarette.

Mathilde glances back at the house, as though debating something. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Give me half an hour.’

YELLOW DUST BILLOWS up around the van as it bounces over the track’s potholed surface. Mathilde is driving with the windows down, trying to dissipate some of the heat that’s built up inside during the day. The vinyl of the seats is torn, white wadding showing through in places. Mine has been mended, if it can be called that, with black electrical tape. Despite the open windows, the van smells of diesel, dog and stale pipe tobacco.

When I went back to the house after getting washed and changed Mathilde and Gretchen were arguing in the doorway. I stopped at the corner of the courtyard, not wanting to interrupt.

‘But it doesn’t need doing!’ Gretchen was insisting.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Georges cleaned it yesterday! They’re only pigs, they don’t mind what they eat!’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

‘Papa didn’t say I had to. Why do I always have to do what you say? You’re just trying to get me out of the way so you can go into town with him—’

‘Just do it!’

It was the first time I’d heard Mathilde raise her voice. Gretchen flounced away, not so much as pausing when she saw me at the bottom of the courtyard.

‘I hope you enjoy yourselves!’ she snapped, flip-flops cuffing the cobbles as she marched past.

I watched her stomp off down the track towards the woods, then looked back at Mathilde. She was staring at the cobblestones, her posture tired. Then, realizing I was there, she straightened. Wordlessly, she went to the van, leaving me to follow her.

She doesn’t speak a word as she drives up the track to the road. When we reach the closed gate she stops, leaving the ignition running as she climbs out.

‘I’ll do it,’ I offer.

‘It’s all right.’

The padlock is obviously stiff, but eventually she manages to unlock it. She swings the gate open, lifting it up the last few feet to keep it from dragging on the ground. Returning to the van, she drives out onto the road, then gets out again to shut the gate. In the wing mirror I see her fastening the padlock, securing the farm behind us.

‘Why do you keep it locked?’ I ask when she gets back in, remembering how I’d found the gate open when I came for water.

‘My father prefers it.’

She seems to think that’s all the explanation that’s needed. Maybe it is, but as she sets off I still wonder who’d left the gate open before.

Being outside again is like re-entering a world I’d forgotten exists. I’m not prepared for how exposed I feel, how used I’ve become to the farm’s insular universe. But I’m soon lulled by the warm evening, and the steady note of the van’s engine. Beginning to enjoy myself, I rest my arm on the open window and let the slipstream buffet my face. The air has a warm, summer smell of pollen and tarmac. Mathilde, though, is less relaxed. And in a hurry to get back, judging by how fast she’s driving.

The old van vibrates under the sustained speed. The grey strip of road stretches ahead of us. Wheat fields come right to the roadside, broken up with tall and feathery poplars and fatter trees that look like broccoli florets.

Mathilde’s hand brushes my arm as she shifts down a gear when the van begins to grumble on an incline. It’s accidental, but suddenly I’m aware of her rather than our surroundings. She’s wearing a white shirt, cotton sleeves rolled just below her elbows. Her hands look weathered on the steering wheel. Against the brown skin her chipped fingernails are pink with health.

The silence, which until then I haven’t noticed, begins to feel uncomfortable.

‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ I ask to break it.

She blinks as though her thoughts are far away. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You spoke English when I first woke in the loft. Did you learn it at school?’

‘My mother taught me. She was a teacher, before she got married. Languages. English, German and Italian.’

‘So do you speak all of those?’

‘Not really. A little Italian, but I’ve forgotten most of that now.’

‘How about Gretchen?’ I ask, remembering her sister’s blank face when I lapsed into English.

‘No. My mother died before Gretchen was old enough to learn,’ Mathilde says flatly, and then: ‘We’re here.’

She pulls into the forecourt of a dirty white building. It’s little more than a shack with a garage at one side and a bar-tabac at the other. A rusted sign for Stella Artois hangs outside, and a few battered tables and chairs stand under a faded awning.

Mathilde pulls up by one of the pumps. She seems calm enough, but there’s a tiny pulse visible in the open neck of her shirt, fluttering like a trip hammer. For some reason I feel sorry for her, and what I say next surprises me as much as her.

‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’

She looks at me, and for a second there’s a flash of what could be alarm. Then it’s gone. ‘No, thank you. But I need fuel, so there’s time if you want one.’

My face is red as I unfasten my seatbelt. As it slithers over me I have a sudden flashback to the bloodstained seatbelt in the Audi, and quickly climb out. The hum of the pump starts from behind me as I settle the crutch under my arm and go across the dusty concrete to the bar.

Inside it’s dark, unlit except by the window and open doorway. There aren’t many customers: three or four men at the tables and an older one sitting at the bar. The barman is drawing a beer as I enter, expertly flipping up the tap to stop the flow, then whisking the foam from the top with a wooden spatula. He sets it down for the old man, who doesn’t look up from his newspaper. I get one or two glances as I limp in, but it feels so good to be in a bar again, back in society, that I almost commit the unforgivable sin of smiling.

Instead, keeping my face acceptably deadpan, I go and sit on one of the high stools.

‘Six packs of Camels and a beer,’ I say, in response to the enquiring lift of the barman’s chin.

He’s a thin man in his fifties, receding hair brushed sideways to hide a balding crown. I know how John Mills felt in Ice Cold in Alex as I watch him pour the beer, angling the stemmed glass so that the foam doesn’t become too thick. I’ve worked in enough bars myself to appreciate the practised way he does it, but the associations that accompany the memory are unwelcome. I put them from my mind as he sets the beer down in front of me.

The glass is cold and beaded with condensation. Slowly, I raise it to my lips and drink. The beer is icy and clean, with a faint flavour of hops. I make myself stop before I empty the glass completely, lower it, and breathe a sigh.