Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

On impulse I pull in and stop.

The town has woken up during the time I’ve been buying supplies. I sit outside one of the cafés set around the square, enjoying the sense of freedom. The metal table rocks slightly on the uneven pavement when I hang my walking stick on its edge. After a few moments the waiter comes out, pad in hand.

‘Coffee and a croissant.’

I sit back, content to wait. The street is still wet from its morning hosing. Water beads the aluminium legs of the chairs. There’s a fresh, early-morning feel about the place that will have gone in another hour. Glad to have caught it, I look over the narrow road that separates the shops from the square. The ornate fountain is the grandest thing about it, hinting at a now forgotten pre-war opulence. The clack of balls from the boules court carries over the whine of the occasional moped or deeper engine noise of a car. The two old players have been joined by a third, equally decrepit, who for now just watches. They laugh and smoke, exclaiming at bad shots and slapping each other’s shoulders at the good ones. One of them sees me watching and raises a hand in casual greeting. I nod back, feeling absurdly pleased at the acceptance.

After weeks of nothing but eggs for breakfast, the croissant tastes wonderful. The coffee is thick and dark with a finish of brown froth. I take my time over both, until there’s only a broken carapace of crumbs left on the plate. Sitting back with a sigh, I order another coffee and light a cigarette.

Two young men walk past as I’m smoking. They’re in their late teens or early twenties, both in jeans and trainers. I don’t pay them any attention until I feel one of them staring at me. He turns away when I look up, but the small flare of disquiet grows when I catch them both glancing back again as they turn off the square.

I tell myself it’s nothing. I’m a strange face in a small town, and my red hair marks me out as a foreigner. But it sours my mood, and when I see a yellow VW Beetle go by I don’t feel like staying at the café any longer. Leaving the money in the saucer, I go to a tabac on the opposite side of the square to stock up on cigarettes. A boulangerie is open next to it, and when I come out the sweet aroma of its baking is too much to resist. The woman behind the high glass counter is buxom, with a cast in one eye. But she smiles as warmly as the bread smells when she finishes serving an old woman and turns to me.

‘Six croissants, please.’

She picks out the sickle-shaped pastries from a tray behind her and drops them into a paper bag. I pay for them out of my own money. I daresay Mathilde and Gretchen will appreciate a change from eggs as much as I do. Arnaud can buy his own.

‘You sound foreign,’ the woman says as she hands me my change.

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable, but it’s an innocent enough comment. ‘I’m English.’

‘Are you staying around here?’

‘Just passing through,’ I tell her, and leave before she can ask anything else.

It’s time to go. I cut across the square to where I’ve left the van. All three old men are playing boules now, holding the silver balls in a backward grip and flipping them underhand. They land almost dead, hardly rolling on the gritty soil. One of the players, the newcomer, succeeds in knocking another ball away from the small wooden jack. There’s laughter and expostulations. Watching them, I’m not aware of the footsteps behind me until I hear a shout.

‘Hey, wait up!’

I look back. Three men are walking towards me across the square. Two of them are the ones who went past my table earlier. The third is also familiar, and I feel my stomach knot when I recognize him.

It’s the loudmouth from the roadside bar.

I resist the temptation to glance towards the van, knowing I won’t be able to reach it in time. Gripping the walking stick, I stop by the fountain. Spray tickles the back of my neck in an icy spatter as the three of them face me, the loudmouth slightly in front.

‘How’s it going? Still at the Arnauds’ place?’

He’s smiling, but it’s a mugger’s smile. I just nod. I remember his name now: Didier. He’s in his early twenties, muscular and wearing oil-stained jeans and a T-shirt. His scuffed work boots look as though they could be steel-capped.

‘So, what brings you to town?’

‘I had to buy a few things.’

‘Errands, eh?’ I can see him weighing me up; an unknown quantity but with a bad leg. And outnumbered. He points to the bag from the boulangerie. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Croissants.’

He grins. ‘Arnaud’s daughters come cheap, eh? Although Gretchen never charges me for a fuck.’

There’s laughter from the other two. I start to turn away but Didier moves to block me.

‘What’s the matter, can’t take a joke?’

‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘For Arnaud?’ He’s stopped pretending to smile. ‘What sort of work? Cleaning up pig shit? Or are you too busy fucking his daughters?’

One of the others starts making pig-squealing noises. I look past them but the town square is empty. There’s no one except the old boules players. The day suddenly seems too bright. The soft splashing of the water in the fountain is crystal clear, the droplets shining in the sunlight.

‘What’s wrong? Pig got your tongue?’ Didier’s expression is ugly. ‘Tell Arnaud if he wants anything here he should come for it himself, not send his fucking English errand boy. Tell him he’s a fucking coward! Does he think he’s safe out there behind his barbed wire?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Shut your fucking mouth!’

He swipes the bag of croissants from my hand, knocking it into the water. I grip the walking stick more tightly as the other two step to either side, backing me towards the fountain. The boules players have finally noticed what’s going on. There are cries of ‘Eh, eh, eh!’ and ‘Stop that!’ from the old men, all of which are ignored.

‘I know you, Didier Marchant, I know who you are!’ one shouts, as another of them speaks into a phone.

‘Fuck off and die,’ Didier calls back without looking round.

He’s been pumping himself up, getting ready to start. Suddenly he feints a punch, snapping his fist out and drawing back at the last second. They laugh as I step back against the edge of the fountain. I instinctively raise the walking stick but my arms feel cumbersome and heavy.

‘Yeah?’ Didier says. ‘You going to hit me with that? Come on, then!’

He doesn’t really believe I will, and there’s an instant when I have a chance. The end of the walking stick is weighted and thick, and I can imagine the impact as it strikes his head. I can hear the crack of bone again as Georges brings the hammer down onto the pig’s skull, the thud of a falling body. For a heartbeat I’m back in a dark street, seeing blood black and sticky under a streetlight. It makes me hesitate, but Didier doesn’t.

He hits me in the face.

There’s a burst of light. I stagger sideways, swinging the stick blindly. It’s knocked from my hand. As it clatters to the ground something drives into my stomach, forcing the breath from me. I double up, raising my hands in a futile attempt to protect my head.

‘What’s going on?’

The voice is deeper and authoritative. Gasping, I look up as someone shoulders my attackers aside. Still bent over, all I can make out is a pair of bib-and-braces overalls. I raise my head further and see the brawny man from the roadside bar, the one Mathilde called Jean-Claude. Behind him is the boules player who was on the phone earlier, standing well back as the newcomer confronts the three younger men.

‘I said what’s going on?’

Didier answers sullenly. ‘Nothing.’