Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

I hear Arnaud chuckle. ‘What?’ I ask.

‘I was just admiring your choice of backrest.’

I turn to find that I’m propped against the statue of Pan. The pagan god’s crotch is right behind my head.

I settle back again. ‘If he doesn’t mind, neither do I.’

Arnaud snorts, but seems amused. He takes the pipe from his mouth and raps the bowl smartly against the heel of his boot to empty it. He grinds the ash into the soil but doesn’t put the pipe away.

‘How much do you think they’re worth?’ he asks abruptly.

For a moment I think he means the trees, before I realize he’s talking about the statues.

‘No idea.’

‘No? You’re so smart, I thought you knew everything.’

‘Not when it comes to stolen statues.’

Arnaud takes out a short-bladed pocketknife. He begins scraping out the bowl of the pipe. ‘Who said they were stolen?’

‘You wouldn’t have hidden them down here if they weren’t.’ I’m not going to admit it was Gretchen. ‘Why haven’t you sold them?’

‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ He grinds the knife into the pipe, but lowers it again after a moment, the task forgotten. ‘It isn’t that simple. You have to be careful who you approach.’

Very careful, judging by the grass growing around them. They’ve obviously been here for some time. ‘If you didn’t already have buyers, why did you get so many?’

‘I had a… business associate. He said he knew a dealer who would take them off our hands.’

I stub out my cigarette. ‘What happened?’

Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a bitter line. ‘He let me down. Betrayed my trust.’

It’s almost the same phrase Gretchen used about Michel’s father. I’d put money on him and this ‘associate’ being the same man: the man whose dirty overalls I’m currently wearing. One way or another, Jean-Claude’s nameless brother certainly left a mess in his wake. No wonder they don’t want to talk about him.

‘So why don’t you just get rid of them?’ I ask.

He snorts. ‘If you want to try lifting them, go ahead.’

‘You managed to get them down here.’

‘We had lifting gear.’

‘You mean your associate did.’

Arnaud gives an angry nod. He considers the pipe bowl again. ‘I thought you might have some ideas. Contacts.’

‘What sort of contacts?’

‘The sort who wouldn’t be too interested in where the statues came from. There must be plenty of rich English bastards who’d pay for this sort of thing.’ When he looks at me there’s a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘There’d be something in it for you.’

‘Sorry, but I don’t know anyone.’

His scowl deepens. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be any use.’

I can’t help myself. ‘This “business associate”. Did he suggest making your own wine as well?’

Arnaud’s look is answer enough. Snapping the knife shut, he rams it in his pocket as he pushes himself awkwardly to his feet.

‘You can start taking the wood back.’

‘By myself? How?’ I look at the pile of cut timber. It was hard enough bringing the wheelbarrow down here with just the chainsaw in it.

He gives me a grim smile. ‘Smart-arse like you, you’ll think of something.’

It’s early evening before I finish taking the sawn-up tree to the house. I make trip after trip, limping up and down the track until I’m aching all over. I keep telling myself that each trip is the last, that Arnaud can do the rest himself. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sneering that I couldn’t manage. And leaving the silver birch to litter the woods seems too wasteful, no better than vandalism after I’ve cut it down.

So I carry on until all the logs are stacked under a lean-to at the back of the house. Only when I’ve put the wheelbarrow away do I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the woods. I almost don’t bother going back: I’ve coped without it all afternoon, and the wounds on my foot are healing nicely. But just thinking about it makes them hurt again.

Besides, I’ve grown used to having something to lean on.

After I’ve stripped off my overalls I try to wash myself at the tap in the barn. Water runs between the cobbles, pooling in the rough concrete depression before draining into the deepening crack in its surface. As I try to scrub myself clean I make a note to bring some mortar down here to patch it. The cold water takes away my breath, but not even the block of caustic homemade soap can cut through the coating of oil and tree-bark.

I persevere until my skin is raw and wrinkled, then throw down the soap in disgust. Turning off the tap, I put my overalls back on and collect clean clothes from the loft. Then I go to the house and knock on the kitchen door.

Mathilde opens it.

‘I could really use a bath,’ I tell her wearily.

I’m ready for an argument, and if Arnaud was there I’d probably get one. But there’s no protest from inside the room. Mathilde just takes in my oil-spattered state and steps back.

‘Come in.’

The kitchen is full of cooking smells. Pans are bubbling on the range, but the kitchen is empty except for her.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘My father’s with Georges and Gretchen’s taken Michel out. He’s teething again. The bathroom’s this way.’

She leads me through the door at the back of the room and into a hallway. It’s gloomy, unlit at this time of day by either natural or electric light. The stairs are steep and narrow, tarnished brass rods gripping the worn carpet. I follow her up them, taking hold of the painted wooden banister for support and keeping my eyes on the stairs instead of Mathilde’s legs.

This is the first time I’ve been beyond the kitchen. It feels strange. The house is threadbare but clean. The stairs end at a long corridor that runs off in both directions. There are doors on either side, all closed. I guess one of those on my left must open onto the unused bedroom that I look into from the scaffold. But I’m not sure which it is, and there’s no way of knowing what’s behind any of them.

Mathilde goes down the corridor and pushes open a door at the far end. ‘Here.’

The bathroom is so big that the ancient bath and washbasin look lost in it. The floor is bare boards except for a small rug beside the bath. But the room is bright and airy, even though the single window faces away from the sun this late in the afternoon.

‘You have to run the hot water first, then add the cold. The pipes don’t work properly if you try to run both at once. Be careful. It gets very hot.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, not quite looking at me. ‘You’ll need a clean towel.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘It’s no problem.’

She goes out, quietly closing the door behind her. I could be imagining it, but there seems to be a subtle change in her since I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. A slight reserve towards me. It’s hardly surprising: God knows, I wouldn’t like strangers knowing about my private life. But I regret it, even so.

The bath is a deep iron tub, the chipped white enamel discoloured by twin ferrous streaks where the taps have dripped. The hot one creaks as I turn it, producing nothing for a moment except a groaning shudder that seems to stem from the heart of the house. Then a bolt of water spatters out, followed by a thick gush. I put in the plug and find that the water is as scalding as Mathilde warned.

The bathroom quickly fills with steam. When I turn off the tap the metal burns my fingers. I spin it closed, touching it as little as possible, and run the cold water. Deep as the tub is, it’s nearly three-quarters full before it’s cool enough to bear.

I go to lock the door, not wanting Arnaud – or Gretchen, God forbid – to walk in. But while there are screw holes from a missing bolt, there’s no way of locking it. Hoping that Mathilde won’t let anyone disturb me, I undress and lower myself into the bath. The heat soaks through my aching muscles and joints. Resting my foot on the side to keep the bandage dry, I slide down until I’m submerged up to my chin.