Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

Arnaud might be out hunting for all I know, but the door opens before they can knock. He confronts them with silent belligerence. When the smaller gendarme asks, ‘M’sieur Arnaud?’ he gives only the barest nod of confirmation. The gendarme is unimpressed.

‘We’ve had a report of shooting here last night.’

His partner with the sweat-stained shirt notices me watching. I quickly turn away and go around the side of the house. As soon as I’m out of sight I sink to the ground.

They aren’t here for me. I let my head hang and take deep breaths. The murmur of voices still drifts from the courtyard, but I can’t make out what’s being said. I quickly pull myself up the inside of the scaffold like it’s a giant climbing-frame, hardly noticing the way it sways and creaks. Once I’ve hauled myself onto the platform I creep along it to the end nearest the kitchen. The voices become audible again.

‘… no formal complaint has been made,’ Arnaud is saying below. ‘I was defending my property. If you know who it was you should be arresting them, not me.’

‘We aren’t arresting anyone, we’re just—’

‘Then you should be. Someone attacks my home, but I’m the one you harass because I fire a few shots in the air to scare them off? Where’s the justice in that?’

‘We’ve heard the shots weren’t in the air.’

‘No? Was anyone hurt?’

‘No, but—’

‘There you are then. Besides, I don’t know how they can say what I was aiming at, they took off so fast.’

‘Can we talk inside?’

‘I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about.’

‘We won’t take up much of your time.’

The gendarme’s voice has a touch of steel in it. I can’t hear Arnaud’s answer, but there’s the sound of footsteps going into the house. The door closes. All I can think about is the plastic-wrapped package in my rucksack. It seems like madness not to have got rid of it, let alone leave it hidden under a few old clothes.

Too late now.

I become aware I’m biting at a torn piece of thumbnail and make myself stop. From where I’m crouching I can just see the lake over the tops of the trees. I could hide down there until the police have left. Perhaps even climb over the barbed wire and head across the wheat fields until I reach another road. If I’m lucky I could be miles away before anyone knew I’d gone.

But that’s panic talking. The gendarmes aren’t interested in me; they’ve only come to warn Arnaud about firing his rifle last night. At least, that’s what I hope. If I run I’ll only be drawing attention to myself.

Besides, where would I go?

I chop the trowel worriedly at the mortar drying on the board. Without giving any thought to what I’m doing I scoop a little out and press it into the wall. Then I do it again. The soft scrape of the metal on the stone has a tranquillizing effect, quieting the tremor in my hands. After a while I stand up. I work mechanically, moving the trowel from the board to the wall and back without conscious thought. With each stroke I forget about Arnaud, forget about the police. Forget about everything.

I don’t even hear the kitchen door opening again.

‘How’s it going up there?’

I stop and look down. The big gendarme is standing in the courtyard squinting up at me. He isn’t wearing his sunglasses, and without them his eyes are small and piggish.

‘Looks like hot work,’ he calls up.

I make a show of carrying on working. ‘Yeah.’

He plucks his damp shirt away from his chest. ‘Bitch of a day. We had to leave the car and walk from the road, as well. The gate’s locked.’

‘Right.’

‘Can’t stand the sun. Never could. From April till October, it’s just hell as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, with your colouring you must feel it pretty bad too.’

The mortar slips off the trowel and spatters onto the platform. The gendarme studies the house, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair before replacing it. His thick moustache all but obscures his mouth.

‘Been at it long?’

‘Oh… since about nine.’

He smiles. ‘I don’t mean today.’

‘Right. A few weeks.’

My board is empty. The mortar left in the bucket has become too dry to work with, but I scoop a pile out anyway. It’s either that or go back down. I can hear the gendarme’s boots creak as he shifts his weight.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

I nod.

‘You speak good French. Where did you learn?’

‘I just picked it up.’

‘Really? You must have a knack.’

‘I got a good grounding at school.’

‘Ah. That’ll be it.’ He takes out a handkerchief and mops his face. ‘What’s your name?’

I’m tempted to invent one, but that will only make things worse if he wants to see my passport. There’s no reaction when I tell him.

‘So what brings you to France, Sean?’ he asks.

I run the trowel blade across the wall, needlessly smoothing the mortar. ‘Just travelling.’

‘If you’re a tourist you shouldn’t be working.’ My face burns as blood rushes to it. After a pause he laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only joking. So were you here last night, for the trouble?’

‘Some of it.’

‘Some of it?’

‘I heard the commotion. I didn’t really see it.’

‘But you knew something was going on.’

‘It was hard to miss.’

He wipes the back of his neck with the handkerchief. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I heard some windows smash. There was shouting. From the woods. It sounded like there were quite a few of them in there.’

‘What were they shouting?’

‘Things about Arnaud and his daughters.’

‘Pretty nasty, eh?’

‘It wasn’t nice.’

‘So how many times did Arnaud fire the rifle?’

‘Oh…’ I frown as though I’m trying to remember. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Once, twice? Six times?’

‘I’m not sure. It was all a bit confused.’

‘Was he aiming into the wood?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Where were you when all this was going on?’

‘At the end of the house.’

‘But you couldn’t see what was happening?’

‘It was dark. By the time I got there it was all over.’

‘Didn’t you run up to see what was going on?’

I hold up my foot so he can see the bandage. ‘Not with this.’

Even as I’m doing it I know it’s a mistake. He looks at it without surprise. ‘What did you do?’

‘Trod on a nail,’ I say, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘A nail. Right.’

There’s a harder look on his face now, replacing the superficial friendliness. I turn away, pretending to point the wall with the too dry mortar.

‘Do you know who it was?’ I ask, trying to sound casual. ‘Last night, I mean?’

‘Probably just local youths.’ He sounds indifferent. I get the impression no one’s going to be arresting Didier and his friends for throwing a few stones. The gendarme puts on his sunglasses, hiding his small eyes. ‘How long will you be staying?’

‘Until the house is finished, I suppose.’

‘And then you’ll be moving on.’

I’m not sure if that’s a question or not. ‘I expect so.’

The sunglasses continue to stare up at me. I think he might say something else, but then the kitchen door opens again and the other gendarme comes out. The two of them talk, their voices too low to make out, but the smaller one shakes his head in obvious annoyance. Then the big gendarme says something and they both look at me.

I turn away again. After a second I hear them walk across the courtyard. I continue pretending to work, daubing almost dry mortar onto the stones until I’m sure they’ve gone.