Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

My legs are weak as I sink down onto the platform. I put my head between my knees and try not to throw up.

‘Are you up there?’

It’s Mathilde. I take a deep breath and get to my feet. She’s at the foot of the scaffold, holding a plate of food. The spaniel stands next to her, eyeing it hopefully.

‘I’ve brought your lunch.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

I’ve no appetite but I don’t want to stay up here any longer. Not where everyone can see me. I take my time climbing down the ladder, expecting Mathilde to have left the plate on the window-ledge as usual. But when I get to the bottom she’s still there. Her face is pale, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced than usual.

‘The police were here. About last night.’

‘I know. One of them was asking me about it.’

She gives me a quick glance, then looks away. Her hand goes up to push her hair back in what I’ve come to recognize as her habitual expression of unease.

‘Are they going to press charges?’ I ask.

‘No. They warned him about firing his rifle in future. That’s all.’

I try to sound indifferent. ‘So will they be coming back?’

‘They didn’t say. I don’t think so.’

She almost seems to be reassuring me.

When she’s gone I set off across the courtyard. Slowly at first, trying to seem normal, but by the time I reach the barn I’m almost running, jabbing the walking stick into the earth like a third leg. It’s only when I get to the steps that I realize I’m still holding the plate. Bread and meat spill from it as I put it down and rush up to the loft. I drag my rucksack onto the bed and start tugging at the drawstring. I’ve kept it fastened since Gretchen went in it for the MP3 player, and now I swear as I struggle to untie the knot, listening for any footsteps that might announce the return of the police.

There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat as I reach in and grab the package. Its smooth weight is a reminder of everything I’d rather forget. I’ve had plenty of time to decide what to do, but it was easier to avoid thinking about it altogether. Now I don’t have any choice. I look wildly around the piled junk in the loft for somewhere to hide it, but everywhere seems too obvious. I need a place where it’ll be safe from a casual search, where it won’t be found by accident.

It takes a while, but eventually I think of one.

A bee grumbles over the vines, droning like a crippled plane. There’s a half-heard thrum in the air, as though the sun is making even the silence vibrate. The heat seems to have a physical weight, sapping will and energy alike.

I gaze out at the day through the barn entrance. I’m sitting on the concrete strip with my back against one of the old wine vats. It’s much cooler down here than in the loft, although ‘cool’ is still a relative term. My lunch was still on the step where I’d left it when I came back from hiding the package. Or rather the plate was: Lulu had discovered it in my absence.

I wasn’t hungry anyway.

The springer spaniel lolls next to me, digesting my lunch and enjoying the shade. I should get back to work, but I can’t find the motivation. The morning’s events have left me hollowed out. The gendarmes’ visit has unsettled me even more than the violence in the square. At least then I’d been able to return to the farm’s sanctuary, to shut myself away behind its gate. Now the outside world has followed me inside, reminding me that any sense of refuge is no more than an illusion. I can’t hide here indefinitely.

The question is where do I go?

Cocooned in shade, I stare through the barn entrance at the sunlit vines, absently picking at the crack in the concrete surface. The broken edge crumbles away easily. There’s something hypnotic about letting the grains sift through my fingers, like sand at a beach. Not enough mortar in the mix . The crack has grown bigger, worn away by my walking over it to the steps. At its widest point it’s maybe an inch across, and as I run my fingertips along it they touch something that rustles.

Too lethargic to move, I turn my head to look. There isn’t enough light in the barn to make out what it is, but it feels like a scrap of cloth. Probably something that was mixed in with the concrete; yet another example of Louis’s less than stellar workmanship. I give it a half-hearted tug, but there’s not enough of it to grip.

Losing interest, I brush the sand from my hands and leave the scrap where it is. The barn’s cavernous interior is spicy with old wood and grape musk. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to feel tired after what’s happened, but heat and reaction are a potent combination. Resting my head against the rough vat, I stare at the sunlit day beyond the barn entrance, a rectangle of light in the darkness…

Something hits my foot, and for an instant I think I’m caught in the trap again. Then the last vestiges of sleep drop away and I see a blurred figure looming over me.

‘What?’ I gasp, scrambling to sit up.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or not to find it’s Arnaud. He stares at me coldly, foot cocked ready to kick me again. Lulu is frantically wagging her tail at him, managing to seem both cowed and guilty.

‘What are you doing?’ he demands.

I rub the sleep from my eyes. ‘It’s my lunch break.’

‘It’s after four.’

Looking past him, I see that the light outside has changed. A high haze, like a sheet of muslin, has turned the sky a uniform white, reducing the sun to a formless glare.

But I’m not in the mood to apologize. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it.’

I expect Arnaud to make some comment, but he isn’t really listening. There’s a preoccupied scowl on his face.

‘Mathilde said the gendarmes spoke to you.’

‘One of them did.’

‘What about?’

‘He wanted to know what happened last night.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘What did you tell him?’

I’m tempted to let him sweat, but my heart isn’t in it. ‘That it was too dark for me to see anything.’

Arnaud scans my face, looking for signs that I’m lying. ‘Was that all they wanted to know?’

‘He asked what I’d done to my foot.’

His smile is bitter. ‘So you told him about the traps, eh?’

‘I said I’d stepped on a nail.’

‘Did he believe you?’

I shrug.

His jaw works as though he’s chewing that over, then he turns and walks away. Don’t mention it , I think, staring at his back. I don’t want the police sniffing round here any more than he does, but a simple thank you wouldn’t kill him. Arnaud’s only gone a few paces, though, before he pauses.

‘Mathilde’s cooking something special tonight,’ he says grudgingly. ‘You can eat with us.’

Before I can answer, he’s gone.

THE COURTYARD IS in shadow as I limp across it towards the house. A lone hen refuses to get out of my way, so I usher it aside with my walking stick. The bird clucks and flaps before settling down to resume picking at some invisible speck. My freshly washed hair and beard are still damp, and I’ve even dressed for the occasion, putting on a fresh T-shirt and my cleanest pair of jeans. I feel uncomfortable, the familiar setting made strange by the occasion.

I keep reminding myself it’s only dinner.

Lulu has been banished to the courtyard. She lingers hopefully outside the kitchen, fussing over me briefly when I walk up but more concerned with getting back inside. The windows are open, letting out the smell of roasting meat. I raise my hand, catch myself hesitating, and knock on the door.

Gretchen opens it. She stands back to let me in, blocking the dog’s attempt to dart past with a terse ‘No, Lulu!’