Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

I drop it in the sack.

There are traps all over the woods. Each time we fill one of the sacks Arnaud has brought we leave it by the side of the path to collect later. The traps are all well hidden, concealed among tree roots and clusters of grass, even, on one occasion, in a shallow hole skilfully camouflaged with twigs and branches.

Arnaud goes unerringly to each one, locating them without hesitation. The half-full sack bumps against my leg as I follow him to another. A thick growth of grass has sprung up around it, so that only the chain is visible. He searches for a stick to clear it.

‘What’s the point?’ I ask.

‘The point of what?’

I drop the sack of traps to the ground. ‘Of these things.’

‘To keep people out, what do you think?’

‘It didn’t work the other night.’

Arnaud’s cheek muscles bunch. ‘They were lucky.’

‘And you weren’t?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You think the police would only have given you a warning if somebody had stepped in one?’

‘You think I’d care?’

‘Then why are we taking them up?’

‘Because I won’t give them the satisfaction of finding them. In a week or two, when this has blown over, I’ll set them again.’ He gives me an odd sideways glance. ‘And if I catch somebody in one, what makes you think they’ll be able to tell the police about it?’

He clears the last of the grass from the trap and gives a short laugh.

‘No need to spring this.’

The remains of a rabbit hang from the trap’s closed jaws. It must have been there for months. The flies and maggots have already done their work, leaving only a desiccated bundle of fur and bones.

Arnaud prods it with his foot.

‘Take it up.’

The morning chill and mist have burned off by the time Arnaud eventually calls a break. The sun drips through the branches, not yet hot but intimating at the heat to come. We stop where a flat-topped rock breaks through the earth to form a natural seat. Leaning the rifle against it, Arnaud takes it himself. I lower myself to the ground, glad of the respite.

‘How many more traps are left?’

‘Plenty more in the woods down by the lake. Why? Getting tired?’

‘No, I’m loving every minute.’

He snorts but doesn’t deign to reply. I try not to think about how long it’ll be before breakfast as Arnaud rummages in his knapsack and brings out a greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcel. Both Lulu and I watch him unwrap it. Inside are two cold chicken breasts. To my surprise he offers one to me.

‘Here.’

I take it before he changes his mind. He rummages in the knapsack again, this time coming out with a plastic bottle of water and a length of bread.

‘The bread’s yesterday’s,’ he says disparagingly as he breaks it in half.

I don’t care. We eat in silence, sharing water from the same bottle, although I notice we both wipe the neck before we drink. I throw occasional scraps to Lulu, who’s convinced herself that she’s starving. Arnaud ignores her.

When he’s finished he takes out his pipe and fills it. I’d join him, but in my rush to get out of the loft I came without my cigarettes.

‘How’s your back?’ I ask.

It’s meant as a peace offering after the food. Arnaud bites on his pipe and stares through the smoke.

‘No better for digging.’

We’re silent after that. Arnaud seems as intransigent as the rock he’s sitting on. I catch him watching me at one point, but he looks away again without speaking. There’s a tension about him that rekindles my earlier paranoia. He picks up the rifle, sights along its length.

‘So, are you enjoying my daughter’s generosity?’

Oh shit, I think, wondering what Gretchen’s said. ‘What do you mean?’

He gives me an irritated glance. He sets down the rifle and fiddles with his pipe. ‘Mathilde. She’s been pampering you like a newborn. Cooking your meals, changing your bandage.’

‘Right. Yes, she’s been… very generous.’

He takes the pipe from his mouth, flicks an invisible mote from the bowl and replaces it. ‘What do you think of her?’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘It’s a simple enough question. What do you think of Mathilde? She’s an attractive woman, no?’

Arnaud’s capable of taking offence no matter what I say, so I opt for the truth. ‘Yes, she is.’

That seems to be what he wants to hear. He pulls on his pipe. ‘It’s been hard on her. Running the house. Taking care of Gretchen when their mother died. Now being left to look after a baby by herself. Not easy.’

I haven’t noticed him trying to make things any easier for her.

‘It hasn’t been any better for me, either, God knows,’ he goes on. ‘Bringing up two daughters. A place like this, a man needs a son. Someone who can work with him, take over eventually. I always hoped Marie would give me a boy, but no. Only girls. I thanked Christ when Michel was born, I can tell you. It’s no joke being surrounded by women.’

Arnaud taps out his pipe on the rock, looking at it instead of me.

‘Still, it’s worse for Mathilde. A good-looking woman, still young. She needs a man. A husband, ideally, but you’ve got to be realistic.’ He purses his lips, still considering the pipe. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

I tip my head, non-committally.

‘Trouble is, the men around here aren’t worth much. Small minds, that’s all they’ve got. Half of them would screw a cow if they could find a stool to stand on, but when it comes to an unmarried woman with another man’s child…’

His sigh is a shade too theatrical.

‘You’d think they’d have more sense than to let their prejudices blind them. I’m not going to live for ever, and Mathilde’s my eldest. Michel won’t be old enough to take over for years, and there’s no saying I’ll still be around to help him when he does. I’m the first to admit this place needs work, but… Well, it doesn’t take much to see the potential. You understand me?’ he asks, looking at me directly for the first time.

‘I think so.’ I understand, all right. It’s not so much that he’d make such a proposal that shocks me, as that he’d make it to me.

He nods, satisfied. ‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to make up his mind straight away. But, for the right sort of man, it’s worth giving some thought, wouldn’t you say?’

‘What would you call the right sort of man?’ I ask, keeping my voice neutral. But perhaps not as neutral as I intend, because Arnaud gives me a shrewd glance.

‘Somebody who can recognize an opportunity when he sees one,’ he retorts. And then, less tartly, ‘Someone I can trust.’

‘Like you trusted Louis?’

Arnaud’s face closes like a trap. He thrusts his pipe into his pocket and stands up.

‘Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.’

I get wearily to my feet and bend to pick up the sack. The snick of the rifle bolt being slid back is unmistakable in the quiet. I turn to find Arnaud standing with the barrel pointing at me.

I don’t move. Then with relief I see that his attention is on Lulu. She’s staring into the trees, ears cocked.

‘What’s she—?’

‘Shh!’

He motions me to one side. The dog is so tense she’s quivering. Arnaud raises the rifle stock to his shoulder, readying himself.

‘Go.’

The word is little more than a whisper, but Lulu begins moving into the woods, stalking in a slow-motion walk. A little way off she halts, one forepaw poised in the air. I still can’t see anything. Suddenly she hurls herself forward. At the same time two birds burst from the grass ahead of her, wheeling into the air in a clatter of wings.

The crack of Arnaud’s rifle makes me jump. One of the birds tumbles from the sky. There’s another crack. The remaining bird veers away, climbing higher. A third shot sounds, but the bird has already lost itself beyond the higher branches.