Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

If she thought about me.

I spend the rest of the day getting drunk. From time to time I take out my phone and stare at Chloe’s logged call on the small glowing screen. Several times I’m on the verge of deleting it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. The evening is warm and sunny, and I sit in a bubble of isolation from the other people sharing the pub’s terrace. One moment I’m numb, the next I’m swamped by grief, guilt and anger. Anger is the easiest to bear, and at some point the decision takes hold in my mind as to what I have to do. As the light fades I get up and head unsteadily for the nearest tube station. Jules’s gym is in Docklands. I don’t have an address but it doesn’t matter. I’ll find it.

I’ll find him.

RAIN THRUMS ON the roof like static from a broken radio.

Outside, water streams and drips over the kitchen window in a steady cascade, like a curtain of glass beads. It’s coming down so heavily that the door and windows are all closed, leaving the kitchen hot and stifling. The rain doesn’t seem to have made it any cooler, and the airless room is claustrophobic and thick with cooking smells.

Mathilde has gone to town with dinner this evening, serving a rare first course of artichokes in butter.

‘What’s the special occasion?’ Arnaud grumbles. Butter varnishes his mouth and chin.

‘No occasion,’ Mathilde tells him. ‘I just thought you’d like a change.’

Her father grunts and goes back to gnawing at the artichoke, nuzzling obscenely at the centre of the splayed leaves. Gretchen all but ignores me as she sullenly helps her sister serve the food.

Georges evidently hasn’t told Arnaud about seeing us in the woods earlier. So far, at least. Either he really does only care about his pigs, like Gretchen says, or he’s learned to turn a blind eye to anything that doesn’t concern him. Either way, I should be relieved.

Instead I feel almost disappointed.

I’ve been in a strange mood all afternoon. There was no question of doing any more work once the rain started. It quickly turned my mortar to sludge, and when the wind picked up as well, buffeting the scaffold with each squall, I’d no choice but to come down. Soaking wet, I went back to the barn and stripped off my wet overalls, then watched the storm through the loft’s window. The landscape outside was transformed, the familiar pastoral scene replaced by a wilder persona. The fields beyond the wind-thrashed trees had been smeared from existence, while the lake was no more than a blur. As thunder rumbled in the distance I contemplated swimming in it now, with its surface shredded by the downpour.

Instead I stayed in the loft, listening to the drumming rain and waiting for the promised lightning. It never materialized, and before long the storm’s novelty had worn thin. Smoking one of my last cigarettes without enjoyment, I tried to read another chapter of Madame Bovary . But my heart wasn’t in it. As the day dragged into evening without any let-up in the downpour, I grew more restless. For the first time in weeks I put my watch back on, watching the seconds tick by to when I’d have to go to the house for dinner. As well as apprehension, there was also a strange sense of anticipation.

Now I’m finally here, though, it’s an anticlimax. Everything carries on as normal. Mathilde comes around with the pan, serving a second artichoke to each of us. They’re small but tender, the meaty flesh of the leaves succulent and soft. I don’t have much appetite, but I accept another all the same. She pours a little hot butter from the pan onto it before moving away, as expressionless as ever.

As I tear a leaf from the choke and bite into it, I catch sight of my watch. It feels both familiar and strange on my wrist, and my stomach sinks to see that only a few minutes have passed since the last time I looked. The hands seem to be moving through honey, as though the farm is slowing the laws of relativity to suit its own rhythm. Or maybe I’m just waiting for something to happen.

‘Going somewhere?’ Arnaud says.

I lower my watch. ‘Just lost track of time.’

‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re tired.’ He gives a wheezing laugh, waving a ruined artichoke at me. ‘You’ve hardly done anything today. The rain’s given you a holiday, what have you got to be tired for?’

There’s a needle-gleam to his eyes. He’s in a good mood, I realize. He’s the only one in the room who is. Gretchen seems determined to out-sulk herself, while Mathilde is even quieter than usual. I wonder if her sister has said anything about this afternoon, and the possibility takes away what little inclination I have to make conversation.

Arnaud remains unaware of the undercurrents around the table, too intent for the moment on his appetite. As Mathilde and Gretchen serve the main course – thin strips of pork with a caper sauce – he speaks to me again.

‘I hear the stitches are out of your foot.’

‘Yes.’

‘So there’s nothing to slow you up any more, eh?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Something to celebrate for both of us then.’ He reaches for the wine bottle and makes to refill my glass.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Come on, you’re empty. Here.’

I move my glass away. ‘I don’t want any more.’

He frowns, holding the bottle poised so the red liquid is close to spilling from its neck. ‘Why not? Is something wrong with it?’

‘I just don’t feel like drinking.’

Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a disapproving line. He’s had most of the bottle already, and I doubt it’s his first. He pours himself more, splashing it onto the table. Over by the range, Mathilde flinches as the bottle bangs down.

‘What?’ he demands.

‘Nothing.’

He stares at her, but she keeps her eyes downcast as she returns to her seat. Taking a swig of wine, he impales a piece of meat with his fork and glares around the table as he chews.

‘What’s the matter with everyone tonight?’

No one answers.

‘It’s like eating in a morgue! Is there something going on I don’t know about? Eh?’

The question is met by silence. Across the table, I feel Gretchen’s eyes on me but I pretend not to notice. Arnaud empties his glass. His good mood hasn’t lasted very long. He reaches again for the bottle and sees Mathilde watching him.

‘You want to say something?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

He continues to stare, looking for something to criticize. Failing to find it, he takes up his knife and fork and resumes eating. The pork hardly needs chewing. It falls apart, the sauce piquant with garlic and the capers.

‘Not enough seasoning,’ Arnaud grumbles.

The comment goes unacknowledged.

‘I said there’s not enough seasoning.’

Mathilde wordlessly passes him the salt and pepper. He grinds pepper liberally over his food then douses it with salt.

‘I’ve told you often enough to use more when you’re cooking. It kills the flavour putting it on afterwards.’

‘Then why do it?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

Arnaud gives me a poisoned look. ‘Because then at least it tastes of something.’

‘It tastes fine to me,’ I say to Mathilde. ‘It’s delicious.’

She flickers a nervous smile. Her father stares at me across the table, chewing slowly. He swallows, taking his time before answering.

‘And you’d know, would you?’

‘I know what I like.’

‘Is that so? I didn’t realize you were such a gourmand. All this time I thought it was just some no-hope hitch-hiker I’d got living in my barn.’ Arnaud raises his glass in an ironic salute. ‘I’m honoured to have your opinion rammed down my throat.’

The sound of the rain is loud in the sudden silence. Gretchen is watching us wide-eyed. Mathilde starts to get up.