Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

The offer takes me by surprise. ‘I don’t have any teaching qualifications.’

She shrugs this away. ‘You can do a TEFL course easily enough. Do you speak French?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Well, there you go. They get a lot of French students.’

I’ve never taught a thing in my life, never even considered it as a possibility. Still, it isn’t as though I’ve any other plans.

‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I take a deep breath. ‘How about, I don’t know… going for a drink sometime?’

I’M BY THE stream where I left the car. The water is clear and fast-running, but when I immerse my hands I can’t feel it. It’s warm, the same temperature as my body. I try to clean the clotted blood from beneath my nails, but the more I try the more there seems to be. The water is stained by it, a dark viscous red that now flows above my wrists. I know my own blood is somehow leaching into it but that only makes me scrub harder. When I take my arms from the stream they’re red and dripping up to the elbows.

I’m about to put them back in when I feel a cramp in my foot.

I turn to look at it, and I’m lying in bed. Sunlight fills the loft. This time there’s no lapse, no confusion. I know straight away where I am. I lie staring up at the roof, waiting until the last vestiges of the dream have faded and my heart rate has returned to normal.

The dream might have passed but my foot still hurts. And now other aches announce themselves throughout my body in a roll-call of abuse. Remembering, I look at my rucksack.

A boot print is clearly stamped on it.

Seeing it brings a rush of feeling. Jesus. What was all that about? I feel angry and shamed, and more confused than ever, but beneath all that is a sense of relief.

At least I’m not a prisoner.

The black rocking horse regards me evilly from one rolling eye as I take my morning painkillers, washing them down with lukewarm water from one of the wine bottles by the bed. According to my watch, it’s eight o’clock, but there’s no sign of breakfast. I’m hungry again, which I take to be a good sign. I’m still weak, but not with the will-sapping fatigue of yesterday. Apart from a few grazes and a lump where I hit my head, even the tumble downstairs doesn’t seem to have damaged anything. Except my pride.

A distant sound disrupts the morning quiet: the whiplash of a shot, quickly followed by another. Probably Mathilde’s father out venting his aggression on the local wildlife, I think, remembering the hunting rifle the old bastard was carrying. I stare up at the cobwebbed ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. I’ve got to get out of this place, that much is certain. Yet as soon as I start to think beyond the immediate future, despair overwhelms me. I was in enough trouble before I stepped in the trap. No matter what happens here, that won’t have changed.

But I can’t let myself dwell on that. First things first. Pain spears my bandaged foot when I try putting my weight on it, ending any hope of walking. Keeping it off the ground, I hop over to the window. The glass is dirty and hung with cobwebs that resemble rotting muslin. One of them, suspended from a rafter, strokes almost imperceptibly across my eyes. I wipe it off and look outside. Below me is a sunlit field striped with rows of grapevines. They run down to a wood, beyond which is a small lake. It must be the same one I saw just before I stepped in the trap, but from here its surface looks mirror smooth, coloured pale blue with reflected sky.

There’s another unemphatic report of a rifle, this time followed by the excited barking of a dog. I can’t see anyone, but just thinking of the man I met last night knots my stomach. Careful to avoid the photograph this time, I rummage in my rucksack for the pack of Camels I took from the car. The cigarette tastes foul but I need something to calm my nerves. I smoke it sitting propped up on the bed, legs stretched out and my back against the rough wall. The pack is half empty now; I’ll need to ration what’s left.

I don’t know how long they’ll have to last.

After I finish the cigarette I dig out a pair of boxer shorts, a psychological prop in case Papa comes calling again. I’ve only just pulled them on when I hear someone on the steps. I tense before realizing the footsteps aren’t heavy enough to be his.

The trapdoor swings open to reveal Mathilde. I look past her, and relax when I see she’s alone. Her face is unreadable as she approaches the bed.

‘Good morning.’

She’s carrying a tray on which is my breakfast and a bowl of water. There’s also a roll of bandage and an old first-aid tin, and she has a worn towel folded over one arm.

‘I’ve brought a clean dressing for your foot,’ she says. ‘It needs changing.’

She puts the tray, down on the mattress and perches on the edge beside it. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turns her attention to my foot.

‘How is it?’ she asks, unwrapping the bandage.

‘No better for being kicked downstairs.’

I don’t mean to snap, but I can’t help it. My nerves are ragged as Mathilde continues to remove the soiled bandage. Underneath, my foot is covered with clotted pads of surgical dressing, glued to my flesh with dried blood. One sticks when she tries to peel it away, making me suck in my breath.

‘Sorry.’

Taking a wad of cotton wool from the tin, she dips it in the water and begins to soak the dressings. One by one they come away, pulling only slightly. Her shoulder obscures my view as she works.

‘I heard someone shooting earlier,’ I say.

‘My father. He goes hunting.’

‘I assume that was him last night?’

‘Yes.’ She pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. It’s always the same side, I notice; her left. ‘I’m sorry. My father’s a private man. He’s doesn’t like strangers.’

‘So I gathered.’ There’s no point taking it out on her, though. She’s not responsible for her father, and she’s evidently created problems for herself by helping me. ‘Why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Because you knew he’d get in trouble over the traps?’

She looks up at me, the grey eyes solemn. ‘I thought it was best to treat you myself. But if you’d needed urgent attention I would have made sure you had it.’

Bizarrely enough, I believe her. She looks at me for a moment longer, then continues removing the dressings.

‘So I’m free to leave whenever I want?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why was the trapdoor locked?’

‘You were delirious. I didn’t want you to fall down the steps and hurt yourself.’

The irony of that almost makes me laugh. ‘Or risk your father seeing me?’

Her silence confirms it. I can’t imagine how she hoped to keep my presence a secret, but having met the man I can understand why she didn’t want him to know. I’m just glad it was his daughters who stumbled across me in the wood.

‘How did you get me up here without him knowing about it?’ I ask.

‘My father has a bad back and sleeps most afternoons. We used a blanket to carry you from the woods. And we rested a lot.’ Mathilde gently works at the last dressing, which doesn’t want to come off. ‘The barn’s basic but it’s dry and comfortable. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. At least until you’re stronger.’

‘Aren’t you worried I’ll tell the police what happened?’

‘That’s up to you.’

Again, I find myself wanting to believe her. Until I remember the plastic package hidden in my rucksack. Maybe she has a reason for thinking I won’t go to the police, I think, suddenly clammy. But then Mathilde removes the last dressing, and when I see what’s underneath I forget everything else.