Tana French - The Searcher - A Novel

“Right,” Cal says. The image of Trey curled up feels like it’s branding him. “Yeah. Well. There you go. You think the lip needs stitches?”

“It could do with them, all right, so it doesn’t leave too bad of a scar. I told her that and she said no stitches, she doesn’t give a shite about scars. So I had her rinse it out with salt water, and I put on one of your Steri-Strips. Gave her one of your Nurofen for the pain. Better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” Cal says. “I appreciate this.”

Lena nods. “She oughta get seen, just in case. But she’ll live without.”

“Then she’ll have to live without. She’d just do herself more damage, fighting all the way.”

“If she gets worse during the night, she’ll need to go. Like it or not.”

“Yeah.”

Lena pulls her hands up into her sweater sleeves to keep them warm. She says, “Are you going to keep her here for the night?”

Even if Sheila notices Trey is gone before morning, she’s hardly likely to call the cops. “Yeah,” Cal says. “Could I ask you to sit with her?” It comes out abrupt, but he can’t wait to get moving. “I got somewhere I need to be. If she gets worse, call me and I’ll come back.”

“She was asking for you.”

“Tell her I’ll be back in the morning. And tell her don’t worry, I’m not going for a doctor.”

“She hardly knows me. It’s you she wants.”

Cal says, “I’m not gonna spend the night alone with a little girl.”

Lena tilts her head back against the door frame to inspect him up and down. She doesn’t look particularly impressed with what she sees. “Fair enough,” she says. “I’ll stay if you do.”

It’s a challenge, and it leaves Cal stymied. “What am I gonna do for her here?” he says.

“Same as I am. Give her more Nurofen, or a clean towel if her lip opens up. It’s not like she needs brain surgery. What are you going to do for her anywhere else?”

“I told you,” Cal says. He wishes he had called someone else, anyone else—not that there is anyone, unless he felt like getting on Facebook and messaging Caroline. “I got somewhere to be.”

“Not somewhere smart.”

“Maybe not. But still.”

“If you leave,” Lena informs him, “I’m leaving as well. This is your mess, not mine. I’m not sitting here all night waiting for your problems to come find me.”

She doesn’t look one bit nervous to Cal, but neither does she look like she plans on backing down. “These problems aren’t gonna come looking for anyone,” he says. “Not tonight, anyway.”

“Imagine how you’ll feel if you abandon a poor widow woman and an injured child to get bet up by hooligans.”

“I’ve got a gun I can leave you.”

“Congratulations. So do plenty of other people round here.”

More than anything else, she looks amused at Cal’s predicament. He runs his hands over his face. “Look,” he says. “I know it’s a lot to ask. You could take her to your place, if—”

“You think she’ll go?”

Cal rubs his face harder. “My mind’s not working too good right now,” he says. “Are you serious about leaving if I do?”

“I am, yeah. I don’t mind giving you a hand where you actually need it, but I’m not going to be left handling the real business while you chase off on some nonsense you’ve got into your head.” She grins at him. “I told you I was a cold bitch.”

Cal believes her. “OK,” he says, like he has a choice. “You win.” There’s no way in the world he can leave Trey in this house alone tonight. “I’ve only got one bed, and the kid’s getting that, but you can have the armchair.”

“Well, would you look at that,” Lena says, standing up. “Chivalry isn’t dead.” She holds the door open and ushers him inside with a sweep of her arm, in exchange.

With the shock and the pain ebbing, fatigue has hit Trey like a kick from a horse. Her head has fallen back in the armchair, the hand holding the ice pack has dropped into her lap, and her good eyelid is drooping. “Come on,” Cal says. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep right there.”

The kid catches her breath and rubs at her good eye. There are gouges on her hand where the belt buckle caught her. “ ’M I staying here?”

“Yep, for tonight. You’re gonna have my bed. Me and Miss Lena, we’ll be right out here.” Trey’s lip, all tidied up and held together by the Steri-Strip, has a reassuringly professional look. Lena did a good job. “Now come on. I’m not gonna carry you; I’d throw my back out.”

“You could do with the exercise,” Trey tells him. Her lopsided shadow of a grin pretty near takes Cal to pieces.

“Ungrateful little so-and-so,” he says. “Watch your manners or I’ll make you sleep in the bathtub. Now move it.”

Her sore places are stiffening. He has to half scoop her out of the armchair, set her on her feet and steer her into the bedroom. The movement makes her grimace, but she doesn’t complain. Lena picks up the duvet and the sleeping bag and follows them.

“Here you go,” Cal says, switching the light on. “The lap of luxury. I’m gonna let Miss Lena get you settled. You need anything in the night, or anything bothers you, you just call us.”

Trey crumples onto the mattress in an ungainly pile of elbows and feet. Lena tosses the bedclothes beside her and moves to undo Trey’s shoelaces. To Cal the scene looks lawless and incomprehensible, stained mattress on scuffed floorboards, harsh glare from the bare bulb, tangle of cheap bedclothes, the woman kneeling at the feet of the bruised and bloody child. He feels like he should at least be able to offer the kid something gentle, a feather bed with a ruffle, a soft-shaded bedside lamp and a picture of kittens on the wall.

He switches on the oil heater. “Well,” he says. He thinks, fleetingly and ridiculously, of putting the toy sheep on Trey’s pillow. “Good night. Sleep tight.” She watches him over Lena’s shoulder, with her one open eye beyond any expression, as he shuts the door.

The bloodied dish towels are scattered around the armchair. Cal collects them and throws them in his new washing machine. He doesn’t turn it on, in case its whirring disturbs the kid. He switches on the electric kettle and sets out two mugs—what he needs is a shot of whiskey, but he might yet have to drive tonight, and he’s learned enough to know that around here tea is an appropriate response to any situation at any time of day or night. Blood has dried in the lines of his knuckles; he washes his hands at the kitchen sink.

Lena comes out of the bedroom and closes the door quietly behind her. “How’s she doing?” Cal asks.

“Asleep before I got the duvet on her.”

“Well, that’s good,” Cal says. “You want some tea?”

“Go on.”

Lena settles herself in the armchair, testing it out, and kicks off her shoes. The kettle boils, and Cal pours and brings a mug over to her. “I don’t have milk. This OK?”

“You savage.” She takes the mug and blows on it. She looks at ease in the armchair, as if it were her own. It’s an ample, lopsided creation in a peculiar purplish green that might have been fashionable for a minute a long time ago, or might just have started out a different shade; it’s surprisingly comfortable, but Cal never envisioned inviting anyone to sleep in it. He has that sense of being weightless again, off his feet and borne along with nothing to grab hold of.

The fire has burned low; he puts more wood on it. “She say anything to you that I oughta know?” he asks.

“She said nothing about anything, except what I told you. But I didn’t ask.”

“Thanks.”

“No point. You’re the one she trusts.” Lena sips her tea. “She’s been coming here a lot.”