‘I don’t.’
‘Then why are you carrying her picture around with you?’
‘I forgot to throw it away.’
‘Then you won’t care what happens to it.’ Grinning, she picks up the cigarette lighter from the mattress and holds it under the photograph.
‘Don’t,’ I say, reaching for it.
She twists away, still holding the photograph poised over the lighter. ‘Ah-ah, I thought you weren’t bothered?’
‘Look, just give it to me.’
‘Not until you tell me who it is.’ She flicks a flame from the lighter. ‘You’ll have to be quick …’
I make a grab for the photograph. Gretchen gives a delighted laugh and snatches it away, and as she does one corner dips into the flame. There’s a bloom of yellow as the glossy card ignites. Gretchen squeals and drops it. I knock the burning photograph away from the mattress, trying to put it out as the image blackens and curls. But it’s fully alight, and the loft is a tinderbox of dry wood. Snatching up the bottle of water from by the bed I quickly douse the flames.
There’s a hiss as the fire is snuffed out.
A burnt smell fills the loft. I stare at the puddle of ash and water on the floor.
‘You made me burn my fingers,’ Gretchen pouts.
I set the bottle down. ‘You’d better go.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have grabbed for it.’
‘Your father will wonder where you are.’
She hesitates, but mention of Arnaud does the trick. I don’t look round as she goes through the trapdoor. When her footsteps have died away I bend down and pick through the wet ash. There’s nothing left of the photograph except a small piece of white border, blackened at the edges.
I let it drop back onto the floor and go to find something to clean up.
London
CHLOE GOES MISSING one night after work. I’ve been out with Callum and a couple of students after the last class. Not to the Domino, though: not any more. Where I used to enjoy being able to look up and see Chloe working behind the bar, anticipating the quiet moments when she’d be able to join us, now there’s no pleasure in it.
‘Do you feel you have to check on me?’ she asked one night, when I’d said I’d see her there later.
‘No,’ I’d said, surprised. ‘If you don’t want me to come, just say so.’
She’d shrugged, turning away. ‘It’s up to you.’
It’s almost one o’clock by the time I leave Callum and walk back to the flat. The smell of oil and turpentine is less strong now. Chloe hasn’t painted since before we went to Brighton, but that’s something we don’t talk about.
She won’t finish at the bar till two at the earliest, so I make myself a coffee and pick out a DVD. I settle on L’Été meurtrier, which like all the others in my collection I’ve seen several times. Chloe claims I like it because Isabelle Adjani spends virtually the entire film naked. She has a point, but the film’s cinematography is beautiful even without that.
I watch the cycle of passion and tragedy run its inevitable course. Only when the film ends do I realize how late it is: Chloe should have been back an hour ago.
No one answers when I phone the bar. I wait it out for another half-hour, then leave a note in case she comes back and set off for the Domino. The streets are empty. I follow the same route to the King’s Road that Chloe and I used to walk, although since I’ve stopped meeting her she usually gets either a lift or a taxi. The doors of the bar are locked, no lights showing from inside, but I bang on them anyway. When the echoes have died down the building remains dark and silent.
I don’t know what to do. I stand on the pavement and look up and down the deserted street, as if I might see her walking towards me. I’ve no idea where most of the bar staff live, but I once went with Chloe to a party at Tanja’s. I don’t even know if she’s been working tonight, but it’s all I can think of.
Even though I walk quickly it’s nearly five o’clock when I reach her flat in Shepherd’s Bush. The entrance is unlit and I have to use the light from my phone to read the names on the intercom. I press hers and wait. It’s cold, but that isn’t why I’m shivering. When she doesn’t answer I press again, and this time keep on pressing.
‘All right, all right, who is it?’ The voice crackles through the intercom, angry and distorted.
‘Tanja, it’s Sean,’ I interrupt, putting my mouth close to the speaker grille. ‘Do you know where—’
‘Sean who?’
‘Chloe’s boyfriend. She—’
‘Jesus, do you know what time it is?’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but Chloe didn’t come home from work. Do you know where she is?’
‘No, why should I?’ She sounds tired and irritable.
My heart sinks. I’d hoped she’d say Chloe was there, that she’d gone to a party. Anything.
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Yeah, she … Oh, no, that’s right, I left before her tonight. She was still talking to this guy who came in. She said for me to go.’
‘A guy? What guy? Who was he?’
‘Just some guy. Look, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow—’
‘Had you seen him before?’
‘No, I’ve told you, he was just some guy! Flashy, but Chloe seemed to know him. Now can I get back to bed?’
The early-morning workers are beginning to filter onto the streets as I walk back to the flat. The note is still on the kitchen table where I left it. I look in the bedroom to check anyway, but the bed is empty.
At eight o’clock I call Yasmin. I don’t really expect Chloe to be there. She isn’t.
‘Have you called the police?’ Yasmin asks, instantly matter-of-fact.
‘No, not yet.’ That’s a last resort I’ve been putting off. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘Give it till noon,’ she says at last.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock when I hear someone unlocking the door. I’m at the kitchen table, my mouth foul from coffee and fatigue. When Chloe walks in there’s a moment’s breathless relief. She pauses on seeing me, then closes the door.
‘Jesus, where’ve you been? Are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’ She makes a vague gesture. ‘I stayed at a friend’s.’
‘I’ve been worried sick! Why didn’t you call?’
‘It was getting late. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Chloe won’t look at me. Her face is pale, blue shadows marking the skin under her eyes. The relief I felt has already gone, replaced by something else.
‘What friend?’
‘No one you know.’ She starts moving towards the bathroom. ‘I’ve got to—’
‘What friend?’
Chloe stops with her back to me. ‘Someone I used to know, that’s all.’
‘Tanja told me you saw some man in the bar last night. Was it him?’
Her head jerks in surprise. Then she gives a quick nod.
‘Is he an ex-boyfriend?’
Again, a nod. The breath seems to be squeezed from my chest. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
She’s turned towards me now, her face drawn. ‘Don’t, please—’
‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘No!’ she shouts, suddenly angry. ‘Nothing happened, all right? Now leave me alone!’
‘Leave you alone? You stay out all night with another man and expect me to just ignore it?’
‘Yes! It’s none of your business!’
Stunned, I stare at her. My anger’s still there, but I know if I give in to it there’ll be no going back. ‘You really mean that?’
‘No. I don’t know.’ Quietly, she starts to cry. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’
She rushes into the bathroom and locks the door. I sit there feeling nothing, absolutely nothing at all.
9
I’M ALREADY UP when Mathilde brings my breakfast next morning, woken by a hangover and the repetitive crowing of a cockerel outside. I drank another bottle of wine with dinner, and
whatever else can be said about Château Arnaud, it’s strong. I go down to the outhouse and put my head under the tap, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. Water dripping from my hair, I sit outside the barn in just my jeans, enjoying the early cool on my bare flesh.
It’s a beautiful morning, like every other morning since I arrived here. The sky is an endless blue, not yet burned white by the heat that will come later. On the horizon there’s a dark strip of cloud, but it seems too distant to be threatening.
I flick my foot at the rust-coloured hen which seems intent on pecking around it and look up as I hear Mathilde approach.
‘Good morning,’ she says.
Her face, as ever, gives little away. She sets the tray with my breakfast on the ground beside me. An almost invisible whorl of steam curls up from the coffee, and the bread smells freshly made. The two peeled eggs lie together in the dish like a pair of white buttocks.
‘I made this,’ Mathilde says, producing something she’s been carrying under one arm. ‘For your foot.’
It’s the sole of a rubber boot, from which most of the upper has been cut away except for the heel. Trailing laces hang from holes punched on either side.
‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to say. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s to protect the bandage. I thought it might help while you work.’ She pushes her hair back. It’s the closest to nervous that I’ve seen her. ‘I have a favour to ask. Gretchen told me you used to teach English.’
‘Only privately,’ I say warily. ‘Not in a proper school.’
‘Would you teach her?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure that’s—’
‘I’d pay you myself,’ she goes on, quickly. ‘Not much. But you wouldn’t have to give formal lessons. Just … while you’re talking to her.’
I want to say no. After yesterday evening I’ve come to the conclusion that the less I have to do with her sister the better. ‘Couldn’t you teach her yourself?’
‘My English isn’t good enough.’ She gives an apologetic shrug. ‘And she doesn’t like me telling her what to do.’
‘What does your father say?’
‘He won’t be a problem.’
Which isn’t quite the same as saying he approves, but Mathilde knows him better than I do. She’s waiting for my answer, and try as I might I can’t think of a good excuse to refuse.
‘I suppose I could give her a few lessons …’
Mathilde’s smile is an altogether more sober thing than her sister’s, but while it lasts it makes her look years younger. ‘Thank you.’
I watch her walk back to the courtyard, then examine the shoe. It smells of old rubber and probably only took a few minutes to make. Still, I’m touched: I can’t remember the last time anyone did anything for me. And it does make life easier. When I put it on after breakfast I find I can actually set my foot down, even put enough weight on it to take a couple of hobbling steps.
On the scaffolding it gives me a feeling of stability and confidence I haven’t had before. Taking up the hammer, I do my best to ignore my headache, which forms a syncopated throb with each blow, hoping the exertion will help me to sweat out my hangover. The blisters on my palm are sore but I can’t bring myself to wear the sweat-stained gloves that were in the overall pockets.
Gradually, the stiffness begins to ease out of my muscles. I finish off the area I’ve been working on and start on the wall by the unshuttered bedroom window. Several stones underneath the gutter are loose, and there’s nothing for it but to take them out altogether. Before I know it there’s a hole in the wall big enough to crawl into, exposing the rough internal stonework underneath. I’m slightly awed by the damage I’ve caused, uncomfortably aware that I don’t really know what I’m doing.
But there’s still something satisfying about the focused violence of hammer and chisel. I pound away, fragments of mortar stinging my face like shrapnel. It doesn’t even hurt so much when I hit my hand any more. The flesh and bone have become deadened, numbed by repeated blows. It’s only when I stop long enough for it to start to recover that I can feel it.
I’m soon lost in the hammer’s rhythm. My world shrinks to a thin strip of wall above the bedroom window, so that I’m slow to react when something inside the room catches my eye. Then it comes again, a flicker at the edge of my vision. I look up and see a face on the other side of the dusty glass.
‘Jesus!’
The chisel clatters over the edge of the boards, bouncing between the wall and the scaffolding to ring onto the cobbles below. Gretchen opens the window, laughing.
‘Did I frighten you?’
‘No,’ I say, but my heart is still thudding. ‘Well, maybe a little.’
‘I brought you a coffee.’ She hands me a large cup. She sounds pleased with herself. ‘I thought it would save you climbing all the way down.’
‘Thanks.’
I’ll have to go down anyway for the chisel, but I don’t point that out. This is the first I’ve seen of Gretchen since she set fire to the photograph yesterday evening, although she doesn’t seem too bothered about that now. She stays in the bedroom, leaning through the open window while I sit on the ledge.
‘Mathilde says you’re going to give me English lessons.’ There’s an archness to the way she says it.
‘If you want them.’
‘It was her idea,’ she says, her face momentarily darkening. Then it clears. ‘You could teach me in the afternoons. Papa’ll be asleep, and Mathilde looks after Michel. We won’t be disturbed.’
She’s grinning, waiting to see how I’ll react. I sip my coffee with a nonchalance I don’t feel. It’s strong and black, threatening to burn my tongue. ‘Whatever.’
‘What’s that on your foot?’ Gretchen asks, noticing the improvised rubber shoe.
‘Mathilde made it.’
‘Mathilde?’ Her smile’s gone. ‘It looks stupid.’
I let that pass. A musty smell, not quite unpleasant, comes from the open window. Without the veil of dirty glass the peeling wallpaper and cracked plaster of the bedroom are more obvious. The iron bedstead with its lumpy mattress and bolster looks ready to collapse onto the bare floorboards.
‘Whose room was this?’ I ask.
‘Maman’s.’
I notice she doesn’t say it was Arnaud’s as well. I point to the photograph on the dresser. ‘Is that her with your father?’
She nods. ‘Their wedding.’
‘How old were you when she died?’
‘Just a baby. I can’t really remember her.’ Gretchen sounds bored. ‘I used to play in her wheelchair after she’d died. But then I fell out and hurt myself so Papa smashed it up.’
Just as well she never had a pony, I think. But, like a lot of things where Gretchen’s concerned, I keep that to myself. She’s gone quiet, and I swear I can feel what she’s going to say next.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’
‘No, thanks.’
She’s moved to make room for me to climb in. ‘It’ll be OK, nobody comes up to this room any more.’
The coffee’s still too hot but I take a drink anyway. ‘I’ll stay out here.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So why won’t you come in? Don’t you want to?’
‘I’m working.’
‘No, you aren’t. You’re drinking coffee.’
Her smile is both teasing and confident. There’s something about Gretchen that puts me in mind of a cat: sinuous and purring to be stroked, but capable of raking you with its claws if the mood takes it.
I’ve never been comfortable with cats.
‘I’m still working,’ I say. My head is thumping, the hangover back full force.
She goes to sit on the bed, one leg swinging. ‘Are you gay?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Saying no to a pretty girl’s invitation, I think perhaps you are gay.’
‘OK, I’m gay.’
She seems to have forgotten all abou
t the scene with the photograph, but I’m not going to mention it if she isn’t. Her smile is mischievous as she lies back on the bed, crooking one knee and propping herself up on her elbows.
‘I don’t believe you. I think you’re just shy and need to relax.’ Gretchen leans further back on the bed. She raises an eyebrow, still smiling. ‘Well?’
‘Hey! You up there!’
Gretchen’s smile vanishes as Arnaud’s shout comes from the courtyard. Hoping she has the sense to stay quiet, I look down over the scaffold. Arnaud is glaring up at me from the cobbles. The spaniel is by his feet, ears cocked as it looks up as well.
‘What are you doing?’
I don’t know how much he can see or hear from where he’s standing. I resist the impulse to look over my shoulder.
‘Taking a break.’
‘You’ve only just started.’ He fixes me with an unfriendly stare and motions with his head. ‘Get down here.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got another job for you.’
I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Slaughtering a pig. Unless you’re too squeamish?’
I hope he’s joking. But his eyes are bright and watchful, daring me to refuse. And I don’t want to stand around up here any longer than I have to: I don’t trust Gretchen not to do something stupid.
‘I’ll catch you up.’
I turn away before he can say anything else. In the instant before I look in the bedroom I have an image of Gretchen still lying on the bed, so vivid that I can almost see her tan skin against the faded blue stripes of the mattress.
The bed is empty. So is the room. On the floorboards is a faint tracery where her feet have disturbed the dust, running to and from the door.
I close the window as best I can and make my way over to the ladder.
Arnaud and Georges have already singled out one of the sanglochons. I can hear squeals and gruff shouts as I go along the path to the pens. When I reach the clearing Georges is herding the condemned animal towards the gate of the sows’ pen, which Arnaud is holding open. The rest of the pigs have, sensibly, made themselves scarce. They’re at the far end of the pen, milling about as far from the two men as they can get. In the smaller pen nearby the dark shape of the boar is stalking up and down along the fence, grunting excitedly.