‘Yes! Come on!’
The stick breaks. The jaws spring together again.
I scream.
When the pain subsides I’m lying flat on my back. I push myself up and fling the stick impotently at the trap. ‘Bastard!’
I can’t pretend any longer that this isn’t serious. Even if I could free my foot I doubt I could walk very far on it. But I’d willingly settle for that problem, because not being able to free myself is far more frightening.
Happy now? You’ve brought this on yourself. Blanking out those thoughts, I try to focus on the more immediate problem. Using the knife’s corkscrew, I start digging around the spike that holds the trap in place. It’s a futile attempt but allows me to vent some emotion by stabbing the ground and tree roots. Eventually, I let the knife fall and slump back against the trunk.
The sun has sunk noticeably lower. It won’t be dark for hours yet, but the thought of having to lie there all night is terrifying. I rack my brain for ideas, but there’s only one thing left I can do.
I take a deep breath and yell.
My shout dies away without an echo. I doubt it will have carried to the farm I went to earlier. I yell louder, in English and French, shouting until my voice grows hoarse and my throat hurts.
‘Somebody!’ I half-sob and then, more quietly, ‘Please.’ The words seem absorbed by the afternoon heat, lost amongst the trees. In their aftermath, the silence descends again.
I know then that I’m not going anywhere.
By next morning I’m feverish. I’ve taken my sleeping bag from the rucksack and draped it over me during the night, but I still shivered fitfully through most of it. My foot throbs with a dull agony, pulsing to the beat of my blood. It’s swollen to above the ankle. Although I’ve unlaced the boot as best I can, the leather, which is now black and sticky, is stretched drum tight. It feels like a vast boil, waiting to burst.
At first light I try to shout again, but the dryness of my throat reduces it to a hoarse croak. Soon even that is too much effort. I try to think of other ways to attract attention, and for a while become excited at the idea of setting fire to the tree I’m under. I go as far as pawing in my pockets for the cigarette lighter before I come to my senses.
The fact that I was seriously considering it scares me.
But the lucidity doesn’t last long. As the sun rises, stoking itself towards a mid-morning heat, I push off the sleeping bag. I’m burning up, and have accomplished the neat fever-trick of being soaked with sweat while I’m shaking uncontrollably. I look at my foot with hate, wishing I could gnaw it off like a trapped animal. For a while I think I am, can taste my own skin and blood and bone as I bite at my leg. Then I’m sitting propped against the tree again, and the only thing biting into my foot is the half-moon of iron.
I come and go from myself, submerged in garbled, overheated fantasies. At some point I open my eyes and see a face peering at me. It’s a girl’s, beautiful and Madonna-like. It seems to merge with the one in the photograph, racking me with guilt and grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, or think I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
I stare at the face, hoping for a sign of forgiveness. But as I look the shape of the skull behind it begins to shine through, peeling away the surface beauty to show the rot and dissolution underneath.
A new pain bursts in me, a fresh agony that bears me away on its crest. From far away there’s the sound of someone screaming. As it grows fainter I hear voices speaking a language I recognize but can’t decode. Before it fades altogether, a few words present themselves with the clarity of a church bell.
‘Doucement. Essayez d’être calme.’
Gently, I can understand. But I’m puzzled by why they need to be quiet.
Then the pain sweeps me up and I cease to exist.
London
THE SKYLIGHT IS fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.
Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blonde hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.
The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.
I feel her stir beside me.
‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.
2
THERE’S AN EYE staring down at me. It’s black but clouded at the centre by a cataract, a grey fog hung with dark shapes. A series of lines spread out from it like ripples. At some point they resolve into the graining on a piece of wood. The eye becomes a knot, the fog a spider’s web stretched over it like a dusty blanket. It’s littered with the husks of long-dead insects. No sign of the spider, though.
I don’t know how long I stare up at it before I recognize it as a wooden beam, rough and dark with age. Sometime after that I realize I’m awake. I don’t feel any compulsion to move; I’m warm and comfortable, and for the moment that’s enough. My mind is empty, content to stare up at the spider’s web above me. But as soon as I think that it’s no longer true. With consciousness come questions and a flurry of panic: who, what, when?
Where?
I raise my head and look around.
I’m lying in bed, in a place I don’t recognize. It isn’t a hospital or a police cell. Sunlight angles in through a single small window. The beam I’ve been staring at is a rafter, part of a triangular wooden ribcage that extends to the floor at either side. Slivers of daylight glint through gaps in the overlapping shingles of the roof. A loft, then. Some kind of barn, by the look of it. It’s long, with bare floorboards and gables at either end, one of which my bed is pushed against. Junk and furniture, most of it broken, is stacked against the unplastered stone walls. There’s a musty smell that speaks of age, old wood and stone. It’s hot, though not uncomfortably so.
The light coming through the dusty glass has a fresh, early quality. I’m still wearing my watch, which tells me that it’s seven o’clock. As if to confirm that it’s morning the hoarse crowing of a cockerel sounds from somewhere outside.
I’ve no idea where I am or what I’m doing here. Then I move and the sudden pain at the end of my leg gives an effective jolt to my short-term memory. I throw back the sheet that covers me and see with relief that my foot is still there. It’s bound in a white bandage, from which the tips of my toes poke like radishes. I give them a tentative wiggle. It hurts, but not nearly so much as before.
It’s only then I realize that I’m naked. My jeans and T-shirt are on the back of a wooden chair next to the bed. They’ve been folded and look freshly washed. My boots are on the floorboards next to them, and an attempt has been made to clean the damaged one. But the leather is darkened with bloodstains, and the rips from the trap’s teeth are beyond repair.
Lowering the sheet, I try to recall what happened between my stepping in the trap and waking here. There’s nothing, but now other memories are presenting themselves. Caught in the wood, hitch-hiking and abandoning the car. And then I remember the events that led to me being here in the first place.
Oh, Jesus, I think, passing a hand over my face as it all comes back.
The sight of my rucksack leaning against an old black rocking horse snaps me out of it. Remembering what’s in it, I sit up. Too quickly: I close my eyes, fighting a wave of nausea as the room spins. It’s only just begun to fade when I hear footsteps approaching from below. Then a section of the floor gives a loud creak and swings open.
An arm pushes
the trapdoor back, and then a woman steps up into the loft. I’ve seen her before, I realize; at the farmhouse with the baby. Which settles the question of where I am, if not why. She hesitates when she sees me.
‘You’re awake,’ she says.
It takes a moment to register that she’s spoken in English. Strongly accented and a little halting, but fluent enough. Feeling rough stone behind me, I find I’ve backed myself up against the wall. One hand has gripped the sheet into a sweaty knot.
I make myself let go. She stops a little way from the bed, which I’ve realized is just a mattress lying on the floorboards.
‘How do you feel?’ Her voice is low and quiet. She’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and well-worn jeans. There’s nothing threatening about her, but the sluggish computer of my brain seems stalled. My throat hurts when I try to speak. I swallow, try again.
‘My foot …’
‘It was badly cut. But don’t worry, it’s all right.’
Don’t worry? I look around. ‘Where am I?’
She doesn’t answer straight away, struggling either to understand the question or formulate her answer. I repeat it, this time in French.
‘You’re at the farm. Where you came for water.’ Her voice is more fluid in her own language, but there’s still a hesitancy about it, as though she’s vetting herself before she speaks.
‘Is this … it looks like a barn?’
‘There’s no room in the house.’ Her grey eyes are calm. ‘My sister found you in the woods. She fetched me and we brought you here.’
I have a fleeting image of a girl’s face, then it’s gone. None of this is making sense. My head is still so muzzy that I’m not sure how much of what I remember is real or delirium.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘We found you three days ago.’
Three days?
There are vague impressions of pain and sweat, of cool hands and reassuring words, but they could just be dreams. I can feel panic bubbling up in me again. I watch anxiously as she takes a twist of tissue from her pocket and unwraps a large white tablet.
‘What’s that?’
‘Only an antibiotic. We’ve been giving them to you while you were unconscious. You’ve been feverish, and the wound’s infected.’
I glance at the tent made by my foot under the sheet, all my other fears suddenly relegated.
‘How bad is it?’
She picks up a bottle from by the bed and pours water into a glass. ‘It’s healing. But you won’t be able to walk on it for a while.’
If she’s lying, I can’t tell. ‘What happened? There was a trap …’
‘Later. You need to rest. Here.’
She holds out the tablet and glass. I take them, too confused to think straight. But there’s an air of quiet reserve about her that’s strangely calming. She could be a year or two either side of thirty, slim but with a fullness of breast and hip. The dark hair is cut straight above the nape of her neck, and every now and again she tucks one side back behind an ear in a gesture that seems more habit than affectation. The only striking feature about her is her eyes, which, above the tired-looking shadows, are a dark and smoky grey.
I feel them on me now, solemn and unreadable as I swallow the tablet. I wash it down with water, first taking only a sip, then gulping it as I realize how thirsty I am.
‘More?’ she asks, as I finish. I nod and hold out the glass. ‘There’s fresh water in the bottles by the bed. Try to drink as much as you can. And if the pain gets bad take two of these.’
She holds up a bottle of tablets. On cue my foot begins to throb, the pain only a shadow of its former glory but there all the same. I try not to show it, but there’s something about the calm grey eyes that makes me think I’m not fooling her.
‘How did you know I was English?’
She answers without hesitation. ‘I looked in your passport.’
My mouth is abruptly dry, regardless of the water. ‘You went in my rucksack?’
‘Only to find out who you were.’
Her expression is grave without being apologetic. I try not to glance over at the rucksack, but my heart is thumping harder in my chest.
‘I have to go now,’ she tells me. ‘Try to rest. I’ll get you something to eat soon.’
I just nod, suddenly anxious for her to leave. I wait until she’s gone, the trapdoor lowered behind her, then drag my rucksack over. Relieved of its weight, the rocking horse nods backwards and forwards. I open the rucksack and plunge my hand inside, feeling nothing except clothes. Then, just when I’m convinced it’s gone, my fingers encounter a crinkle of plastic.
I don’t know whether I’m relieved or sorry.
The package doesn’t seem to have been disturbed. It sits heavily in my hand, its solid weight like an accusation. I should have got rid of it when I had the chance. Too late now. I wrap it in a T-shirt and tuck it back at the bottom of my rucksack, covering it with the rest of my clothes. I check that my passport and money are also still there. They are, but as I put them back my fingers touch a square of glossy card.
Not wanting to, but unable to help myself, I take the photograph out again. There’s a pain lodged under my breastbone as I look at the girl’s face smiling in the sunlight, and on impulse I grip the photograph’s edge to tear it in half. But I can’t do it. Instead, I smooth out the crease and put it back into the pocket.
Suddenly I’m exhausted. And more confused than ever. The woman didn’t really tell me anything, especially not why I’m in a barn instead of a hospital. Belatedly, something else registers. After the woman closed the trapdoor there was another noise, the solid thunk of metal on wood.
The sound of a bolt being shot into place.
My bandaged foot throbs as I swing my legs off the mattress. Ignoring it, I stand up and almost fall over. I lean against the stone wall, waiting until the loft has stopped spinning, then try taking a step. My foot shrieks under my weight and I pitch forward, grabbing onto the chair and causing something to rattle hollowly inside its base. It’s a commode, I realize, noticing for the first time the pressure in my bladder.
But that will have to wait. It’s obvious I’m not going to get far, but I can’t go back to bed until I know. Supporting myself on the dusty furniture stacked against the walls, I lurch over to the trapdoor. There’s an iron ring set into it. Gripping onto an old bureau, I take hold and pull. There’s a slight give, then it sticks fast.
It’s bolted.
I fight down a fresh surge of panic. I can’t imagine any reason for me to be locked up here, at least nothing good. But there’s no question of trying to force the bolt. Even if I could find something to wrench it open, just getting this far has taken everything out of me. I use the commode, glad of that small relief, then collapse back onto the mattress. I’m coated with a greasy sheen of sweat, and my head and foot are both throbbing.
I take two painkillers and lie back, but I’m too fretful to sleep. My foot is starting to quieten when there’s a soft noise from the trapdoor. There’s a grating whisper as the bolt is eased back, then with a creak the hatch swings open.
It’s someone else this time, a girl. I haven’t seen her before, but as she lowers the trapdoor the play of light on her face strikes a discordant note of memory. She’s carrying a tray, and smiles shyly when she sees I’m sitting up. I hastily drape the sheet over my groin, preserving my modesty like a Renaissance nude. She lowers her eyes, trying not to grin.
‘I’ve brought you something to eat.’
She looks in her late teens, strikingly pretty even in a faded T-shirt and jeans. She’s wearing pink flip-flops, and the sight of them is both incongruous and oddly reassuring.
‘It’s only bread and milk,’ she says, setting the tray beside the bed. ‘Mathilde said you shouldn’t have a lot just yet.’
‘Mathilde?’
‘My sister.’
The other woman, of course. There isn’t much of a resemblance between them. The girl’s hair is lighter, a
lmost blonde, and hangs to her shoulders. Her eyes are a paler shade of her sister’s grey, and the bridge of her nose has a slight bump where it’s been broken; a minor imperfection that somehow adds to the whole.
She keeps darting quick looks at me, smiling all the while. It puts engaging dimples in her cheeks.
‘I’m Gretchen,’ she says. It isn’t a French name, but as soon as she says it I think it fits. ‘I’m glad you’re awake. You’ve been ill for days.’
Now I understand why she looks familiar: the Madonna-like face from my delirium wasn’t a hallucination after all. ‘You’re the one who found me?’
‘Yes.’ She looks embarrassed but pleased. ‘Well, it was Lulu really.’
‘Lulu?’
‘Our dog. She started barking. I thought she’d seen a rabbit. You looked dead at first, you were so still. There were flies all over you. Then you made a noise, so I knew you weren’t.’ She gives me a quick look. ‘We had an awful time getting you out of the trap. We had to prise it open with a crowbar. You were struggling and yelling all sorts of things.’
I try to keep my voice level. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh, just rambling.’ She goes to the other side of the bed and leans against the rocking horse. ‘You were delirious, and most of it was in English, so I didn’t understand. But you stopped when we got your foot out.’
From the way she talks there might be nothing unusual about the situation. ‘Who’s we?’
‘Me and Mathilde.’
‘Just the two of you? You brought me up here by yourselves?’
‘Of course.’ Her mouth forms a playful moue. ‘You’re not so heavy.’
‘No, but … How come I’m not in hospital? Didn’t you phone for an ambulance?’
‘We don’t have a phone.’ She doesn’t appear to see anything odd about it. ‘Anyway, there was no need. Mathilde knows how to look after wounds and things. Papa was out with Georges so she didn’t want to— Well, we managed by ourselves.’