Stone Bruises (30 page)

So instead I mix up a batch of mortar, angrily churning sand and cement together with a bucket of water. The beginning of a tension headache probes the back of my neck as I climb up the scaffold. I’ve no enthusiasm, and even the bucket seems heavier than usual. But I don’t know what else to do, and I might as well finish more of the wall while I wait for the fallout.

Something else falls instead. As I mechanically smooth mortar into the gaps between the stones I feel a wet splash on my cheek. I look up and see that the sky has darkened to a muddy grey. With a sound of dropping pennies, raindrops begin to spatter down onto the scaffold.

The weather has finally broken.

I’M SPRAWLED ON
the sofa in my flat watching a DVD of
Les Diaboliques
one afternoon when my mobile rings. I’ve seen the film numerous times already but I was bored and there’s nothing else to do before I’m due at the Zed. I’ve been telling myself I should do something more constructive with my free time, get my life moving again. But like most things these days it seems like too much effort.

I pause the film and pick up the phone. It’s Callum.

‘Sean, I’ve just read about it in the newspaper. I’m really sorry, man, I’d no idea.’

I haven’t seen Callum for a while. Not since the double date, in fact. There was talk about doing it again, but it never happened. The truth is I’ve been trying to cut myself off from links to my old life, although ‘cutting’ is altogether too active a description for what I’ve been doing. It’s more like letting them die away of their own accord.

I’m still looking at the frozen black and white image on the TV screen: Simone Signoret leaning over the suited body of Paul Meurisse in a bathtub. It’s a great scene. ‘No idea about what? What are you talking about?’

There’s a pause. ‘You mean you didn’t know about Chloe?’

It’s in the
London Evening Standard
. I don’t have a copy but the report is on the website. It’s brief, and there’s no accompanying photograph. Presumably they didn’t think the story merited it, or maybe they just didn’t have time to locate one after Chloe’s body was pulled from the Thames.

A former drug addict, is how the report describes her. Suicide or accident, no one seems sure, although she matches the description of a young woman seen falling off the guard rail of Waterloo Bridge two nights earlier. She’d been so stoned or drunk that none of the witnesses could say whether she stumbled or jumped. The story has only made the news because her body was found bumping against the pilings of a jetty by a group of schoolchildren on a boat trip. The report reserves most of its sympathy for them rather than Chloe.

She was just another addict.

Jez answers the phone when I call Yasmin. I haven’t spoken to him since I left the language school. I’ve nothing against him but the fact he lives with Chloe’s best friend made it awkward for both of us.

I don’t care about that now, though. ‘It’s Sean,’ I say.

‘Sean.’ His voice is even heavier than usual. ‘You’ve heard?’

‘Just now. Callum called.’

‘You OK?’

I don’t bother to answer that. ‘Is Yasmin there?’

‘Yeah, but … I don’t think you should speak to her right now.’

I stare out of my window at a pigeon that’s landed on the ledge. It cocks its head to look at me through the glass. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know much. She’d been using again, though. Yasmin tried to get her to clean up, but you know how it is. She’d started doing some serious stuff.’ There’s a hesitation. ‘You know Jules dumped her?’

I put my head against the wall. ‘When?’

‘A couple of weeks ago. Chloe told Yasmin that Jules was in trouble. I told you he had a gym in Docklands? Well, by the sound of it he thought the old quay it was in was going to be redeveloped, so he bought the entire building. Hocked himself up to the hilt expecting to make a killing, and then the plug got pulled on the redevelopment. So now he owes Lenny, the big guy who’s been supplying him with shit at the gym, as well as some people Lenny does business with. People you really don’t want to owe money to. I don’t know all the details, but Chloe … Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this.’

‘Go on.’

There’s a sigh. ‘Well, Chloe said that Jules was starting to deal more seriously, trying to pay off his debts. He’d got something set up and wanted her to courier for him. As in an all-expenses-paid trip to Thailand.’

‘Jesus.’ I close my eyes.

‘She didn’t, she said no,’ Jez goes on hurriedly. ‘But Jules lost it. Threw her out of his apartment, told her she was a parasite, stufflike that, and then cut her dead. Wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. I think some of it was probably payback for her walking out on him last time, and it must have pushed Chloe over the edge. Yasmin did what she could, but—’

There’s a sudden commotion on the other end of the line. I can hear muffled voices, one of them angry, and then Yasmin comes on.

‘Are you happy now?’ she shouts. She’s crying. ‘You fucking shit, why’d you let her go back to that bastard?’

I rub my temples. ‘It was her choice, Yas.’

‘You left her when she needed you! What did you think she was going to do?’

‘I didn’t ask her to sleep with him and get pregnant!’ I shoot back.

‘You should have given her some fucking support! It could have been yours, but you just walked out and abandoned her!’

‘What?’ My mind’s racing. ‘No, Chloe told me it was his—’

‘And you
believed
her? Jesus, are you really that fucking stupid? She wanted to make it easy for you, and you let her, didn’t you? You might as well have pushed her yourself, you selfish—’

There’s the sound of a struggle as Jez tries to take the phone. I listen, numbly, as he comes back on, sounding flustered.

‘Sorry, Sean. Yasmin’s … well, you know.’

‘What she said, is it …?’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he says quickly. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. It’s probably better if you don’t call again. Just for a while. I’m sorry.’

The line goes dead. Yasmin’s words feel like they’re burrowing into me.
It could have been yours.
Christ, was that true? Coming on top of Chloe’s death, it’s too much to take in. But Yasmin wouldn’t make up something like that. And the two of them were best friends; Chloe would confide things to her she’d never tell anyone else.

Including me.

Knowing I’m only tormenting myself, I scroll through my phone’s logged calls. From what Jez said, Jules must have finished with Chloe around the same time she made that last call to me. And I’d ignored it because I was about to go into a film I didn’t want to see, with people I didn’t know. Her name is still there, close to the end. Seeing it on the glowing screen makes me insanely tempted to call it. Instead I check my voicemail in case I missed a message. But of course there’s nothing.

I feel like I’m suffocating. I hurry out of my flat, pretending to myself that I’m walking aimlessly until, inevitably, I come to Waterloo Bridge. It’s a utilitarian concrete span, streaming with traffic beside the pedestrian walkway. I go to the middle and lean over the parapet, looking down at the slow-moving river. I wonder what it must have felt like, stepping off into nothing. If she was still conscious after she hit the dark water. If she was frightened.

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.