The Returned (15 page)

If
Sandrine had really believed it.

With Camille in her room, Claire went to the bathroom to freshen up. There was a knock; she looked towards the door to see Jérôme.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘You’re not.’ She smiled at him tentatively, realizing she was genuinely glad to have him around again.

‘So, have you thought it over?’ he said. ‘Moving away?’

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ said Claire. ‘I don’t know if taking Camille somewhere else would help. This is her home.’ There would be a time, soon,
to tell him what she was really thinking – that they’d found a way for Camille to stay without anyone knowing who she really was.

‘You think? It’s all so different for her now. She’s lost all her bearings . . . and so have we.’ He came over to her, and put his arms around her. He kissed her
forehead. ‘You smell good.’

Claire didn’t know how she felt. The distance that had grown between them was still there, for her. Too much had happened for it to be easy. The wounds were deep.

Jérôme kissed her neck. ‘I love you, Claire.’

She held him, wishing for her old feelings to return. Knowing that if she could find that love again then the clock truly would have been turned back, just as she’d spent so long praying
for.

Then in the bathroom sink she saw a cockroach emerge from the plughole. Startled, she gasped and pulled back from Jérôme, seeing the hurt and disappointment in his eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said, flustered. ‘I’m sorry. It’s too soon.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Jérôme. ‘My fault.’

He left her alone. She looked in the sink. There was nothing there.

Adèle was reorganizing a shelf in the philosophy section of the library when she felt him. She didn’t need to turn – she knew Simon was there.

‘I was thinking about you,’ she said. In truth she’d been thinking about him all morning, hoping for another visitation, or vision. Whatever it was. She wondered whether Thomas
had noticed anything different about her – he’d seemed a little distant when they woke, but it was probably her own distraction that had made it seem that way. He had a lot on his mind,
with work and the wedding.

‘That’s the idea,’ said Simon, gently teasing. ‘You think of me and I appear.’

She smiled. ‘That’s handy.’

‘It might not last.’

‘Why not?’ she said. She turned now, still startled by the fact of him, of his youth.

‘Shouldn’t I leave?’ he said. ‘You don’t need me. You have Thomas. Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’ He looked hurt by the word, but she wouldn’t lie to him. ‘I love you, too.’

‘I’m dead, Adèle.’

‘You came back to tell me to forget you?’ She smiled. ‘It’s not a great plan.’

‘I’m sorry. I should go.’ He turned, ready to leave her again. Perhaps for the last time, she thought. And while that might be for the best, there was something she wanted to
do first. Whether Simon was a real spirit or an imagined one, there was one thing she had always wanted: for him to see Chloé, just once.

‘Before you go,’ she said, ‘I want you to meet someone.’

She walked through the town with him, and took him to the town hall. There, rehearsals were underway for the commemoration of the coach accident. Chloé was taking part; each child wore a
T-shirt with the face of one of the children who had died, and they took it in turns to take a microphone and speak the dead child’s name. Lucas. Honorin. Alexandre. Audrey. Sacha.
Maiena.

Then Chloé’s turn came: ‘Camille,’ she said.

‘That’s her,’ said Adèle. ‘Her name is Chloé. Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Simon said nothing. Adèle watched him as he looked at his daughter,
his expression one of yearning and pride. She found herself wishing for something that could never be.

They kept watching. When Chloé saw her mother, she waved. Adèle waved back, then glanced to her side. Simon had gone.

When Adèle and Chloé got back home, a young woman was waiting on the doorstep for her. It took Adèle a moment to place her as Léna
Séguret.

‘Hello, Léna,’ she said. ‘What brings you here? I don’t tutor any more.’ She unlocked the door to let Chloé go in, eager to do some drawing.

‘I know,’ said Léna. ‘I need to talk to someone who was looking for you. He’s called Simon. Dark hair, curly. He asked me where you lived the other
night.’

Adèle’s grip on her bag tightened. She wondered if Léna was playing some kind of cruel joke, but surely not.

‘Do you know who I mean?’ said Léna. ‘The last time I saw him was at the Lake Pub yesterday. He wanted to know where you worked. I’d assumed he would go to the
library to find you. Did you talk to him?’

Adèle felt the blood drain from her face. ‘You . . . you saw him? You spoke to him?’

Léna looked puzzled, and a little concerned. ‘Obviously,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing, but I need to talk to him. Do you know where he lives?’

Adèle shook her head. ‘I don’t think I know him,’ she said, her insides churning. She shut the door behind her, trembling. Whatever kind of ghost Simon was, he
wasn’t just in her head.

Julie started her day at Michel Costa’s funeral. She’d left Victor at home, of course – armed with several packets of those biscuits he couldn’t get
enough of, and orders to keep the door locked whatever happened.

She had been at the graveyard for ten minutes when she saw Laure arrive, she and her captain there as police representatives – Monsieur Costa had been a respected man. Julie skulked at the
back, hoping that Laure wouldn’t notice her.

Nathalie Payet, however, did.

‘Hello, Julie,’ came the unwelcome voice. ‘Didn’t the little boy come?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Funerals aren’t really for children.’ She watched the woman with suspicion. ‘I didn’t know you knew Monsieur Costa?’

‘Oh, a little,’ said her neighbour, clearly lying.

‘Right,’ said Julie. She didn’t know if the woman was keeping tabs on her, or was just there for the thrill of tragedy and the opportunity for gossip. All of the above,
probably.

‘Have you heard about Lucy Clarsen?’ said the woman.

Julie shook her head. ‘Who?’

‘A girl who worked in the Lake Pub. Anyway, she was walking home, and she was attacked by a man in an underpass. Brutal, I heard. The whole town is talking about it.’ There was
genuine glee on her face as she spoke. ‘They were trying to keep it quiet, but I heard a rumour that he . . .
ate
part of her. It’s happening again, like seven years ago.
Remember the rumours back then, too? The nightmares I had . . .’

Julie felt her legs start to give way. She reached out, found herself leaning on Nathalie Payet for support. She pushed herself away quickly, feeling a sudden revulsion at the idea of getting
anything from that woman. Even if it meant collapsing in a heap at her feet.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Mademoiselle Payet.

Julie took a breath and started to walk. She sensed Laure’s eyes on her from across the graveyard, but all she wanted was to get out of there before she threw up.

She walked home in the cold air. Her neighbour hadn’t known what had happened to her, seven years ago; her identity had been protected, the police suggesting that the victim had been from
out of town. She thought of the expression on her neighbour’s face, one of lurid joy. That was all Julie had been to her, and to the town. A gruesome tale to tell, and then think no more
about. To the police, she’d just been a useless witness who could remember almost nothing about her assailant. She wanted to get home to Victor, to someone who cared about
her
, for
who she was.

Nobody seemed to. Not even Laure.

Home from Monsieur Costa’s funeral, she hugged Victor tightly. Then she cooked some lunch. He ate everything and said nothing, as usual.

‘I’m working later,’ she told him as they ate. ‘Are you OK if I leave you again?’ She saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. She smiled to reassure him. ‘Not for
long, Victor. Never for long.’

Later that afternoon she left him curled up on the sofa watching the TV while she treated herself to a bath. She lit some candles and put her headphones on, submersing herself in music as well
as in water. Before Victor, she couldn’t have done that: eyes closed, unable to hear anyone approach. She wouldn’t have felt safe, especially now, if what Nathalie Payet had said was
actually true. But the boy’s presence gave her a strength she’d thought had deserted her for good.

As she relaxed, Laure’s face came to her, and she wondered what Laure had thought as Julie had fled the graveyard. What Laure had
felt
. Laure’s feelings had been a mystery
to her, then and now. They’d spoken very little after she’d been attacked, but it had always felt as though Julie was with a police officer first, and Laure second. As Julie had
retreated, shutting the world out, Laure had been her last link; but whatever they’d had, it wasn’t strong enough to survive the aftermath of New Year’s Eve, seven years
before.

They’d both come as superheroes; Laure was Batman, Julie was Catwoman, her costume uncomfortably tight. It had been fun for a while, but it wasn’t long before she’d had enough.
She went outside for some air and to get away from the overloud music.

‘That’s me finished,’ she told Laure. ‘I’m off home. I’m supposed to start work at five a.m.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You go now and you’ll get, what, three hours in bed? Why don’t you stay up all night?’ Laure grinned. ‘I’ll keep you awake.’

Julie shook her head. ‘I need to get some sleep, Batman. I’ve been on call three nights this week.’

‘But the party’s just getting going. And the fireworks are in ten minutes!’

‘You go ahead, Laure. I won’t stop you. I saw Snow White eyeing you up.’

Laure put her arms around her. ‘I love it when you’re jealous. Come on. Stay. I’ll show you my superpowers.’

Julie shook her head and laughed. ‘Batman doesn’t have any superpowers. He’s just rich enough to have loads of gadgets. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She pulled away and walked on.

‘Come on, Julie . . .’ called Laure. Then she gave up. ‘You have let me down, Catwoman! But we will meet again!’

By the time Julie reached the top of the stairway down to the underpass, the fireworks had started. She turned and watched for a moment, half-wishing she was with Laure. But she really needed
the sleep.

In the underpass, the deep thump of the fireworks was amplified. All she could think of was a hot bath and bed. She hardly even noticed the man coming the other way.

He grabbed her as he passed, covering her mouth. She felt the knife go in; she screamed under his hand, the fireworks drowning it out. He kept stabbing, and all the while he was making soothing
noises.

‘There, there,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. No need for tears.’

The knife, again and again. It was an eternity.

‘It’s OK,’ the man said. ‘It’s over. It’s over.’

He was lying.

Julie knew she was close to death. Every part of her had gone past the stage of feeling cold. She thought of the hot bath she would never have, and of the bed she would never reach. Even as the
man started to eat, she felt herself slip in and out of consciousness.

I’m tired, Laure
, she thought. She didn’t want to wake from this, not any more.

Then she felt herself lifted; felt herself in a vehicle, staring at the black sky.

When she had woken in hospital, she’d felt more tired and more alone than she had ever been; and that was how she had remained, in all the years since.

She opened her eyes now and took off her headphones. Here she was, in the bath she’d thought she would never have, and in the next room was someone who cared. She felt suddenly protective
of Victor, with a force that took her by surprise.

The doorbell rang. She ignored it, but it kept on ringing. Eventually she got out of the bath, wrapping a towel around her before she went to the door.

She looked through the spyhole and was shaken to see that it was Laure. Her very presence seemed like an intrusion, as if she’d known about Julie’s innermost thoughts. Julie wanted
her gone. She made sure Victor was keeping out of sight and then snatched open the door. ‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘It’s been a while,’ said Laure, looking deeply uncomfortable.

The hostility in Julie’s voice was clear. ‘Yeah.’

‘I saw you earlier,’ said Laure. ‘At the funeral. Can I come in? Just for a moment.’

Julie shook her head. ‘It’s not a good time. Just tell me what you want and go.’

Laure paused, soaking up the punches Julie was throwing. ‘Have you heard about the woman who was attacked?’

‘Yes, I heard. What about it?’

‘I want to make sure you’re safe. That you know to be careful.’

‘You really think it’s the same guy, after all this time?’

‘It’s possible it was a copycat, but the similarities are compelling. A copycat attacker would need to have more details of the case than were made public.’

‘Everyone knew the rumours.’

Laure nodded. Another police failure; it had to rankle with her. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’

‘The building’s secure, Laure. And I have enough locks on my door to keep out the devil himself. Besides, I’m damaged goods now. Isn’t that what the police psychologist
said?’

Laure winced. It had been a detail of the case Julie knew Laure regretted telling her – the reason they considered that a follow-up attack was unlikely. ‘I . . . I just wanted to
make sure you would be OK. And . . . Julie, we wanted to know if there was anything else you’d remembered. Anything you can tell us.’

Christ
, she thought.
Still the same old Laure
. ‘Always a police officer first, huh?’ she sneered.

‘I never stopped caring about you, Julie . . .’

‘So why did you stop coming to see me in the hospital? And when I got out,
you never came
. Not once in seven years.’

Laure flinched. Julie knew she was being unfair, but she would do whatever she could to get this woman away from her door. For good. That was the past, and the past was dead. ‘But you
didn’t want me to come,’ said Laure, meeting Julie’s gaze. Julie could see the pain in her eyes. ‘You made it pretty damn clear.’