The Returned (19 page)

That would take longer. But after everything they’d been through over the last four years, he would just have to accept that.

In the meantime, her relationship with Pierre had completely stalled. From the moment Camille had returned, he had backed off; honourable, yes, but it left her disappointed. Tellingly, though,
she had let him do it: her prayers had always been for her old life to return, and surely that included Jérôme.

She got up and made coffee. When Jérôme emerged half an hour later from the spare room in the basement she poured him a cup. He looked terrible. She was glad to have had the benefit
of an hour up and about. ‘Still not sleeping?’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘Not much.’

‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘About moving. It’s only a matter of time before she draws too much attention for us to fend off.’

He smiled at her, and put his hand on hers.

‘I’m doing it for Camille,’ she said, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I don’t know about the rest. You didn’t make it easy for me, Jérôme. I
can’t promise we could ever . . .’ She trailed off.

‘I’ve made mistakes,’ he said. ‘But I’ve changed.
Everything
has changed. We have another chance, and we have a responsibility to our daughters. I really
will make this work, I promise.’

She smiled. She could see the hope in Jérôme’s eyes and she knew some of that hope was within her, too.

Then the doorbell rang. Jérôme went to answer it.

‘Hello, Monsieur Séguret,’ said a voice. Curious, Claire joined her husband. Two police officers stood there. Her first thought was of her daughters, and she immediately did a
mental check: Camille was in her room, she was sure, and she had heard Léna stumble in from the pub in the early hours. ‘We have a few questions to ask you,’ said one officer.
‘Can you come to the station with us?’

Jérôme looked at Claire, baffled. ‘What’s it about?’ he asked.

‘It’s about Lucy Clarsen.’

Claire looked back at Jérôme, but the bafflement in his expression had gone. Instead, there was a weary recognition. Claire felt weary too: she’d heard the name several times
before in the last year, and knew the woman’s reputation. ‘You know her?’ said Claire, not bothering to disguise the hostility in her voice.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll explain later.’ He took her hand and squeezed it, but she let it sit there, limp, her eyes cold. She shut
the door once he’d gone.

‘What was that about?’ said Camille.

Startled, Claire turned. Camille was on the stairs, already dressed.

‘You made me jump,’ said Claire. ‘I didn’t hear you come down.’

Camille shrugged. ‘I don’t always stomp around like an elephant, whatever Dad says. Is he in trouble?’

Claire looked towards the door. She didn’t want Camille to see the anger and worry on her face. ‘Nothing serious,’ she said, thinking:
Like hell it’s not
.
‘Sleep OK?’

‘No, but . . .’

Claire recognized what words were coming next, and joined in. ‘I’m hungry,’ they said in unison. Camille laughed.

‘I’ll make you something,’ said Claire. As she cooked she talked the conversation around to the decision to move. Whatever Claire’s feelings for Jérôme, she
knew it was the right choice. She hoped Léna would see that too, eventually, but she hadn’t expected any resistance from Camille. She’d been wrong.

‘Where would we go?’ said Camille, and Claire could tell at once that she didn’t like the idea.

‘We haven’t got that far, not yet,’ said Claire. ‘It’ll be better for you. You can see that, can’t you? You won’t have to hide. You can live a normal
life.’

‘I already don’t need to hide.’

‘It’s not that simple, Camille.’

‘Alice,’ she said. ‘My name is Alice. Besides, the only reason Dad wants to move is because he wants you back. And away from that Pierre guy.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Claire protested.

Camille scowled. ‘Drop it. I know you and Dad broke up. I sure as hell don’t want to leave, and I think Léna will feel the same way.’

Claire opened her mouth ready to respond, but then she closed it again. She knew her daughter better than anyone, and knew that Camille was coiled up and ready to spring into a stand-up row if
that was what it would take for her to get her way. Instead, Claire shrugged and took a drink of her coffee. As their plans became firmer the task of talking her daughters round would become more
pressing; they were going, she was certain of that, but for now there was no need for an argument. She saw the confusion in Camille’s eyes, but Camille let it drop too. Maybe, thought Claire,
she’d naively thought it a victory.

As Camille ate they heard Léna’s footsteps through the ceiling above them.

‘Ah,’ said Camille. ‘She’s finally decided to show her face.’ Claire could detect a hint of bile in Camille’s voice. She thought the two of them might have
had some kind of falling-out, and the idea distressed her. She wondered what it could have been. Things had seemed to be going so well between them.

‘Mum . . .’ Léna called as she came downstairs. Claire knew right away that something was badly wrong, and before she even managed to stand, Léna, dressed only in her
underwear, stumbled down the final steps, falling unconscious in front of her.

Claire gasped, horrified at what she saw: a long wound running down her daughter’s spine. Red, raw and looking badly infected.

The previous night, Adèle had got a call from Thomas to let her know things at the station were busy, that he’d be catching what sleep he could in the makeshift
beds there. He didn’t do it often; Adèle always told him she didn’t mind, but she did.

Last night, however, not long after Thomas had called, Simon had come to the house. And for once, Adèle was grateful for Thomas’s heavy workload.

When she answered the door she stood looking at Simon, still only half-believing he was real. After Léna had come to talk to her she’d realized that her own understanding had been
completely wrong, that it wasn’t her imagination. She brought him inside and closed the door, then put her hand on his chest, overwhelmed at his presence. ‘How is this possible?’
she said. ‘You’re here. You’re really
here
.’

Simon shook his head. ‘I don’t know how. I promise you, I don’t know.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said, anguished. ‘I thought you were just a ghost. I thought you were in my head. How could you let me think that?’

He nodded; so, he’d at least suspected that had been what she thought. ‘I was scared, Adèle. When I came here that first night, you rejected me. Then at the library, when you
spoke to me and accepted me, I didn’t dare say anything to break the spell. But I still hadn’t understood. I hadn’t known what had happened to me, or how long I’d been away.
When I understood I came back again. You showed me Chloé.’

‘And you still didn’t tell me you were real?’

‘In case I frightened you.’

She drew him close. They kissed as they’d kissed ten years ago; no awkwardness, no distance, no anger or fear. Just them.

Then thoughts of Thomas intruded, and of Chloé. She pulled away, despairing. She knew that there were no easy answers. ‘We can’t just pretend,’ she said. ‘Things
have changed.’

‘I know,’ he said. He took her hands in his. ‘It’s up to you. It all has to be your decision. But whatever you decide, remember how much I love you.’

She smiled at him, tears falling, then held him tightly. ‘Chloé comes first,’ she said. ‘Before any of us.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

She was filled with adoration, confusion, guilt, longing. And pride, too; that Simon was so clear that the choice was hers. He had come back a better man, she thought. ‘Do you have a place
to stay?’

‘The Helping Hand shelter. I should probably get back there soon, or they might lock up without me.’

‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘It’s too late for you to go back tonight.’

He looked uncertain. ‘What about Thomas?’

‘Thomas won’t be back until morning, and even then it won’t be long before he goes out to work again. The attic is clean – I can make up a bed for you there.’

To her relief, he agreed to stay. She told herself that being with him would let her make up her mind about what course of action to take, probably the most important decision of her life. She
had to get to know the Simon who had come back to her.

She took him up to the attic and found the camp bed and a sleeping bag. They kissed again. Only that. He was eager and wanted more, of course, but she knew her head needed to be clear if she was
to take that kind of step.

In the morning, she hurried to get Chloé off to school, desperate for time with her new secret.

‘I heard noises last night,’ Chloé told her. ‘In the attic.’

‘Mice,’ Adèle explained. ‘It must have been mice. Don’t worry. I’ll go up now and check.’

‘Aren’t you working?’

‘No, I took the day off.’

‘Wedding stuff?’

The wedding. Adèle’s mind stalled for a moment. Less than two weeks, and she was supposed to marry Thomas. Her decision couldn’t be put off for long.

One thing at a time. The doorbell rang. ‘Hurry,’ Adèle said. ‘Marion is waiting.’

And, like that, Chloé was off to school and Adèle’s day was clear.

She made Simon some breakfast, then unlocked the attic door and took up the tray of food. ‘Simon?’ she called, setting the tray down.

She felt him standing behind her. His arms went to her waist, and he pressed hard against her. Her heart was pounding; his lips were on her neck, his hands touching her. Fire, all over her
skin.

‘No, wait,’ she said, turning to talk to him, but his mouth found hers and she kissed back, wanting him so badly, but knowing she needed this to stop.

‘Simon, no,’ she said. He gripped the back of her neck with his left hand, while the right found her blouse buttons and undid them. He grasped her hips, lifted her up to sit on a
box, thrusting himself at her, lost.

‘Stop it,’ she said desperately. ‘
Stop it.
’ He wouldn’t stop.

She slapped him, hard. And again. Breathless, he backed off. He was staring at her, angry. She stared back.

He saw the tray of food. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as if nothing had happened. He walked to the food and ripped into it as though he’d never eaten.

She dressed herself again, watching him cautiously. Deep within her was a fear she hadn’t known for years.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘We’d all be better off at the Helping Hand. For a while. At least until I find a job and we can afford our own place.’

She stared at him. ‘I’ve not made my decision yet . . .’

‘You’re coming, Adèle,’ he said. ‘You belong with me. You know you do.’

‘And what about Chloé? This is her home, Simon. She’s happy here.’

‘She knows he’s not her dad?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I never lied to her. Thomas wouldn’t have wanted that.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, sneering. ‘He seems like a really sweet guy.’

‘You have no idea,’ she said, bottling her anger. She turned, headed for the stairs.

‘Adèle, wait.’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He touched her cheek, gentle now, loving.

She felt her tears fall, torn between loving him and hating him for the way he made her feel. It had always been this way, when he’d gone too far: as if he’d been the hurt one, and
only she could make it better. She told herself not to give in to it, that he wasn’t really sorry, but she looked into his eyes and saw.

Of course he meant it. Of course he loved her. His temper flared up now and again. But it was just a sign of his passion, of how much she meant to him.

She led him down out of the attic, and showed him Chloé’s room. Showed him the pictures that Chloé spent so much of her time drawing. Then Simon led her into the bedroom she
shared with Thomas. He was tender with her, gentle. She was completely lost in him, not wanting to reject him again. She was willing.

‘I’m here now,’ he said afterwards, cradling her in his arms. ‘I won’t leave again.’

He held her, and she believed him. Her fears for the future, and the decisions that were coming, were pushed to the back of her mind. They lay together, and watched each other in the
afterglow.

And high up in the corner of the ceiling, through a small hole in the plaster, Thomas’s camera watched too.

Jérôme didn’t understand what was happening.

The police had already gone over his statement twice, getting more and more hostile with him as time went by and his answers remained the same.

The officers questioning him both seemed young, one particularly so. It made the distaste on their faces harder to bear somehow. The room was sparse and overly bright, hurting his eyes. He was
so damn tired.

‘One more time,’ said the older of the two. ‘Lucy’s diary says you saw each other nearly every week for a year. Is this true?’

Jérôme almost felt like laughing, it was so ridiculous. How many times would he have to tell them the same thing? ‘I’ve already told you, yes.’

‘And what did you do when you saw her?’

‘We talked. That’s all we did, we talked. Last time I checked, that wasn’t illegal.’ Claire would find out, he knew – find out something, at any rate. He thought of
the hostile look she’d given him as the police had taken him away. He’d assumed it was a reprimand for bringing trouble to their door and risking Camille’s safety, but now he
wondered if she’d heard Lucy’s name before. The police had told him about Lucy being attacked, and that his name had appeared in Lucy’s diary, but there was no way he would admit
to what had really gone on. Absolutely no way.

The younger officer stepped in. ‘You like beating up women, Monsieur Séguret?’

This was new, and the tone was much more hostile. It took Jérôme a moment to reply. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You heard. Answer the question.’

‘I’ve never hit a woman,’ said Jérôme. ‘I’ve never hit
anyone
.’

‘Really?’ said the older officer, pulling out a sheet of paper. ‘Well, it says here that a year ago you hit your daughter Léna.’