The Returned (24 page)

Even confessing to seeing a prostitute, he thought, would probably be easier than the full truth. Much easier than going through the pain of the confession he’d given the police.

He walked in.

‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Claire?’

He took off his coat and walked through to the kitchen, almost jumping when he saw Claire sitting at the table, weary eyes trained his way.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, concerned. He started towards her.

The bitterness in her voice stopped him short. ‘You couldn’t even have called?’

‘I tried earlier, as soon as they’d finished with me. Nobody answered. What’s wrong?’
Oh shit
, he thought.
She’s heard about Lucy already.

‘How
could
you, Jérôme?’

He hung his head and steeled himself for what was coming. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d been seeing Lucy for a while, but it was nothing, and—’

‘I don’t care about the
whore
,’ said Claire, almost spitting out the words. ‘I already knew you were up to something like that.’

He looked at her, baffled. If the anger wasn’t about Lucy then what the hell
was
it about?

‘Your daughter is in hospital,’ she said loud and slow, as if she thought his hearing had gone.

‘Camille?’
Jesus
, he thought. If they started running tests, what would they find?

Claire shook her head. ‘Didn’t you even get the message?
Léna
, Jérôme. Léna’s in hospital.’

‘I didn’t get a message,’ he said, hurt that she was holding that against him. He couldn’t have known. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘An old injury, one that hadn’t healed properly. On her back.’

His face fell suddenly, and Claire saw it in his eyes.

‘How could you do it? How could you hit Léna?’

‘But I didn’t.’ How on earth had she found out? ‘I didn’t hit her,’ he explained. ‘She fell, Claire. I mean, yes, I . . .’

She stood up. If she’d had anything heavy to hand, Jérôme was sure she’d have thrown it at him. ‘Get out,’ she spat. ‘I want you to leave.
Now.’

‘Did Léna tell you this?’ he said. She’d been as keen as he was to keep it quiet, but maybe so much had changed . . .

‘Léna would only say that she’d fallen over in the Lake Pub. I could see there was more to it, but asking her about it just upset her.’

‘So if Léna didn’t tell you, who did?’ he said. ‘The hospital?’ He saw something in her eyes just before Claire looked away, and suddenly it clicked into
place. ‘Pierre,’ said Jérôme, thinking aloud. ‘Was that who you heard this from?’

She ignored the question, and he knew he was right. ‘How could you hit your
daughter
?’ she said.

Pierre
, Jérôme thought. Interfering with his family’s lives. ‘That’s not what happened. The bastard wasn’t even there!’

‘Jérôme,’ she said, teeth gritted, purposeful. ‘Just look me in the eyes and answer me. Did you hurt Léna?’

Hurt her. Yes, of course he had. He’d been in the Lake Pub, and they’d told him he’d had too much. They refused to give him any more to drink, and he started to shout at them.
Léna came over, half-humiliated, half-concerned, trying to persuade him to go home. And he’d pushed her away. She’d fallen over a chair and hit the ground, hard; then she’d
followed her dad out, the anger overriding the pain from the gash the chair leg had opened on her back.

They’d both been horrified. He’d taken her to hospital at once; she’d only agreed to let him take her so she could get away from her friends and limit her embarrassment.

And that was all it was.
Almost
all. There was also what he’d said to her, something that had probably cut even deeper.

Léna had been wary around him ever since.

So, yes. He’d hurt her. He couldn’t deny it, and any attempt to explain would make things worse.

‘I want you out of here,’ she said. ‘It’s over.’

And for the second time in their marriage, Jérôme left.

Léna had woken in the dark, with the touch of Frédéric’s hand on her arm.

But the room was empty. She sat up, too quickly – the pain from the wound on her back flared. She swore.

Carefully, she got out of the hospital bed and went to the window. The town was in darkness, save for the headlights on the sparse traffic; a power cut, she realized. The familiar streets looked
almost forlorn, lost without light.

She glanced at the door to the room and was relieved to see dim lighting in the hall. Of course, the hospital had its own emergency power; the light in her room was off to let her sleep.

She raised her arms, flexing the skin on her back, gently testing the injury. It had thrown the doctors, for a while. They’d swabbed the wound and taken samples, then claimed it was an old
scar opening up again. A spontaneous keloid, they called it, but the rapid spread of it had them flummoxed.

The puzzled-looking doctor had stood beside her, all white coat and efficiency, trying to be a reassuring presence. As if they had any clue as to what was really going on. ‘They can form
over any kind of abrasion. Do you remember getting scraped or burned there, maybe?’ the doctor had asked.

‘Maybe,’ she’d said. Her mum had been with her, and noted Léna’s reluctance to answer. She pressed and pressed, until Léna told her the bare essence of it:
she’d hurt it when she was knocked over in the Lake Pub, a year before.

Her mum pressed for more, and it all suddenly became too much. Hell, she was tired, and worried, and her back hurt, and Léna knew exactly why her mum was so eager to find something to
blame.

Because the real cause was right there: Camille, hovering near the far wall like a ghost, a constant reminder of everything that was fucked up in her life at the moment.

And still her mum pushed for answers, until Léna overreacted. She shouted at them to leave, to give her some peace and quiet. Her mum was reluctant but she eventually went, promising to
be back first thing in the morning. Camille trailed out behind her, delivering one final pointed look at Léna before she left.

Meanwhile, with test results pending, the doctors had warned her of the risk of infection and ulceration. They’d given her an injection of antibiotics. Oh, and promises of some more swabs
and samples to be taken in the morning. Painful ones, she presumed. They almost seemed pleased by the novelty of a mystery.
Hah
, she thought – if they loved medical conundrums they
should take a look at Camille. She’d love to see what they made of
that
.

She sighed and gingerly tested her limits with the wound. It didn’t hurt, as long as she kept her movements within sensible boundaries.

Then, standing in the dark, she felt Frédéric’s fingertips on her arm again.

Her hands shot to her mouth. The sensation had been far too real. She had a sudden image of Frédéric, with Camille.
Surely not
. . .

Her clothes were in the cupboard on the far side of the room. She put them on over the hospital gown. The Lake Pub was maybe a thirty-minute walk. She was feeling fine. If she’d insisted,
they would probably have had to discharge her anyway, she reckoned.

She crept out of her room. The dim corridors, with their emergency lighting, were almost empty; dressed, nobody would have thought her a patient. She left unchallenged. It was only when she was
halfway to the pub that the power came back. As it did, a thought occurred to her: how did she even know where Frédéric and Camille were? It was like . . .

Like it used to be. Before Camille had died, back when – rare, fleeting – each could sense what the other was doing.

She reached the pub and went inside, feeling horribly weak the instant she saw them. Frédéric and Camille sitting alone, sitting close. Laughing. She saw red, suddenly, knowing the
risk Camille was taking, knowing she shouldn’t even be out of the
house
.

And knowing, too, that it was more than that: a deep stab of jealousy as she saw the way they had their heads together, the playful smile Camille gave him, the deliberate brush of her hand on
his leg. Léna gathered herself and strode across to them.

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘Léna?’ said Camille, guilt and anxiety washing across her face. ‘Are you OK?’

Caught you
, thought Léna.
Fucking caught you.
‘They discharged me, didn’t they?’ She turned to Frédéric and sneered at him. ‘Having
fun?’

Frédéric looked sheepish, but defiant. ‘I invited your cousin in for a drink,’ he said.

‘My cousin?’ said Léna, bitter. ‘I don’t have one.’

Frédéric’s smile grew nervous. ‘You don’t?’

‘No.’

‘Come off it,’ said Frédéric. ‘It’s obvious. You look so similar.’

Camille was getting more and more agitated. ‘Stop it, Léna,’ she said.

‘Shut up!’ hissed Léna.

‘Leave her alone,’ said Frédéric. ‘What did she ever do to you?’

Léna took off her coat and lifted the back of her shirt. ‘That.’

Frédéric stared at the wound, shocked. ‘Christ! How did it get so bad?’

Léna pointed at Camille. ‘Ask her.’

‘Don’t, Léna,’ warned Camille.

But Léna felt defiant. If her sister wanted to be out in the open, if she wanted to try and steal Frédéric . . .
Let’s see if he wants her when he knows the
truth.
‘Tell him who you are,’ said Léna. ‘Or should I?’ She got a blank stare from Frédéric. ‘Don’t you recognize her?’ she
whispered. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s Camille!’

Frédéric shook his head, angry with her. ‘That’s not funny, Léna.’

‘Ask her, if you don’t believe me.’

‘I’m Alice,’ said Camille, visibly furious. ‘You know that. Maybe you should still be in hospital.’

Léna, exasperated, looked at Camille, then at Frédéric. Both of them were looking at her as though she was mad. Maybe she was. That would be better than the reality.

‘Fuck both of you!’ yelled Léna before storming out into the darkness.

As she left the pub, she started to feel too hot. She knew she’d overdone it, that she hadn’t been ready to leave hospital, but she kept on going, too angry with
Camille, with Frédéric. With the whole fucking
world
.

Even as she grew weaker, she had to keep moving. Each time she paused, her thoughts roiled in her head: she thought of her sister’s face, back when it was the face that they both shared,
laughing and loving and without a care; she thought of standing by her sister’s grave, falling apart, knowing half of her soul had been ripped out of her. And she thought of
Frédéric, keeping her alive. Keeping her from going under.

Camille died, and her life turned to shit. Camille came back, and it happened again. She didn’t want it in her head, any of it; she walked as fast as she could, keeping those thoughts at
bay.

She reached the underpass, stumbling down the steps, barely keeping her balance. Moments later she found herself leaning against the tiles on the tunnel wall, gasping for each breath. She slid
down until she was on the ground, unable to go any further.

Someone was coming. She could see a blurred shape at the far end of the tunnel. A man, hooded, walking purposefully towards her.

Scared now, she tried to stand, but it was impossible. Just before she blacked out, she saw his face, and she thought:
Thank God.
Thank God that it was someone she recognized.

Toni’s brother. Serge.

Anton breathed the early-morning air, still heavy with mist that had barely cleared. He looked out into the valley, to the shrouded banks of the lake. The water level
hadn’t been this low for eight years, Eric had said, since the last time the dam underwent a full maintenance cycle.

He had volunteered to walk the inspection galleries within the dam, and as he descended he found it curious how, even with the water level so low, the psychological weight of water above him
felt no less than it always had. Indeed, if anything it had grown.

In the lower gallery, as he approached the far end of the tunnel, the lighting started to falter, pulsing slowly off and on.
A glitch with the power feed
, he thought, taking the torch
from his belt. He switched it on, only to find that it was failing too, in perfect timing with the strips hung along the wall. He did what everyone did when faced with the impossible: he tried his
best to ignore it, stopping for ten seconds or so each time the total darkness swallowed him, waiting for the light to come back. It felt as though he was playing some perverse childhood game.

Then, standing still in the dark, he heard it. Just ahead, where the tunnel finished near the western abutments. It sounded like breathing. Like an animal, scuffling around, maybe five metres
away from him. Something large. He strained to hear anything more, certain it was coming closer. Closer.

Slowly the lights started to return and he could see a shape right in front of him in the gloom. He backed away in panic. The lights suddenly flickered fully on. The tunnel was empty.

He hurried out, and told Eric that there was no way he would be doing the inspection next time. ‘If ever,’ he said.

Eric smiled, not in humour. Sympathy. ‘So you finally heard something,’ he said, and refused to say any more about it. Instead he changed the subject and started to talk about his
family, rambling on about this and that. Anton was glad of it, taking his mind away from the dark of the tunnels and the ragged breathing that had seemed close enough to touch.

‘My grandfather once told me something about pain,’ Eric said. ‘People hold on to their pain, he told me. Sometimes they nourish it, the way an oyster nourishes grit to make a
pearl. They take the pain and if they’re lucky it becomes something positive. Something beautiful.’ He swigged from the mug of coffee he was holding. ‘But other times, he told me,
pain was like a thorn. You try and forget about it, and years later it works its way out and leaves a hole that will never heal.’

Eric took a long breath. He stood and wandered over to the window in the control room, looking out at the lake ahead. ‘And I said, “But what if it never comes out?” And he
frowned and said, “Well, then it works its way in so deep, it changes what you are. Steals the good in you. Robs you of your soul.” He said to me: “Eric, a body without a soul is
the thing I fear most.”’