The Returned (33 page)

‘The truth,’ she said, defiant. ‘Jérôme, listen to me. We have to confide in those who can help, those who can understand. This is bigger than anything we can
handle alone. Camille needs protecting.’

‘She needs protecting from
him
,’ said Jérôme, pointing at Pierre. ‘He can’t be trusted. He’s a fraud, but you can’t see it. He acts like
he knows what’s going to happen, but he has no more idea than the rest of us.’

Most of the group kept their eyes to the ground, letting them squabble, but Claire saw Camille’s face, saw her despair at her parents fighting. ‘This isn’t the place to
argue,’ she said, but then there was another knock at the front door. Claire and Jérôme locked eyes briefly; then Claire looked to Camille, and upstairs. Camille understood and
hurried up to her room. They waited until they heard her bedroom door shut before they went to see who had come.

It was the police captain, looking grimly serious. ‘Can I talk to Alice?’ he said. ‘Your niece.’

Claire could feel the beginnings of panic and knew it was crucial that the officer didn’t notice.

Jérôme had a desperate look too, but he opted to go on the attack. ‘Shouldn’t you be looking for our missing daughter?’ he said.

The captain seemed to weigh this up. ‘Exactly. We think your niece could be involved. She is your niece, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ said Claire, trying to sound calm. ‘But she’s not here.’

‘When will she be back?’

‘I don’t know. She has her own life.’

He looked at them both with undisguised scepticism. ‘Tell your niece to come to the station with identification. Is that clear?’

Jérôme nodded. They went back inside to the hallway and shut the door, then looked at each other, relieved the officer had gone, but knowing the respite was temporary.

‘We can’t stay here,’ said Claire. ‘Whatever your feelings about Pierre, we
can’t
stay here.’

And that left only one option.

Within the hour most of the group of parents had made the same decision and relocated to the Helping Hand. Some of them pretended that the power cut was the main reason, but
Claire saw how they all looked at Camille. Wary, but desperate to believe. Desperate to be near. She wondered how she’d feel in their position, if it had been one of their children
who’d come back and she was left questioning why Camille hadn’t. She simply couldn’t imagine what it was like for them.

Claire and Jérôme sat with Camille in the canteen, watching her devour the food offered by the Helping Hand staff. It was cold outside; the breeze carried a deep chill and the sun
was hidden behind thick cloud. As soon as they’d come inside, the warmth that greeted them was welcomed by all. Only Jérôme had seemed cautious; coming here, having Camille in
the open.

‘I’ll go back soon and stay at the house,’ Jérôme told Camille. ‘In case Léna goes back there. Your mother will sleep here, OK?’

Camille looked up, mouth full. She nodded, her attention more focused on the food than what her father was saying. She cleaned her plate. ‘I’m going to see if there’s
more,’ she said.

Always hungry, thought Claire.

As Camille passed a nearby table, the couple sitting there called to her.

‘Hello, Camille,’ Claire heard the man say tentatively. ‘We used to see you at school. We’re Esteban’s parents.’

Camille paused by the table, looking a little uneasy. ‘Hello, Monsieur Koretsky,’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘I’m sure a lot of people will ask you this, but we wondered . . .’

‘Esteban is fine,’ she said, smiling.

They were looking at her with a different kind of hunger, Claire thought: their appetite for news of their son was almost as insatiable as Camille’s desire for food.

‘Have you spoken to him?’ said Monsieur Koretsky.

‘Spoken? No, I wouldn’t put it that way, but our souls . . . have made contact. He said he misses you. He can’t wait to see you again.’ The couple smiled at her, close to
tears. ‘Esteban is at peace,’ said Camille. ‘He knows you’ll be together once more.’

Claire turned to her husband, smiling, but Jérôme was sullen. ‘What’s she doing?’ he whispered, sounding worried.

‘She’s giving them hope,’ said Claire, but Jérôme didn’t seem reassured. ‘Look at her, Jérôme. She hasn’t seemed this happy since
she came back. She’s found what she needed.’

‘What?’

‘A sense of purpose,’ she said, watching the Koretskys as Camille walked on. Both their faces had the same look of desperate grief, mixed with equally desperate hope.

‘Yes,’ said Jérôme. ‘But whose purpose? God’s or Pierre’s?’

Ignoring her husband’s cynicism, Claire prayed that they were the same thing.

When she’d got back from collecting Victor from the Helping Hand the night before, Julie had wanted to give the boy a bath. He liked the water, certainly, but he always
seemed a little cold to the touch, and after a bath he felt warmer.

With the power out there was no heating and no hot water, so she’d waited, expecting it to come back overnight. But that morning there had still been no power. She’d hunted out a
camping stove from the back of a cupboard, half-surprised that it was working given how long it had been since it was last used – at a summer festival she’d gone to with Laure, the year
before she was attacked.

She used it to heat up some water so they could take turns to bathe.

‘It’s ready,’ she called, looking at the pitifully shallow water. ‘It’s not deep, but it’ll have to do.’

Victor came through and she smiled. It was good to have him back, have him safe. She hadn’t asked him about the night before, about the man in the Helping Hand, but there was something she
needed to know. Something she’d wanted to know since he first came to her.

‘Victor?’ she said. He looked at her, attentive. ‘Why did you come to see me? Is it because I’m like you?’

The boy shook his head. Julie felt a sudden rush of emotion, tears welling up in her eyes. Victor stepped forward and put his arms around her, holding tight.

‘It’s because of the fairy,’ he whispered in her ear.

Julie was taken aback, hearing his voice. It was only the third time he’d ever said anything to her. ‘What fairy?’

‘Mum told me that if she went away, the fairy would look after me until she came back. She said if I ever saw her, I would recognize her.’

‘A fairy?’ He was just looking at her, adoring, a hint of a smile on his face. ‘You think it’s me?’ She laughed, touched by his faith in her but saddened that this
was the only thing he had to cling to. ‘I’m not a fairy. Fairies have nice hair, pretty dresses . . . They always smile, they have magic wands. That’s not me, not by a long
way.’ She hugged him again. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘You get undressed and have a wash, OK?’

She left him to it. She didn’t see him remove his long-sleeved top; didn’t see the state of his forearm, the dry skin patterned with darkened veins, cracked and sore in places.
Victor ran the fingers of his left hand over it, looking frightened.

Late afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was Laure, in uniform. Julie let her come in, but she gave her a wary look.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Julie, suspicious.

‘I’m not here for the boy,’ said Laure.

‘What is it, then?’

‘We don’t know how long the power will be out, so we’re checking everyone’s OK. People are worried. The shops have shut, and there are rumours that the power won’t
come back for days.’

‘Days?’ She glanced at the gloomy sky outside and, despite herself, shivered.

Laure nodded. ‘It’s almost deserted on the streets. Lots of people are planning on leaving town to stay with relatives.’ She paused, before adding: ‘Do you have all you
need?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ said Julie.
And I certainly don’t need anything from you.

Laure’s eyes barely met Julie’s. ‘You could always stay at my house. I have a fireplace for heating, and plenty of food.’

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then Julie laughed. ‘Are you asking me to move in with you?’ She hadn’t meant it to sound unkind, but she saw Laure flinch a little.

‘Well, I suppose.’

The offer hung out there for quiet, awkward seconds before Julie shook her head. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’ Victor was all the company she wanted now.

Early evening, the doorbell rang again. This time, after Julie had looked through the spyhole she didn’t even take the security chain off the door. It was the man from
the Helping Hand, and she didn’t like the thought of him being around Victor.

‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘To help you and the boy. He isn’t safe here.’

‘Leave us alone,’ said Julie. The man had an intensity that scared her.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I know what he is. He’s not the only one.’

Julie gripped the door handle tighter, ready to shut it if he made any kind of move. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

The man looked desperate. She wondered what his connection with Victor was. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘If you stay, you’re putting Victor at risk. There are others like
him, and when people find out, do you think they’ll just open their arms and accept him?’ Julie looked to the floor, not wanting him to see that it was a fear she shared, that she knew
it would be dangerous if anyone found out the truth about the boy. ‘Soon people like Victor will be hunted down, and who knows what will happen to them. It’s safer at the Helping Hand.
We can protect him.’

The man gave her a broad, well-practised smile, but the intensity was still in his eyes. She didn’t like what she saw.

‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘Last time you people looked after him, you lost him within a day. I think I know where he’s safer, and it’s not with you.’ She shut
the door and listened, waiting until she heard the man descend the stairs.

And she meant it: there was no chance she would let the man near Victor again, not after seeing how terrified the boy had been last night. But there were other options.

She went into the kitchen where Victor was eating a bowl of noodles. He looked up at her, full of trust. She wouldn’t let him down. If that meant a few sacrifices, then so be it.

‘Pack your things,’ she said.

With the power down, Adèle and Chloé had dug out every game they could find and gone through them one at a time.

‘Too childish,’ Chloé would say to some of them. ‘Too long,’ to others.

Adèle smiled when she realized that most of the ones Chloé was rejecting were supposed to be educational.
Children aren’t stupid
, she thought. They can tell when
you’re trying to sneak some teaching in alongside something that’s supposed to be fun, as easily as broccoli in ice cream.

They played, and Adèle smiled and didn’t think of Simon; or of Thomas, for that matter. All she thought of was Chloé, and laughing. But there was only so much Buckaroo you
could play.

‘Do you want to go out?’ she asked. ‘Get some fresh air?’

‘No,’ said Chloé. ‘How about we play something else?’

‘OK,’ said Adèle. ‘Your turn to pick.’ She gestured to the pile of games, but Chloé shook her head.

‘How about Truth or Dare?’

Adèle didn’t like the way Chloé was looking at her. ‘OK.’

‘Truth. How old was I when Dad killed himself?’

Adèle nodded. The girl deserved answers, however hard it was to give them. ‘You hadn’t been born yet.’

‘So he never saw me?’

‘No.’

‘Next question,’ said Chloé. ‘Did he want to die because of me?’

Adèle took a sharp breath. ‘No.’

‘Was it because of you?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Adèle. She wanted the game to stop, if these were the kinds of thing Chloé wanted answers to. ‘You’re too young to
understand.’

Chloé looked upset. She jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll ask Thomas,’ she yelled from the doorway. ‘At least
he’ll
tell me the truth.’ Then she ran
to her room, slamming the door behind her.

Adèle called out to her, then followed. She felt drained suddenly, her legs heavy. She knew just how much she’d enjoyed not thinking about Simon, but it was never going to be for
long. She went into Chloé’s room, where she found her crying in the corner. She knelt by her daughter and held her.

‘It’s natural that you want to know,’ said Adèle. ‘But the truth is, I have no idea why he did it.’

‘Was he unhappy?’ said Chloé.

Adèle sighed. ‘Sometimes he was unhappy, so unhappy that nothing would stop him feeling despair. Other times, he was full of life, finding happiness even in the smallest of things.
It was a kind of illness, Chloé, though he refused to accept that.’

‘When he died, did he know I was going to be born?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think it was my fault?’

‘I know it wasn’t, Chloé. He was happy when I told him I was pregnant. Very happy.’ She thought of the tears that Simon had cried when he’d heard, and of the way
she hadn’t been sure, even then, how he really felt.

And she knew she could never tell Chloé the truth.

Toni was sitting in the empty Lake Pub when the police came.

A bottle of whisky was rapidly vanishing, but he wasn’t feeling any effect. He dreaded going back to the old house now, dreaded being told again that his mother wanted nothing to do with
him, that she preferred the company of a murderer to . . .

Then his thoughts tangled, as he realized that
murderer
was just what his mother thought of
him
. Stopping Serge, that was all he’d done. It wasn’t murder to put a
rabid dog out of its misery, was it?

Yet that was exactly the problem. Family came first, in all things.

Now Serge had made a promise to stop. Yes, he’d promised before, but this was different. It had to be. Serge was renewed. Back from whatever hell he’d been sent to. He’d got
one more chance, yes? Of course he had.

Another glass of whisky. It didn’t help.

The power had been out all night. He’d decided to stay closed today, but he’d had a text message from a friend in town about reports of looting. Daytime looting, for Christ’s
sake. No way he was going to open up if that was how things were.