The Returned (39 page)

Delaître said nothing.

‘Are there others like you?’

Nothing.

‘Why are you here? Is the power cut because of you and your
kind
?’

Delaître’s smile became a sneer. ‘How did you deal with Adèle?’ he said. ‘It must have been hard. It can’t have looked good, shooting a man who was so
inconvenient
.’

Thomas scowled at him. ‘I won’t let you near my family again.’

‘Really? I think you’ll find I’m very persistent.’

‘I’ll find a way,’ said Thomas, teeth gritted. ‘Now answer my questions. How many of you are there, and why are you here?’

But Delaître would answer nothing; he just sat there with his sneer. Frustrated, Thomas had him taken back to his cell, asking Bruno to stay for a moment.

‘Nobody lets him out. Not again, not for anything. Give him a bucket to shit in. If he even shits at all.’ He thought for a second. ‘In fact, nobody opens the door again, you
understand?’

Bruno nodded. He was untroubled by the order, Thomas noted, an order that for any other prisoner would be a breach of human rights. Bruno, it seemed, understood just as well as Thomas that
Delaître wasn’t exactly human. ‘Yes, sir. What about meals? He keeps asking for food.’

‘Nothing,’ said Thomas. ‘He gets
nothing
.’

He dismissed Bruno and went back to watching the prisoner on camera. There had to be some weakness – something that he could exploit. A few minutes later Delaître raised his shirt,
and Thomas saw what appeared to be a wound, like a burn, covering much of his chest. Delaître prodded his own skin with a detached curiosity, seemingly unworried by a lesion that would have
had any normal man rolling in pain. He pushed at the edges of the damage, peeling back a small piece which he then tore away.

As Thomas watched, Delaître held the flesh up to the light, his expression one of mild interest. And then he ate it.

I’ll find a way
, Thomas had told himself. Maybe now he had it. Simon Delaître would wither and waste in his cell. Adèle would never even have to be told he’d
returned after the shooting. Because however long it took, the man would never leave that place again.

Chloé didn’t know what to make of the boy. They were bouncing together on the trampoline, but he was so quiet. ‘I haven’t seen you at school,’
she said.

‘That’s because I don’t go,’ said the boy.

‘How will you learn to read?’

‘I can already read,’ he said.

And they kept bouncing. That was how it went until Chloé decided to confide in him – although she had a vague awareness that it was more like a boast.

‘You want to know a secret?’ she said. The boy nodded. ‘Swear you won’t tell?’

‘I swear,’ he said seriously.

‘My dad was dead, but he came back to find me.’ She expected him to call her a liar.

Instead he smiled. ‘I’m dead too,’ he said.

Chloé laughed. ‘Stop it!’ But the boy nodded. They both stopped bouncing. Chloé’s laugh faded, and then her smile went too. She believed him.

‘And I can show people things,’ he said. It was his turn to boast.

‘What things?’

‘I don’t know. Whatever’s the biggest in their minds, I think. Even if they don’t know it.’

‘Show me,’ she said, wary.

The boy raised his arm and pointed to the door. Chloé turned to look.

It was her mum standing in the doorway. Adèle, but from two years before. Chloé knew that somehow. Adèle, from the day Chloé and Thomas had come home, and Thomas had
gone to fetch her mum, then had shouted at Chloé to get to her room, to go
now
, and stay inside, and she’d done as he’d asked. But she’d peeped once, peeped to see
her mother when the ambulance had come, and she was being taken away, her nightdress covered in blood.

And now her mum stood there again in the same nightdress, blood everywhere, her wrists cut deeply open, and the life pouring onto the ground.

Chloé fainted.

Adèle was first to see her fall. She ran outside. Julie followed, to see Chloé prone on the grass by the trampoline.

Adèle knelt by her daughter, brushing the hair from her face, clearly terrified to move her. ‘Sweetheart, can you hear me? Chloé?’

‘What happened?’ asked Julie, mainly to Victor, but the boy just stood on the trampoline, silent and solemn.

‘She fell,’ said Adèle. ‘I saw her fall.’

Julie stepped in. ‘Let me,’ she said. ‘I’m a nurse.’

She checked the girl for any obvious injuries before lifting her and carrying her inside, throwing one more questioning look back at Victor. She laid Chloé on the sofa, aware of
Adèle behind her, watching, fretting. Julie could empathize now more than ever.

With care, she checked Chloé over more fully. Her breathing and heart rate seemed fine, and nothing appeared to be broken.

‘Is she OK?’ asked Adèle, shaken.

‘I think so,’ said Julie, feeling pretty shaken herself. ‘Did you see how she fell?’

‘No. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye.’

Julie nodded. She was satisfied the girl wasn’t hurt. Sprains and bruises were possible, but the best thing she could do for Adèle was give her certainty. ‘She may have been
dizzy,’ she said. ‘Like you, earlier. It’s probably a virus, but she doesn’t seem injured. I don’t think you have to worry.’

Adèle nodded. Then Chloé stirred, opening her eyes a little.

‘It’s OK,’ Julie told her. ‘Just lie still and rest.’

Chloé nodded in silence, her eyes fixed on her mother’s face. The girl wore a curious expression, Julie saw – almost of accusation.

Julie turned to Adèle. ‘Keep an eye on her,’ she said. ‘She needs peace and quiet. I’ll take Victor back to Laure’s. If you’re worried, just come and
get me, OK?’

‘OK,’ said Adèle, not taking her eyes off her daughter.

Julie took her leave, and marched Victor back next door.

She gripped him by the arms and crouched down to his level. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said, trying to sound firm while keeping the anger from her voice. ‘That’s an
order.’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said, clearly upset, and Julie relaxed a little. Then he added: ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

She tensed again. She saw the look of genuine distress on Victor’s face, and she had no defence against it. He looked so distraught she didn’t think it was the right time to probe
deeper, but she would have to make doubly sure to keep him inside from now on. She held him; he hugged her back tightly.

‘It’ll be OK,’ she said.

Then she felt something through the sleeve of his shirt. Something rough, on his arm.

‘What’s that?’ she said. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She rolled his sleeve up carefully, gasping when she saw the state of his forearm. It looked like an old wound, trying
to heal but succumbing to infection. But she knew it couldn’t have been there for long.

‘When?’ she asked. ‘When did it start?’

‘Yesterday,’ said Victor. ‘I didn’t want to tell you. You might not want me near you. You might leave me.’

She drew him close again. ‘Never,’ she said, and held him. ‘Never.’

When Pierre asked people to gather for the service for the Koretzkys, it took Claire a moment to spot where her daughters had gone. They were outside, enjoying the first
sunshine of the day. She watched them, amazed at the way a break in the cloud could transform how you looked at things. She sent Jérôme to fetch them in, then sat a few rows from the
front, keeping three seats around her for the rest of her family. The room filled quickly; after all, there wasn’t much else for people to do. Claire’s heart sank, though, when Viviane
Costa took the seat in front of her.

‘Are they your daughters?’ said the woman, nodding to Léna and Camille as they entered.

‘Yes,’ said Claire.

‘They’re pretty. It’s a shame.’

Claire gave her a pointed look. ‘What’s a shame?’

Viviane Costa smiled, a particularly sour one. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It won’t last, will it? It never does.’ She turned to face the front.

Claire said nothing, taking a long breath to stay calm. If the woman hadn’t already been dead, she thought she might have cheerfully killed her herself.

Léna and Camille took the seats to Claire’s right, while Jérôme sat to her left at the end of the row. There were quite a few people at the Helping Hand now. As well as
the initial group of parents, more had found their way there, either through direct invitation from Pierre or by hearing about the refuge from others. The dormitories would be crowded tonight,
thought Claire; the supplies would have to be used sparingly.

She shivered suddenly, realizing that she was now assuming they would be there for as long as Pierre had suggested.

‘Thank you all,’ said Pierre as he stood at the front and held court over the congregation. ‘We’re here to remember Joseph and Anna Koretzky, two cherished members of our
little community. Some of you have asked why I decided to hold this service to remember them, so I feel I should explain. I’m sure you’re all deeply upset by what they’ve done. I
believe we need to express our fears, our questions, and our doubts, and to do so as soon as possible. We face an uncertain time. I have spoken to many of you already about what challenges lie
ahead of us, and here, now, I think we must all hear the truth.’

Claire heard some uneasy whispers, but they soon fell away.

‘First,’ said Pierre, ‘I would like us all to hold hands.’ He smiled as bemused laughs spread across the room. ‘Go ahead,’ Pierre continued. He waited for
them to do as he asked. ‘Now, I want us all to say to the people next to us, “You can count on me.” Go on.’

Claire caught the raised eyebrow on Jérôme’s face. She smiled at him and shrugged. This was Pierre’s way, and it served a purpose.

‘You can count on me,’ Jérôme said to her, and he meant it; she told him the same.

Beside her, Léna and Camille turned to each other and said it too. It gave her a rush of hope: her two beautiful girls, back together again.

You can count on me
, murmured everyone in the room.

Then Pierre talked about the Koretzkys, told of their trauma at the loss of their only son. Of their courage, and their support for the other parents involved in the tragedy. He celebrated their
lives, without mentioning again the manner in which things had ended.

‘I can understand your concerns, my friends,’ said Pierre. ‘But don’t be afraid. Death is not the end. We know that. Our friends who have returned are proof of
it.’

Claire glanced around the faces to see how many people were mystified by what Pierre was saying. There were some, but not many. Most knew something of what had been going on.

‘The Helping Hand was chosen,’ said Pierre. ‘It will be their haven, as a new world arises. A new order. One that will continue as it begins – with togetherness, support
and love.’

She could see Jérôme’s scowl forming, and could understand it. Pierre’s words held such vast implications, they were even making her a little uneasy.

In the front row, Sandrine stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly. ‘I need some air.’ Her husband stood up beside her. She looked unsteady. Suddenly Sandrine clutched at
her husband’s arm and fell to the ground, crying out in pain.

People rushed to help. ‘Please, give her room,’ said Pierre. ‘Can someone get a glass of water?’

Sandrine reached down and put her hand between her legs. When she pulled it back it was covered in blood, and Claire saw the devastation forming on her face; grief and loss congealing there.

Miscarriage
, Claire thought.
Oh God, no. It had meant so much to her. It had been everything.

Then Pierre’s words came to her, unwelcome now:
A new order. One that will continue as it begins.

And it had begun with death.

Satisfied that Simon Delaître was contained, Thomas drew up the emergency rota. Communication in the town was deteriorating rapidly. It seemed that soon only their police
radios would be functional; even then, the station would only be able to route the signals for as long as its generator kept working. The last he’d heard from the hospital the generators
there were unlikely to hold out much longer. Treatment would be reduced to little more than triage; any emergency cases would have to be taken elsewhere, and the nearest alternative was an
hour’s drive away. Thomas had no intention of putting his officers at additional risk, if looters suddenly started to get violent. Having an officer shot the day before by Toni Guillard
– a man he hadn’t thought capable of violence who was now on the run – made him even more wary, even though the resulting leg wound hadn’t proved that serious.

Overnight, they would have to patrol the town and be visible. All off-duty officers would keep their radios nearby at all times in case extra hands were required. Everyone was stretched and
growing tired, so he was eager for those coming to the end of their shift to get home and sleep. He’d already made this as clear as he could, and he himself would be leaving soon.

He was shattered, of course. The night before had been a long one and he needed the rest, but he planned to come back before dawn. He wanted some time to watch over Simon. Watch him deteriorate,
he hoped. And perhaps, in a quiet moment, Thomas would pay Simon a visit. Talk to him.

Laugh at him.

Rota completed, he assembled all the officers who were still in the station and talked them through it. There was no dissent. If he’d asked them, he knew they would all have pushed
themselves to the limit and worked through the night if need be, but they couldn’t afford to burn everyone out. Not now.

‘You OK with this, Inspector?’ he said to Laure, keeping things as formal as he could. In difficult times, a reminder of rank was crucial. Informality was weakness.

Laure nodded.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, get home. Sleep well. Be back here before midnight.’

‘Yes, sir. I’d like to spend a little time discussing some of the priorities with those who’ll be staying, before I go.’ Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘If
that’s OK.’

He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, thankful that she’d remembered her place. ‘Don’t take long.’