The Returned (4 page)

There was a pause. ‘Julie? I wanted to . . .’ He trailed off.

‘Yes?’ She waited; it was five or six seconds before he replied.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said, then hung up. The curious distraction that had been in his voice wasn’t encouraging. Julie looked at the phone for a moment, wondering if
the light of Michel Costa’s mind was finally starting to fade.

She left her apartment and went downstairs. As she approached the exit to the apartment building, she saw a man outside angrily keying into the security pad. Tall, young, a great mop of unruly
black hair; she didn’t recognize him, but then she didn’t pay much attention to the other residents. As she opened the door, he gave her a look of relief.

‘Evening,’ she said, passing him.

‘Has the code changed?’ he asked.

‘No.’

He opened his mouth to say more, but Julie didn’t slow. ‘Goodnight,’ he called after her. She kept walking.

She was lucky with the bus across town, getting to the stop just before it came around the end of the street. Then it was a ten-minute trudge up steep roads to Michel Costa’s house.

When he answered the door, he seemed less than eager for her to come in.

‘Julie, I, uh, I called again to tell you I was fine, but you must have already left. No need to come out, I’m afraid, I’m much better now. Much better.’

She gave him a small smile, but inside she was thinking about his state of mind. The man had nobody left to look after him. His wife had died decades ago, and the couple had no children. Chest
pains and disorientation – it could be much more serious than the usual little twinges she treated him for. ‘Well, I’m here,’ she said. ‘Let me take a look at you and
make sure, yes?’

He just stood in the doorway. Julie raised her eyebrows and smiled again. ‘Can I come in?’

He blinked. ‘Yes, of course, Julie, of course.’

She sat him down in his living room, keeping a close eye on his behaviour; his eyes were darting to the corridor, agitated, almost frightened.

She checked him over. Everything was reasonably normal, despite his heart rate being slightly elevated – certainly no sign of a stroke or anything more serious. She put his heart rate down
to anxiety and gave him what she could to calm it, but after the injection there was little else for her to do here.

‘You seem very distressed, Monsieur Costa. Will you be OK?’

He looked at her. She thought for a moment that he was going to tell her something, confide in her, but then he looked away. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.

She stood and packed up. As she was about to leave, she heard a sound from elsewhere in the house, like the clatter of plates. ‘You’re not alone?’ she said, moving for the
door.

He stood and intercepted her with a burst of speed that left him breathless. ‘Yes, I am. It’s just . . .’ Again, that look of almost confiding came and went. ‘It’s
no one.’

Was
there someone here? She leaned close to him and whispered: ‘If you need me to call the police, just nod.’

He shook his head. Slow, steady. Sad, almost.

She looked at him, wondering if she should push further, but his privacy had to be respected. ‘I don’t want to pry, but I’m here if you need to talk, OK? Call me, any
time.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘And thanks, Julie. See you next week.’

When she left, it was raining. It mirrored her mood. Whatever had happened with Michel Costa, she hoped it was temporary. The man had always shone, an example to her that old age held more than
indignity and decrepitude.

That was the problem with dealing with so many of the older patients in town, those without support from relatives, those near the end of their days and susceptible to the ravages of dementia.
She saw it too often, the accelerating decline to the inevitable. One by one, the key parts of their lives – those moments between – would fail them, and vanish, mourned like lost
children.

Perhaps that was the advantage to being the way she was. There was little to warrant mourning.

After Camille had gone to bed, Jérôme and Claire stood in restless silence in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Jérôme caught movement outside the
window. Someone was approaching the house: Pierre.

‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked, knowing he sounded bitter even as the words left his mouth. Claire threw him a look that left him in no doubt that she’d called him.
Jérôme followed her to the corridor, but stood back almost out of sight as Claire opened the door. Pierre smiled at her and put his hand on her arm, saying nothing.

‘Camille has come back,’ said Claire eagerly, grasping his hand and pulling him through the door. Jérôme was almost amused at the way Pierre’s expression changed
at once, extreme wariness and a failed attempt to mask it.
She hadn’t told him why he was invited
, Jérôme thought.

‘Just like you said,’ Claire continued. ‘You said He would listen to my prayers.’ Pierre looked dazed. ‘Do you want to see her? She’s in her room.’

‘Yes,’ Pierre managed.

‘She’s so beautiful,’ said Claire, with a manic edge. ‘I’m so happy.’

Pierre gave Jérôme a quick look of surprise as he walked past.
Hadn’t thought the husband would be home, huh, Pierre?
Not the kind of visit the man had expected,
Jérôme thought. Not at all.

Jérôme let them go upstairs. When they were out of earshot, he took his mobile and called Lucy Clarsen. She didn’t pick up, so he left a message: ‘Lucy, it’s me.
Jérôme. I need to talk to you. Call me.
Please
.’

Claire thought Pierre was the one with the answers, but Lucy was the only person Jérôme knew who had ever claimed to speak to the dead – the only person he’d thought
might be telling the truth, at any rate.
And it didn’t work tonight
, he thought. Because how can you contact the dead, if the dead have already come back?

Standing outside the bedroom door, Claire could hear movement from within. She’d expected Camille to be sleeping, expected to just sneak the door open so that Pierre
could see the miracle before him. She knocked instead. ‘Camille? Can we come in?’

Camille wrenched the door open, angry. ‘Have you been tidying? Mum, why have you moved all my stuff?’

Claire took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I tidied. I’m sorry.’ She smiled, even so. She’d waited a long time to hear Camille complain about that. ‘This is Dr
Tissier,’ she said; Pierre was no doctor, but the white lie Pierre had suggested on the way upstairs would help him reassure the girl.

‘Hello, Camille,’ said Pierre. There was hardly a flicker in his eyes when he saw her, Claire noted; he was considerably calmer than she had been when confronted with her resurrected
daughter. It was why she’d called him. He seemed unsurprised by almost everything.

Camille frowned, immediately suspicious. ‘Why isn’t Dr Delouvrier here?’

‘He’s on holiday,’ said Pierre, improvising. ‘I’m filling in. Your mum told me what happened, but I’d like you to tell me, in your own words. Do you
mind?’

‘There’s nothing to tell. I was on the coach, and I woke up in the mountains. That’s all I remember. I think I had some kind of blackout. Maybe it’s amnesia . . .’
Camille’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps it’s a brain tumour?’

Pierre smiled to calm her. ‘No, I don’t think so. Where did you get that idea?’

‘Will you examine me?’

Pierre hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’ He indicated for Camille to sit on the bed, while he took the chair. Camille offered her wrist. Pierre took it in his hand, pretending to take her
pulse, looking at Camille with a degree of wonder. Claire stood in the doorway still trying to come to terms with the sight in front of her. But now three people had seen – it was no shared
delusion. Camille was
real
.

After a moment Camille pulled her wrist away, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’re no doctor. You don’t even have any equipment with you. What are you, a psychiatrist?’ She looked
at her mother, but Claire said nothing. As far as Claire was concerned, her daughter was with exactly the right person.

‘No, I’m not a psychiatrist. Do you think you need one?’

‘I’m not mad.’

‘Camille, what do you think madness is? Shall I tell you? Madness is denying reality. We all do it at some point in our lives. Sometimes it seems it’s the only option. A coping
mechanism. When reality is too hard to accept, we would rather deny it, or pretend to, just to avoid facing the simple truths around us.’

He glanced up at Claire. She realized that Pierre was speaking to her, just as much as to her daughter.

Pierre looked back at Camille. ‘And I don’t think you’re one of those people. Whatever this is, Camille, promise me. Promise me you won’t run from it.’

Camille sighed, bemused and a little wary. ‘I’m too tired for this.’

‘You need to rest,’ said Claire.

‘I already tried to. I’m so tired, but I just can’t get to sleep.’

‘We’ll give you something to help,’ said Pierre, still in his doctor’s role. He looked to Claire, who nodded. She’d had more than her share of sleepless nights, and
her medicine cupboard was well stocked.

Jérôme was waiting for them when they came back downstairs. He’d been straining to hear what they’d been talking about, trying to make out the muffled
words coming down through the floor. Some, he’d caught; most had been unintelligible, and the thought of Pierre having this privileged role rankled with him.

There was another source of his anger, though. Irritation with Pierre hadn’t been the only reason he’d not gone up to Camille’s room. While he’d been waiting, it had
occurred to him that his wariness of Camille was perhaps a little more than just caution. He thought he might even be scared of her.

‘So,
doctor
. . .’ he said to Pierre, belligerent. ‘What’s the diagnosis? Spontaneous
resurrection
?’

‘Please don’t be so disrespectful,’ said Pierre.

‘Come on then,’ said Jérôme. ‘Out with it.’ Pierre looked at him, still as infuriatingly calm as he always was; if this didn’t shake the man, what the
hell would? ‘For Christ’s sake, Pierre,’ said Jérôme, his voice low. ‘My daughter’s risen from the
dead
. What do we do?’

Pierre thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s never happened before. Well, once, obviously . . . but I imagine you’re
not interested.’

‘You’re right, I’m not. Save it for Claire.’ Jérôme found his patience at an end. Frustrated, he could feel his aggression towards Pierre growing. ‘Now
answer the question – what the hell do we
do
?’

Claire stepped towards Jérôme, holding out her hands to try to calm him. ‘Why take it out on us?’

‘Because after years of praying for this, I thought you would at least know how to
welcome
her. That’s why. I’m disappointed you’re not more prepared. I may not
know what to say or do, but at least I didn’t pray for this to happen.’

Pierre, maddeningly, was still unfazed by Jérôme’s outburst. ‘Claire prayed for her daughter to be returned to her,’ he said. ‘But it was God’s grace
that saw fit to answer her prayer this way.’

‘It must be good to be so sure it was
God’s
grace.’ Jérôme felt the tears sting. He turned away and walked to the other side of the room. Claire followed,
put her arm around him. Held him. He gave way to it, to the grief and the fear and the confusion, sobbing.

Pierre cleared his throat. ‘When she finds out the truth, it won’t be easy. She must be told what happened, and that so many of those she knew died. She must be told that she
shouldn’t be afraid. What she’s going through is terrifying but also wonderful, and that must be what she focuses on. She has to understand that we’ll be here for her.’

Jérôme looked at him. ‘If you think you can tell her that . . .’

‘No, you’re going to tell her,’ said Pierre. ‘You and Claire. You belong here, Jérôme. With your daughter.’

Jérôme glared at the man, so impossibly reasonable, so intolerably
understanding
. He clenched both hands, Pierre’s throat becoming too tempting a target, and spoke
through gritted teeth: ‘Then why are you still here?’

‘Stop it,’ said Claire, close to tears herself. ‘Pierre is here to help us. All of us. Our
family
.’ She looked up to the ceiling, to Camille’s room.

Drained, Jérôme said nothing. His eyes drifted up to where Claire was looking, and he found himself saying a prayer of his own. Praying that what had come to the house today was
exactly how it seemed; praying that it really was his daughter lying upstairs in that bedroom.

After leaving Michel Costa’s home, Julie had waited twenty minutes at the bus stop under the shelter, the rain still coming down and the sky rumbling. The bus was empty
when she got on, but as she sat she was surprised to see a small boy of about nine climb on board and stand by the driver. She’d thought nobody but her had been at the stop.

She watched the boy. There was something about his clothes that struck her as curiously outdated, but wasn’t that how clothing went? In cycles, where styles from thirty years before could
just resurface unannounced?

The boy didn’t pay – he just stood looking at the driver, standing perfectly still. The driver said nothing, but after a moment closed the doors and set off. The boy went to the back
of the bus and sat in silence.

As the bus drove on, Julie’s worries about Monsieur Costa distracted her. By the time she reached her destination and got off, the boy had slipped entirely from her thoughts.

The rain had thankfully stopped, but the night air was chilly. Back in her apartment she took off her damp coat, then went over to the window to get her patient logbook. She wouldn’t
mention anything strange in her paperwork for the visit to Monsieur Costa, she decided. Keep an eye on him, sure, but hope that the disorientation had been a one-off.

Outside at the rear of the apartment block, far back on the grass four floors below, stood the same boy she had seen on the bus. Hands by his side, standing in the patch of illumination from the
apartment block’s security lights, just as still as he’d been when she’d seen him earlier.