An owl hoots. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. There isn’t enough air. Suddenly claustrophobic, I seize the crutch and lamp and go to the trapdoor. I’ve left it open, and it looks like a hole into nothing. In the lamp’s dull glow I lower myself down the steps.
I don’t think about what I’m doing. The barn below is dark, but once outside the full moon is so bright I no longer need the lamp. I turn it off and leave it in the entrance. The night air soothes my bare skin, scented with trees and grass. I don’t feel tired at all now, only a feverish desire to get to the lake.
I follow the track that Georges used earlier, limping past rows of vines. It’s a monochrome world, all light and shadow. I pause at the edge of the woods to catch my breath. The trees form a solid wall of black at the edge of the vine field. The air is cooler here, dampening any sound. Moonlight drips indiscriminately through the branches. I shiver, wondering what I’m doing. I know I should turn back, but the lure of the lake is too strong.
This is the furthest I’ve walked on the crutch, and my breathing is laboured as I go through the wood. I trudge with my head down, so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t notice the pale figure until it’s right in front of me.
‘Jesus!’
I stumble back. Now I see more of them, motionless shapes in the trees. My heart is thudding, but none of them move. As the shock of seeing them fades I realize why.
The wood is full of statues.
They crowd both sides of the track, stone men and women dappled by moonlight. I sag in relief, but still have to touch one to reassure myself that the lifelike limbs aren’t, after all, flesh and blood. My fingers encounter only the roughness of lichen and smooth, hard stone.
I smile, shame-faced, and as I do the wood’s quiet is shattered by a shriek. It’s high-pitched and inhuman, seeming to go on and on before it abruptly stops. I stare into the blackness, gripping the flimsy crutch. Just a fox or owl, I tell myself. But I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle upright. I turn and look at the statues. They haven’t moved, but now their blind scrutiny seems unnerving. Then the shriek comes again, and my nerve breaks.
All thoughts of the lake are forgotten as I lurch back up the shadowed track. My breath rasps in my ears, blood thumping as I struggle on the single crutch. Up ahead I can see the moonlit field through the trees, impossibly distant. Christ, have I really come so far? Then at last I’m out in the open, and orderly rows of vines replace the dark trees. I lumber on, panting for breath, until I reach the sanctuary of the barn once more. Gulping for air, I stop to retrieve the lamp and look back towards the wood. The track is empty, but I don’t relax until I’m in my loft again with the trapdoor shut behind me.
I collapse onto the mattress, chest heaving and legs like jelly. I’m drenched with sweat, as wet as if I’d actually been in the lake. The idea of going down there, as if I could swim with my foot bandaged up, seems ridiculous now. I don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t you? Really?
All I want to do is sleep. But before I do I go back over to the trapdoor and slide a chest of drawers on top.
Feeling safe at last, I go to bed and sleep like the dead.
London
CALLUM WAS STILL ranting when I came back from the bar.
‘Oh, come on! Did we see the same film? Tell me, did we? I was watching The Last Detail, what were you watching?’
‘All I’m saying is it’s still reinforcing character stereotypes. You’ve got the, uh, the hardened wiseguy, the rookie, the token—’
‘They’re archetypes, not stereotypes! I can’t believe you missed the entire fucking point of the—’
‘I didn’t miss anything, I just think it’s, uh, I don’t know—’
‘Exactly!’
‘Callum, why don’t you shut up and let Jez finish?’ Yasmin cuts in.
‘I would if he wasn’t talking shite!’
I put the drinks on the table. Beer for Callum, Yasmin and me, orange juice for Chloe, vodka for Jez. Chloe gives me a grin as I sit down.
Yasmin turns to me. ‘Sean, tell Callum it’s possible to object to aspects of a Jack Nicholson film without being burned at the stake for heresy.’
‘Sean agrees with me,’ Callum cuts in. Raw-boned and shaven-headed, his piercings add to the faintly pagan image he likes to cultivate. ‘Nicholson is the finest actor of his generation, bar none!’
‘He was a jobbing actor who got lucky,’ Chloe says. She darts a quick look at me to show she’s deliberately baiting Callum. As ever, he bites.
‘Bollocks! I’ve got one thing to say to you, Chloe. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. That’s it.’ He sits back, crossing his arms as if the argument’s won.
‘That was a dream role. Any halfway decent actor could have run away with it,’ Yasmin says, rolling her eyes. Her hair is tied back tonight, and she’s wearing the loose dark clothes that Chloe once confided show she’s feeling self-conscious about her weight.
‘Oh, come on! What about Chinatown? Or The Departed?’
‘What about them?’ Chloe begins ticking off on her fingers. ‘Witches of Eastwick. Mars Attacks. Batman. Best actor of his generation? Sure.’
Jez furrows his brow. ‘Batman was OK. Not as good as The Dark Knight, though.’
No one takes any notice of him. He’s been drinking all night and looks even more crumpled than usual, which is saying something. Like Callum, he’s a teacher at the language school in Fulham where I’ve been working for the past few months. Yasmin, his girlfriend and Chloe’s best friend from art college, used to work there as well before she got a better-paying job at the university.
I love Friday nights. Classes finish early, and afterwards a group of us will go for a drink before heading for one of the independent cinemas that are within a few tube stops of the school. Callum is passionate about film but blows hot and cold about his favourite actors, writers, directors. Not so many weeks before it was Terrence Malick he’d raved about. Recently, though, we’d seen a screening of Carnal Knowledge, so for the next few weeks Jack Nicholson was going to be It.
I take a drink of beer and stroke Chloe’s thigh under the table. She squeezes my hand and smiles, then stretches and pushes back her chair.
‘I’d better be getting back.’
She bends and kisses me, her short hair momentarily touching my face, then goes over to the bar. The Domino is off the King’s Road, close to one of our regular cinemas, but the main reason we go there is because it’s where Chloe works. Dark and modern, with cool blue lights illuminating the bottles behind the black granite counter, we’d never be able to afford to come here if Chloe couldn’t get us cheap drinks. She says her manager knows, so I suppose it must be OK. Still, I sometimes wonder if he realizes how generous he’s being.
I watch her go behind the bar, laughing at something Tanja, one of the other girls, says as she begins serving.
‘Chloe’s doing all right, isn’t she?’ Yasmin says.
I turn to see that she’s watching Chloe too. ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t she be?’
Yasmin smiles, throwing the comment away with a shrug. ‘No reason. I was just thinking out loud.’
It seems an odd thing to say. But I’m distracted when I hear Callum begin rubbishing Kurosawa.
‘Please, tell me you don’t mean that,’ I say, setting down my beer.
Five minutes later I’ve forgotten what Yasmin said.
But I remember again later that night. I have to wait until the last customers have gone, and Chloe has wiped down the bar and put away all the glasses, before we can go home.
Outside, Tanja is waiting for a lift from her boyfriend. We say goodnight and then set off back to the flat. It’s too late for the tube and taxis are a rare luxury, but Earl’s Court isn’t too far to walk. It’s cold, though. There’s a full moon, and the beginnings of frost on the pavement glint like diamond chippings.
I open my coat and wrap it around us. Chloe puts her arm around me, a source of warmth against my chest. The shops we pass ar
e shuttered and closed, the wire-clad placards for yesterday’s London Evening Standard already old news. I suppose I should feel more nervous walking through this part of town at this time of night, but I never do. I’ve grown used to it, and with Chloe working at the bar it seems too familiar to harbour any threat.
We’re laughing, quietly so as not to wake anyone, as we cross the road to the flat. Parked cars line the street, dark metal outlines that radiate cold. Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure detach from the shadows and head for us.
I keep walking, my arm protectively around Chloe. The man is a tall and bulky shape in a thickly padded coat. He’s wearing a beanie hat pulled down almost to his eyes.
‘Got the time?’ he asks.
His hands are in his coat pockets, but on the wrist of one I can see the gleam of a watch. My heart starts racing. We should have got a taxi.
‘Ten past three,’ I say, barely glancing at my own watch. It’s a new one, a birthday present from Chloe. Without being obvious I try to put myself in front of her as he comes closer. One of his hands begins to slide from its pocket, and something metallic glints in the moonlight.
‘Lenny?’
The man stops. From the way he sways he’s either drunk or on something. Chloe steps forward.
‘Lenny, it’s me. Chloe.’
He looks at her for a moment, then gives the slightest of nods. His chin lifts in my direction. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend.’
She’s trying to hide it but I can hear the tightness in her voice. Whoever this man is, she’s scared of him.
‘A friend,’ he echoes.
His hand is still halfway out of his pocket, as though he’s not yet made a decision. I draw breath to speak, to ask who he is and what’s going on. But Chloe clamps hold of my arm, squeezing it to silence me.
‘Well … ’bye, Lenny.’
She pulls me away. Lenny stays where he is, but I can feel him staring after us. My legs move stiffly. When we reach the other side of the road I look back.
The street is empty.
‘Who was that?’
I’m angry to realize I’m half-whispering. I feel Chloe shiver. Her face looks small and pale, whether from the cold or something else I can’t tell.
‘No one. I’m frozen, let’s get inside.’
Our flat is on the top floor of a squat concrete block. We go up the stairwell that always smells of piss and unlock the door. The fumes of turpentine and oil paints settle thickly on the back of my tongue as soon as we enter. The place is hardly an ideal artist’s studio, but the rent’s affordable and the skylights set into the flat roof make it bright, if cold. Chloe’s paintings are stacked against the living-room walls, white-edged rectangles whose images it’s too dark to see. I’d been surprised at first by how representational her style is, expecting it to be bolder and more abstract. Instead there’s an impressionistic quality and an almost chiaroscuro treatment of light that reminds me of film noir. I like it, although I have secret doubts about the unfinished portrait of me that stands on an easel by the window. Technically it’s one of her best, but the expression on the face isn’t one I recognize. Maybe I just don’t know myself very well.
Neither of us makes any move to put on the light. I stand in the bedroom doorway, watching as Chloe switches on the electric fire. A faint hum comes from it as the elements begin to snap and glow yellow.
‘So are you going to tell me what that was about?’
Chloe keeps her back to me as she begins to undress. ‘Nothing. He’s just someone I used to know.’
Something swells in my chest and throat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s jealousy.
‘You mean you used to go out with him?’
‘With Lenny?’ Her shock is unfeigned. ‘God, no.’
‘What, then?’
She comes over to me in her underwear. ‘Sean …’
I move her arms from around me. I don’t know whether I’m angry because I felt helpless outside, or because I suddenly feel I don’t know her. She sighs.
‘He used to be a customer in a bar I used to work at. OK? You get to meet all sorts. That’s all.’
She looks up at me, eyes open and candid. In the familiar surroundings of the flat the memory of the encounter is already starting to fade. And I’ve no reason not to believe her.
‘OK,’ I say.
I undress and get into bed. We lie in the dark without touching, the air in the bedroom frigid even with the electric fire. Chloe stirs and moves over, kissing me, murmuring my name. We make love, but afterwards I lie awake, staring at the skylight.
‘Yasmin said something weird tonight,’ I tell her. ‘That you were “doing all right”. Why would she say that?’
‘I don’t know. That’s Yasmin for you.’
‘So there’s nothing I should know?’
In the dark I can’t see her face. But a glint of light from it tells me her eyes are open.
‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘Why would there be?’
5
I’M PACKED AND ready to leave when Mathilde comes to the loft next morning. I know who it is before I see her, can already distinguish between her steady tread and the slap of Gretchen’s flip-flops. Her eyes go to the fastened rucksack by the bed, but if she draws any conclusions she keeps them to herself. She’s carrying a tray, on which is a plate of food and a roll of clean bandage. And also an extra treat this morning: a steaming bowl of coffee.
‘I’ve brought your breakfast,’ she says, setting down the tray. ‘Can I change your dressing?’
I sit on the mattress and roll up the leg of my jeans. The bandage is frayed and filthy from my abortive night-time excursion. If not for that I could almost believe I’d dreamed the whole thing. In daylight, the memory of the silent assembly of statues seems unreal, and I’ve convinced myself the scream I heard was only a fox after all. Probably caught in one of Arnaud’s traps.
I can sympathize.
‘Will you drive me to the road later?’ I ask, as Mathilde begins to unfasten the bandage. She makes no comment on its soiled condition.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘Straight after breakfast. I’d like to make an early start.’
The decision was fully formed when I woke. If I can make it down to the wood and back, then I’m fit enough to travel. I could walk to the road on my own, but there’s no point in tiring myself before I start. I still don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but my latest run-in with Arnaud has convinced me I’m better off taking my chances rather than staying here any longer.
Mathilde continues to unwrap the bandage. ‘Are you sure?’
‘If you can drive me as far as the road I can hitch from there.’
‘As you wish.’
Even though I’ve no reason to, I feel disappointed by her lack of reaction. I watch as she removes the bandage and peels off the dressing pads. When the last covering comes away I’m relieved that my foot doesn’t appear any worse. In fact it seems better; the swelling has gone down and the wounds themselves appear less livid.
‘It doesn’t look as bad, does it?’ I say, hoping for confirmation.
Mathilde doesn’t answer. She gently turns my foot this way and that, then lightly touches the lip of one wound.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘No.’ I study her as she continues to examine it. ‘Is it OK?’
She doesn’t answer. Her face is impassive as she lays her hand on my forehead. ‘Do you feel hot? Feverish?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You look a little flushed.’
She bends over my foot again. I put my hand on my forehead. I can’t tell if it’s hotter or not.
‘Is the infection getting worse?’
There’s the slightest of hesitations before she answers. ‘I don’t think so.’
The yellowish cast of the bruising around the wounds seems to take on a more sinister hue. I watch uneasily as she cleans my foot and begins to wrap it in the fresh bandag
e.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ She keeps her head down, denying me her face. ‘Sometimes these things need watching. But I understand if you’re in a hurry to leave.’
I stare down at my foot, wrapped in pristine white again. Suddenly I’m aware of my aching muscles. It might just be from the exertion of the night before, but then again …
‘Maybe I should give it another day?’ I say.
‘If you like. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.’
Mathilde’s expression gives nothing away as she collects her things together and goes back down the steps. When she’s gone I flex my foot, testing it. I don’t feel feverish, but the last thing I need is to fall ill on some deserted French road. And it isn’t as if I’ve anywhere specific to go, or a burning hurry to get there. Not any more. Another day won’t make any difference.
It crosses my mind that maybe this is what Mathilde intended, but I dismiss the idea. My being here has caused her nothing but trouble. She’s no more reason to want me to stay than I have.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. But as I swallow the antibiotic and reach for my breakfast, I’m aware that what I feel more than anything is relief.
By midday the loft is unbearably hot, and the musty scent from the old wooden furniture makes my skin itch. I listen to music and then doze, waking to find my lunch waiting beside the open trapdoor. Rubbing my eyes, I decide to eat it outside. Arnaud warned me to keep out of his sight, but even he can’t expect me to stay in the barn all day.
Going down the steps is tricky with the tray, but I manage by balancing it on them while I clamber down one at a time. Before I eat I use the outhouse and wash myself under the tap in the barn where Georges filled his buckets. The small act of self-sufficiency lifts my spirits, and I feel almost cheerful as I settle myself against the barn’s wall. Even in the shade it’s still stiflingly hot. As I chew the bread and cheese, I look over the vine field towards the lake. From where I sit, there’s just the glimmer of water visible through the trees. There don’t seem to be any ill effects from my stupid attempt to reach it last night. No fever has developed, no throb of renewed infection. Only an increasing tension that has nothing to do with my foot. God knows where I’ll be this time tomorrow, but it’d be good to at least see the lake before I go.