Simon Beckett
Stone Bruises
In memory of Friederike Kommerell
1
The car is running on empty. There’s been no sign of a garage for hours, and the petrol gauge is needling into red. I need to get off the road but the fields seem endless, intent on funnelling me along to the engine’s last gasp. Even though it’s still early the day is arid and hot. The breeze that whips through the open windows only stirs the air without cooling it.
I drive hunched over the wheel, expecting the car to die at any moment, and then I see a break in the green barrier. On my left a track cuts out of sight between wheat fields. I turn off, bumping over the rutted surface, not caring where it leads providing it’s out of sight. The track dips down to a copse. Branches scratch at the windows as I edge the Audi into it and switch off the engine. It’s cooler in the trees’ shade. In the ticking quiet I can hear running water. I close my eyes and lean my head back, but there’s no time to rest.
I need to keep moving.
I check the car’s glove compartment. There’s nothing identifying in it, only junk and a nearly full packet of cigarettes. Camels, my old brand. As I reach across the passenger side for them I become aware of a smell. Faint but unpleasant, like meat left out in the sun.
There’s something smeared on the rich leather of the passenger seat, and also on the unspooled seatbelt that hangs on the floor. The tough fabric is nearly severed at one point, and when I touch it my fingers come away sticky and dark.
My head swims to think I’ve driven all this way with it in plain view. I want to put as much distance as I can between myself and the car, but I can’t leave it like this. Branches push against the door as I get out. There’s a stream running through the copse, and my hands are shaking as I soak a cloth from the glove compartment in it. The seat wipes down easily enough but the blood has clogged in the seatbelt’s weave. I rub off as much as I can, then rinse out the cloth in the stream. Water flares over my wrists like manacles of glass as I scrub my hands, scouring them with sand from the bottom. Even then they don’t feel clean.
I splash water over my face, wincing as it stings the grazes on my cheek, and go back to the car. It’s coated with dust from the roads, camouflaging the black paintwork. I use a rock to smash off the UK number plates, then fetch my rucksack from the boot. As I lift it out it snags on the mat covering the spare wheel. There’s a glimpse of something white underneath. I pull the mat aside and my stomach knots when I see the polythene-wrapped parcel.
I lean against the car, my legs suddenly weak.
It’s about the size of a bag of sugar, but the white powder it contains is far less innocent. I quickly look around, as though someone might be there to see. But there are only the trees, and the background hum of insects. I stare at the package, too tired to process this new complication. I don’t want to take it with me, but I can’t leave it here. Snatching it up, I cram it deep into my rucksack, slam the boot and walk away.
The wheat fields are still empty of life when I leave the copse. I fling the car’s number plates and keys out into the tall stalks before taking out my phone. It’s broken beyond hope of repair. Still walking, I remove the SIM card and snap it in two, then throw the pieces into one field and the phone in another.
I’ve no one to call anyway.
The road’s grey tarmac ripples and distorts as the sun climbs higher. The few cars on it hardly seem to move, caught in the heat until they flash past in a sudden blare of colour. The rucksack rides high on my back, my own private monkey. I walk for almost an hour, until I feel I’ve put enough distance between myself and the car. Then, holding out my thumb, I begin to hitch.
My red hair is both an advantage and a handicap, attracting attention and announcing that I’m a foreigner in one single message. The first lift is from a young couple in an old Peugeot.
‘Où allez-vous?’ he asks, cigarette barely moving.
I struggle to switch linguistic gears. I’m more used to hearing French than speaking it recently, but that isn’t what makes me pause. Where am I going?
I’ve no idea.
‘Anywhere. I’m just travelling.’
I sit in the front passenger seat, the girl having moved uncomplainingly into the back. I’m glad the driver’s wearing sunglasses, because it gives me an excuse to keep mine on. They cover the worst of the bruising on my face.
He glances at my red hair. ‘British?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your French is pretty good. Been over here long?’
For a second I struggle to answer. It already feels like a lifetime. ‘Not really.’
‘So how’d you learn?’ the girl asks, leaning between the seats. She’s dark-haired and plump, with an engagingly open face.
‘I used to come over a lot when I was younger. And I’m … I like French films.’
I shut up then, realizing I’m giving away more than I intended. Luckily, neither of them seem interested. ‘I prefer American movies myself,’ he shrugs. ‘So how long are you over for?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
They drop me off at the outskirts of a small town. I dip into my small fund of euros to buy bread and cheese, a bottle of water and a disposable cigarette lighter. I also buy a baseball cap from an open-air market in the square. It’s a cheap Nike copy but it’ll keep the sun off me and help conceal my bruises. I know I’m being paranoid but I can’t help it. I don’t want to attract any more attention than I have to.
It’s a relief to leave the town behind and head out into open country again. The sun burns down on the exposed back of my neck. After a kilometre or so I stop under a row of poplars and try to eat some of the baguette and cheese. I manage a few bites and then puke everything back, dry-heaving until my stomach’s sore. When the spasms have passed I slump against a tree, feeling so wasted I want to just lie there and give up.
But I can’t do that. My hand trembles as I flick a tongue of flame from the disposable lighter and draw on the cigarette. It’s the first I’ve had in two years, but it tastes like a homecoming. I breathe out some of my tension along with the smoke, blessedly thinking of nothing for a few moments.
I finish the cigarette, then get to my feet and start walking again. I’ve only the vaguest idea of where I am but since I don’t have any plans that doesn’t matter. I stick out my thumb whenever a car passes, but that isn’t often. The roads here are all secondary ones, backwaters where there’s little traffic. By mid-afternoon, a Citroën and a Renault later, I’ve covered less than twenty kilometres. The lifts have all been short, locals travelling to the next town or village, but now even they have dried up. The road is so quiet I can believe the rest of the world has forgotten about me. The only sound is the scrape of my boots and the incessant drone of insects. There’s no shade, and I’m thankful for the cap’s protection.
After I’ve been walking for what seems an age, the open fields are replaced by a dense wood of chestnut trees. It’s fenced off by strands of old barbed wire, but the broad-leaved branches still offer some respite from the sun.
I carefully ease the rucksack from my sore shoulders and take a drink of water. There’s only a couple of inches left. Blood warm, it barely touches my thirst before it’s gone. I should have bought another bottle, I think. But then I should have done a lot of things. It’s too late to change any of them now.
I squint down the road. It runs arrow straight, shimmering in the heat and empty as far as the eye can see. I screw the top back on the water, willing a car to appear. None does. Christ, but it’s hot. I feel parched again already. I take off my hat and push my fingers through my sweat-damp hair. A little way back down the road I remember passing a farm gate. I gnaw my lip, reluctant to retrace my steps. But my dry throat decides me. I’ve no idea how long it’ll be till I reach another town, and it’s too hot to go without water.