Yet I’ve noticed she’s become more withdrawn lately. There’s nothing specific, but a few days ago I searched the flat again while she was out. When I didn’t find anything I told myself I’d been imagining things. But it could just mean she’s found a better hiding place.
‘What sort of question’s that?’
‘Does it scare you?’
‘Jesus, Chloe …’
‘It doesn’t scare me. It used to, but it doesn’t any more.’
The muscles in the back of my neck are knotted and clenched. I push myself up so I can look at her. ‘Where’s this going?’
She’s staring up through the skylight, her eyes bright points in the shadowed paleness of her face. Just when I think she isn’t going to answer, she does.
‘I’m pregnant.’
At first I don’t know what I feel. Of all the things I’ve expected, all the scenarios I’ve imagined, this wasn’t one of them. Then everything’s swept away by euphoria and relief. So that’s what’s been wrong.
‘God, Chloe, that’s great!’ I say, starting to put my arms around her.
But she lies stiff and unresponsive. She’s still staring through the skylight, and now I see the brightness from her eyes spill and run down her cheeks. I pull back from her as a coldness begins to spread through me.
‘What?’ I ask, though I already know.
Chloe’s voice is level, unaffected by the tears on her face.
‘It isn’t yours.’
13
The police arrive next morning. I’m climbing down from the scaffold when I hear footsteps in the courtyard. I glance around, expecting it to be Mathilde or Gretchen, and the sight of two uniformed gendarmes shocks me motionless. Only the fact that I have one arm hooked over a ladder rung stops me from falling.
Oh, Jesus Christ, I think.
Their white shirts are dazzling in the sun. The dark lenses of their sunglasses rob them of expression as they look at me, caught halfway down the ladder like a fly in a web. The smaller of the two, who has the look of seniority about him, speaks first.
‘Where’s Arnaud?’
The words don’t communicate anything to me. I stare at him stupidly.
‘We’re looking for Jacques Arnaud,’ he repeats, irritably. ‘Where is he?’
The bigger gendarme takes off his peaked cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. The armpits of his shirt are stained with wet rings. For some reason, that frees me enough to dredge up a sentence.
‘Try the house.’
Without thanking me they walk up to the door. I’m still immobile on the ladder so I force myself to continue down to the courtyard. My legs feel sluggish, as though I’ve forgotten how to use them.
Arnaud might be out hunting for all I know, but the door opens before they can knock. He confronts them with silent belligerence. When the smaller gendarme asks, ‘M’sieur Arnaud?’ he gives only the barest nod of confirmation. The gendarme is unimpressed.
‘We’ve had a report of shooting here last night.’
His partner with the sweat-stained shirt notices me watching. I quickly turn away and go around the side of the house. As soon as I’m out of sight I sink to the ground.
They aren’t here for me. I let my head hang and take deep breaths. The murmur of voices still drifts from the courtyard, but I can’t make out what’s being said. I quickly pull myself up the inside of the scaffold like it’s a giant climbing-frame, hardly noticing the way it sways and creaks. Once I’ve hauled myself onto the platform I creep along it to the end nearest the kitchen. The voices become audible again.
‘… no formal complaint has been made,’ Arnaud is saying below. ‘I was defending my property. If you know who it was you should be arresting them, not me.’
‘We aren’t arresting anyone, we’re just—’
‘Then you should be. Someone attacks my home, but I’m the one you harass because I fire a few shots in the air to scare them off? Where’s the justice in that?’
‘We’ve heard the shots weren’t in the air.’
‘No? Was anyone hurt?’
‘No, but—’
‘There you are then. Besides, I don’t know how they can say what I was aiming at, they took off so fast.’
‘Can we talk inside?’
‘I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about.’
‘We won’t take up much of your time.’
The gendarme’s voice has a touch of steel in it. I can’t hear Arnaud’s answer, but there’s the sound of footsteps going into the house. The door closes. All I can think about is the plastic-wrapped package in my rucksack. It seems like madness not to have got rid of it, let alone leave it hidden under a few old clothes.
Too late now.
I become aware I’m biting at a torn piece of thumbnail and make myself stop. From where I’m crouching I can just see the lake over the tops of the trees. I could hide down there until the police have left. Perhaps even climb over the barbed wire and head across the wheat fields until I reach another road. If I’m lucky I could be miles away before anyone knew I’d gone.
But that’s panic talking. The gendarmes aren’t interested in me; they’ve only come to warn Arnaud about firing his rifle last night. At least, that’s what I hope. If I run I’ll only be drawing attention to myself.
Besides, where would I go?
I chop the trowel worriedly at the mortar drying on the board. Without giving any thought to what I’m doing I scoop a little out and press it into the wall. Then I do it again. The soft scrape of the metal on the stone has a tranquillizing effect, quieting the tremor in my hands. After a while I stand up. I work mechanically, moving the trowel from the board to the wall and back without conscious thought. With each stroke I forget about Arnaud, forget about the police. Forget about everything.
I don’t even hear the kitchen door opening again.
‘How’s it going up there?’
I stop and look down. The big gendarme is standing in the courtyard squinting up at me. He isn’t wearing his sunglasses, and without them his eyes are small and piggish.
‘Looks like hot work,’ he calls up.
I make a show of carrying on working. ‘Yeah.’
He plucks his damp shirt away from his chest. ‘Bitch of a day. We had to leave the car and walk from the road, as well. The gate’s locked.’
‘Right.’
‘Can’t stand the sun. Never could. From April till October, it’s just hell as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Yeah, with your colouring you must feel it pretty bad too.’
The mortar slips off the trowel and spatters onto the platform. The gendarme studies the house, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair before replacing it. His thick moustache all but obscures his mouth.
‘Been at it long?’
‘Oh … since about nine.’
He smiles. ‘I don’t mean today.’
‘Right. A few weeks.’
My board is empty. The mortar left in the bucket has become too dry to work with, but I scoop a pile out anyway. It’s either that or go back down. I can hear the gendarme’s boots creak as he shifts his weight.
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
I nod.
‘You speak good French. Where did you learn?’
‘I just picked it up.’
‘Really? You must have a knack.’
‘I got a good grounding at school.’
‘Ah. That’ll be it.’ He takes out a handkerchief and mops his face. ‘What’s your name?’
I’m tempted to invent one, but that will only make things worse if he wants to see my passport. There’s no reaction when I tell him.
‘So what brings you to France, Sean?’ he asks.
I run the trowel blade across the wall, needlessly smoothing the mortar. ‘Just travelling.’