At a bend in the path Arnaud leaves it and heads off into the trees. The grass is beaded with dew, darkening the bottoms of my overalls where they swish against it. Lulu begins to run ahead, but Arnaud again calls her, taking hold of her collar to thrust her behind him.
‘Aren’t you worried she’ll get caught in a trap?’ I ask.
‘I don’t let her near them.’
‘What happens if she wanders into the woods by herself?’
‘Then it’d be her own fault.’ He scans the ground ahead of him. ‘Here.’
There’s an open trap concealed in the grass. Arnaud picks up a dead branch and jabs at the square plate at its centre, springing the jaws in a snap of breaking wood. He slips the knapsack from his shoulder and takes out what looks like an old army entrenching tool, folded in half. My first impulse is to back away, but he only opens it and hands it to me.
‘Dig up the spike.’
I take the spade and lean my walking stick against a tree. I sometimes wonder how much I really need it any more, but I don’t feel confident enough to do without. The trap is tethered to the buried spike by a length of chain. One end of the entrenching tool is a pointed spade, the other a pick. I hack with the pick until the ground is broken up, then prise out the spike in a shower of dark earth.
Arnaud is waiting with a sack. I drop the trap into it and hold out the entrenching tool.
‘You can carry it,’ he says, setting off back to the path.
We dig up another two traps before we come to an area of woodland that’s familiar. I look at the scene below me. The view of farm, trees and lake is ingrained in my mind like a bad dream. Arnaud is waiting by a tree. Its exposed roots are gashed where a knife stabbed into them. Nearby an empty water bottle lies on its side. The trap is still sprung shut at the tree’s base, the edges of its clamped jaws clotted with black.
‘Well?’ Arnaud demands. ‘What are you waiting for?’
I put the entrenching tool down. ‘You can do this one.’
There’s a malicious spark in his eye. ‘Brings back bad memories, does it? Don’t worry, it can’t hurt you now.’
I don’t answer. His smile fades. Dumping the bag and rifle, he snatches the tool from me and begins chopping at the ground around the spike, gouging indiscriminately at earth and tree roots. He’s a powerful man, but the spike is well buried, as I know from experience. It takes longer than the others to work loose and Arnaud is sweating before it’s done. He opens his shirt, revealing his white and hairless torso. When he bends to pick up the trap he abruptly stops and presses a hand to the small of his back.
‘Put it in the sack,’ he says as he straightens, grey-faced. ‘Or is that against your principles too?’
He stalks off, leaving me to finish up. I lift the trap by the spike. There are bright scratches still from where I tried to prise it open. It spins slowly on the chain, an ugly pendant of bloodstained metal.
I drop it in the sack.
There are traps all over the woods. Each time we fill one of the sacks Arnaud has brought we leave it by the side of the path to collect later. The traps are all well hidden, concealed among tree roots and clusters of grass, even, on one occasion, in a shallow hole skilfully camouflaged with twigs and branches.
Arnaud goes unerringly to each one, locating them without hesitation. The half-full sack bumps against my leg as I follow him to another. A thick growth of grass has sprung up around it, so that only the chain is visible. He searches for a stick to clear it.
‘What’s the point?’ I ask.
‘The point of what?’
I drop the sack of traps to the ground. ‘Of these things.’
‘To keep people out, what do you think?’
‘It didn’t work the other night.’
Arnaud’s cheek muscles bunch. ‘They were lucky.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You think the police would only have given you a warning if somebody had stepped in one?’
‘You think I’d care?’
‘Then why are we taking them up?’
‘Because I won’t give them the satisfaction of finding them. In a week or two, when this has blown over, I’ll set them again.’ He gives me an odd sideways glance. ‘And if I catch somebody in one, what makes you think they’ll be able to tell the police about it?’
He clears the last of the grass from the trap and gives a short laugh.
‘No need to spring this.’
The remains of a rabbit hang from the trap’s closed jaws. It must have been there for months. The flies and maggots have already done their work, leaving only a desiccated bundle of fur and bones.
Arnaud prods it with his foot.
‘Take it up.’
The morning chill and mist have burned off by the time Arnaud eventually calls a break. The sun drips through the branches, not yet hot but intimating at the heat to come. We stop where a flat-topped rock breaks through the earth to form a natural seat. Leaning the rifle against it, Arnaud takes it himself. I lower myself to the ground, glad of the respite.
‘How many more traps are left?’
‘Plenty more in the woods down by the lake. Why? Getting tired?’
‘No, I’m loving every minute.’
He snorts but doesn’t deign to reply. I try not to think about how long it’ll be before breakfast as Arnaud rummages in his knapsack and brings out a greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcel. Both Lulu and I watch him unwrap it. Inside are two cold chicken breasts. To my surprise he offers one to me.
‘Here.’
I take it before he changes his mind. He rummages in the knapsack again, this time coming out with a plastic bottle of water and a length of bread.
‘The bread’s yesterday’s,’ he says disparagingly as he breaks it in half.
I don’t care. We eat in silence, sharing water from the same bottle, although I notice we both wipe the neck before we drink. I throw occasional scraps to Lulu, who’s convinced herself that she’s starving. Arnaud ignores her.
When he’s finished he takes out his pipe and fills it. I’d join him, but in my rush to get out of the loft I came without my cigarettes.
‘How’s your back?’ I ask.
It’s meant as a peace offering after the food. Arnaud bites on his pipe and stares through the smoke.
‘No better for digging.’
We’re silent after that. Arnaud seems as intransigent as the rock he’s sitting on. I catch him watching me at one point, but he looks away again without speaking. There’s a tension about him that rekindles my earlier paranoia. He picks up the rifle, sights along its length.
‘So, are you enjoying my daughter’s generosity?’
Oh shit, I think, wondering what Gretchen’s said. ‘What do you mean?’
He gives me an irritated glance. He sets down the rifle and fiddles with his pipe. ‘Mathilde. She’s been pampering you like a newborn. Cooking your meals, changing your bandage.’
‘Right. Yes, she’s been … very generous.’
He takes the pipe from his mouth, flicks an invisible mote from the bowl and replaces it. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘It’s a simple enough question. What do you think of Mathilde? She’s an attractive woman, no?’
Arnaud’s capable of taking offence no matter what I say, so I opt for the truth. ‘Yes, she is.’
That seems to be what he wants to hear. He pulls on his pipe. ‘It’s been hard on her. Running the house. Taking care of Gretchen when their mother died. Now being left to look after a baby by herself. Not easy.’
I haven’t noticed him trying to make things any easier for her.