‘In here,’ she pants, pushing open the door.
There’s no time to argue. I hurry inside and the light is cut off as both halves of the stable door swing shut. The reek of offal and old blood closes in around us. It’s pitch black and our laboured breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space. There’s no window, but as my eyes adjust I see chinks of light seeping through gaps in the mortar. Mathilde brushes past me and peers through one.
‘Is he there?’ I whisper.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
I go to look for myself, and there’s a muted clinking as my shoulder brushes something. I give a start before realizing it’s the chain hanging from the pulley. Groping in the dark to quieten its swaying, I feel my way around the stone slab standing in the middle of the hut. I press my face against one of the chinks in the rough wall, blinking as my breath huffs away dirt and sand. The small crack doesn’t allow much of a view, and the clearing is already darkening as another cloud covers the moon. But there’s no sign of Arnaud.
‘If he’d seen us he’d be here already,’ Mathilde murmurs. At least the hut’s walls won’t let our voices carry: Arnaud would have to be right outside to hear us. ‘He must have been shooting at shadows.’
‘Then let’s go.’ I’m already regretting coming in here. I move towards the thin line of light leaking around the door, but Mathilde reaches out to stop me.
‘Not yet.’
‘Why? Shouldn’t we go while he’s still at the lake?’
‘He could be on his way back by now. We could walk right into him.’
She’s right, but I’m loath to stay where we are. The cinderblock walls might stop a small-calibre bullet, but if Arnaud guesses we’re in here we’ll be trapped.
‘What about the woods on the other side of the clearing? Can we get out that way?’
‘No, it’s too dangerous. There’s no path and my father laid traps in there as well.’
Oh Christ. I try to think. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘We wait. In a few minutes I’ll go out and see if it’s clear.’
‘What if it isn’t?’
‘Then I’ll tell him you slipped away while he was at the lake. Once he’s gone to bed I’ll come and get you.’
Mathilde sounds as calm as ever. For an instant I feel a sudden fear that she might bring her father here, but of course that’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t be doing all this if she meant me any harm. I have to trust her.
I lower myself to the floor as she takes another look outside, hoping I’ll be able to get my boot on. My foot feels raw and swollen. I brush the dirt from it and give an involuntary gasp as I catch the torn flesh.
‘Are you all right?’ Mathilde asks.
I nod before I realize she can’t see me. ‘It’s just my foot.’
‘Here, let me.’
There’s a rustle as she crouches down. Her hands are cool on my skin as she gently feels my foot in the darkness. I draw in a breath as she probes something tender.
‘You’ve reopened some of the wounds and gashed your instep. Have you anything to bind it with?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind. I’ll help you get your boot on.’
Her hair brushes against my arm as she starts to work the boot over my foot. ‘Why do you want Gretchen to leave so badly?’ I ask, trying to ignore the discomfort. ‘Because of what’s in the lake?’
There’s the smallest of pauses. ‘That’s one reason.’
So she does know about it. I feel a sense of unreality that we’re having this conversation. I wish I could see her but she’s just another shape in the darkness.
‘What happened to Louis, Mathilde?’
She continues trying to ease the boot onto my foot. For a moment I don’t think she’s going to answer. When she does her voice is quiet and resigned.
‘I found out I was pregnant while he was in Lyon. I was going to tell him when he came back. I had a little money, so I hoped I could persuade him to take us away somewhere. Gretchen too. She was … fond of Louis. But I should have known she’d tell my father. There was a scene. He and Louis fought …’
I flinch as the boot slips home. ‘So then your father drove his truck into the lake?’
‘He wanted to get rid of everything that showed Louis had been at the farm. He came straight here from Lyon. It was night, so no one knew he was back. Afterwards … we just pretended nothing had happened.’
I feel her hands fall away from my boot as though her mind’s already elsewhere. I reach down and start to fasten the laces as she gets to her feet.
‘What about the body?’ The truck’s cab was empty, but now I can’t help but think about the crumbling patch of concrete in the barn again.
‘My father brought it down here.’
‘Here?’
‘For the sanglochons.’
It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. Jesus. Horrified, I look around the blackness of the small hut, remembering the stunned sow being hauled off the floor, the sound of the blood spattering into the bucket. Something Arnaud said suddenly takes on an awful significance.
Pigs eat anything.
‘How much does Gretchen know?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’ Mathilde sounds weary. ‘She was dazed and hysterical afterwards, and she’s never spoken about it. Ever since she was a little girl, Gretchen’s been able to block out anything she doesn’t want to think about. As though it never happened.’
I’ve seen that for myself. But the memory of Gretchen’s bizarre amnesia is swept away by a far worse thought. I’ve been assuming that Arnaud killed Louis.
Maybe he didn’t.
My foot hurts when I stand up, though not so much that I won’t be able to run if I have to. I peer out through the chink in the wall. What I can see of the clearing in the leprous moonlight is empty.
‘Your father didn’t kill Louis, did he?’ I ask, without turning round.
There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘No.’
‘Gretchen’s sick, Mathilde. She needs help.
‘Sick?’
‘You can’t keep on protecting her. Even if she didn’t mean to kill Louis, sooner or later she’s going to hurt someone else. Or herself.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she says, as though she’s explaining to a child. ‘Gretchen didn’t kill Louis. I did.’
Something cold uncoils in my stomach. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Louis was beating my father. Hurting him.’ Her voice is flat, as though all the emotion has been drained out of it. ‘When Gretchen tried to stop him he punched her. Hard, in her face. So I picked up a spade and hit him.’
The crook on Gretchen’s nose, I think, numbly. I turn towards Mathilde. I can barely see her in the darkness, but she’s so close we’re almost touching.
‘If it was an accident why didn’t you go to the police?’
‘I can’t go to prison.’ For the first time since I’ve known her she sounds scared. ‘It’d be hard enough for Michel, but I couldn’t leave Gretchen alone here. Not with my father.’
‘Why not? I know she’s your sister, but—’
‘She isn’t my sister. Gretchen’s my daughter.’
There’s a second when I think I must have got it wrong. Then I realize. Arnaud? The foul air in the hut seems to congeal around us.
There’s a soft movement as Mathilde brushes at her cheeks.
‘I was thirteen. My father told my mother the baby was some boy’s from town. He said they had to pretend it was theirs to protect my reputation. Then he told the school I was ill and kept me at home until Gretchen was born. No one ever questioned it. After that it was as though she really was their daughter.’
‘Couldn’t you have told someone?’ I say, appalled.