‘Aren’t you worried I’ll tell the police what happened?’
‘That’s up to you.’
Again, I find myself wanting to believe her. Until I remember the plastic package hidden in my rucksack. Maybe she has a reason for thinking I won’t go to the police, I think, suddenly clammy. But then Mathilde removes the last dressing, and when I see what’s underneath I forget everything else.
‘Oh shit!’
My entire foot is swollen and discoloured. The toenails look like tiny mother-of-pearl buttons against the purple skin, and matching arcs of puncture wounds march from above my ankle to my instep. They’re puffy and inflamed; ugly little mouths crusted with dried blood and yellow pus. The black bristles of stitches protrude from them like the legs of dead spiders.
‘Is it all right?’ I ask anxiously.
Mathilde’s face is expressionless as she soaks another piece of cotton wool and begins cleaning the puncture wounds. ‘It’s healing.’
‘Healing?’ I stare at my foot. The throbbing seems to grow worse now I can see it. ‘Don’t you think a doctor should take a look?’
She continues to dab away calmly. ‘I told you there was an infection. That’s what the antibiotics are for. But if you’d rather I fetched a doctor …’
The sight of the deformed thing on the end of my leg makes me tempted. But a doctor would mean questions, for me as well as them. And there’s something about Mathilde that instils trust.
‘So long as you think it’s OK …’
She gives a nod of assent. Picking up a clean piece of cotton wool, she resumes her gentle wiping. The skin of her hands is rough, her fingernails cut short and square. No rings, I notice.
When the last wound is clean she exchanges the cotton wool for a tube of ointment. ‘This will sting.’
It does. But by the time she’s finished my foot doesn’t look nearly so bad, more like a limb than a piece of chopped meat. Mathilde puts on clean dressing pads and winds the fresh bandage around them. Her movements are deft and economical. The tip of a white ear pokes through her dark hair. The shadows beneath her eyes seem more distinct than I’ve noticed before. There’s a vulnerability about her, and yet an air of inviolability too, a self-containment that’s not easily breached. Even though there’s been no real apology over what’s happened, I somehow feel that I’m the one who’s been unreasonable.
I clear my throat when she finishes binding my foot. ‘Thanks.’
Mathilde begins putting the first-aid things back in the tin. ‘I’ll bring hot water later, so you can wash. Would you like something to read? I can pick out some books if you like.’
I’m too restless to read. ‘No thanks. How long before I can get out of here?’
‘It depends on how soon you feel able to walk.’ Mathilde looks around the junk stacked against the loft’s walls. ‘There should be a pair of crutches in here somewhere. I can try to find them later.’
‘Whose were they?’ I ask, suddenly worried that I might not be the first person confined here.
‘My mother’s.’
Picking up the tray, she goes to the trapdoor. I watch her descend through the hatch, half-expecting to see it swing shut behind her. But this time she leaves it open.
Breakfast is more substantial today, soft-boiled eggs broken up with butter and black pepper, a piece of bread, a glass of milk. I’m famished, but I eat slowly, wanting to make it last. When I’ve finished I look at my watch. Hardly any time seems to have passed since I last checked. The loft is already growing hot, filling with a resinous scent of warm wood and dust. I’ve started to sweat already. The stubble on my jaw — several days’ worth — has begun to itch and I’m conscious that I smell, a rank odour born of illness and heat. No wonder Mathilde wanted me to wash. I run my tongue over my teeth, aware also of how bad my mouth tastes. I didn’t need the bottle last night: I could have knocked Papa out just by breathing on him.
I take my toothbrush and paste from my rucksack and scrub my teeth till my gums hurt. That done, I lie back down on the bed. But I’m too fretful to sleep, and with nothing to occupy it my mind starts to swarm.
Supporting myself against the wall, I hop across to the maze of old furniture to look for the crutches. Mathilde said she’d find them but I can’t see any reason to wait. Everything up here seems maimed or incomplete, covered by a grey blanket of dust. There are three-legged chairs and mildewed suitcases, dressers with gaping drawers like missing teeth. Stacked behind a topless bureau I come across half a dozen old picture frames, ornate but empty of canvas or glass. Without thinking I begin sorting through the pile before remembering I don’t know anyone now who’d use them. The thought brings a dull ache of guilt.
Pushing the frames out of sight, I carry on searching for the crutches.
I find one thrust under a tangle of broken chairs, but there’s no sign of its twin. Still, one is better than nothing. The crutch is made of scuffed and battered aluminium. Once I’ve brushed it free of cobwebs and adjusted its height, I practise clumping up and down the loft. The effort soon tires me, but it feels good to be mobile again.
Sweating and out of breath, I take my prize back to the mattress. But as soon as I lie down my thoughts start buzzing. I need a distraction. Most of my music library was on my phone, but I keep my old MP3 player in my rucksack. There’s a decent selection of tracks on it, and thankfully its batteries aren’t dead. Slipping in the earphones, I set it on shuffle and close my eyes as the music wraps around my head.
I don’t know if it’s a change in the pressure of air brushing my bare skin or movement against the light from the window that tells me someone else is in the room. At the same time something bumps against the bed. I jerk upright, opening my eyes to see someone standing next to it.
‘God!’
Gretchen gives a start, almost dropping the bucket she’s carrying. She hurriedly sets it down as I stop the music and take off the earphones. The sudden silence is like the lights coming up mid-film in a cinema.
‘Sorry. I thought you were asleep,’ she mumbles.
‘How long have you been there?’ I ask. She looks blank, and I realize I’ve spoken in English. I repeat it in French.
‘Not long.’ Her reply is so faint it’s almost not there. ‘Mathilde’s sent water so you can wash.’
Gretchen keeps her head bowed, as if she’s embarrassed to look at me. She’s flushed from carrying the bucket up to the loft, sweating enough to make her cotton dress cling. Her eyes go to the earphones hanging from my neck.
‘What are you listening to?’
It’s an English band that’s popular in Europe as well, but when I tell her the name I can see she hasn’t heard of them. I offer her the earphones. ‘Here, see what you think.’
Her face lights up, then she shakes her head. ‘I’d better not. I’m not supposed to talk to you.’
‘Is that what your father says?’ Her face is answer enough. ‘You’re talking to me now.’
‘That’s different. Mathilde’s busy with Michel. And Papa’s with Georges.’
Meaning he doesn’t know she’s here. I put the earphones down. I don’t want any more trouble, either for her or for me. ‘Who’s Georges? Mathilde’s husband?’
Gretchen’s mentioned him before, but the suggestion makes her laugh. ‘No, Georges is old! He just helps Papa.’ Still smiling, her eyes go to the earphones again. ‘Maybe I can have a quick listen …’
She perches on the edge of the mattress and puts them on. Her eyes widen when I start the music.
‘IT’S LOUD!’
I turn the volume down but she shakes her head.
‘NO, IT’S ALL RIGHT, I LIKE IT!’