Stone Bruises

My voice is unsteady. The adrenalin has left me weak and trembling. All at once I’m aware of the cool heft of the bottle in my hand. I sway, nauseous, and for an instant I’m back on a dark street, with another scene of blood and violence about to replay itself.

I let the bottle drop. It rolls slowly across the dusty floorboards and bumps against the others with a muted chink. The baby is still howling, struggling in Gretchen’s arms, but no one says anything as I lurch towards the next flight of steps. Almost immediately my legs give way and I collapse to my knees. I’m nearly weeping with frustration but I don’t have the strength to get up. Then Mathilde is there again, sliding her arm under mine.

‘I can manage,’ I say petulantly. She doesn’t take any notice. She eases me back against a wooden beam before turning to her father.

‘He’s in no condition to go anywhere.’

His face is made hard by the lamplight. ‘That’s not my problem. I don’t want him here.’

If not for your trap I wouldn’t be, I want to say, but nothing comes out. I feel dizzy. I close my eyes and put my head back against the beam, letting their voices swirl around me.

‘He’s a stranger, he wasn’t to know.’

‘I don’t care, he’s not staying.’

‘Would you rather the police pick him up?’

The mention of the police makes me lift my head, but the warning doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me. In my febrile state it seems that they’re locked in some private contest, adults talking over the head of a child who won’t understand. Probably they don’t want the police to know about the traps, I think, but I’m too tired to wonder about it for long.

‘Just let him stay for a few days,’ Mathilde’s voice pleads. ‘Until he’s got his strength back.’

Her father’s answer is a long time coming. He glares at me, then turns away with a contemptuous snort. ‘Do what you like. Just keep him out of my sight.’

He goes to the steps. ‘The lamp,’ Mathilde says, when he reaches them. He pauses, and I can see him contemplating taking it and leaving us without light. Then he sets the lamp down and descends into the darkness below without another word.

Mathilde fetches it and crouches next to me. ‘Can you stand?’

When I don’t respond she repeats it in English. I still don’t say anything, but begin to heave myself up. Without asking, she takes the rucksack from my shoulders.

‘Lean on me.’

I don’t want to, but I’ve no option. Beneath the thin cotton, her shoulder is firm and warm. She puts an arm around my waist. Her head comes to my chin.

Gretchen moves out of the shadows as we reach the bottom of the steps. The baby is still red-faced and teary, but more curious now than upset.

‘I told you to stay in the house with Michel,’ Mathilde says. There’s the slightest edge to her voice.

‘I only wanted to help.’

‘I can manage. Take him back to the house.’

‘Why should I have to look after him all the time? He’s your baby.’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

Gretchen’s face hardens. She brushes past us, her flip-flops slapping angrily on the steps. I feel rather than hear Mathilde’s sigh.

‘Come on,’ she says, wearily.

She supports most of my weight as we go up the steps and over to the bed. It takes for ever. I collapse onto the mattress, barely aware of her going away again. A minute later she’s back, carrying the rucksack and lamp. She sets both by the bed.

‘Your father didn’t know I was here, did he?’ I say. ‘You didn’t tell him.’

Mathilde is outside the lamp’s circle of light. I can’t make out her face, don’t know if she’s looking at me or not.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ she says, and leaves me alone in the loft.

London

THE RUCKSACK BOUNCES on my back as I run to where the car waits on the slip road, its engine ticking over. It’s a yellow VW Beetle, battered and rust-pitted but right now the most beautiful car in the world as far as I’m concerned. It’s going dark and I’m numb from standing in the cold for the past two hours, cursing the drivers who’ve whipped past me onto the motorway without a glance.

I open the passenger door, surprised to see that the driver is a lone girl.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘London, but the next services will do,’ I tell her, desperate to get out of the bitter wind.

‘I’m going to Earl’s Court, if that’s any good?’

‘Thanks, that’s fantastic.’ I can catch a tube from there. I’m staying in Kilburn, renting the spare room in a flat whose owner is away for a month. After that I haven’t a clue what I’ll do.

But that’s a problem for another day. I dump my rucksack on the back seat, careful to avoid the large artist’s portfolio lying there, and then sit up front. She has the window wound down slightly on her side but turns the heating up full blast to compensate.

‘I’ve got to have the window open because the exhaust leaks in,’ she explains. ‘I mean to get it fixed, but…’

Her shrug eloquently suggests a combination of what-can-you-do and can’t-be-bothered.

‘I’m Sean.’ I have to raise my voice over the competing roar of the open window and hot air blowing from the heater.