Stone Bruises

Taking a wad of cotton wool from the tin, she dips it in the water and begins to soak the dressings. One by one they come away, pulling only slightly. Her shoulder obscures my view as she works.

‘I heard someone shooting earlier,’ I say.

‘My father. He goes hunting.’

‘I assume that was him last night?’

‘Yes.’ She pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. It’s always the same side, I notice; her left. ‘I’m sorry. My father’s a private man. He’s doesn’t like strangers.’

‘So I gathered.’ There’s no point taking it out on her, though. She’s not responsible for her father, and she’s evidently created problems for herself by helping me. ‘Why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Because you knew he’d get in trouble over the traps?’

She looks up at me, the grey eyes solemn. ‘I thought it was best to treat you myself. But if you’d needed urgent attention I would have made sure you had it.’

Bizarrely enough, I believe her. She looks at me for a moment longer, then continues removing the dressings.

‘So I’m free to leave whenever I want?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why was the trapdoor locked?’

‘You were delirious. I didn’t want you to fall down the steps and hurt yourself.’

The irony of that almost makes me laugh. ‘Or risk your father seeing me?’

Her silence confirms it. I can’t imagine how she hoped to keep my presence a secret, but having met the man I can understand why she didn’t want him to know. I’m just glad it was his daughters who stumbled across me in the wood.

‘How did you get me up here without him knowing about it?’ I ask.

‘My father has a bad back and sleeps most afternoons. We used a blanket to carry you from the woods. And we rested a lot.’ Mathilde gently works at the last dressing, which doesn’t want to come off. ‘The barn’s basic but it’s dry and comfortable. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. At least until you’re stronger.’

‘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.