Stone Bruises

Our flat is on the top floor of a squat concrete block. We go up the stairwell that always smells of piss and unlock the door. The fumes of turpentine and oil paints settle thickly on the back of my tongue as soon as we enter. The place is hardly an ideal artist’s studio, but the rent’s affordable and the skylights set into the flat roof make it bright, if cold. Chloe’s paintings are stacked against the living-room walls, white-edged rectangles whose images it’s too dark to see. I’d been surprised at first by how representational her style is, expecting it to be bolder and more abstract. Instead there’s an impressionistic quality and an almost chiaroscuro treatment of light that reminds me of film noir. I like it, although I have secret doubts about the unfinished portrait of me that stands on an easel by the window. Technically it’s one of her best, but the expression on the face isn’t one I recognize. Maybe I just don’t know myself very well.

Neither of us makes any move to put on the light. I stand in the bedroom doorway, watching as Chloe switches on the electric fire. A faint hum comes from it as the elements begin to snap and glow yellow.

‘So are you going to tell me what that was about?’

Chloe keeps her back to me as she begins to undress. ‘Nothing. He’s just someone I used to know.’

Something swells in my chest and throat. It takes me a moment to realize it’s jealousy.

‘You mean you used to go out with him?’

‘With Lenny?’ Her shock is unfeigned. ‘God, no.’

‘What, then?’

She comes over to me in her underwear. ‘Sean…’

I move her arms from around me. I don’t know whether I’m angry because I felt helpless outside, or because I suddenly feel I don’t know her. She sighs.

‘He used to be a customer in a bar I used to work at. OK? You get to meet all sorts. That’s all.’

She looks up at me, eyes open and candid. In the familiar surroundings of the flat the memory of the encounter is already starting to fade. And I’ve no reason not to believe her.

‘OK,’ I say.

I undress and get into bed. We lie in the dark without touching, the air in the bedroom frigid even with the electric fire. Chloe stirs and moves over, kissing me, murmuring my name. We make love, but afterwards I lie awake, staring at the skylight.

‘Yasmin said something weird tonight,’ I tell her. ‘That you were “doing all right”. Why would she say that?’

‘I don’t know. That’s Yasmin for you.’

‘So there’s nothing I should know?’

In the dark I can’t see her face. But a glint of light from it tells me her eyes are open.

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘Why would there be?’

5

I’M PACKED AND ready to leave when Mathilde comes to the loft next morning. I know who it is before I see her, can already distinguish between her steady tread and the slap of Gretchen’s flip-flops. Her eyes go to the fastened rucksack by the bed, but if she draws any conclusions she keeps them to herself. She’s carrying a tray, on which is a plate of food and a roll of clean bandage. And also an extra treat this morning: a steaming bowl of coffee.

‘I’ve brought your breakfast,’ she says, setting down the tray. ‘Can I change your dressing?’

I sit on the mattress and roll up the leg of my jeans. The bandage is frayed and filthy from my abortive night-time excursion. If not for that I could almost believe I’d dreamed the whole thing. In daylight, the memory of the silent assembly of statues seems unreal, and I’ve convinced myself the scream I heard was only a fox after all. Probably caught in one of Arnaud’s traps.

I can sympathize.

‘Will you drive me to the road later?’ I ask, as Mathilde begins to unfasten the bandage. She makes no comment on its soiled condition.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Straight after breakfast. I’d like to make an early start.’

The decision was fully formed when I woke. If I can make it down to the wood and back, then I’m fit enough to travel. I could walk to the road on my own, but there’s no point in tiring myself before I start. I still don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but my latest run-in with Arnaud has convinced me I’m better off taking my chances rather than staying here any longer.

Mathilde continues to unwrap the bandage. ‘Are you sure?’

‘If you can drive me as far as the road I can hitch from there.’

‘As you wish.’

Even though I’ve no reason to, I feel disappointed by her lack of reaction. I watch as she removes the bandage and peels off the dressing pads. When the last covering comes away I’m relieved that my foot doesn’t appear any worse. In fact it seems better; the swelling has gone down and the wounds themselves appear less livid.

‘It doesn’t look as bad, does it?’ I say, hoping for confirmation.

Mathilde doesn’t answer. She gently turns my foot this way and that, then lightly touches the lip of one wound.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘No.’ I study her as she continues to examine it. ‘Is it OK?’

She doesn’t answer. Her face is impassive as she lays her hand on my forehead. ‘Do you feel hot? Feverish?’

‘No. Why?’

‘You look a little flushed.’