Stone Bruises

I stare at the face, hoping for a sign of forgiveness. But as I look the shape of the skull behind it begins to shine through, peeling away the surface beauty to show the rot and dissolution underneath.

A new pain bursts in me, a fresh agony that bears me away on its crest. From far away there’s the sound of someone screaming. As it grows fainter I hear voices speaking a language I recognize but can’t decode. Before it fades altogether, a few words present themselves with the clarity of a church bell.

‘Doucement. Essayez d’être calme.’

Gently, I can understand. But I’m puzzled by why they need to be quiet.

Then the pain sweeps me up and I cease to exist.

London

THE SKYLIGHT IS fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.

Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blonde hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.

The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.

I feel her stir beside me.

‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.

2

THERE’S AN EYE staring down at me. It’s black but clouded at the centre by a cataract, a grey fog hung with dark shapes. A series of lines spread out from it like ripples. At some point they resolve into the graining on a piece of wood. The eye becomes a knot, the fog a spider’s web stretched over it like a dusty blanket. It’s littered with the husks of long-dead insects. No sign of the spider, though.

I don’t know how long I stare up at it before I recognize it as a wooden beam, rough and dark with age. Sometime after that I realize I’m awake. I don’t feel any compulsion to move; I’m warm and comfortable, and for the moment that’s enough. My mind is empty, content to stare up at the spider’s web above me. But as soon as I think that it’s no longer true. With consciousness come questions and a flurry of panic: who, what, when?

Where?

I raise my head and look around.

I’m lying in bed, in a place I don’t recognize. It isn’t a hospital or a police cell. Sunlight angles in through a single small window. The beam I’ve been staring at is a rafter, part of a triangular wooden ribcage that extends to the floor at either side. Slivers of daylight glint through gaps in the overlapping shingles of the roof. A loft, then. Some kind of barn, by the look of it. It’s long, with bare floorboards and gables at either end, one of which my bed is pushed against. Junk and furniture, most of it broken, is stacked against the unplastered stone walls. There’s a musty smell that speaks of age, old wood and stone. It’s hot, though not uncomfortably so.

The light coming through the dusty glass has a fresh, early quality. I’m still wearing my watch, which tells me that it’s seven o’clock. As if to confirm that it’s morning the hoarse crowing of a cockerel sounds from somewhere outside.

I’ve no idea where I am or what I’m doing here. Then I move and the sudden pain at the end of my leg gives an effective jolt to my short-term memory. I throw back the sheet that covers me and see with relief that my foot is still there. It’s bound in a white bandage, from which the tips of my toes poke like radishes. I give them a tentative wiggle. It hurts, but not nearly so much as before.

It’s only then I realize that I’m naked. My jeans and T-shirt are on the back of a wooden chair next to the bed. They’ve been folded and look freshly washed. My boots are on the floorboards next to them, and an attempt has been made to clean the damaged one. But the leather is darkened with bloodstains, and the rips from the trap’s teeth are beyond repair.

Lowering the sheet, I try to recall what happened between my stepping in the trap and waking here. There’s nothing, but now other memories are presenting themselves. Caught in the wood, hitch-hiking and abandoning the car. And then I remember the events that led to me being here in the first place.

Oh, Jesus, I think, passing a hand over my face as it all comes back.

The sight of my rucksack leaning against an old black rocking horse snaps me out of it. Remembering what’s in it, I sit up. Too quickly: I close my eyes, fighting a wave of nausea as the room spins. It’s only just begun to fade when I hear footsteps approaching from below. Then a section of the floor gives a loud creak and swings open.