Stone Bruises

‘Oh, no. But she cared for Maman before she died. And she’s used to looking after the animals when they hurt themselves. The sanglochons are always squabbling or cutting themselves on the fence.’

I haven’t a clue what a sanglochon is and don’t care. ‘You didn’t even fetch a doctor?’

‘I’ve told you, there was no need.’ She sounds annoyed. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. You should be grateful we looked after you.’

This whole situation is becoming more surreal, but I’m in no position to antagonize anyone. ‘I am. It’s just… a bit confusing.’

Mollified, she perches on the rocking horse. Her eyes go to my face. ‘What happened to your cheek? Did you fall when you stepped in the trap?’

‘Uh… I must have.’ I’d forgotten the bruising. I touch it, and the soreness sparks memories that set my heart thumping. I drop my hand and try to focus on the present. ‘The trap didn’t look very old. Any idea what it was doing there?’

She nods. ‘It’s one of Papa’s.’

I don’t know what shocks me more, the casual way she admits it or the implication that there are more of them.

‘You mean you knew about it?’

‘Of course. Papa made lots. He’s the only one who knows exactly where they are, but he’s told us whereabouts in the woods we need to be careful.’

She pronounces it p’pah, two soft expellations that push out her lips. The diminutive sounds more reverential than childish, but I’ve other things on my mind right now.

‘What’s he trying to catch? Bears?’

I’ve a vague notion that there might still be brown bears in the Pyrenees, even though that’s nowhere near here. I know I’m clutching at straws, but it’s the only halfway innocent explanation I can think of.

Gretchen’s laughter kills even that faint hope. ‘No, of course not! The traps are to stop people trespassing.’

She says it as though it’s all perfectly normal. I look at my foot, unwilling to believe it even now. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘The woods are our property. If anyone goes in them it serves them right.’ Her manner has cooled, become haughty. ‘What were you doing on our land anyway?’

Hiding from a police car. It’s starting to seem the lesser of two evils. ‘I needed to pee.’

Gretchen giggles, her temper vanishing. ‘Bet you wish you’d waited.’ I manage a weak smile. She considers me, running her fingers over the rocking horse’s coarse mane.

‘Mathilde says you’re a backpacker. Are you here on vacation?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You speak French very well. Do you have a French girlfriend?’

I shake my head.

‘An English one, then?’

‘No. When can I leave?’

Gretchen stops stroking the horse’s mane. ‘Why? Are you in a hurry?’

‘People are expecting me. They’ll be worried.’

The lie sounds unconvincing even to me. She leans back, bracing her arms on the rocking horse so that her breasts push against the T-shirt. I look away.

‘You can’t leave yet,’ she says. ‘You aren’t well enough. You almost died, you know. You should be grateful.’

That’s the second time she’s said that: it almost sounds like a threat. Behind her the trapdoor is still open, and for a moment I consider making a run for it. Then reality kicks in: running isn’t an option at the moment.

‘I’d better get back,’ she says.

The rocking horse nods violently as she stands up. Her jeans mould themselves around her as she bends to lift the heavy trapdoor. She makes more of a production of it than is strictly necessary, and the quick look she shoots my way as she straightens makes me think it isn’t accidental.

‘Can you leave the hatch open?’ I ask. ‘There’s no air up here.’

Gretchen’s laugh is light and girlish. ‘Of course there is, or how could you breathe? You’d be dead.’

The trapdoor settles shut behind her. Even though I’m waiting for it, I still flinch when I hear the bolt slide home.

I don’t remember falling asleep. When I wake the loft is dusky and full of shadows. Tilting my watch to catch the light, I see that it’s after nine. I listen for some sounds of life outside, but there’s nothing. Not a whisper, not so much as a bird or insect.

I feel like the last man on earth.

The tray of food that Gretchen brought is still by the bed. There’s a wine bottle filled with water, a bowl of milk and two chunks of what looks to be homemade bread. I’m surprised to find that I’m famished. The milk is cool and thick, with a strong taste that makes me think it might be goat’s. I dunk the bread in it, convinced it won’t even scratch the surface of my hunger, but whoever prepared it knew better than I do. After a few mouthfuls my appetite withers and dies. I push away what’s left and lie back.

Sated for the moment, I stare at the darkening roof beams as my foot throbs like a metronome. I can’t decide if I’m a prisoner or a patient. I’ve obviously been well looked after, and if the farm’s wood is full of illegal traps that explains why they didn’t want to risk taking me to a hospital.