Читаем Stone Bruises полностью

I shut up then, realizing I’m giving away more than I intended. Luckily, neither of them seem interested. ‘I prefer American movies myself,’ he shrugs. ‘So how long are you over for?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

They drop me off at the outskirts of a small town. I dip into my small fund of euros to buy bread and cheese, a bottle of water and a disposable cigarette lighter. I also buy a baseball cap from an open-air market in the square. It’s a cheap Nike copy but it’ll keep the sun off me and help conceal my bruises. I know I’m being paranoid but I can’t help it. I don’t want to attract any more attention than I have to.

It’s a relief to leave the town behind and head out into open country again. The sun burns down on the exposed back of my neck. After a kilometre or so I stop under a row of poplars and try to eat some of the baguette and cheese. I manage a few bites and then puke everything back, dry-heaving until my stomach’s sore. When the spasms have passed I slump against a tree, feeling so wasted I want to just lie there and give up.

But I can’t do that. My hand trembles as I flick a tongue of flame from the disposable lighter and draw on the cigarette. It’s the first I’ve had in two years, but it tastes like a homecoming. I breathe out some of my tension along with the smoke, blessedly thinking of nothing for a few moments.

I finish the cigarette, then get to my feet and start walking again. I’ve only the vaguest idea of where I am but since I don’t have any plans that doesn’t matter. I stick out my thumb whenever a car passes, but that isn’t often. The roads here are all secondary ones, backwaters where there’s little traffic. By mid-afternoon, a Citroën and a Renault later, I’ve covered less than twenty kilometres. The lifts have all been short, locals travelling to the next town or village, but now even they have dried up. The road is so quiet I can believe the rest of the world has forgotten about me. The only sound is the scrape of my boots and the incessant drone of insects. There’s no shade, and I’m thankful for the cap’s protection.

After I’ve been walking for what seems an age, the open fields are replaced by a dense wood of chestnut trees. It’s fenced off by strands of old barbed wire, but the broad-leaved branches still offer some respite from the sun.

I carefully ease the rucksack from my sore shoulders and take a drink of water. There’s only a couple of inches left. Blood warm, it barely touches my thirst before it’s gone. I should have bought another bottle, I think. But then I should have done a lot of things. It’s too late to change any of them now.

I squint down the road. It runs arrow straight, shimmering in the heat and empty as far as the eye can see. I screw the top back on the water, willing a car to appear. None does. Christ, but it’s hot. I feel parched again already. I take off my hat and push my fingers through my sweat-damp hair. A little way back down the road I remember passing a farm gate. I gnaw my lip, reluctant to retrace my steps. But my dry throat decides me. I’ve no idea how long it’ll be till I reach another town, and it’s too hot to go without water.

Picking up my rucksack, I head back the way I came.

The gate is trimmed with the same rusty barbed wire that borders the woods. A track runs from it, disappearing into the chestnut trees. A mailbox is fixed to the gatepost, on which faded white letters spell out the single word Arnaud. An old but solid-looking padlock hangs from a hasp on the gate, but it’s been left unlocked.

I look once more down the road, but there’s still nothing in sight. Mindful of the barbs, I push open the gate and go through. The track slopes gently uphill, then curves down to reveal a cluster of roofs through the trees. I follow it and find myself in a dusty courtyard. A dilapidated old farmhouse stands at its head, half-covered by a flimsy-looking scaffold. Opposite it is a large barn, and at one side a stable block in which is set an ancient, one-handed clock. There are no horses, but several dusty vehicles are parked in the open archways in various attitudes of permanence.

No one is in sight. A goat bleats from somewhere nearby, and a few hens scratch around in the dirt. Other than them the place could be deserted. I stop at the edge of the courtyard, reluctant to go any further. The farmhouse door is ajar. I go up to its unpainted panels and knock. There’s a pause, then a woman’s voice answers.

‘Qui est-ce?’

I push open the door. After the bright courtyard the interior seems impenetrably dark. It’s a second or two before I make out a woman sitting at a kitchen table, a moment longer to see that she’s holding a baby.

I raise the empty bottle, hesitating while I marshal my question into French. ‘Can I have some water, please?’

If she’s discomfited by being disturbed by a stranger she doesn’t show it. ‘How did you get in here?’ she asks, her voice calm and unhurried.

‘The gate was open.’