I’ve never taught a thing in my life, never even considered it as a possibility. Still, it isn’t as though I’ve any other plans.
‘Thanks, that’d be great.’ I take a deep breath. ‘How about, I don’t know… going for a drink sometime?’
I’M BY THE stream where I left the car. The water is clear and fast-running, but when I immerse my hands I can’t feel it. It’s warm, the same temperature as my body. I try to clean the clotted blood from beneath my nails, but the more I try the more there seems to be. The water is stained by it, a dark viscous red that now flows above my wrists. I know my own blood is somehow leaching into it but that only makes me scrub harder. When I take my arms from the stream they’re red and dripping up to the elbows.
I’m about to put them back in when I feel a cramp in my foot.
I turn to look at it, and I’m lying in bed. Sunlight fills the loft. This time there’s no lapse, no confusion. I know straight away where I am. I lie staring up at the roof, waiting until the last vestiges of the dream have faded and my heart rate has returned to normal.
The dream might have passed but my foot still hurts. And now other aches announce themselves throughout my body in a roll-call of abuse. Remembering, I look at my rucksack.
A boot print is clearly stamped on it.
Seeing it brings a rush of feeling.
At least I’m not a prisoner.
The black rocking horse regards me evilly from one rolling eye as I take my morning painkillers, washing them down with lukewarm water from one of the wine bottles by the bed. According to my watch, it’s eight o’clock, but there’s no sign of breakfast. I’m hungry again, which I take to be a good sign. I’m still weak, but not with the will-sapping fatigue of yesterday. Apart from a few grazes and a lump where I hit my head, even the tumble downstairs doesn’t seem to have damaged anything. Except my pride.
A distant sound disrupts the morning quiet: the whiplash of a shot, quickly followed by another. Probably Mathilde’s father out venting his aggression on the local wildlife, I think, remembering the hunting rifle the old bastard was carrying. I stare up at the cobwebbed ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. I’ve got to get out of this place, that much is certain. Yet as soon as I start to think beyond the immediate future, despair overwhelms me. I was in enough trouble before I stepped in the trap. No matter what happens here, that won’t have changed.
But I can’t let myself dwell on that. First things first. Pain spears my bandaged foot when I try putting my weight on it, ending any hope of walking. Keeping it off the ground, I hop over to the window. The glass is dirty and hung with cobwebs that resemble rotting muslin. One of them, suspended from a rafter, strokes almost imperceptibly across my eyes. I wipe it off and look outside. Below me is a sunlit field striped with rows of grapevines. They run down to a wood, beyond which is a small lake. It must be the same one I saw just before I stepped in the trap, but from here its surface looks mirror smooth, coloured pale blue with reflected sky.
There’s another unemphatic report of a rifle, this time followed by the excited barking of a dog. I can’t see anyone, but just thinking of the man I met last night knots my stomach. Careful to avoid the photograph this time, I rummage in my rucksack for the pack of Camels I took from the car. The cigarette tastes foul but I need something to calm my nerves. I smoke it sitting propped up on the bed, legs stretched out and my back against the rough wall. The pack is half empty now; I’ll need to ration what’s left.
I don’t know how long they’ll have to last.
After I finish the cigarette I dig out a pair of boxer shorts, a psychological prop in case Papa comes calling again. I’ve only just pulled them on when I hear someone on the steps. I tense before realizing the footsteps aren’t heavy enough to be his.
The trapdoor swings open to reveal Mathilde. I look past her, and relax when I see she’s alone. Her face is unreadable as she approaches the bed.
‘Good morning.’
She’s carrying a tray on which is my breakfast and a bowl of water. There’s also a roll of bandage and an old first-aid tin, and she has a worn towel folded over one arm.
‘I’ve brought a clean dressing for your foot,’ she says. ‘It needs changing.’
She puts the tray, down on the mattress and perches on the edge beside it. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turns her attention to my foot.
‘How is it?’ she asks, unwrapping the bandage.
‘No better for being kicked downstairs.’
I don’t mean to snap, but I can’t help it. My nerves are ragged as Mathilde continues to remove the soiled bandage. Underneath, my foot is covered with clotted pads of surgical dressing, glued to my flesh with dried blood. One sticks when she tries to peel it away, making me suck in my breath.
‘Sorry.’
