I take the cigarettes up to the loft. I’m getting adept at handling the steps, and when I stop when I reach the first-floor gallery it isn’t because I’m out of breath.
The trapdoor is open.
I remember closing it when I left. I pause, listening, but there’s no noise coming from inside. I go up the rest of the steps as quietly as I can, although anyone up there must have heard me by now. Then I look through the open hatchway.
Gretchen is sitting on the bed. Her back is to me and my rucksack is beside her, half its contents scattered on the mattress. I don’t see the polythene package, but it was buried right at the bottom. Gretchen evidently found what she wanted before she got that far. She’s moving her head rhythmically, the earphones almost hidden in her thick hair. I can hear the tinny whisper of music from them as I go up the rest of the steps and walk up behind her, no longer trying to be silent.
She opens her eyes in surprise as I lean down and switch off the MP3 player. ‘Oh! I didn’t hear you.’
‘What are you doing?’
I try not to sound angry but it comes out accusing. Gretchen looks instantly guilty.
‘Nothing. I was only listening to some music.’
I grab a handful of clothes and begin stuffing them back into the rucksack. As I do I feel to make sure the package is in there. Some of the tension leaves me when I touch the plastic wrapper, but my hands are still shaking.
‘You should ask.’
‘I did! You said I could!’
Now she mentions it, I can vaguely recall saying something. It was when I thought I was leaving the next day, though, and I’d forgotten all about it. Gretchen obviously hasn’t. ‘I meant when I was here,’ I say, less heatedly.
‘It’s our barn. I don’t need your permission.’
‘That doesn’t mean you can go through my things.’
‘You think I’m interested in your old socks and T-shirts?’ She’s becoming angry herself. ‘I don’t like your stupid music anyway! And if Papa knew I was here you’d be in trouble!’
There seems a flaw in that logic, but I don’t have the energy to argue. ‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped. I just wasn’t expecting anyone up here.’
Gretchen seems mollified. Showing no sign of wanting to leave, she leans against the rocking horse, stroking its mane as I take the cigarettes and lighter from my pockets and drop them on the mattress.
‘Can I try one?’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Then you shouldn’t start.’
I know I’m being hypocritical but I can’t help it. Gretchen pouts. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’
‘I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day.’
She considers that, fingers twirling a hank of black horsehair. ‘How long are you going to stay? Until you’ve finished the whole house?’
‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying hard not to think that far ahead.
‘Papa says you’re running away from something.’
‘Papa doesn’t know everything.’
‘He knows more than you. I’m not sure he even likes you. But if you’re nice to me I’ll put in a good word.’
I don’t say anything to that. Hoping she’ll take the hint and leave, I gather up another T-shirt from the bed. Something falls from it.
It’s the photograph.
‘Who’s that?’ Gretchen asks.
‘No one.’
I go to pick it up but Gretchen beats me to it. She holds the photograph away from me, teasingly.
‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then why are you carrying her picture around with you?’
‘I forgot to throw it away.’
‘Then you won’t care what happens to it.’ Grinning, she picks up the cigarette lighter from the mattress and holds it under the photograph.
‘Don’t,’ I say, reaching for it.
She twists away, still holding the photograph poised over the lighter. ‘Ah-ah, I thought you weren’t bothered?’
‘Look, just give it to me.’
‘Not until you tell me who it is.’ She flicks a flame from the lighter. ‘You’ll have to be quick…’
I make a grab for the photograph. Gretchen gives a delighted laugh and snatches it away, and as she does one corner dips into the flame. There’s a bloom of yellow as the glossy card ignites. Gretchen squeals and drops it. I knock the burning photograph away from the mattress, trying to put it out as the image blackens and curls. But it’s fully alight, and the loft is a tinderbox of dry wood. Snatching up the bottle of water from by the bed I quickly douse the flames.
There’s a hiss as the fire is snuffed out.
A burnt smell fills the loft. I stare at the puddle of ash and water on the floor.
‘You made me burn my fingers,’ Gretchen pouts.
I set the bottle down. ‘You’d better go.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have grabbed for it.’
‘Your father will wonder where you are.’
She hesitates, but mention of Arnaud does the trick. I don’t look round as she goes through the trapdoor. When her footsteps have died away I bend down and pick through the wet ash. There’s nothing left of the photograph except a small piece of white border, blackened at the edges.
I let it drop back onto the floor and go to find something to clean up.
