The saw judders as it tears through the wood. I brace myself against it, squinting against the splinters and chips it spits into my face. I cut a V-shaped notch as Arnaud instructed, then knock out the wedge of wood and begin to saw through the other side of the trunk. I hope I’m doing it right, but I’m not going to ask. I’m almost all the way through when the tree creaks and begins to lean.
I quickly step back. There’s a sound of cracking, then the silver birch topples and crashes down, bouncing once before settling to rest in a snapping of branches. As Arnaud predicted, it’s well clear of the statues. I’m impressed, despite myself.
He motions towards the saw. The engine noise drops as I let it idle.
‘There now,’ Arnaud smirks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
I trim the branches from the tree and then set about carving the trunk into manageable segments. The clearing soon begins to look like a lumber yard, shards of white wood scattered around like confetti. While I’m attacking the trunk Arnaud gathers the lopped branches together, arranging them roughly by size so that all but the smallest can be used for kindling.
It’s hot work. Soon I’m stripped to my waist, the overalls rolled down and tied by their arms around my hips. Even Arnaud is forced to open his shirt, exposing a torso that’s hairless and pallid as milk against the nut brown of his face and neck. A waft of acrid sweat comes off him. What communication there is between us is reduced to gestures and signs. The whining of the chainsaw fills the woods as we go about dismembering the tree.
Finally, it’s done. When I switch the machine off, the sudden silence feels too heavy for the woods to support. Every noise seems amplified in the hush.
‘Let’s take a rest,’ Arnaud says.
I flop down with my back against the plinth of a statue. My skin is spattered with oil and woodchips. Arnaud grimaces in pain as he lowers himself onto the same stump he sat on earlier.
‘What’s wrong with your back?’ I ask.
‘I fell down the stairs.’ He gives a humourless smile. ‘Same as you.’
I hope it hurt, I think, reaching for my cigarettes. He begins to refill his pipe, pressing down the tobacco with his thumb as I search for my lighter. With my overalls rolled to my waist, it’s hard to get into the pockets.
‘Light?’
Arnaud tosses me a box of matches. I catch them, surprised. ‘Thanks.’
I light up, luxuriating in the nicotine hit as my muscles slowly uncramp. I can hear the faint tamp of Arnaud’s mouth on the pipe stem, the faint whistle of air through its bowl. The first bird risks a tentative call. Gradually, the life of the woods returns to normal. I feel no urge to disturb it as I enjoy my cigarette. When it’s finished I stub it out and put my head back.
I hear Arnaud chuckle. ‘What?’ I ask.
‘I was just admiring your choice of backrest.’
I turn to find that I’m propped against the statue of Pan. The pagan god’s crotch is right behind my head.
I settle back again. ‘If he doesn’t mind, neither do I.’
Arnaud snorts, but seems amused. He takes the pipe from his mouth and raps the bowl smartly against the heel of his boot to empty it. He grinds the ash into the soil but doesn’t put the pipe away.
‘How much do you think they’re worth?’ he asks abruptly.
For a moment I think he means the trees, before I realize he’s talking about the statues.
‘No idea.’
‘No? You’re so smart, I thought you knew everything.’
‘Not when it comes to stolen statues.’
Arnaud takes out a short-bladed pocketknife. He begins scraping out the bowl of the pipe. ‘Who said they were stolen?’
‘You wouldn’t have hidden them down here if they weren’t.’ I’m not going to admit it was Gretchen. ‘Why haven’t you sold them?’
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ He grinds the knife into the pipe, but lowers it again after a moment, the task forgotten. ‘It isn’t that simple. You have to be careful who you approach.’
Very careful, judging by the grass growing around them. They’ve obviously been here for some time. ‘If you didn’t already have buyers, why did you get so many?’
‘I had a… business associate. He said he knew a dealer who would take them off our hands.’
I stub out my cigarette. ‘What happened?’
Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a bitter line. ‘He let me down. Betrayed my trust.’
It’s almost the same phrase Gretchen used about Michel’s father. I’d put money on him and this ‘associate’ being the same man: the man whose dirty overalls I’m currently wearing. One way or another, Jean-Claude’s nameless brother certainly left a mess in his wake. No wonder they don’t want to talk about him.
‘So why don’t you just get rid of them?’ I ask.
He snorts. ‘If you want to try lifting them, go ahead.’
‘You managed to get them down here.’
‘We had lifting gear.’
‘You mean your associate did.’
Arnaud gives an angry nod. He considers the pipe bowl again. ‘I thought you might have some ideas. Contacts.’
‘What sort of contacts?’
