There are grunts and squeals, a high-pitched burst of raucous laughter. Ahead of me I can make out the shadowy figures of Arnaud and Mathilde against the lighter background of the track. Mathilde has hold of Arnaud’s arm, struggling with him.
‘Don’t! Leave them, they’ll go!’
‘Get in the house!’
He pushes her away and in the same movement brings the rifle up and fires. His features are lit up as it cracks out, and the jeers are abruptly cut off. There’s cursing and yells of alarm, followed by the crashing of undergrowth. Arnaud aims the long barrel into the blackness of the woods as he shoots again and again, working the bolt so quickly that the snap of one discharge merges with the next. Only when the commotion has died away does he stop, lowering the rifle with what could be reluctance.
In the distance a car engine roars into life and quickly recedes. Quiet settles like a blanket over the night.
Arnaud doesn’t move. Mathilde stands with her back to him, hands over her ears. They’re two featureless black shapes, no more human in the darkness than the trees themselves. She remains immobile as Arnaud finally turns back towards the house. His footsteps crunch on the track. He passes me as if I’m not there. I wait, watching Mathilde. Eventually she drops her arms. I hear a soft snuffle. One hand comes up to her face, makes a wiping motion. Slowly, she begins to make her way down the track.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
My voice makes her start. I can pick out her features now, pale and scared against the dark framing of her hair. She gives a nod. Head down, she goes past, so close she almost brushes against me. She vanishes around the corner of the house, and a moment later I hear a faint click as the kitchen door is closed.
I stay on the track, looking up towards the now silent woods. My heart is racing. Gradually, the whisper of crickets resumes.
Accompanied by their music, I go back to the barn.
THE SKYLIGHT IS fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.
Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blond hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.
The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.
I feel her stir beside me.
‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.
I don’t know what to say. The atmosphere between us has been strung taut since I found the coke. Chloe swears it was an isolated mistake she won’t repeat, and I’m trying to believe her. Neither of us talks about Jules. Each day is a delicate balancing act that could fall and shatter if we don’t maintain it.
Yet I’ve noticed she’s become more withdrawn lately. There’s nothing specific, but a few days ago I searched the flat again while she was out. When I didn’t find anything I told myself I’d been imagining things. But it could just mean she’s found a better hiding place.
‘What sort of question’s that?’
‘Does it scare you?’
‘Jesus, Chloe…’
‘It doesn’t scare me. It used to, but it doesn’t any more.’
The muscles in the back of my neck are knotted and clenched. I push myself up so I can look at her. ‘Where’s this going?’
She’s staring up through the skylight, her eyes bright points in the shadowed paleness of her face. Just when I think she isn’t going to answer, she does.
‘I’m pregnant.’
At first I don’t know what I feel. Of all the things I’ve expected, all the scenarios I’ve imagined, this wasn’t one of them. Then everything’s swept away by euphoria and relief. So that’s what’s been wrong.
‘God, Chloe, that’s great!’ I say, starting to put my arms around her.
But she lies stiff and unresponsive. She’s still staring through the skylight, and now I see the brightness from her eyes spill and run down her cheeks. I pull back from her as a coldness begins to spread through me.
‘What?’ I ask, though I already know.
Chloe’s voice is level, unaffected by the tears on her face.
‘It isn’t yours.’
THE POLICE ARRIVE next morning. I’m climbing down from the scaffold when I hear footsteps in the courtyard. I glance around, expecting it to be Mathilde or Gretchen, and the sight of two uniformed gendarmes shocks me motionless. Only the fact that I have one arm hooked over a ladder rung stops me from falling.
Oh, Jesus Christ, I think.
