I nod.
‘You speak good French. Where did you learn?’
‘I just picked it up.’
‘Really? You must have a knack.’
‘I got a good grounding at school.’
‘Ah. That’ll be it.’ He takes out a handkerchief and mops his face. ‘What’s your name?’
I’m tempted to invent one, but that will only make things worse if he wants to see my passport. There’s no reaction when I tell him.
‘So what brings you to France, Sean?’ he asks.
I run the trowel blade across the wall, needlessly smoothing the mortar. ‘Just travelling.’
‘If you’re a tourist you shouldn’t be working.’ My face burns as blood rushes to it. After a pause he laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only joking. So were you here last night, for the trouble?’
‘Some of it.’
‘Some of it?’
‘I heard the commotion. I didn’t really see it.’
‘But you knew something was going on.’
‘It was hard to miss.’
He wipes the back of his neck with the handkerchief. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I heard some windows smash. There was shouting. From the woods. It sounded like there were quite a few of them in there.’
‘What were they shouting?’
‘Things about Arnaud and his daughters.’
‘Pretty nasty, eh?’
‘It wasn’t nice.’
‘So how many times did Arnaud fire the rifle?’
‘Oh…’ I frown as though I’m trying to remember. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Once, twice? Six times?’
‘I’m not sure. It was all a bit confused.’
‘Was he aiming into the wood?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Where were you when all this was going on?’
‘At the end of the house.’
‘But you couldn’t see what was happening?’
‘It was dark. By the time I got there it was all over.’
‘Didn’t you run up to see what was going on?’
I hold up my foot so he can see the bandage. ‘Not with this.’
Even as I’m doing it I know it’s a mistake. He looks at it without surprise. ‘What did you do?’
‘Trod on a nail,’ I say, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
‘A nail. Right.’
There’s a harder look on his face now, replacing the superficial friendliness. I turn away, pretending to point the wall with the too dry mortar.
‘Do you know who it was?’ I ask, trying to sound casual. ‘Last night, I mean?’
‘Probably just local youths.’ He sounds indifferent. I get the impression no one’s going to be arresting Didier and his friends for throwing a few stones. The gendarme puts on his sunglasses, hiding his small eyes. ‘How long will you be staying?’
‘Until the house is finished, I suppose.’
‘And then you’ll be moving on.’
I’m not sure if that’s a question or not. ‘I expect so.’
The sunglasses continue to stare up at me. I think he might say something else, but then the kitchen door opens again and the other gendarme comes out. The two of them talk, their voices too low to make out, but the smaller one shakes his head in obvious annoyance. Then the big gendarme says something and they both look at me.
I turn away again. After a second I hear them walk across the courtyard. I continue pretending to work, daubing almost dry mortar onto the stones until I’m sure they’ve gone.
My legs are weak as I sink down onto the platform. I put my head between my knees and try not to throw up.
‘Are you up there?’
It’s Mathilde. I take a deep breath and get to my feet. She’s at the foot of the scaffold, holding a plate of food. The spaniel stands next to her, eyeing it hopefully.
‘I’ve brought your lunch.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
I’ve no appetite but I don’t want to stay up here any longer. Not where everyone can see me. I take my time climbing down the ladder, expecting Mathilde to have left the plate on the window-ledge as usual. But when I get to the bottom she’s still there. Her face is pale, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced than usual.
‘The police were here. About last night.’
‘I know. One of them was asking me about it.’
She gives me a quick glance, then looks away. Her hand goes up to push her hair back in what I’ve come to recognize as her habitual expression of unease.
‘Are they going to press charges?’ I ask.
‘No. They warned him about firing his rifle in future. That’s all.’
I try to sound indifferent. ‘So will they be coming back?’
‘They didn’t say. I don’t think so.’
She almost seems to be reassuring me.
When she’s gone I set off across the courtyard. Slowly at first, trying to seem normal, but by the time I reach the barn I’m almost running, jabbing the walking stick into the earth like a third leg. It’s only when I get to the steps that I realize I’m still holding the plate. Bread and meat spill from it as I put it down and rush up to the loft. I drag my rucksack onto the bed and start tugging at the drawstring. I’ve kept it fastened since Gretchen went in it for the MP3 player, and now I swear as I struggle to untie the knot, listening for any footsteps that might announce the return of the police.
