Arnaud throws back his head to drain his cognac, the tendons standing out either side of his throat like a rungless ladder. Smacking his lips with pleasure, he lowers his glass and grins. It gives him a crafty expression in the firelight, but his eyes are as hard as ever.
‘Unless you’d rather explain to the police why you lied to them as well?’
Arnaud’s cognac hums in my head as I go back to the barn. The night seems unnaturally clear, contrasting with the muzziness in my head. I meander a little across the courtyard, the walking stick skidding off the rounded tops of the cobbles. It’s dark in the recesses of the barn and I’ve left the lamp upstairs. I pick out an empty wine bottle by touch, knocking over several others. Icy slivers of water spatter on the floor as I fill it at the tap, then cup my hands and splash my face.
Better.
I haul myself up the steps, glad to reach the familiarity of the loft. It’s too much effort to close the trapdoor, so I leave it open. My walking stick slides to the floor when I try to lean it against the wall, but I can’t be bothered to pick it up. I manage to pull off my T-shirt before I flop down onto the bed still in my jeans. I want to take them off, I really do, but the rich food and alcohol are like lead weights on my eyelids. I close them, just for a few seconds. In a moment I’ll get up and finish undressing.
In a moment…
I’m back in the old room, the old bed. I feel the shift of the mattress and then the warmth of her next to me. Her lips brush my mouth, feather against my cheek. There’s a glow of happiness in my chest that she’s here, that everything’s back to normal. But even as I start to respond I know something’s wrong. The feeling grows as she presses against me, the scents and contours different. Soft hair drapes across my skin as a hand strokes me, and then I open my eyes and I’m back in the loft, and Gretchen’s face is only inches from mine.
There’s a second or two when instinct almost takes over. Then I’m wide awake as shock kicks in. I sit up, tumbling her off me onto the mattress.
She giggles. ‘Did I frighten you?’
My head and heart are both thumping. I push myself away from her a little more. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you think?’ Her teeth and eyes shine in the darkness. She’s wearing a short white T-shirt and nothing else. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Why not? Everyone’s asleep. And you are pleased, I can feel.’
Her hand reaches for my jeans. I move it away. ‘You need to go.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I swing my feet off the mattress and stand up. The last thing I want is any entanglement with Gretchen, but that’s easier to remember if I’m not lying next to her.
Even in the moonlight I can see her confusion. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like me?’
‘Look…’ I stop myself before I say anything I’ll regret. ‘It’s not that. I just think you should go.’
There’s a silence. I try to think of something else to say, some way of getting her out of here without prompting another tantrum. If she starts on about Mathilde now, things could turn ugly. Then I see her smile, teeth white in the darkness.
‘Are you scared of Papa? You are, aren’t you?’
I stay quiet, let her draw her own conclusions. It’s easier to let her believe that, and it isn’t as if there isn’t some truth in it. She kneels up on the bed.
‘What did he want to talk to you about earlier? He can’t have been too cross if he gave you his best cognac. I know he did because I washed the glasses.’
‘It was just about the farm.’
‘Liar.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let him hurt you. Not unless you’re mean to me, anyway.’
I don’t know if she’s joking or not. ‘Look, he wants me to help him with the traps. I’ve got to be up in a few hours…’
‘That’s plenty of time.’
‘Gretchen…’
‘All right, I’ll go. We don’t want Papa kicking you downstairs again.’ Her good humour’s returned. I go to the trapdoor as she gets off the bed. Her hair catches the moonlight, and her legs are long and bare in the short T-shirt. She looks lovely, and for a moment I’m glad I fell asleep in my jeans.
She pauses in front of me, her smile impish as she strokes my arm.
‘Don’t I at least get a goodnight kiss?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘You’re no fun.’
She pouts, not yet ready to let me off the hook. I feel her fingers stop when they encounter the plaster. I can see her frown as she examines it.
‘What did you do to your arm?’ she asks.
I’M CLEANING GLASSES behind the counter at the Bar Zed when the customer walks in. There’s something familiar about him, but not so much that I think anything of it. He shows no sign of recognizing me as Dee serves him a beer, which he takes to a table at the far side of the room.
