I go with her and wait in the kitchen while she fetches her wallet. Gretchen is sitting at the table with Michel. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Since the boar escaped she’s withdrawn into herself. It isn’t so much that she ignores me as that she no longer seems to register I’m even there.
If I’m honest, it’s a relief.
‘Will that be enough?’ Mathilde asks, handing me a few notes. They’re all small denomination.
‘I think so.’
‘The keys are in the van.’
She returns to her garden as I go to the Renault. It’s greenhouse hot inside, but I don’t bother waiting for it to cool. After I’ve gone through the usual rigmarole of unlocking and locking the gate, I stand for a moment, looking out at the road. A car shoots past, coming from the direction of the town and heading off towards its own destination. As I watch it go something uncurls at the back of my mind, so indistinct I don’t recognize it for what it is at first.
Restlessness.
The feeling has been growing ever since the gendarmes came. I don’t worry any more about them coming back: if they were going to they would have by now. But the disruption that arrived with them has never really left.
Without enthusiasm, I climb back into the van. The drive into town seems to take no time at all. The roadside bar hardly seems to flash by before I’m at the square. The boules players are already out, although I can’t tell if they’re the same ones. The fountain is still spraying gaily in the sunshine. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel as I pull into the builders’ yard. The engine dies with a shudder. Taking a deep breath, I climb out.
There’s no sign of Jean-Claude.
I allow myself to relax, though only a little. I reach into the van for my walking stick, then pause. My foot is all but healed. The stitches are almost ready to come out and I’ve started leaving off the bandage when I’m not working. I still use the rubber boot that Mathilde made, but that’s only because my own chafes the wounds. The stick is starting to feel more like a habit than a necessity, and I know the time is coming when I’ll have to stop relying on it.
But not yet. Picking it up, I lean on it and limp into the hangar-like building.
I order and pay for the sand and am directed back out into the yard. There are wide wooden bays filled with pebbles, grit and sand. No one’s about, but there’s a shovel sticking out of the sand and a pile of empty plastic sacks, so I begin filling them myself.
I work with my back to the yard, mechanically driving the shovel into the mound of sand, ignoring the impulse to keep looking behind me. When the sacks are full I bring the van over. The blanket that Lulu was on is balled up in the back, the bloodstains on it dried black. I push it aside and start loading the sacks, stacking them upright so the sand doesn’t spill. Now I’ve almost finished some of the nervous energy begins to bleed off. I pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
‘Need any help?’
Jean-Claude is standing by the van, wearing the same bib-and-braces overalls as before. He moves quietly for such a big man.
‘Thanks, I can manage.’
I turn away and continue with the loading. He takes hold of a sack anyway, effortlessly slinging it into the van and then hefting the next. The last few sacks are stacked away in a few seconds.
I give him a grudging nod of thanks and close the doors. Of course, he isn’t about to let me go that easily.
‘Someone told me Mathilde was in town a few days ago. Taking an injured dog to the vet’s. What happened to it?’
‘It got too close to a boar.’
‘Ah. I thought it might have trodden on a nail. How is it?’
I choose to think he means Lulu. ‘Not good.’
‘Kinder to put it out of its misery. Mathilde always had a soft heart, but it doesn’t always do anyone any favours. Will it live?’
‘If it does it’ll be with three legs. Thanks for the help.’
I climb into the van. Jean-Claude takes hold of the door, preventing me from closing it.
‘I want to talk to you.’
Whatever he’s got to say, I doubt I want to hear it. ‘I’ve got to get back.’
‘It won’t take long. Anyway, it’s lunch time. There’s a café near here where the food is OK. On me.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You have to eat, don’t you? All I want is a few minutes of your time. But if that’s too much to ask…’
He takes his hand away and gestures towards the gates. Much as I’d like to shut the door and drive away, I owe him for intervening with Didier and his friends.
‘Get in,’ I say.
We sit at the back of the café, away from the other customers. I look at the small plastic menu without really seeing it.
‘The omelettes are good,’ Jean-Claude suggests.
They might be, but I’ve had enough eggs lately. I order the plat du jour and a beer; I need something to steady my nerves.
‘So,’ I say.
He sets down the plastic menu. ‘I hear Arnaud had a visit from the police.’
‘That’s right.’
Jean-Claude waits a moment, then continues when I don’t say anything else. ‘I respect a man’s right to protect his property as much as anyone, but Arnaud goes too far.’
