But I can’t see how he can be held responsible for Louis going missing. From what I’ve heard, Michel’s father seemed more than capable of antagonizing any number of people himself. Either he crossed the wrong person or decided to cut his losses and start afresh.
Good luck with that, I think bleakly.
My mood doesn’t improve as I near the farm. The last time I ventured out I couldn’t wait to get back: now I find myself slowing down as the gate comes into view. I pull up onto the verge alongside, sitting with the engine running instead of getting out. The road carries on past it into the distance, heading in the direction I first came. For the first time since I arrived, I find myself seriously contemplating the prospect of going back.
But back to what?
I climb out to unlock the gate, repeating the process again once I’ve driven through. I guide the van down the rutted track and park in the courtyard. Opening the back, I start transferring the bags of sand one at a time into the storeroom. There are a lot of them: I bought as many as I could fit in, not wanting to run out again.
It feels now that I’ve bought too many.
A sense of impatience begins to build up in me as I unload the van. At first I don’t know its cause, but then some sand spills out onto the floor and I make the connection. There’s no reason for the conversation with Jean-Claude to bother me, not now I know Louis got as far as Lyon.
But I can’t stop thinking about the patch of concrete in the barn. And whatever it was I saw caught in it.
Mathilde comes from the house as I’ve almost finished emptying the van. She’s carrying Michel astride her hip.
‘Was there a problem?’
‘No.’ I slide the last bag of sand towards me across the van floor.
‘You were a long time.’
‘I stopped off for lunch.’
She watches me lift the sand, as though waiting for me to continue. ‘My father says you can eat dinner in the house with us again tonight,’ she says when I don’t.
‘OK.’
I walk past her, the heavy sack hugged to my body. Going into the cool storeroom, I drop it to the floor with the others, already regretting being abrupt. I’m not looking forward to spending another evening with Arnaud, but there’s no use taking my bad mood out on Mathilde. If there’s one victim in all of this, it’s her.
I go back out, intending to apologize, but the courtyard’s empty.
I close the van’s doors and look up at the scaffold. But I already know I’m not going up it just yet. There’s something I have to do first.
I set off across the courtyard to the barn.
The cavernous interior is cool and dark. I go inside and look down at the cracked scab of concrete. I’ve walked over it every day for weeks without really noticing it. It’s rectangular, about five or six feet long and half that wide. Big enough to hold a body. I think again about what Jean-Claude said.
An awful feeling is starting to form. I tell myself I’m being stupid, but I have to know. I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then crouch down. I can just make out the small scrap that’s protruding from the crack. It could be anything. A sweet wrapper, a dirty rag. Anything at all.
I squeeze my thumb and forefinger into the gap. The object is stiff but pliable, and held fast. Pinching hold, I work it backwards and forwards, skinning my fingers and causing more concrete to crumble away. Whatever’s caught in there resists for a few more seconds, and then breaks free with a scatter of grit.
I climb to my feet and take my prize into the sunlight. It’s a torn strip of cloth, the same dusty colour as the concrete. I examine it, turning it in the light, and then give a laugh as I realize what I’m holding. It isn’t cloth, it’s paper. Thick paper.
A piece of cement bag.
Chalk one up for an over-active imagination, I think, brushing sand off my scraped fingers.
I work later than usual that afternoon, making up for lost time and trying to exorcise some of the tension that still lingers. The sun is only just above the trees when I finally call it a day. My shoulders ache and my arms and legs are heavy as I lower myself down the ladder. I trudge back to the barn to wash under the freezing tap. Stripping off the overalls, I remember something else Jean-Claude said and pause to sniff them. Dirt and sweat, but if there’s a smell of pig I can’t detect it.
Maybe I don’t notice any more.
I change into my own clothes and then head up to the house for dinner. The door is open so I go straight into the kitchen. The table has already been set for four. I take the same seat as last time. My seat. Arnaud sits at his usual place at the head. He opens a bottle of wine and silently pushes it towards me. Gretchen gives me a smile as she helps Mathilde serve the food, as if she’s emerging from whatever distant place she’s been. They join us and we begin to eat.
Just like a normal family.
I ONLY GO on the date as a favour to Callum.
