‘Come on, why not? I’ve been trying to get Ilse out for a drink for ages, but she wants to bring her friend. You’ll like her, Nikki’s a great girl.’
‘So you’ve met her?’ We’re standing at the bar in Callum’s local, a packed pub with large-screen TV showing different sports. It’s his idea of a quiet drink.
‘Well, no, but Ilse says she is,’ he admits. ‘And she’s Australian. Come on, Sean, it’s like falling off a horse. If you don’t get your feet back in the stirrups soon you’re going to forget how to ride. Then when you finally do get in the saddle again you’ll fall off, and we don’t want that, do we?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I say, but I’m laughing.
‘I’m talking about going out and having a good time. What have you got to lose? God forbid, you might even enjoy yourself.’
‘I don’t know…’
He grins. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll fix it up.’
We meet in a bar near Leicester Square. The plan is to have a drink before taking in an early screening of the latest Tarantino. It’s Callum’s suggestion, but I’m not a fan of Tarantino’s newer work and I’m not sure blood and violence is the right sort of film for a first date. As we wait in the bar I’m nervous, already regretting agreeing to this. When the two girls arrive I’m even more convinced I’ve made a mistake. Nikki is a copywriter for an advertising agency, and it’s soon obvious that she’s as reluctant to be there as I am. Strangely, that makes things easier, and once we’ve established that neither of us expects anything from the other we’re both able to relax.
One drink slides into two, and then three, so that we have to hurry to make the film. Callum’s already bought the tickets, and as we cross the foyer I take my phone out to switch it off. I’ve no sooner got it in my hand than it rings.
The caller ID says it’s Chloe.
I stare at the screen. I’ve not seen or heard anything from her since the night Jules brought her into the Zed. I’ve no idea why she might be calling now.
‘We need to go in, Sean,’ Callum says, giving me a look.
My thumb hovers above the
I feel a stir of guilt as I turn the phone off and put it away. But the others are waiting for me, and Chloe made her choice. If it’s anything important she’ll leave a message or call back.
She doesn’t.
MY STITCHES COME out late one morning. The scabs from the trap’s metal teeth have hardened and healed since I’ve left off the bandage, and the stitches perform no function any more except to irritate me. They could probably have come out sooner, yet Mathilde hasn’t suggested it and I haven’t pressed. For some reason I’m reluctant to have the unsightly black whiskers removed.
But this particular morning they’re itching more than ever. When I find myself furiously scratching at them, then tugging at a loosening thread myself, I realize I can’t ignore it any longer.
It’s time.
I ask Mathilde when I collect my breakfast from the house. Brushing back a strand of hair, she simply nods.
‘I can do it later, if you like.’
I thank her and retreat back to the barn. Yet after breakfast I still put it off. I mix a batch of mortar to take up the scaffold. I’ve lost track of days, but I’m pretty certain this is a Sunday. Not even Arnaud has suggested I should work seven days a week, but I’ve fallen into the habit all the same. It keeps the time from lying too heavily on my hands, something it seems to do more and more lately.
I feel unsettled and out of sorts as I start trowelling the mortar into the gaps. It isn’t only the thought of having the stitches taken out. I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years. Physical exertion, good food and sun have been an effective counter to insomnia, or at least they were. Since Gretchen’s nocturnal visit I’ve taken to sliding the chest of drawers on top of the trapdoor again, but I can’t blame her for my broken sleep.
The dreams about washing my hands in the copse have started again.
I ease another stone into place, scraping off and then smoothing the wet mortar until it’s indistinguishable from its neighbours. The upper section of the house is almost done. A few more days and it’ll be time to drop the scaffolding boards to a lower level and begin the cycle all over again. There’s plenty of the big farmhouse left to hack out and repoint, enough work to keep me occupied for months.
If that’s what I want.
Wiping a trickle of sweat from my forehead, I glance at my watch to check the time. But of course it’s still in my rucksack, where it’s been ever since I started working on the house. I haven’t missed it, but now I’m nagged by an irrational feeling that I’m late for something.
I’m out of mortar, which makes this as good a time as any for a break. Carrying my empty bucket down the ladder, I leave it at the foot of the scaffold and go to the kitchen. The door is open, but when I knock it’s Gretchen who answers.
‘Is Mathilde around?’ I ask.
