‘Gretchen, please listen to me!’ Even in the moonlight Mathilde’s face is ashen. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘No, you’re not! You’re lying! Papa didn’t do that! My mother’s dead, you’re not her!’
Behind her, the boar has emerged. It begins to pace, watching us.
‘You’re frightening Michel,’ Mathilde says. ‘Give him to me, and then—’
‘No!’ Gretchen shouts, and with a squeal the boar charges. It thuds into the fencing, and as Gretchen recoils I lunge forward. But she sees me and thrusts Michel towards the enclosure again. ‘Get
I back off. The boar butts against the planks, enraged. The baby is wailing, legs kicking in the air.
‘No!’ Mathilde’s hands have gone to her mouth. ‘Don’t, please! You don’t want to hurt Michel, he’s—’
‘He’s
Beginning to sob, she hugs Michel to her. Thank God. Beside me, I can feel the tension ebb from Mathilde.
‘Come up to the house,’ she says as she steps forward. ‘Let me take Michel, and—’
Gretchen’s head snaps up. ‘
Her face is contorted as she lifts Michel again. The wooden planks buck and creak under the boar’s attack. Oh God, I think, getting ready to launch myself forward, knowing neither Mathilde nor I can reach her in time.
Mathilde stands with her arms out. The moon clears a cloud, illuminating the scene like a floodlight. ‘Please, just let me explain—’
‘Whore! Lying
‘Gretchen, please—’
‘Shut up! I hate you, I HATE YOU!’
Gretchen pivots towards the pen, and there’s a sound like a whip cracking. She staggers, losing her grip on Michel as her legs buckle. I run towards them as she collapses but Mathilde is there first. She snatches up Michel, quickly checking that he’s unhurt before thrusting him at me and turning to her daughter.
There’s a dark stain spreading on the front of Gretchen’s T-shirt. Even now I don’t understand what’s happened, not until I hear a moan and turn to see Arnaud at the edge of the woods. The rifle stock is still set to his shoulder but as I watch the barrel drops to point harmlessly at the ground.
He stumbles into a run towards us as Mathilde kneels beside Gretchen. She’s lying on her back, limbs moving spastically as she blinks up at the sky.
‘Mathilde…?’ It’s a small girl’s voice, lost and confused. ‘Mathilde, I don’t…’
‘Shh, it’s all right, don’t try to speak.’
Mathilde takes hold of one of her hands as Arnaud reaches us. He pauses to rest a hand on Michel, then drops down beside Gretchen.
‘Oh, Jesus! God, no…!’
My mind seems stalled. I stand there helplessly, awkwardly holding Michel. I tell myself that the rifle is too small bore to do much damage, that it’s only lethal for birds and rabbits. But blood is still soaking into Gretchen’s T-shirt, and now she begins to cough black gouts of it.
‘No,’ Mathilde says, as if she’s reproving her. ‘No!’
Gretchen is staring up at her, eyes wide and scared. With her free hand Mathilde presses at the small hole in her chest. Gretchen tries to speak, but then an arterial gush bursts from her mouth and she starts to choke. Her back arches, feet kicking in the dirt as she spasms. For a moment she’s rigid, straining against it. Then all the tension leaves her body, and it’s over.
A stillness seems to descend, a bubble of quiet that neither Michel’s crying nor the boar’s squeals can break. Mathilde half-sits, half-slumps, so that one leg is pinned under her. She’s still holding Gretchen’s hand. She lowers it as Arnaud weeps and strokes his daughter’s face.
‘I’m sorry. She was going to throw him, I had to,’ he keens. ‘Oh God, no, I’m sorry.’
Mathilde stares at her father across Gretchen’s body, then her hand cracks across his face louder than the rifle shot. He doesn’t seem to notice, rocking backwards and forwards with the bloody print on his cheek.
Behind them, the boar hammers at the fence in a frenzy, goaded by the scent of blood. Mathilde gets unsteadily to her feet. She absently tucks her hair behind her ear, but the gesture is broken and automatic, accomplishing nothing except to leave a dark smear. She walks drunkenly to where Arnaud dropped the rifle.
‘Mathilde,’ I say, my voice a croak.
I might as well not have spoken. She picks up the rifle and comes back, no more steadily than before. Her hands and arms have red gloves to her elbows.
‘Mathilde,’ I repeat, struggling to hold onto Michel. But I’m no more than a spectator now. She stands over her father as he kneels by Gretchen. He doesn’t look up when she chambers a round and raises the rifle to her shoulder.
