by Seth Patrick
“What if there are more?” said Claire. “What if Camille isn’t the only one? She wouldn’t need to hide. It would destroy her to have to hide forever.”
“I understand how difficult it must be,” he said.
“A fat lot of use that is,” snapped Léna.
Pierre bit his tongue. It wasn’t his place to instill discipline in Claire’s children. “If there are others,” he said, “then she would be able to come out of hiding eventually. But she should still lie low for now. The consequences of her situation becoming known would be unpredictable, Claire. The biggest news story the world has ever seen. And the authorities… They would fear her and anyone like her. She must be careful. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She may still be the only one.” He turned to Léna, ignoring the hostility in her eyes. “So,” he said. “What do you know about this person you saw?”
“He’s called Simon,” said Léna. “He was behaving weirdly, and I just thought he was odd, but then I realized I remembered his face from somewhere. I saw a photo of him from ten years ago. He looks exactly the same. I think he knows Adèle Werther.” Her eyes darted over to where Adèle stood at the far side of the graveyard.
Simon, thought Pierre. Could it really be Adèle’s Simon? The charge of potential in the air seemed to coalesce around him, filling him with an excitement that he found hard to disguise. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
• • •
It was when he got the call from the police station later that morning that Pierre knew everything he hoped for might truly be coming to pass.
Once Michel Costa was in the ground, Pierre had returned to the Helping Hand to arrange some of the more specialist supplies he thought might be needed.
In case.
In case what Claire and Léna had said was true and there were others.
The hope was almost painful for him, but it had been there since the moment he had seen Camille, back from the dead. He had been praying for a sign ever since.
With his jobs done, he sat in his office, seeking the wisdom of Scripture, his Bible open at the first chapter of Revelation. He was formulating a plan of action, wondering how to go about looking for the man Léna had spoken of. He had so little to go on; speaking with Léna in more detail seemed unavoidable.
Then the phone rang. It was Bruno, a policeman he knew, calling from the station. Bruno told him they had a lost sheep for the Helping Hand, someone right up Pierre’s alley: a man with nowhere to stay, forbidden to leave town. A mystery man who wouldn’t even give his real name.
“Could you pick him up from here?” said Bruno. “He calls himself Simon Delaître.”
Pierre froze, just for a moment: it was Adèle’s Simon, and Pierre wouldn’t even need to look for him now.
“He was arrested for assault,” said Bruno, “if that’s a problem.”
“It won’t be,” said Pierre. He told Bruno he would be there as soon as possible, then hung up. He looked again at the passage from Revelation, and read it aloud.
“Fear not,” he said. “I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hell.”
He had been praying for a sign; this was much more. This was like a commandment.
At the station, Pierre waited impatiently, eager to see this man. He knew Simon Delaître’s face, knew it from the photographs Adèle had brought to the early counseling sessions, and when the guy was brought out, Pierre found himself unable to breathe. The awe he felt was palpable, staggering.
It was him. There was no doubt.
Pierre couldn’t stop himself smiling at him, making the man nervous.
“It’s Simon, yes?” said Pierre.
Simon Delaître nodded.
“That’s what he says,” said Bruno. “If you can talk him around into telling us who he really is, it’d save a lot of trouble. For him too.”
Pierre looked at Simon. “If he wants to, he’ll tell me,” he said, wondering if Simon could detect that Pierre was only playing along, that he knew.
He led Simon to the car and drove, unable to stop glancing at the man in the passenger seat. “We can get some food at the Helping Hand,” said Pierre. “You can rest there. We have a dorm for visitors. Nothing terribly fancy, but it’s warm and comfortable. We can give you money too.”
“Who are you?” said Simon, almost sneering. “Father Christmas?”
“I try to help people who have, let’s say, gone astray.”
“You think I’ve gone astray?”
“I don’t know,” said Pierre. He didn’t want to come right out with it, not yet, but he was interested to know how much Simon remembered and how much he had worked out. “I’ve met many people who were lost, and I’ve helped them find their way again. Only this morning, I saw a woman I helped. Adèle Werther.”
“You know Adèle?”
“Yes, a little,” said Pierre, casually observing Simon’s wary reaction. “A tragedy like that is hard to forget.”
Simon’s face grew pale. “What tragedy?”
“Her fiancé died. On their wedding day.”
Simon looked at Pierre, desperation in his eyes. “Do you know what happened?”
Pierre nodded. “He was hit by a car.” Simon was silent, stunned.
He doesn’t remember, Pierre thought. Just like Camille. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Have you lived here long?” He wondered what Simon thought had happened, and if he knew how many years had gone by.
“Yeah. But I…I had to leave.”
“And you were gone for a long time. Am I right?” He looked at Simon and saw the sudden increase in the man’s wariness. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
Too much, Pierre realized; Simon’s expression went from wariness to outright hostility. “You can drop me here,” he said.
“Don’t, Simon,” said Pierre, angry that his curiosity had spoiled things. “There’s no need for you to go.”
“Drop me here!” Simon shouted.
Pierre pulled the car over. The sudden anger on Simon’s face was intimidating. He thought of the assault charge Bruno had mentioned, knowing that he had naively hoped the reborn Simon would be the model of benevolence. “Simon, please. I can help you.”
“I don’t think so.” Simon opened the door and started to walk away.
Pierre leaned over, raising his voice so Simon could hear. “Come to the Helping Hand if you change your mind. You’re not alone, Simon. Do you understand? You’re not alone.”
Simon gave no sign that he’d heard. They’d stopped by the town’s only industrial estate, a mishmash of faceless concrete buildings, half of which were no longer occupied, now abandoned and vandalized. This town had always had aspirations of success that had overreached themselves. Exactly what I just did, Pierre thought. With success close, his lack of caution had put it at risk.
But self-recrimination was not appropriate. What had happened had to be God’s will, of course. It was all God’s will, and so this must have been the path Simon needed to follow.
As Pierre watched Simon walk into the distance, he thought back to the scriptures. From memory, he recited another verse from Revelation: “Death and Hades gave up the dead who were in them, and they were judged, each one of them, according to what they had done.”
Pierre smiled. There were two things he was absolutely sure of.
He would see Simon again, soon.
And the end was coming.
23
While Claire and Léna went to Michel Costa’s funeral, Jérôme stayed at home with Camille. She sulked in her room, eager to go somewhere, anywhere, having tried and failed to get her dad just to take her for a drive, to give her something to do that didn’t involve being trapped in the house or garden.
Jérôme
had refused point-blank. He wondered if it was because he still felt the same unease around his dead daughter, but he didn’t think that was it. It was fear for her, not of her. The thought of discovery appalled him, because he had no idea what it would mean. At the very least, their lives would no longer be their own. Press hysteria, public hysteria, and Camille… He didn’t want to think about what would happen to Camille.
The only place for her was out of sight, safe and monitored.
He was having another cigarette in the back garden when Camille came down. She gave him a nervous half smile, and he gave her an apologetic shrug. When he’d refused her request to get her out of the house, he’d kept his specific fears to himself, hoping to spare her. It had made her all the more difficult to convince.
“If you give me a cigarette,” she said, “I’ll forgive you.”
Jérôme raised an eyebrow.
“What?” said Camille. “You’re worried I’ll get cancer?”
Jérôme found himself smiling—Camille had always had a sharper sense of humor than Léna. Besides, she was right, and here was a chance to earn some trust. He offered her one. “Don’t tell your mother.” She lit it with a practiced ease that left Jérôme in no doubt she’d done it many times before.
“Are you and Mum separated?” Camille asked, casually blowing out a lungful of smoke.
“No,” he said. Claire wanted them to keep it from her, for as long as they could. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re being nice to her. It’s weird.”
He laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed like that since Camille’s return, he thought. Then he corrected himself. It was the first time since Camille had died.
“And you’re sleeping in the spare room,” Camille said. “Don’t tell me it’s because you snore.”
“I thought I was being careful, going to bed after you were asleep.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Still?”
Camille shrugged. “I get tired, and I lie down. After a while I’m not so tired.” She seemed very matter-of-fact about it. “But don’t change the subject. You and Mum?”
“Let’s just say that we’ve been taking some time off. Things were complicated after the accident. I was selfish and your mum had had enough of me. I have a little apartment in town now.”
She put her arms around him and gave him a hug. “It can’t have been easy.” He hugged her back, suddenly emotional; it was the first time he’d touched his daughter since she’d come back to them. Flesh and blood, the reality of her impossible to deny.
“God, no,” he said. “It was especially hard on your sister.”
Camille pulled out of the hug and nodded. “I know. I’ve lost a sister too.”
Jérôme put his hand on her shoulder. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
• • •
When Claire and Léna came back from the funeral, Léna went off to change for college, Camille following her upstairs.
“Things seem a little better between them,” said Jérôme.
“And what about with you?” asked Claire.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said with confidence. “Things are much better. And I was thinking. Camille can’t stay bottled up inside forever. We have to consider moving.”
“To go where?”
“I don’t know yet. A place where no one knows who she is. Camille could live normally, without running any risks. We could breathe.”
“I’m not sure,” said Claire, looking anxious. “With so much upheaval already, Jérôme, we can’t do anything hasty.”
“It would change everything, Claire. We could have a normal life again, go back to being a family. Nobody would know us or what had happened to us.” He saw the reluctance in her face. It was as if she didn’t even want to consider it, and he realized what her problem was. Moving away was, it seemed to him, the only way to bring their marriage back from the brink, and Claire clearly wasn’t sure if she wanted that. Jérôme thought of Pierre, and it took real effort not to let anger show in his face. “It would be good for Camille. Think it over, OK? I have some things to sort out at my apartment, but I’ll be back later. We can talk then.”
His relationship with Claire wasn’t the only one that needed rebuilding. Léna had certainly never forgiven him for letting her mother down so badly after Camille’s death—and for letting Léna down too, not least by allowing the family to disintegrate the way it had, giving up on it almost without a fight. He had failed them all.
When Léna came down, Jérôme insisted he give her a lift to college. She was, as always, frosty with him, but she accepted. He’d hoped they could talk, but instead they spent the journey in silence. Just as she was about to get out of the car he stopped her.
“Léna,” he said. “Have you mentioned Camille to anyone?”
She scowled. “Yeah, loads of people. I thought I’d put it on Facebook.”
He waited for her sarcasm to settle. “Please, this is serious.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything. Besides, who would believe me?”
“Your mother and I think it’s best for Camille if we move. Things are too complicated for her here.”
Léna’s eyes widened. “What about me? It’s not complicated for me? I have friends here. My life is here. I’ve already had to rebuild it once before. I don’t plan on doing it again.”
“Come on!” he shouted. “You know it’s harder for Camille.” Léna was looking at him coldly. He took a long breath, then shook his head. “It would be for the best, for all of us.”
“So we move, and it’ll all be perfect?”
“It would be a damn sight better than it is now. This can’t work, not long term. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
Léna said nothing more. She just got out of the car and walked away.
Camille’s death had torn the family apart. By rights, her return should have brought them closer together and let Jérôme be the husband and father he’d once been. So far, though, he felt as if he was failing all over again.
• • •
When Jérôme and Léna had left, Claire spent half an hour cleaning the kitchen. The moment she’d come back from the funeral, she had quietly noted the mess it had been left in. Jérôme and Camille had made sandwiches, jars open, crumbs everywhere. Léna’s bedroom might always be chaotic, but at least in the kitchen she took some care to clear up after herself.
The mess didn’t annoy Claire, though. Quite the opposite. She smiled as she tidied, imagining her husband and daughter interacting in such a simple, innocent way. He was getting his head around the situation, getting better at seeing Camille for who she was, and here was the physical evidence.
Finished, she took the full trash bag from the cabinet under the sink and took it out to the cans at the back of the house. She opened the lid, ready to toss the bag in, and gasped when a cloud of blowflies buzzed out and circled her before settling back inside.
It took her a moment to work out what it was, sitting on the few bags already in the can. All she saw at first was the blood, and the innards. A rabbit, she realized. Torn open, ripped into pieces, and discarded here, and whoever had…
She stopped the thought that came into her head, stopped it dead in its tracks. She guessed that the rabbit would have been put in there overnight, but how it got there wasn’t something she wanted to think too much about. A fox, she told herself. A fox must have gotten it, and someone put it in there afterward rather than just leaving it lying around. Jérôme, maybe.
Yet she knew she wouldn’t raise it with Jérôme. All she could picture was the torn photo albums, and the blank expression Camille had had on her face.
Wanting the rabbit gone, she fetched a large refuse sack and tipped the contents of the can out into it, tying it again and again, the flies still buzzing inside the black p
lastic.
She washed her hands and went upstairs.
Camille was in the bathroom. Claire felt suddenly uneasy. Camille saw her and smiled.
“Did you sleep last night?” said Claire.
Camille shook her head.
“And did you go outside at all?”
“Of course not,” said Camille. “I tried to read for a while, then I ended up listening to music.”
Claire nodded, trying to tell herself not to think so much, not to worry so much. She washed the thoughts from her mind, just as she’d washed her hands.
“So how do I look?” said Camille.
“Is that Léna’s shirt?”
“Yeah. Does it suit me?”
Claire saw how desperately Camille wanted her to say yes. She nodded. “It’s a little big, though. Why don’t I go out and buy you one in your size?”
“Can I come too? Please? We won’t stay long, and we won’t see anyone. I promise.”
Claire paused. She knew what Jérôme would say, but it was distressing to see her daughter shut in like this. Who knew what effect it was having on her?
She nodded, telling herself it was for the best, to give Camille some relief from her imprisonment. She also made a mental note to be sure to lock the doors at night.
• • •
Claire took them to one of the quieter clothes shops in town, one with a parking lot at the back. It wasn’t busy, she was glad to see. Empty almost. And while Camille went through the racks at the rear of the store, deciding what she would try on, Claire tensed, keeping one eye on the few other customers drifting in and out of the front entrance. She didn’t recognize anyone.
“How about these?” said Camille, holding some tops and jeans. “This one’s nice, isn’t it?”
