The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  “Shit shit shit,” yelled Toni, and Léna wondered if he was swearing or just describing what was bubbling up around him. He looked at her with eyes that had just had enough. “I don’t know, OK?” he snapped.

  “Calm down. Just tell me if he comes back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, and, Toni,” she said, smiling. “You never said you had a brother.” She winked. For whatever reason, Toni looked horrified.

  • • •

  With no luck at the pub, Léna went around to Adèle Werther’s house and waited awhile. The pub wasn’t due to open for another hour—plumbing disasters aside—and with the only option being to head back home, she was in no hurry. She sat and thought about Frédéric and Camille. About the promise she’d made to her sister. The promise she’d broken.

  Adèle turned out to be a dead end too. She didn’t seem to know who Léna was talking about, and she’d acted a little odd. Other stuff on her mind, Léna supposed.

  Léna thought about heading over to Frédéric’s house, then decided against it. By the time she got back to the Lake Pub, it had been open for half an hour. Toni had pulled off a miracle, it seemed; there was no hint of the stink, although every door and window was wide open and the air was full of a mixture of harsh artificial scents.

  “Your brother not around, Toni?” she asked.

  Toni gave her a strange look before he answered. “Other things to do,” he said. He sounded odd too, just like Adèle.

  Everyone was fucking odd today, Léna thought. “Bathroom good to go then?”

  At least that got a wry smile from him. “No, but they’ve stopped backing up. I got the ladies’ cleaned, but the gents’ is a disaster area. I’ve sealed it off.”

  “Like a crime scene,” joked Léna, but what little sense of humor Toni had seemed to desert him. His smile vanished.

  “I’ve put an out-of-order sign on them both until the plumber finally gets a look,” he said. “We still have one working toilet, so we’ll play it safe. But like I told you, expect lines.”

  She sat and slowly drank her beers, fending off friends, especially Frédéric. Right now she just wanted some time to try to sort out her head. Frédéric, for all his good points, was a distraction she didn’t need.

  “Coming out for a smoke?” he asked.

  “I don’t want company,” she said. “Just leave me in peace, OK?”

  “What’s up? Is it because of your dad?”

  “Leave me alone for a bit, huh?” she said. “I’m just not in the mood.”

  He got the message and left her to it, going outside alone for his cigarette. Five minutes later, Léna’s blood froze. Frédéric was coming back in, and who was trailing behind him?

  Camille. In new clothes, made-up with lips the color of blood, a knowing grin on her face.

  “So you were hiding your cousin?” said Frédéric, teasing.

  She shot Camille a look. What the fuck?

  “Hi, Léna,” said Camille, acting oblivious. “You were right about this place. It’s great!”

  Camille leaned close enough to whisper in Léna’s ear: “I’m Alice. Your cousin. Simple, huh?”

  It deserved another harsh look, and Léna gave it. Fuck, it wasn’t just that Camille was out in public, a huge risk for them all. It was that she was here, the one place that Léna could call her own. Somewhere to get a little space, a little peace, and now she waltzed in as if everything was completely normal…

  “What would you like?” asked Frédéric.

  “Same as you,” said Camille.

  “You two look so similar,” he said, gazing at Camille intently. “You know, when I first saw Alice, I thought, well, Christ…”

  “Tell me,” said Léna, unable to keep the anger from her voice. “What did you think?”

  Frédéric shrugged.

  Léna turned to Camille. “Do my parents know you’re here, Alice?” she said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Like hell. They wouldn’t let you out. You’re only fifteen.”

  “You’re fifteen?” said Frédéric.

  Léna wondered if the disappointment she heard in his voice was really there or if she was just thinking the worst of him. “I think you should go home, Alice,” she said. Camille was staring daggers at her.

  “Or what?” she asked.

  “Or I’ll call and tell them to come get you.”

  “Come on, Léna,” said Frédéric, trying to diffuse the situation. “Give her a break.”

  “You stay out of this, OK?” said Léna. She gave him a look that immediately shut him up.

  “You want me to go?” said Camille. “Want me to leave you and the boys in peace?”

  “Exactly.”

  They tried to stare each other down, but it was Camille who finally backed off. She stormed out. Léna saw the upset on Camille’s face, and she couldn’t help but feel guilty. But fuck her, really, she thought—it had been Camille’s stupid idea to come here, so she had nobody to blame but herself.

  Frédéric looked at Léna, exasperated. “What’s your problem with her?”

  Léna couldn’t talk to him. Where the hell would she even begin? She stood and went to the ladies’ bathroom, ignoring the out-of-order sign. It was empty and clean, that was all she wanted. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  Frédéric trailed in behind her, unwilling to let it go. “What’s going on?” he said. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  She burst into tears: sudden, brief—she didn’t know whether it was rage or misery that caused them. Then she put her hands on Frédéric’s neck and pulled him close, kissing him hard. She pushed him away again and they looked at each other, a deep need in their eyes. Then they were kissing, kissing, and she was pulling at his shirt, hunting for the buckle on his belt, undoing it, wanting him with a desperation that bordered on pain. Anything, anything to make her feel normal again, just for a while.

  Frédéric was equally frantic. He unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it off. He lifted her onto the sink unit, then he suddenly stopped.

  “What?” said Léna.

  “What’s that?” he said, looking at the reflection of her back in the mirror behind her. She turned to see. The wound on her back had grown. Reddened, weeping, it was at least four inches long, running down her spine.

  She pushed him away. Before he could touch her again, she did up her clothes and ran, leaving a confused Frédéric staring after her.

  28

  Pierre was arranging additional supplies for the basement storeroom; specialist supplies, of the type that could arouse the interest of the police if he wasn’t careful. It was necessary, but he felt uneasy about dealing with the kind of people who arranged these things. The medical supplies had been relatively easy, but defense was a different matter—and the Helping Hand needed to be able to defend itself if it became the refuge Pierre thought it might.

  He looked up and saw Simon through the window, walking up the road to the Helping Hand. He smiled to himself. He hadn’t been certain that the young man would turn up, but he realized that he should have had faith. He vowed that his faith would be total from now on. He went out to meet him. “You found us OK?” he said, smiling. Simon still had that expression of distrust, but Pierre hoped this was a hint that it was thawing.

  “Yeah,” said Simon. “I decided I might stay for a few days after all. I’m sorry if I seemed ungrateful before.”

  “That’s fine,” said Pierre. “I’m sure you had your reasons to go, but I won’t pry.”

  Simon looked thoughtful for a moment. “I had some things to think about,” he said. “Some things to come to terms with.”

  “But you’re here now,” said Pierre. He took Simon’s hand, shook it firmly, and gestured toward the main building. Pierre was proud of it, even if the paint was starting to pee
l here and there. It had been his persistence that had led to the church and the town hall funding its construction fifteen years ago. The outbuildings nearby were older and had been left as they were. They sufficed and had meant that the budget for the work could be spent on some of the more unusual elements Pierre had insisted on—the sturdy metal window shutters that could be deployed as protection, for example. “Welcome to our little refuge!” he said. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

  As they walked toward the entrance, Pierre was certain the skin of his fingers was tingling where he’d touched Simon. Some kind of harbinger, Pierre knew. Some kind of herald. Simon and Camille must be the messengers of God’s will, and he didn’t think God would mind the pride he was feeling now—that Pierre Tissier, of all people, should be chosen to help them. He thought of the captain’s warning for him to contact the police if Simon should reappear. A laughable idea.

  They went inside. The dormitory was low-ceilinged but long, with sixteen simple beds. “Here we are,” said Pierre. “Any bed you like. They may not look that comfortable, but appearances are often deceptive. You’ll sleep well.”

  “It looks fine,” said Simon. His eyes drifted up to look above the door, to the carved crucifix that had once hung in the vestry of the old village church, the church that had been drowned when the dam collapsed. Pierre had been there in the aftermath. It had changed him, of course. He had started that year on a precipice, involved with evil men for whom crime was a calling. Pierre had little to offer the world and had thought such a life might be his calling too. And then one Sunday morning, the dam had failed.

  The mournful wail of the sirens had filled the town, and fear gripped everyone as they heard the sound of distant collapse, the roar as the lake broke free. Panic, people running to high ground, thinking first of themselves as the weak struggled.

  Pierre’s first instinct too had been to protect himself. The urge to help slowly crept up on him as he saw the need others had.

  By the time the water reached the town, it was a spent force, a slow river carrying with it debris that told of horrors elsewhere. As one, the people around him looked toward the old dam far upstream, wreathed in impenetrable mist, and their thoughts were the same: the village.

  It took twelve hours before any kind of outside help was to reach the area. Until then, it was the volunteers from the town who braved their way up treacherous roads, Pierre foremost among them. They waded through deep, cold mud that threatened to suck them down with every step. Pierre saw two men lose their lives that day, trying to help others. He had been the first to enter the ruined church. He came out in tears, with a fierce grip on that crucifix. Forty had died in the church alone, trapped and drowned in the building that was now a tomb.

  The dead were everywhere.

  They found fifteen villagers alive. Ten of those died from their injuries before they could be taken to safety. Five survivors in all. Five who would have perished if the volunteers had not come.

  Many would lose their faith because of such appalling loss, but Pierre emerged with a determination. He had been a part of the darkness in the world for so long, and now he would fight the darkness.

  Yet the worst was still to come. Driven by his new determination, he had been involved in committing a sin that overshadowed all that came before, a sin that took him to the brink of total despair. His greatest misstep of all, a terrible crime born of the disaster itself. Born of the anger that followed it.

  But God’s plan, weaving and complex, was always at work.

  For while the collapse of the dam had shown him it was time to become a better man, it was only once he had fallen completely that he could start to rise, to let the old Pierre die and the new be born.

  “Rebirth,” he found himself saying.

  Simon looked at him, puzzled.

  Pierre looked back up at the crucifix. “Do you believe in God?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Pierre smiled knowingly. “But you believe in resurrection, don’t you? I know I do.”

  Simon looked at Pierre with narrowed eyes. He understands, thought Pierre. He understands that I know.

  Then the distrust seemed to slip away, replaced with a deep melancholy. Simon nodded. “I went to the town graveyard today,” he said. “I saw my own grave. I suppose I have to believe.”

  “And? You think it can just happen to anyone?”

  “Maybe for him…” said Simon, looking at the crucifix. “But I’m nobody.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Perhaps you’re not just anyone.” Pierre stepped forward and put his hand on Simon’s shoulder—on the herald’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure it will all become clear soon. I won’t leave you on your own. I won’t abandon you. There is a reason you’re here. It is the reason we are all here.”

  “Tell me,” said Simon. “Tell me the reason.”

  Pierre smiled. “I will,” he said. “In time.” When it is all ready, he thought. When the end approaches. And in that, he had total faith.

  29

  Julie hoped she hadn’t been too distracted to do a good job. Whatever else was happening, she owed it to her patients to try her best and leave her life outside their door. Normally that was easy, as her life consisted of little more than surviving.

  Today, though, it had seemed to take forever for time to roll around. Her thoughts were mainly with Victor. Was he OK, alone in the apartment? Why had he run away in the first place—or had he been abandoned? Why wouldn’t he talk to her? She’d bought him some paper and coloring pencils before getting the bus home, but she’d been unable to pick any toys for him. She had no idea what he would like, not yet.

  It was good that she had him to think about, though. Without him, she would have been thinking of nothing but the attack on the barmaid and the thought that he might still be out there. The man who had tried to kill her.

  Through the bus window, she saw a man walking past. Just a guy, but with a hooded top, his face obscured. Adrenaline hit before she’d had a chance to reason with herself. It was just another random man, nothing to fear, but her heartbeat grew rapid and her breathing became panicked. She was on the verge of hyperventilating. Her first few months out of the hospital had been exactly like this, she remembered. It was a bad sign. But she’d learned ways to deal with her anxiety, techniques that she brought into use now. Gradually her breathing slowed and she managed to settle her nerves.

  When she got back to her apartment the door was open.

  Victor.

  She stared at the door in shock for a few seconds, the self-recrimination hitting hard. How could she have left him by himself? Anything could have happened! She went inside, hurriedly checking the rooms. Victor wasn’t there. Had he gone? she thought. Gone, just as mysteriously as he’d turned up?

  She went to shut the front door and heard a noise from the hallway. A curious sound, one she couldn’t work out. A regular thud. She went back inside her apartment and grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk, then went out into the hall. She listened.

  “Victor?” she said, hopeful.

  The noise came again.

  Slowly, she went down the stairs, scissors in hand, her grip on them tightening with each step.

  With two flights to go before the first floor, the noise stopped. She continued, treading as quietly as she could, until she reached the bottom of the stairs. She looked around.

  Nobody. The area was deserted.

  Without warning the lights flickered and died. Only the dregs of the street lamps outside reached in here. She stood motionless, hoping for the lights to come back, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  She sensed something, a presence behind her in the gloom. As she turned, the lights flickered on and off, unable to lock in, but she could see him standing there.

  The man who’d attacked her seven years before. Back then,
she’d somehow blocked all memory of his face, unable to give the police any useful description, but she had no doubt who it was standing a few feet away from her.

  He was back. Seven years ago, he’d all but killed her. Her life since then had been an oversight, a technicality that he’d come to correct.

  He came at her, his speed and strength astonishing. One hand gripped her wrist, trying to wrestle the scissors from her as his other hand covered her mouth.

  “It’s OK,” he said. “No need for tears. Shh. Shh.”

  She felt him wrench the scissors from her grasp, saw him turn the point toward her, bringing the tip closer, closer to her stomach.

  “It’s over,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Closer.

  She closed her eyes, powerless.

  Then suddenly the man’s grip on her vanished and she felt instead a small, cold hand wrap around her own. She heard a voice, one she’d heard just once before. Victor.

  “Put it down,” said Victor gently. “You’re safe now.”

  She opened her eyes. He was holding her hands with a strength far beyond that of a child. She looked down to where he held them stationary, preventing them from moving any farther. Her own hands: with the scissors still in them, turned toward her stomach.

  She stared at the scissors for a moment before dropping them. Her attacker had never even been there, she realized. It had all been in her mind. Victor had saved her from herself.

  “You’re safe now,” said Victor again. He stroked Julie’s hair. She wrapped her arms around him, sobbing in dry heaves, and knew that he was right.

  30

  Thirty-five years ago, a small boy sat under the sheets of his bed while his brother told him of all the monsters he knew.

  Outside the sheets, the room was in darkness. Dressed in their pajamas, they both held flashlights, casting their shadows against the white coverings. His brother was nearly eleven, two full years older than him, and his list of monsters seemed endless.