by Seth Patrick
“What is it?” he said.
She looked at him, distraught. “What happened to you? Why did you want to die?”
“I didn’t want to die,” he said, almost pleading.
“But I saw you do it,” she told him. “I saw you.”
64
Laure got home after an exhausting shift. She had news for Julie, news she didn’t really want to pass on.
It had been an insanely busy day. Bad enough that they’d been trying to speak to every resident in town, but they were short staffed, some officers calling in early to say that they were doing what so many of the population seemed to be considering—getting out of town until the power was sorted out.
Those with no intention of going were the old, the isolated, those without family nearby, or indeed any family at all. Some of the doors that opened to her that afternoon had revealed frightened, suspicious faces; soon enough, reports of looting had started to filter through.
Amazing how short a time it took for people to revert to that kind of behavior, Laure thought. Cynicism was something that working on the force had a habit of nurturing, of course, but when it came to how low people could sink, and how fast, it was hard to be cynical enough. Civilization was only three meals away from anarchy, wasn’t that the saying? And yes, desperation and hunger made for a bad situation, but the reality of it was worse. All it took was the fear of hunger, and everything could go to pieces in an instant.
The moment she opened the door of her house and stepped inside, the thought of looters hit her square between the eyes.
Instinct. Instinct was telling her someone else was inside. She put her hand to her gun and took three quiet strides to her left to get a clear view of the kitchen.
Then she relaxed.
“You scared me,” she said.
“I decided to take you up on your offer,” said Julie. Beside her was Victor, tucking into a banana.
“Good,” said Laure. She was genuinely pleased to see them there. “So you kept your keys?”
Julie nodded, and Laure thought she could see a smile in Julie’s eyes. Not that Julie would have let that smile creep down and pop out on her mouth, of course, but Laure took some hope from it.
“Yeah,” said Julie. “I don’t throw anything out. With the power down, I was cooking on the stove we used in Belfort. Remember that?”
Laure nodded. She smiled but found herself overcome and unable to reply. It wasn’t just that Julie remembered that weekend, or even that she’d made the first real reference in seven years to the life they’d had together. It was that Julie’s smile had actually broken through as she’d spoken.
“Come on up,” Laure managed to say, and she headed for the stairs.
Julie followed after her, leaving Victor eating in the kitchen. “You’ve redecorated,” she said.
“Well, I painted. I had to do something with my time.” She threw Julie a grin to make sure she wouldn’t take that as some kind of jibe. “You can sleep in my room, if you like?”
“I’ll sleep in here with Victor,” said Julie, pointing to the spare room with the sofa bed.
“It’s up to you.” The mention of Victor reminded Laure that, with the boy still downstairs and out of earshot, now would be the time to bring up the news she had. “Julie, something’s happened.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded printout. It was the photo fit that Lucy Clarsen had produced of the man who’d stabbed her. “The barmaid who was attacked pulled through. She gave us this description of the attacker. We need to know if you recognize him.”
Julie stared at the still-folded paper in Laure’s hand.
“You don’t have to look now,” said Laure. “Not unless you’re ready.” Julie had never produced more than the vaguest description of the man who’d attacked her, having little clear memory of his face. Laure could see the indecision in her eyes.
Julie took the paper and unfolded it with unsteady hands. She gave it the briefest of looks before handing the paper back, giving a small nod.
“You’re safe here,” said Laure. She put her hand on Julie’s arm. Julie stepped toward her, put her head on Laure’s shoulder, and let Laure hold her. “You’re safe,” Laure said again.
65
Léna woke feeling better than she’d felt in a long time.
It wasn’t just that her wound had improved, or that she’d slept well. Or that she didn’t have a hangover for once, or the dry ache of too many cigarettes the night before. She felt better because she had some distance from the mess that was her family, and from Frédéric. She could pretend, for a while. Pretend that things were simple.
She got out of bed and looked around for the clothes she’d thrown over the top of her hospital gown when she’d absconded. They were on the floor in one corner of the room but filthy from her fall in the underpass. Worse, the hooded top she’d been wearing had a long stain from the wound on her back, dried and crusted into the fabric.
She heard the sound of ax on wood from outside. She went to the front door. Serge was out there, chopping logs for the stove. She watched him, suddenly grateful that he’d brought her here. Peace and quiet, away from the chaos.
Holding a log on the chopping block steady with his left hand, Serge brought the ax down. His aim was off, the ax glancing down the side of the log; he snatched his hand out of the way just in time.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, bending down to retrieve the log. Then he saw her, watching him from the doorway with a smile.
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Léna.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“It’s all right,” she said. The guy was awkward around her, and she found it endearing, a refreshing change from the wary distrust that Frédéric always seemed to exude. “Can I borrow some clean clothes?”
Serge nodded, setting down his ax, gathering the logs he’d already chopped. “I’ll see what we have,” he said, coming inside. “There’s stuff in the attic, I think. I won’t be long.”
She wandered through the kitchen, opening a door to a room she hadn’t entered before. Around the wall were dead animals, stuffed with varying degrees of success. She smiled at an owl that had a ludicrous expression on its face. She stepped into the room, seeing the knives, the tools, the equipment. This was a hunter’s lodge, she thought, fitted for taxidermy and butchery. She wondered which brother did what.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” said Serge from behind her.
Léna turned to see the unease on his face. She pointed to the stuffed animals. “Are these yours?”
“No, my brother’s.” He was holding out some clothes. “Here,” he said.
Léna took them. “Thanks. Whose are they, your ex’s?”
“My mother’s.”
“You sure she won’t mind?”
Serge looked to the floor. “She died,” he said.
Léna’s turn to feel awkward. She looked through the clothes and found a simple blue cotton dress she thought would fit. She went to remove her hospital gown and saw the way Serge was watching her, embarrassed but fascinated.
“Turn around,” she said, enjoying the guy’s discomfort. When he complied, she took off the gown. “The stuff you put on my back really worked,” she said as she pulled the dress on. “The pain’s gone completely.”
“I told you.”
The dress was light and comfortable. She even thought it might look good on her. “OK,” she said. “You can turn around again.” As he did so, he breathed in suddenly. She couldn’t help but smile. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe you…” said Serge, still staring at her. “Maybe you should be getting home.”
“When you found me, did you find my phone? It’s not with my stuff.” Serge shook his head. “My parents don’t know I’m here, do they?”
“No,” he said, then quickly added, “I a
sked you when I brought you here, but you told me not to tell them.”
Léna nodded. She couldn’t remember much about being found, but it sounded like the kind of thing she would say. “Good.” Her parents. Frédéric. Camille. Let them sort things out without involving her. “Would you mind if I stayed? Until tomorrow, at least?” Serge didn’t look keen; he was almost panicky. She couldn’t help but smile again. “What, girls make you nervous?”
He turned and walked away. “I’ll get us something to eat.”
• • •
She sat at the kitchen table while he cooked up some eggs on the old wood-burning stove. The place was so rustic, she was almost surprised the floor wasn’t covered in straw, but there was a certain charm to it.
She tried to start a conversation. “How come I’ve never seen you around?”
“I’ve been away.”
“Well, you’re in good shape,” she said with a coy smile. “You look after yourself?”
“Manual labor,” he said, dishing food onto the plate in front of her.
She reached over and squeezed his bicep. He almost jumped out of his skin at her touch. “OK, OK,” she said. “Relax.”
Serge looked deeply serious. “Toni doesn’t know you’re here. If he comes and sees you…he’ll call your parents.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“You don’t like them?”
“Mum and Dad? Let’s just say I could do without them for a while. They want me to be someone I’m not.”
Serge gave a solemn nod. He understands how that feels, she thought. He set about eating the food in front of him, taking a huge hunk of bread from the loaf on the table. They ate in silence, Serge with his uncomfortable expression, almost furious, avoiding looking at her. He only said one more thing during the meal, suddenly looking up, earnest. “Can people change, Léna?” he said. “Make a promise to change and see it through?”
“I guess,” she said. “As long as they want to change enough.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Serge. He kept eating.
• • •
After the meal, Serge went out hunting. He would kill some rabbits, he said. Make a stew for dinner. Léna smiled at him, and Serge actually smiled back in his shy way. He was completely different from any other man she’d met. Most would have tried to hit on her long before now, but Serge seemed almost intimidated by her. She rather enjoyed the fact that he was so unbalanced and unsure around her—it was sweet.
He locked the front door. In case Toni turns up, he said, and it was only after he’d gone that Léna realized he’d taken the keys with him. It would’ve made more sense for her to keep the keys inside, she thought.
She dozed on the bed for a while, then sat up, wanting to make herself something hot to drink. She sensed movement outside and hid, just in case it was Toni, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been seen. A few seconds later, a knock came at the door.
“Let me in. Open up. It’s Toni.”
Léna stayed still. If Toni saw her, he’d make her go back, and she wasn’t sure she was quite ready for that yet. A little more peace and quiet away from the undead sister and bickering parents couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Open the door,” said Toni. “Mum, please. You have to forgive me. I had to stop Serge; he was out of control. It’s taken me all these years to realize I was wrong. I should have found another way. I’m sorry, Mum. I shouldn’t have killed him. I shouldn’t have killed Serge.”
The words rang around inside her head, the meaning slowly becoming clearer. Suddenly, Léna felt colder than she’d felt in her life.
66
“Mum,” yelled Toni again. He could feel the tears coming. He had to talk to Serge, had to warn him that the police had linked him to the attacks, that he had to stay hidden at all costs.
“What are you doing?” It was Serge’s voice, behind him. Toni turned around. “She doesn’t want to see you,” sneered Serge. “Leave us alone.” He had a brace of rabbits over one shoulder, and Toni’s rifle slung over the other.
“The police are on to you,” said Toni. “They have a description from Lucy. The picture they’ve put together looks exactly like you. You have to stay indoors while I think of something. It’s only a matter of time before someone gives them your name and they come here.”
Serge opened his mouth but said nothing. That shut him up, Toni thought. He finally realizes there might be repercussions to his actions. He was almost awed by the simple faith his brother seemed to possess in his immunity from consequences. “Stay here,” Toni said. “You and Mum, stay inside. Don’t answer the door for anyone and you’ll both be safe.” He stepped forward and took the rifle off Serge’s shoulder. “I’ll protect you. I’ll think of something. I’m your brother.”
Toni watched Serge go inside. He took a position in the trees overlooking the road. I’ll protect you, he thought. This time I’ll make sure you’re safe. And then, maybe…maybe he’d earn something in return.
• • •
From the moment she’d heard Toni’s revelations, Léna knew she had to get out of there.
I shouldn’t have killed him. I shouldn’t have killed Serge.
Something had been different about Serge, she’d known that. Really, she had. Something dangerous, something that had repelled and appealed at the same time.
But not that. Not that. Christ, she thought she’d left that kind of thing behind her in town.
Locked in the house, she took a knife from the hunting room and went to the attic. And waited. She could hear the muffled voices of Toni and his dead brother discussing things. Then at last she heard the key in the front door.
“Léna?”
She held her breath, but the floorboards in the attic betrayed even the slightest shift in weight. She heard them creak and so did Serge. It wasn’t long before he climbed up there to find her.
“Stay where you are,” she said, brandishing the blade in shaking hands.
“What are you doing?” said Serge. He looked disappointed, hurt.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Put the knife down.”
“Tell me.”
“I told you the truth. My name is Serge. I’m Toni’s brother. And I won’t hurt you.”
“What happened to you?” said Léna. “Are you dead?”
“Calm down,” said Serge. He stepped toward her. She wanted to run at him, knife ready, but something was stopping her. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I promised. You can trust me. You can trust me, Léna.” He stepped closer. He took the knife from her hands, dropped it behind him. He looked as though he was ready to cry. There was something so lost about him. It was an emotion she could relate to; she’d been lost ever since Camille had died, possibly more so since her return.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, but he was looking at her so strangely, as if she was entirely alien to him, as if he found the very idea of her mystifying. He put his hand on the side of her head, brushing her hair away from her ear, looking scared. “I won’t hurt you.”
He kissed her quickly—pulling back as if it were the worst thing in the world, looking almost horrified at himself. Then he kissed her again, the hunger in him demanding a response.
Léna didn’t know what she was feeling. A rush of thoughts hit her. Frédéric. Camille. Her parents. But most of all, guilt. Guilt at what had happened, four years before, feeling Frédéric deep inside her as Camille…
Wanting the thoughts gone, Léna kissed back, held him, grasped for him. She was lost in it. Both of them were, she knew. Two lost souls, desperate and scared.
• • •
The police came two hours later. She was in a light sleep when she heard them call out. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.
“Is anyone home? Hello?”
&
nbsp; She felt Serge move from the floor beside her. They rose slowly and went to the attic window. Two policemen outside.
“Hello?” one called.
Toni slunk into view outside, rifle pointed at them. “What do you want?” he said. Léna watched the rifle, praying it didn’t fire. The officers made a show of not reaching for their guns.
“Stay calm, Toni. We want to ask you about your brother. It’s about the attack on Lucy Clarsen.”
“My brother left here years ago,” said Toni, stark aggression in his voice. “So be on your way.”
The two officers were watching him keenly, taken aback by the confrontation. One officer held his hands out, trying to calm things down. “Don’t do this, Toni.”
The other officer reached for his weapon. Toni swung the rifle toward him and shot him in the leg; he fell to the ground, clutching at the wound, screaming. Léna jumped at the sound of the shot, but Serge was beside her, a calming hand on her shoulder.
With his hands high to show he was no threat, the uninjured policeman went to his partner’s aid, helping him stand. The pair hobbled to their vehicle. They cast cautious glances back at Toni, whose gun was still trained on them.
“Get lost,” yelled Toni. “And don’t come back.”
The policemen fled. Toni sank to his knees in the grass, crying. He looked up to the attic window.
Serge pulled back out of sight. He looked at Léna. “You have to leave,” he said. “Please. The police will be back, and Toni mustn’t see you. Please.”
Léna was in shock. She was staring at Serge as she let him guide her downstairs. He showed her out of a back door.
“Run,” he said, pointing. “That track takes you down to the lake.”
So she ran. The tears came soon enough.
We want to ask you about your brother. It’s about the attack on Lucy Clarsen.
I had to stop Serge. He was out of control.
She ran, losing the track. She tried to continue going downhill but kept hitting thickets that almost defeated her. She ran without a plan, and without a plan, she was lost.
