The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  “Léna’s sick,” said her mum.

  “Yeah, right. She doesn’t seem that bad.”

  Her mum looked at her, patience gone. “She has a temperature. Anyway, you’ll enjoy it. It’ll be fun.”

  “I promise you, Mum,” said Camille. “It won’t be.”

  And off she went, off to school, onto the bus, her parents giving Léna the benefit of the doubt, same as always.

  Then they were Léna, lying in bed, feeling more than a little smug at the deception, waiting.

  Waiting for Frédéric.

  She’d told him to give it ten minutes once they’d gone, just in case. She heard the sound of him climbing the trellis and reckoned he hadn’t quite managed to wait the full time. Too eager. She smiled.

  He knocked at her window.

  “Come in,” she said after she got up and opened it, trying to sound older. Sexier.

  They kissed.

  They were Camille now, sitting on the bus, bored, listening to music, wishing she was at home.

  They were Léna, as Frédéric moved on top of her and asked her, “Are you sure you want to?”

  “It’s not that,” she said.

  “Is it because of Camille?”

  “It’s not fair to her,” said Léna. “She’s sort of in love with you.”

  “But I’m in love with you. Sort of. A bit.”

  “Just a bit?” She laughed and hit him lightly. “You bastard!”

  “A big bit.”

  And they kissed again.

  They were Camille, feeling uneasy for no reason she could pinpoint, watching the trees pass by on the mountain road.

  They were Léna, passion raging within her, feeling Frédéric position himself.

  “Léna,” he said, anxious. “Have you ever done it?”

  “No. Have you?”

  He shook his head, a look of fear on his face that made her love him more. And then he was inside her, and the feeling stole her breath.

  They were Camille, as a shock of sensation hit her, terrified her, and it rose and rose until she couldn’t take it. She stood, gasping for air, and went to the front of the bus.

  “Are you OK, Camille?” her teacher asked.

  “Please let me out,” said Camille. She was close to panic, the heat within her overwhelming. “I have to get off.”

  “You can’t get off,” said the driver. “Wait until we’ve passed these turns. It’s too dangerous to stop here.”

  “Please let me out!” she screamed, and she moved to the door, banging on the glass as her teacher tried to take her arms, as the driver shouted at her, looking at her, distracted, then saw something in the road ahead of them. Suddenly the bus veered wildly. Camille felt herself thrown hard into the door, catching a brief sight of what the driver had swerved to avoid: a small boy, the glimpse too fleeting to let her see his face, to have any more than an impression of him standing there, impassive.

  The bus shuddered as it hit the guardrail at the edge of the road. At the edge of the steep drop down.

  Then the bus was falling. Camille watched as the ground came to meet them.

  They were Léna once more. Léna, suddenly bereft, unable to tell Frédéric what was wrong. He moved to kiss her again, and she pulled away.

  • • •

  Léna and Camille both woke from the dream at the same time. They sat up. All they could do was look at each other and see the guilt and tears in their eyes.

  Betrayal, they both thought. Betrayal, and more than that. Blame. Blame for the crash itself.

  Camille was staring at Léna, stunned.

  Léna held her sister. “It’s not our fault,” she said over and over. They wept together, the others in the dorm still asleep.

  81

  Laure woke in the car with Julie’s head on her lap and looked around. The dam was shrouded in fog, thick and impenetrable. When they’d stopped halfway across the dam last night, it had been with the intention of moving on once the light came, once their route was unmistakable. Neither of them had wanted to keep driving in the dark.

  Awake, with a clear road and the sun overhead, surely whatever had happened before, whatever kink in the natural scheme had led them in circles… Surely that would be powerless in the day.

  Not if the day was like this, she thought now. They would have to wait longer than planned.

  Julie stirred.

  “Morning,” said Laure. Julie smiled, and Laure looked in the back of the car. Victor was there, watching. “How long have you been awake?” she asked him. He smiled. “Didn’t you sleep well?” He shook his head.

  “He hardly ever sleeps,” said Julie.

  Laure made no comment, but inside she resolved to get moving as soon as the fog had lifted at all, even if it only thinned out a little.

  “Did you get some rest?” asked Laure.

  “Some,” said Julie, but Laure’s eyes had fixed on something in the rearview mirror.

  “What’s that?” she said, half whispering. She got out of the car, went to the back. On the rear windshield were handprints in the condensation left by the fog. Handprints, covering the glass. Julie got out too and joined her, followed by Victor.

  Laure knelt to Victor’s level.

  “Did someone come to the car last night?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were there many of them?”

  “Yes.”

  Julie looked at her, frightened, then turned to the boy. “Victor, this is very important,” she said. “What did they want?”

  He looked scared. “To take me with them.”

  “They told you that?”

  “No,” he said. “But I knew.”

  Laure felt herself shiver. She wanted to get back into the car, out of the damp mist, but then she saw something else. A shape, only just visible, almost lost in the white. She put her hand on her gun and took a step closer. Then the fog thinned momentarily, and she saw.

  “What’s he doing?” she said and broke into a run. It was a man, standing on the edge of the dam wall, just as Michel Costa must have stood a week before. As she approached she could see him clearly, and she recognized him as Toni Guillard, the manager of the Lake Pub. The man they’d had in for questioning about Lucy Clarsen and who for so long had been the main suspect in Julie’s attack.

  The man now wanted for firing on an officer the day before.

  “Toni?” she called. “Toni. Come down.” He looked undecided about the jump, she thought. “Please come down.”

  Julie, beside her, took a step forward. “I know him,” she said, distracted. She turned to Laure. “I think…I think I know him.” Then she walked on, reaching out to him.

  “Stay back here,” Laure told her, but Julie was already with him, hand outstretched. The man looked at her, dazed and shivering, then took her hand and came down.

  Julie turned. She had a curious smile on her face, but the smile fell away when she saw Laure training the gun on him.

  “Step away, Julie,” said Laure.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “He’s a wanted man. He shot an officer yesterday. Now step away.”

  82

  Léna woke once again to a bright room and her mother’s smile. For a moment the smile confused her, then she realized Camille was asleep beside her.

  “It’s the first time,” said her mum. “The first time I’ve seen her sleep since she came back.”

  Léna just nodded. She was still processing the dream she and her sister had shared, and she knew it was something that had to stay between the two of them.

  “Breakfast won’t be long,” said her mum. “And we’ve had some new arrivals this morning.”

  “Arrivals?” said Léna. The look in her mu
m’s eye was a little odd.

  “Frédéric’s here,” she said. “With Lucho. Their parents all stayed at home, but those two came here. Apparently they’d been looking for you.” Her mum paused for a second, then added, “You and Camille.”

  Léna sat up while her mum stroked Camille’s hair with that detached smile she sometimes had. One that suggested tears just below the surface.

  Camille woke. “Mum?” she said groggily. “Did I sleep?”

  “You slept, my love.” Then her mother’s smile vanished. “What’s that?”

  Léna knew at once what she’d seen, but even she was shocked when she looked. The mark on Camille’s face had deteriorated badly overnight.

  “Is it worse?” Camille asked, her hand up to the wound, her eyes looking terrified as she felt the edges of it—how it had grown and spread.

  “What is it?” said her mother, frightened.

  “It’s OK, Mum,” said Léna, forcing some calm into her voice for the sake of her mum and Camille. “I’ll fix it. A little makeup and nobody will see.” She put her hand on her mother’s arm. “Nobody will see.”

  • • •

  Léna took Camille to the bathroom and applied makeup to mask the wound on her face. It was so much bigger now, a dry, darkened patch of broken skin. Neither of them spoke about it, or of what it might mean. Instead, Léna told Camille about Frédéric and Lucho.

  “I don’t know why they came,” said Léna.

  “To look after you,” said Camille. “They’re your white knights. They just want to make sure you’re safe. Like Sandrine and the rest—that’s all they really want too. For you all to be safe.”

  “I don’t need them.” Léna smiled. “You’re not dangerous.”

  Camille looked at her, serious. “They could be right, Léna. Maybe I am dangerous.”

  “You’re not, Camille. Trust me.” And with that, Léna finished and put the makeup away. “Wear your hair a little over it, like this.” She pulled some of Camille’s hair across and nodded, satisfied that the mark was hidden.

  It was the kind of mark, she thought, that she had seen on other faces. In the dark woods, on the faces of the people by the fire who had turned to her.

  Turned to her, with nothing in their eyes but hunger.

  • • •

  Jérôme was waiting for Claire and the girls when they finally came for breakfast. Claire looked uneasy, he thought. He was uneasy too. When he’d come into the canteen, he’d seen that someone had written a quotation from the Bible on the whiteboard: And there shall be no more death, nor sorrow. Revelations 21:4.

  He could guess who’d put it there.

  They joined the short line and got their food, Camille generously filling her plate as always. Frédéric and his friend were sitting outside, Jérôme saw. He watched his daughters as they both looked over toward the boys while trying to appear indifferent.

  “Strange to think what’s happening down there,” said Jérôme, nodding through the large windows toward the town. Up the valley, the dam itself was covered in mist, which was rolling gently down to the buildings below, dissipating as it went. “It looks so quiet, but…”

  But. Everything had changed, of course. Pierre had taken Sandrine and Yan to the hospital the previous evening, only to return with news that Jérôme had found the most ominous of all. The hospital had been evacuated. Their generators had failed, and as a result, there wasn’t even an emergency presence, just a handful of doctors and nurses holding on, assisting however they could, telling those few who came that help would be arriving soon—in the next few days was all they had said.

  Jérôme had been left with a terrible sense that those who’d left the town had done so without looking back. He wished they’d done the same thing.

  Sandrine came in for breakfast then; the four of them watched her take a seat, eyes red, with only a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice in front of her. Claire tilted her head toward her, eyes on Jérôme. Should I? she was asking.

  Jérôme shook his head, to show uncertainty rather than disapproval. He would bow to Claire’s judgment on something like this.

  Claire made up her mind and went over. “If I can help at all…” she said tentatively.

  Sandrine looked up and Jérôme could immediately see how this would play out. “I don’t want your pity,” she said, bitter. “You know what I want? I want those monsters out of here.” She looked over at Camille, then to where Viviane Costa was sitting.

  Camille was watching Sandrine warily. “Eat up,” Jérôme said to his daughter.

  “It’s not their fault,” he heard Claire say.

  “Are you blind?” said Sandrine, her voice getting louder. She was drawing looks from everyone in the room now. “This is all because of them. It’s their fault my baby’s dead. It was Camille who made the Koretzkys commit suicide. They’re sucking the life from everything, can’t you see it? Even the town is dying now.”

  Pierre hurried over from the kitchen. “Sandrine,” he said. “Listen to me. None of us can possibly understand what you’re going through, but it’s not fair to blame Camille and the others.” He raised his voice a little, purposefully addressing the room. “It’s all too easy to give in to prejudice and believe that they’re dangerous. But they’re caught up in this, just as we are. They’re not responsible for what’s going on and they need our help. We must all stand together. The Helping Hand is open to all, don’t you see? That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it should stay.”

  • • •

  Once they’d finished breakfast, the girls went off, and Claire volunteered to help with the dishes. Jérôme bowed out. He found himself watching the town, chain-smoking through the last of his cigarettes. The last he would see for some time, he was starting to think.

  He saw Pierre taking two of the other parents down the steps by the side of the Helping Hand, into some kind of basement. He waited for a minute, then followed, wanting to talk to Pierre and show that he appreciated the man supporting Camille, whatever their personal differences.

  The stairs led to a concrete corridor, the door to which was ajar. Jérôme went inside and saw the extensive supplies stashed away down there, essentials that would be invaluable.

  He found himself nodding, approving of the foresight Pierre had shown. He absently looked to see if the man had included cigarettes in his definition of “essential.”

  “I just wanted you to be reassured,” he heard Pierre say. Jérôme looked. There was another open door farther on, and he wandered up to it to see Pierre standing with the other two parents in front of some kind of cage. Then the parents turned, coming back past Jérôme.

  “Hi,” Jérôme said as he approached Pierre.

  Pierre was looking at him with a familiar expression of suppressed irritation. “What are you doing down here?” he said.

  “I wanted to thank you for sticking up for Camille,” said Jérôme.

  Pierre produced a magnanimous smile that Jérôme tried to ignore. “Of course,” he said. “Anyone who comes to the Helping Hand deserves our protection, Camille especially. We can only get through this, Jérôme, if we stick together.”

  Jérôme nodded and casually looked to his side. What he saw took his breath away. He stared at it. “What’s all that for?” His eyes moved over it all: guns, ammunition, gas masks, what seemed like grenades, for Christ’s sake…

  “You never know when they might be needed,” said Pierre. “Sometimes, words aren’t enough. If we need to, the Helping Hand can lock itself down. Metal shutters surround the building. There are doors down here that lead to the basement under the dorms. We can seal ourselves in, with water, food…and other supplies.” His hand knocked three times against the cage that held the arsenal. Then he turned, almost triumphant, but the triumph faltered when he saw the expression on Jérôme’s face.

  “I always t
hought you were out of your mind,” said Jérôme. “Who the hell are you planning to use this on?”

  Pierre raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Think of Camille. She needs you. She needs us all.”

  Jérôme suddenly felt claustrophobic. He hurried back up the stairs and took out his final cigarette. He needed it. Ahead of him, the dying town; behind him, the Helping Hand. Neither option felt encouraging.

  His cigarette finished, he went into the main building and found Claire washing up. He moved close to her, whispering urgently.

  “Pierre has a stash of guns,” he said. “I think he might use them.”

  “And?” said Claire calmly.

  Her lack of surprise caught him off guard. “He’s a little eager for an apocalypse, don’t you think?”

  “So what would you do if they came for Camille? Put your hands in your pockets?”

  “You knew?” he said. She nodded. “Claire, we have to get away from here. This is madness.”

  “Get away?” she said, dismissive. “Run? That’s all you ever do. You could never face up to anything. My grief, Léna’s anger… Now you want to run again.”

  He felt the strength leave him. She had every right to say that to him, every right, but now… “She isn’t safe here,” he said. “None of us are safe here.”

  “She’ll never be safe,” said Claire. “Anywhere. Running is pointless.”

  He looked at her, unable to respond, knowing that whatever the relationship was between his wife and Pierre, in some ways, it didn’t matter. He’d already lost her to the man’s ideas.

  He paused for a moment, then nodded. The decision was made.

  They were staying. Come what may.

  83

  Things in town had been quieter overnight than Thomas had feared, although much of the silence was probably due to the almost total blackout of communication. People would be feeling isolated now, another reason why the patrols had to be as visible as possible.

  He’d gotten to the station not long after five that morning and had watched Delaître as day broke over the town. Delaître, trapped in his cell, unfed, immobile.