Trespass. Part 15

He told her he'd been searching for the car keys night and day. He said, 'I swear, I go walking around the house, searching for them in my sleep... but I can't find them.'

'Did you look in the chest,' asked Audrun, 'where the old family papers are?'

'I don't know,' said Aramon. 'I don't know where I looked and where I didn't look.'

She took hold of his thin wrist and led him into the salon. She opened the shutters, closed against the midday heat, to let light into the room and she and Aramon knelt down by the chest, side by side.

Very quickly, they came across photographs of Bernadette, and Aramon's agitation seemed to be stilled by looking at these. One black-and-white picture was of Bernadette leading on a rope the donkey who had eventually died in the byre. Both she and the donkey, Audrun noticed, looked skinny, almost starved, and she said to herself that that was the condition you had to bear in the hills of the Cevennes in the middle of the twentieth century: you had to endure hunger. And then she remembered that she herself had endured it as a child and that this had been all right, just part of each day, each week, each month, and it was only the things that had come later that had been unendurable.

After a few moments of lifting out bundles of letters and newspapers, Audrun said: 'You know, we should really go through all these family papers properly. There could be important things in here.'

'Important once maybe,' said Aramon. 'But everybody's dead now. All the news is dead news...'

'And the letters?'

Aramon rubbed his eyes. 'Words,' he said. 'Just words.'

Audrun picked up a letter in Serge's handwriting and read aloud: 'My dearest wife, terrible bitter cold these nights and praying it may be kinder at La Callune for yourself and our beloved son, Aramon, and the little girl...'

'Beloved son?' said Aramon. 'Did he say that?'

Audrun pa.s.sed him the letter. 'Yes,' she said. 'Look.'

He fumbled with his spectacles and began reading. He held himself very still. Audrun saw tears begin to slide down the furrows in his cheeks.

'Aramon,' she said gently. 'When you die, who inherits the mas?'

'You do,' he said. 'It's the law. You're my only next of kin left alive. So you get it all if it's not sold, and if you're still breathing.'

He looked at her kneeling by his side, seeming not to mind that she could see his face all drenched with his sorrow. 'Clean it up, you could,' he said with a hint of a smile. 'Eh, Audrun? Even get your old flame Molezon over to have a proper look at that crack. N'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? If he can still haul his a.r.s.e up a ladder.' If he can still haul his a.r.s.e up a ladder.'

She nodded slowly.

Aramon put the letter from Serge aside, and began sifting through the papers remaining in the chest. Then he straightened up.

'The keys aren't in here,' he said. 'I would have remembered putting them in with all this family junk.'

Kitty lay in a hammock under a sickle moon. She stared up at this blade of moon and at the shrapnel of the stars scattered far and wide.

'Heartless!' her mother used to say, glancing up at the darkness above Cromer. 'Never expect consolation from the night sky.'

Kitty made the hammock sway gently. Her head rested on a striped cus.h.i.+on and she'd covered her body with a thin blanket. The garden all around her was almost silent. Now and then, there was a scratch of sound from the cicadas and the scoop-owl let out its anxious exclamation: 'Oh-ooo, oh-ooo!' 'Oh-ooo, oh-ooo!' But the mistral had died down. The branches of the two cherry trees, where the hammock was suspended, didn't move. No sound came from the house. But the mistral had died down. The branches of the two cherry trees, where the hammock was suspended, didn't move. No sound came from the house.

Kitty preferred to spend her nights out here now. It was all right to be alone, alone in the darkness, alone in her own little mind. Because she had to hang on to that. She had to hang on to being Kitty Meadows, fifty-eight years old, watercolorist, photographer, lover of women. She had to remind herself that she was, was, she existed, she would go forward into some kind of future, n.o.body had taken her life. she existed, she would go forward into some kind of future, n.o.body had taken her life.

But she wanted to leave Les Glaniques. She now wanted to leave the place where she'd been happier than anywhere in her life. Leave before her life was was taken. Because to be cast out as she was from Veronica's love was killing her. Every day, Kitty felt smaller, more ugly, more useless. And she could envisage no end to this. Unless, by some miracle, Anthony Verey was returned to Les Glaniques, returned to his sister... taken. Because to be cast out as she was from Veronica's love was killing her. Every day, Kitty felt smaller, more ugly, more useless. And she could envisage no end to this. Unless, by some miracle, Anthony Verey was returned to Les Glaniques, returned to his sister...

Kitty didn't mind much where she went. She decided she would buy a plane ticket to some destination she'd never imagined visiting: Fiji, Mumbai, Cape Town, Havana, Nashville Tennessee... She lulled herself to sleep picturing these places, seeing Fijian war dances, hearing country songs.

But her sleep was strange, as though it didn't quite happen except in short, vivid dreams, and when the sky grew light Kitty just felt surprised that a piece of time had pa.s.sed without her noticing it.

She lay still in her hammock and looked out at the parched condition of the garden. Birds came down from their night roosts to peck for worms in the gra.s.s, but the gra.s.s was full of dust and on it was a carpeting of brown cherry leaves, already falling. The lavender flowers, where a few bees still came to search for nectar, had lost all their colour. Leaf-moth was attacking the bays and the laurels, making the leaves blister and curl. Oleander blooms withered and fell.

The well was almost dry. The mayors of all the surrounding villages had agreed together on a hose ban. Vegetables could be watered; nothing else. Not even the dying fruit trees.

'The saddest thing,' Kitty had said to Veronica, 'would be to lose the apricots, wouldn't it?'

'No,' said Veronica. 'There's only one sad thing. Nothing else feels important to me. Not even the garden.'

Kitty, for once, had pressed on. She'd evoked for Veronica their first summer at Les Glaniques, when they were still discovering what flourished and what died in the garden. And when the apricot trees fruited, they'd found they had the sweetest, most abundant crop they could ever have imagined. They gorged on the juicy, pink-blushed apricots. They made jam and pies and glazed tartlets. Feeding apricots to Kitty in bed, Veronica had said: 'I can hardly remember a pre-apricot world, can you?'

But Veronica halted this retelling of past things. She put her hands up, as though trying to stop a moving train. She said she didn't want to think about all that 'normality'. She said she found any evocation of normality offensive. That was the word she used: offensive. offensive.

Then, she'd put her face in her hands. Staring at her bent head, Kitty had seen that her hair the thick head of hair she usually kept clean and s.h.i.+ny needed was.h.i.+ng and she thought that was.h.i.+ng Veronica's hair for her might be a consoling thing and so she gently suggested it. But Veronica didn't move.

'My hair's fine,' she said. 'Thank you.'

Kitty walked away. Gardening without Rain, Gardening without Rain, she thought, hadn't been a bad t.i.tle for a book. But Kitty knew now that it was a book that would never be finished. she thought, hadn't been a bad t.i.tle for a book. But Kitty knew now that it was a book that would never be finished.

Kitty felt the hammock sway slightly. She looked out at the stand of oleanders, blemished by yellowing leaves, and saw them move and she thought, The new misery in my life is like the mistral: it dies down at night and lets me encounter silk-weavers in Mumbai and wind-surfers on the Indian Ocean, and then back it comes with the morning. And there's nothing to be done. The wind sucks away the last drops of moisture from the poor, parched garden...

It was still early. Not yet seven. But she heard the telephone ring in the house and held the hammock still, listening and waiting. Lately, the ringing of the telephone had felt to Kitty like the rampaging of a wildcat, something broken free of a cage, intent on damage.

Kitty wondered, should she leave today? Packing wouldn't take long. She could just go her studio and parcel up some of the watercolours rejected by the gallery in Beziers, be careful to choose the best of these, to try to sell them somewhere when she ran short of money in her new destination. Then fill a small suitcase with clothes and shoes. Put in two photographs: one of Veronica and one of the house. So simple. And by tonight she could be in London or Paris, deciding on her future travel plans, imagining Veronica left to separateness and solitude, to the altered 'normality' she'd apparently chosen...

Now she saw Veronica, wearing her white cotton dressing gown, crossing the lawn, coming towards her, carrying a mug of tea, shading her eyes against the strengthening light in the sky. Kitty pushed back the blanket and swung her legs out of the hammock and jumped down from it. A sparrow was startled out of one of the cherry trees and flew away. Kitty stood waiting.

Veronica handed Kitty the tea.

'He was was at the Swiss house,' she said. 'They've got matching prints. So we know he was still alive at around lunchtime on that Tuesday.' at the Swiss house,' she said. 'They've got matching prints. So we know he was still alive at around lunchtime on that Tuesday.'

'Yes?' said Kitty, looking down at her tea.

'But that's all. It doesn't get us any further.'

Kitty began to sip her tea. 'What about the Mas Lunel?' she asked. 'Did you have the police check the sandwich wrapper I found?'

'No,' said Veronica. 'I don't know what I did with that bit of cellophane. I may have thrown it away.'

Kitty looked at her beloved friend. She thought, I'm no use to her any more. She's tired of the things I say. They stood in silence as the sun crept to the roofline of the house and gleamed on a blue-black starling pecking at the chimney stack, and then Kitty said: 'What I think is best is... if I go away.'

Veronica's arms were folded under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Now, she appeared to tighten her grip on herself, hugging the white robe to her, clutching her forearms with her big, workaday hands. She hung her head.

Kitty waited, but Veronica said nothing.

'I've been wondering where,' said Kitty. 'I guess it doesn't matter much. The world's huge and I haven't seen much of it. Only Norfolk and London. So it's probably time I did...'

'It can't be other than it is,' said Veronica, cutting Kitty off. 'Of course it's not fair not fair on you, the way I am. But I can't be any different. Each of us has the past we have.' on you, the way I am. But I can't be any different. Each of us has the past we have.'

Kitty wanted to say, Yes, sure, we each have our own history. But we can choose choose to leave it behind as I did. We can choose to go forwards and be free. to leave it behind as I did. We can choose to go forwards and be free.

But Veronica went on talking, not looking at Kitty, but looking at the ground and the fallen cherry leaves. 'In the school holidays sometimes,' she said, 'we went to stay with our cousins in Suss.e.x and they had a huge garden and they knew lots of other children and they'd all get invited over, and we'd make up teams for games, like cricket and rounders. And you'd have to stand in line, waiting to be picked, and what you prayed was that you were going to hear your name early on and then you could feel all proud about belonging to your new team.

'I was OK because everyone knew I was sporty and all that, but Anthony was never picked. He was always always the last one. He was the last one. He was always always left there on his own. I can still see it. His bandy little legs. This kid left there by himself because no one wanted him in their team. And I understood it somehow way back then, that I was the only person standing between Anthony and some colossal... tragedy. And I swore. I swore I'd never let go. And I never have. So that's just what left there on his own. I can still see it. His bandy little legs. This kid left there by himself because no one wanted him in their team. And I understood it somehow way back then, that I was the only person standing between Anthony and some colossal... tragedy. And I swore. I swore I'd never let go. And I never have. So that's just what is is and I've got nothing more to add.' and I've got nothing more to add.'

Veronica didn't wait for Kitty to speak, sensing no doubt that Kitty was unmoved by the story she'd just told. She turned round and walked away.

Kitty held on to her tea mug. Watched Veronica until she disappeared inside the French windows of the salon. Then she began spinning a globe clockwise in her mind: Morocco... Egypt... Sri Lanka... Thailand... Australia...

She thought about the vibrant life in these places and how she would go there and become part of it and try to paint the things she saw. She wished, though, that she could just arrive arrive somewhere at some still lakeside jetty, at some clean, inexhaustible expanse of desert without the lonely torment of the journey. somewhere at some still lakeside jetty, at some clean, inexhaustible expanse of desert without the lonely torment of the journey.

Aramon bought the newspaper every day now.

Some days, there were photographs of police searching the scrub. Some days, there was nothing about the Verey case as though it had already been forgotten. Then, the headlines would come creeping back: VEREY VEREY: still no clues. MISSING ENGLISHMAN MISSING ENGLISHMAN: police appeal for witnesses.

All the time, Aramon listened out for a siren, for the arrival of the police.

In the hot nights, sometimes, he believed he could hear the police car coming slowly up the pitted driveway and then stopping at a little distance from the house. He'd hurl himself out of bed and flatten his face to the window, and squint through the half-open shutters. He knew the shape of every shadow the moonlight cast on the terraces. His eye tried to identify each one, with his heart beating like an approaching train, while he held his breath, waiting for the dogs to begin barking. But the dogs stayed silent.

In his dreams, Serge beat him for his neglect of the dogs. His back and his a.r.s.e were skinned alive.

He went out early one morning, before the heat came, and opened the gate of the pound and let the dogs out to forage among the holm oaks. Then he began raking up the stinking earth inside the pound. He tied a handkerchief round his face. He trawled all the mess towards him and shovelled it, load by load, into a wheelbarrow and tipped it out into the scrub, scattering it over the dry earth, for the flies and dung-beetles to find.

Then he went down to the lean-to behind the barn where bales of straw were piled up. He knifed open a new bale and began tearing at the straw to load it into the barrow. He felt exhausted. The handkerchief on his face was soaking wet and he tore it off and threw it down. The sun was climbing the hills on the other side of the valley. Get it done, Aramon told himself. Spread the straw, fill the water trough, whistle for the dogs, pen them in. Take a drink of pastis to calm your heart. Then sleep...

He piled up the straw and pushed the barrow back to the pound. He wheeled it in and tipped the straw out and took up his pitchfork, to begin spreading it around over the newly raked earth. Then he felt the sun's heat strike him and he paused in his work. As he straightened up, his eye fell on something glinting in the soil in the far corner of the pound.

He stood the fork against the barrow and walked over to where the object lay. He bent down. He reached out and picked up a set of car keys.

The things that had to be done then... they made Aramon faint with terror.

He knelt in the pound, clutching the keys, smelling the clean straw, wis.h.i.+ng he had the life of a dog, blameless and uncomplicated. From his afflicted lungs came an agonised keening sound, barely human.

He left everything the way it was, his task unfinished, the water trough unfilled, the gate of the pound open, the dogs loose among the oaks, sniffing for the scent of wild boar.

He looked in the direction of Audrun's bungalow. He could see his own was.h.i.+ng on her drying line, everything still in shadow down there, and motionless, with no wind to move it. He dreaded seeing Audrun standing there, watching him. And he thought, If I postpone the things I've got to do, she'll arrive and find me and she'll see whatever is in the car and then everything will be lost.

He made his way to the barn. His walk was limping and crabbed, as though he were trying to dodge his own shadow. He held the keys bunched in his hand, so tightly they dug into his palm.

He inched the old barn doors open and went in and it was cold in the barn and the sweat on him seemed to turn to ice. He stared at the car, draped in its sacking, piled up with crates and boxes. He felt unable to move.

Suppose it really was there, the body of Anthony Verey, rotting in the hired car?

Aramon wanted to cling to something. Almost wished he could die right there, just fall onto the floor of the barn and cease to be. Because this thing thing had come into his life and blighted it. It had no name. There was no name he could give it because he didn't know what it was that he'd done. had come into his life and blighted it. It had no name. There was no name he could give it because he didn't know what it was that he'd done.

To make himself move towards the car, he had to imagine that Serge was behind him, Serge with his belt, whipping him on.

Go on, boy. Go on and open the door...

He pressed the lock release b.u.t.ton on the key fob. Lights flashed on the car.

Now you'll see what's waiting for you, waiting in the darkness...

He did it in one movement, reaching out and grabbing the handle and pulling the door, dislodging an empty apple crate, which crashed down beside him.

Immediately, it leapt at him, a foul stench in the car, and he cried out and slammed the door shut again.

He stood there, with his eyes closed, his breathing so fast and laboured that his chest burned with pain. To his dead father, he whispered, 'Take it away. Take it away from me...'

Then he heard a movement at the barn door: a scuffling and whimpering.

And he knew that some of the dogs had followed his scent and found him. And so an idea came to him: let the dogs find it. Let the starving dogs feast their eyes on it, let them tear it apart and eat it up... and then it will be gone and I'll never have to see it...

With his back turned to it, Aramon opened the car door again, opened it wide and then began calling to the dogs and they whimpered in response.

He shuffled to the door as fast as he could and opened it and they came bounding into the barn, three dogs, and clawed at him and he pushed them towards the car, knowing that smell was the sense that powered all their actions and that they would go straight to it, to that stench, and begin whatever it was their animal brains commanded them to do.

He went back to the open door, taking gulps of the fresh air. He heard the dogs' claws clattering and sliding on the bodywork on the car. One of them began barking. Then they were quiet and he knew they were in the car now, following the smell, and he waited for the frenzy to start.

Time seemed to stretch and tease Aramon. Outside, cicadas and bees were stirred from sleep as the sun warmed them. A buzzard turned in the blue sky. That's the world, the real world, thought Aramon longingly, and the black car is not part of it, but only part of some dark nightmare that I can't understand.

He sat at his kitchen table, gulping pastis.

There had been no dead body in the car.

The stench that had momentarily filled the air had come from a half-eaten and now putrid Camembert and tomato sandwich, which even the dogs had left alone.

Aramon had made himself open the car boot, but there had been nothing in the boot except a pair of binoculars and a floppy hat and an insulated bag containing a bottle of water. He closed and locked the car, with the sandwich still inside, because he couldn't bear to touch it. He called to the three dogs and walked out with them into the suns.h.i.+ne, with the car keys in his pocket.

Now, what occupied his mind as he gulped his pastis was how to make the car disappear.

He'd seen plenty of old films on TV where people succeeded in pus.h.i.+ng cars off cliff tops, in setting fire to them, or drowning them in a lake. But, they were always found in the end. There was always some charred or broken version of the car which came to light. Those movie scenes were exciting precisely because you knew that, no matter what the murderers did, the cars would be found.

Murderers.

Was he one of them?

Aramon knew that trying to get rid of the car was beyond him. He was too weak, too ill, to contemplate any kind of action in regard to it. He knew that it'd just sit there in the barn. It wouldn't move from there. He'd pile straw over it, to mask it from sight. He'd put a strong padlock on the barn doors. That was the best he could do.

He climbed his stairs, unsteady after the pastis. He went into the room which had once been Audrun's room, and which neither he nor she ever visited. The shutters were closed and the room felt cold. Aramon took the car keys out of his pocket and stuffed them away under Audrun's mattress.

Audrun began measuring the river levels.