The String Diaries Part 4

'There's one here.' She indicated the plastic briefcase.

'No good. I'll use my own.'

He was gone for less than a minute. When he returned he was carrying a bulky canvas roll and a black holdall. The canvas looked ancient, military, but when he unrolled it she saw it contained medical supplies that were modern and clean.

'Let's have a look at you, boy.' Sebastien rolled back Nate's blanket, selected a pair of scissors from his roll and snipped away the bandages. He nodded at the regulator. 'What's that?'

'Oxygen.'

'Wake him up. We need him conscious. And get that back into his mouth. It's no good if he's not breathing it.'

Hannah complied, sliding past Sebastien to rouse her husband. She pressed the regulator back into place. Nate moaned.

The old man peeled away the dressings, swearing at what he saw beneath. Gaping wounds, pooling with blood. 'Did you clean these?'

'Yes.'

'Not properly, you didn't.' Shaking his head, muttering more curses, Sebastien withdrew a pair of surgical gloves from a canvas fold and snapped them on. He spent a long time swabbing Nate's wounds with alcohol. Probing the edges of the first, he scowled as fresh blood welled. 'Deep. Very deep. But the lung isn't punctured. It's too low for that, and you'd probably see air bubbling up.'

He moved on to the second wound, air whistling in his nose as he concentrated. 'It's this one that concerns me. It's in the right place to have sliced through his intestine. I can't tell yet.' He selected a shiny metal instrument and teased apart the sides. Dark blood overflowed and ran down Nate's torso. 'I need to st.i.tch this. And quickly. We're going to have to do it a layer at a time.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'You know how to rig up an IV?'

'Yes.'

'Get a catheter into him. You'll find one in there.' He nodded towards the canvas roll. 'Saline bags in the holdall. And a line.'

They worked together for nearly an hour, their only words his instruction and her compliance. Hannah inserted a cannula into a vein on the underside of Nate's arm. She taped it in place and set up a gravity-fed drip, wondering how an ancient hermit could have access to medical saline bags. She guessed that he couldn't. Realised that her family weren't out of danger; worried that they might be in even more danger.

Hannah watched as Sebastien sutured Nate's wounds layer by layer, hands working with delicate haste. His green eyes glittered as he concentrated on his task, and his breathing grew more nasal. Without looking up, he asked her to pa.s.s him a swab and when she placed it into his upturned hand she saw a mark, or tattoo, on his wrist: faded, blue and indistinct, but plainly the silhouette of a bird of prey.

Moses sat by the fire, tail sweeping the flagstones, eyes fixed on the windows. Abruptly Sebastien sat back and pulled off his gloves. He pa.s.sed a hand across the top of his skull. Ma.s.saged his scalp. 'It's done.'

Hannah studied the neatly sewn wounds on her husband's torso, his shockingly pale skin, the dark, sunken patches around his eyes. His blue lips. 'Nate?'

Her husband stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused and dull. Corpselike. After a moment, he moved his head and looked at her. When he opened his mouth to speak she shushed him, telling him that it was OK, that he was going to be OK.

Hannah turned to the old man. 'What now?'

Using an arm of the sofa for support, Sebastien pushed himself to his feet. He flexed his shoulders. 'Now he rests. I'd prefer it if we could get him into bed, but it's best that he lies here for now. We don't want to risk those opening again.'

'Can we let him sleep?'

'Let's get some more liquids into him first.'

Hannah got to her feet and mixed another gla.s.s of sugar water. She held it to Nate's lips. He gulped it down. Closed his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep. Hannah found Sebastien's gaze upon her.

'I think,' he said, 'it's time for some answers.'

'Will he live?'

'That's a question.'

'It's the only question right now.'

He frowned. 'You agreed to be straight with me.'

'He's my husband.' Hannah gestured to the armchair where Leah slept. 'You're looking at our daughter. They're the two most important people in the world to me. They're all I have. And I need to know if he's going to live.'

'If your husband survives the night, he's got a good chance.'

'And his chances of surviving the night?'

'Do you believe in G.o.d?'

The question ambushed her, choked her. She couldn't speak.

Seeing her distress, Sebastien's face softened. 'If you do, pray. Because that's all either of us can do.' He sat down on a wooden chair at the table by the window. Moses padded across the room, arranging himself at the old man's feet.

Sebastien caressed the dog's head. 'OK,' he said. 'I've helped you as much as I can. If you're bringing trouble to the valley, I want to know about it. Question one: who stabbed him?'

Hannah remained still a moment, weighing up everything that had transpired. She felt her heart begin to thud in her chest. Moving to the cooker, she twisted the dial for one of the hobs and heard the hiss of gas. She found a box of matches and lit the range. Then she filled a kettle with water and placed it over the flame. 'You're right. You deserve answers,' she admitted. 'I'll tell you. But before we do anything else, let me make some tea.'

Sebastien's face relaxed. 'That would be most welcome.'

'I think there's powdered milk from the last century somewhere around.'

She knew she couldn't leave him with Nate for more than a moment. She had seen how quick and agile he could be. Opening the pantry door, heart a staccato drumming, she ducked inside. Found what she needed.

Back in the kitchen, Sebastien had not strayed from his chair by the window. He glanced up at her as she aimed the shotgun at his chest and thumbed the safety switch.

'I've seen that tattoo before, old man,' she said. 'You'd better start talking.'

CHAPTER 4.

Oxford.

1979..

Charles had only a moment to witness Nicole's car flip over before a line of trees blurred past on the left, blocking his view.

Hands tight on the steering wheel, teeth clenched in shock, he glanced once into his rear-view mirror before jamming his foot on the brakes. The Stag's bonnet dived and its tyres shrieked. Charles's seat belt snapped taut against his chest. He spun the wheel and turned around on the empty road.

What was she thinking?

Then another thought overtook him. Far darker than the first.

What have you done?

Driving back to the place where the Hillman had left the road, Charles turned through another U and nudged the Stag up on to the bank, out of the path of following traffic. He switched off the engine and rubbed his face. Examined his trembling fingers.

Was he responsible for the accident? Certainly, he had wanted to help her. But he could not pretend that his motivation had been entirely altruistic. He had been driven, just as much, by an urge to satisfy his curiosity. And a desire to see her again.

He opened his car door and jumped out. Bracing himself for what he might be about to see, he scrambled up the raised gra.s.s verge. A bramble-choked drainage ditch separated him from the field. Beyond the ditch stretched a brittle carpet of close-shorn wheat stalks, except where Nicole's car had gouged a dark scar.

The Hillman was a buckled and twisted box, caked in earth and dust. It must have flipped full circle at least once, because it had come to a rest on its broken axles. Smoke fluttered out of the engine block, dispersing on the breeze. Behind the car lay a litter of metal and broken gla.s.s, evidence of its destructive progress through the field.

Charles slid down the far side of the verge and into the drainage ditch, his shoes slipping on weeds and stones. Grimacing, he pressed through a tangle of gorse, blackberry and ragwort. Thorns tore through his shirtsleeves. Barbs p.r.i.c.ked his arms. He felt blood running long before he fought his way clear.

Dragging himself up the far side of the ditch and out of the last clutches of undergrowth, Charles fell into the field. His arms burned where brambles had raked him and nettles had brushed his skin. His scalp itched from the burrs he had collected. Something buzzed near his ear. He waved it away and studied the Hillman. Close up, he saw it was even more damaged than he had first thought: a contortion of jagged metal.

And then, with a lurch of adrenalin and fear and excitement, he spotted Nicole's pa.s.senger. She was moving gingerly, picking her way around the far side of the vehicle as if feeling her way through mist. Blood seeped from a cut on her forehead, and her cheek was swollen and red. But she was alive.

Jubilant, Charles shouted out to her. On hearing his voice, the woman looked up, hesitated. She glanced back at the wreckage. Then she raised a hand and stumbled towards him.

The sun had baked the earth to a hard crust. Beneath the bristling mat of stalks, the ground was fissured with cracks. It made fast progress difficult, and by the time he reached her, he was panting with effort.

She had once, Charles saw, been a handsome woman. Age lines he could not have called them laughter lines criss-crossed her face, but they had not concealed the defined features beneath. When her eyes flashed over him, he thought they looked almost black. Her hair was the same rich auburn as Nicole's, but it had lost its l.u.s.tre long ago. He wondered if the scowl that tightened her lips into a thin line was caused by pain.

As he closed the last few feet, she bent at the waist and moaned. Concussion, he wondered? Broken ribs? He stared down at the top of her skull, at the speckled white skin of her crown that peeked through a frizz of unstyled hair. It reminded him of chickens' feet. 'Are you all right?'

She ignored him. Or perhaps she did not understand him. Or was in too much discomfort to answer. From this angle, he couldn't tell whether her eyes were open, whether they were haemorrhaged, whether she was suffering.

Charles reached out to her and as he did she straightened. He saw what she clutched in her hands just before she swung it up at him.

The blunt edge of the rock crunched into his nose, snapping back his head. Pain rushed screaming into his face. The world tilted, unbalancing him, and he found himself on his back, the air knocked out of him, blinking up at the sky. He lifted his hands and cupped them around his nose. Their touch triggered an electric spasm of agony. He felt the gushing warmth of blood on his fingers.

Points of light skittered and danced. Bright fireflies of pain. He squinted through eyes blurred from tears and sun, seeking the old woman. Her expression terrified him. She stepped across his chest and raised the rock above her head.

'No!'

The shout came from inside the Hillman. Charles's eyes slid over to it. Dizziness was beginning to overcome him, but he had enough sense left to raise his arms against what was coming.

A crash and groan of metal. A car door being kicked off its hinges.

'Mama. No!'

His attacker turned, rock still raised high. Nicole struggled free of the vehicle. She fell on to her hands and knees. Gasped. Climbing to her feet, she raised a flat palm and shook her head.

Stop.

The woman stared at Charles. Her black eyes seemed devoid of emotion, but he saw that tears had traced clean lines through the grime on her cheeks. She pitched her rock off to the side and stepped away from him. When Nicole appeared beside her, the older woman began to gabble in French, jabbing her finger at him. The pair engaged in rapid-fire conversation. Charles was too dizzy to follow it.

Nicole broke off and scowled at him, eyes blazing. 'What are you doing? Why are you here? You could have killed us.'

He rolled over on to his side and spat blood into the soil. 'That's rich. She just tried to stave my b.l.o.o.d.y head in.'

Nicole lunged for the discarded rock. 'I'll finish the job unless you tell me what you're doing here.'

He forced himself up on to his hands and knees and shook his head to clear it, dislodging a flurry of sparks. 'I don't know what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l I'm doing here. I wish I wasn't, I can tell you that much. You were the one who left me a note in the library. What the h.e.l.l was that about?'

'Were you the one who telephoned the house?'

'Yes.'

'Why did you ask for Prefontaine?'

'Because that's the name you registered at the library. Why are you using a false name?'

'I'm asking the questions, Charles. Why are you in a different car?'

He realised, too late, that without the distinctive Jag, she would not have understood who pursued her. 'I have two cars.'

'Why?'

'I like cars. Jesus.'

'You're a university professor.'

'I can't like cars?'

'Not on a lecturer's salary.'

'I'm not just a university professor.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just that.'

She brandished the rock.

'Look, for Christ's sake, there's nothing sinister! There was some inheritance, that's all. Land, mostly. Some of it I developed. It worked out quite well.'

'Why did you follow me?'

'I told you; I don't know. I was . . . I wanted to see you again. And after the bizarre conversation I had with your delightful mother here, I wanted to make sure you were all right.'

Nicole's mother s.n.a.t.c.hed at her daughter's arm. She pointed past Charles's shoulder. 'Depeche-toi.'

He turned to see the lorry they had overtaken pulling to the side of the road. Air brakes hissed. He felt the tension between the two women intensify.