Trespass. Part 11

'Oh yes,' said Audrun. 'He does. Cigarettes and cheroots. It'll kill him one day...'

'I hear he's leaving, anyway.'

'What, Jeanne?'

'I hear he's selling the mas.'

Audrun looked down at her hands on the table. She felt slightly cold in the room, despite the heat under the snail pot and the evening sun at the window. She said: 'Money's all he thinks about now. That's the way he is. Money and drink and cigarettes. But I don't think the sale of the mas is going to go through...'

'No?'

Audrun reached out and laid her veined brown hand on Jeanne Viala's arm. 'There's a crack in the front wall, Jeanne,' she said. 'A structural fault. Raoul came and stuck a bit of render in it and then slapped on that coat of yellow paint and Aramon thinks he can pull the wool over everyone's eyes, but don't tell me a simple survey wouldn't reveal a structural fault. Eh? Would you buy a house with a fissure in the stone?'

'No...'

'Aramon should make everything good again, make it sound, but he hasn't done it and he never will. He's always denied the things that are right there in front of his eyes. And so now... well... it's my opinion that he's going to be disappointed. He won't get that huge sum he's asking. And when that fact comes home to him, he's going to get angry, eh Marianne? He could do something irrevocable.'

Both Marianne and Jeanne looked up and stared at Audrun.

'What d'you mean?' asked Jeanne.

Audrun plucked off a parsley leaf and held it to her nose and smelled its clean, un.o.btrusive fragrance.

'All I mean is...' she said, 'Aramon was always ungovernable. I should know. He's obsessed now about this particular buyer: some rich English artist type. But I can tell you, that man's not going to buy the Mas Lunel. I'd stake my life on it. And when Aramon wakes up to this fact... Mon dieu! Mon dieu! He's going to curse and rage. He could even do somebody some harm.' He's going to curse and rage. He could even do somebody some harm.'

Jeanne exchanged a glance with Marianne. She took a long drag on her cigarette.

'It'd be sad to sell it to foreigners, anyway,' she said, 'wouldn't it? They say foreigners are taking over all the nice old stone places. I read about it in Rua.s.se Libre. Rua.s.se Libre. But the mayor has said it has to end.' But the mayor has said it has to end.'

'That's right,' said Audrun. 'The mayor's right. Because people from outside don't understand how to care for the land. Everybody thinks these days that it's just houses that matter, but it's not: it's the land.'

There was silence in the room for a moment.

Audrun turned and turned the parsley leaf in her hand and she thought of the drum of her washing machine, still turning.

'If Aramon sells the mas,' said Jeanne Viala, 'where's he going to go?'

'I don't know,' said Audrun. 'You tell me. Where on earth?'

Kitty Meadows lay in a hotel room and watched the green neon light of an all-night pharmacie pharmacie winking on and off on the opposite side of the drab street. winking on and off on the opposite side of the drab street.

She hadn't wanted to spend much money on a hotel and this one, called Le Mistral, was the cheapest she could find, a two-star establishment where the walls were thin and Kitty's bed was narrow and hard. The keening of the hotel elevator kept jolting her awake the moment she closed her eyes. Up and down, up and down it went, carrying people yearning for love or for rest for the sweet rest that love can give.

At least I'm alone, thought Kitty. Although she was fond of her friends, Andre and Gilles, she hadn't been able to bear the idea of their pity, their sad smiles concealing smug judgements: 'Sorry, Kitty cherie, but I'm afraid we just knew knew that a gallery like that, with that kind of reputation, was never going to take your work...' that a gallery like that, with that kind of reputation, was never going to take your work...'

Better to be here, in an impersonal hotel room with an annihilating quant.i.ty of drink inside her, than to be with them on this night of humiliation. And although Kitty might have liked to be comforted by Veronica, the idea of returning to Les Glaniques and Anthony Verey's undisguised delight in her disappointment was impossible.

In fact, one thing which Kitty couldn't even bear to think about was how that eventual return was to be faced. Since Anthony's arrival, it was as if she'd been prevented from taking any comfort at all from the home she shared with her lover. She'd found refuge in her studio away from both Veronica and her brother. She was happiest there, alone with her work and her dreams. But now she had to face the agony, not only of returning to live under Anthony's disdainful gaze, but also with something more terrible: coming face to face with the fact that the work she loved doing so much and tried so hard to do well was, when judged by the highest standards, no good.

All right, she'd managed to sell in small galleries and shops, but now a serious establishment had looked at the watercolours and pounced, like a heartless tiger: I'm sorry, Madame Meadows... the Internet photographs of your work did look quite interesting to us, but now that we see the actual pictures... your sense of colour is very nice, but there are some shortcomings of technique. So I'm sorry, Madame Meadows... the Internet photographs of your work did look quite interesting to us, but now that we see the actual pictures... your sense of colour is very nice, but there are some shortcomings of technique. So voila, voila, I just don't think we'd be able to make a sale here I just don't think we'd be able to make a sale here...

Kitty lay and shielded her eyes against the maddening pharmacie pharmacie light and told herself that, at least, she'd be able to continue her work for light and told herself that, at least, she'd be able to continue her work for Gardening Without Rain Gardening Without Rain both the watercolours and the photographs. And perhaps, when the book was published, somebody somewhere would think that her ill.u.s.trations had some merit. both the watercolours and the photographs. And perhaps, when the book was published, somebody somewhere would think that her ill.u.s.trations had some merit.

But how ardently how desperately she'd longed to be taken on by a reputable gallery! How often had she imagined the brochure that gallery would produce: R RECENT W WATERCOLOURS by Kitty Meadows. by Kitty Meadows. And then the fabulous night of the And then the fabulous night of the vernissage vernissage... the red 'sold' stickers acc.u.mulating... the smile of pride on Veronica's face... the beautiful money in the bank...

Kitty's mobile rang: Veronica's name on the display. Kitty looked at her watch and saw that the time was almost one o'clock.

'Veronica?' said Kitty quietly.

'Sorry it's so late. Were you asleep?'

'No,' said Kitty. 'No chance.'

'OK then, well, listen, darling, something's very wrong.'

Kitty sat up, glad to be distracted, glad to be reminded that there was a world outside her own misery.

'Tell me...' she said.

She heard Veronica dragging on a cigarette.

'It's Anthony,' she said, coughing as she exhaled. 'He said he'd be back for dinner. I even asked him this morning what he wanted to eat and he said calves' liver and I went to the boucherie boucherie and got it. He said he'd definitely be back. But he hasn't come home, Kitty, and it's one in the morning.' and got it. He said he'd definitely be back. But he hasn't come home, Kitty, and it's one in the morning.'

Kitty held the phone close. For a moment, she couldn't speak, so thrilling did she find these words. Cinematic light flooded her brain.

She saw a winding road high up above La Callune and she saw Anthony's hired car sliding too fast into a hairpin bend and then spinning round and flying out into the void and falling and breaking on the rocks below...

'Right,' she forced herself to say gravely. 'Have you tried his mobile?'

'Yes. Nothing. Absolutely no sound from it.'

'No voicemail?'

'No sound at all. And the agency woman phoned and said Anthony never returned the keys to the house.'

'Right... well, we've got to think what might-'

'I've got a terrible feeling about it, Kitty. There are accidents up in the Cevennes all the time. People drive far too fast and Anthony doesn't know how to manage that kind of corniche. I've just been sitting here waiting and waiting and I keep thinking I see headlights, but it's only cars on the Uzes road. What am I going to do?'

Kitty took a gulp of water and swung her legs off the bed. The pharmacie pharmacie light kept up its relentless welcoming green flash: light kept up its relentless welcoming green flash: here to help you, here to help you, here to help you... here to help you, here to help you, here to help you...

'We've got to think clearly,' said Kitty, but she was all the while conscious of the alcohol in her blood and the movie of the falling car spooling round in her head.

Anthony Verey dead.

Dead at last.

Kitty wondered whether Veronica could detect in her voice or in her breathing the hectic excitement she was feeling.

Kitty breakfasted early and drove home with a headache darkening her vision, like some peculiar clouding of the windscreen gla.s.s. She longed for tea and a deep sleep.

She found a police car parked in the driveway at Les Glaniques. Veronica, looking pale and with her hair in a strange tangle, was in the salon, talking to two agents, agents, a man and a woman. When they all turned and saw Kitty at the door, Veronica got up and came to her and Kitty put her arms round her and tried to smooth down the tangle of her hair and she heard the a man and a woman. When they all turned and saw Kitty at the door, Veronica got up and came to her and Kitty put her arms round her and tried to smooth down the tangle of her hair and she heard the agents agents murmuring something to each other in low voices. murmuring something to each other in low voices.

'Any news?' whispered Kitty.

'Nothing,' said Veronica. 'No report of a car accident. I suppose that's something.'

'Any theories?'

'Well, one. It's just possible he left the car and went for a walk and got lost or hurt himself and his phone was dropped and broken. They're going to search with a helicopter,' said Veronica. 'It's on its way now.'

'Good,' said Kitty. 'Good. Easy to get lost up there. But they'll find him.'

Kitty slipped away to make her tea. Her tiredness was now compounded by the wearisome idea that Anthony had escaped death just like he'd escaped punishment for his vanity and selfishness across sixty-four years. Probably, he'd be back at Les Glaniques by the end of the day. And Veronica would cling to his scrawny neck and tell him how important he was in her life and how she longed for him to be settled in France, and then the days would go on as before, just as before, only without the salvation of her dream of a gallery.

Kitty had imagined the police would leave her alone. She was just 'a friend'. Anthony Verey was nothing to her, and what could she who had been undergoing her mauling by disappointment at Beziers know about any accident in the Cevennes? But when she looked up from spooning out her tea, the woman agent agent was standing in the kitchen. was standing in the kitchen.

'Just a few questions,' she said. 'You speak French?'

'Yes,' said Kitty. 'Would you like some tea?'

'Tea? Ah non, merci Ah non, merci.'

It was routine, absolutely routine, said the agent agent, but she just had to verify Kitty's movements in the last twenty-four hours. Had she been anywhere near the hills above Rua.s.se?

In my mind, I have, Kitty wanted to say. In my mind, I was there. I killed him. I sent his car flying off the corniche. I saw it break apart hundreds of feet below. I saw his blood on the stones.

'No,' said Kitty. 'I was miles away.'

When the police left, Veronica lit a cigarette and said: 'Well, I guess all we do is wait, now.'

The heat was rising on the terrace. The geraniums were beginning to look parched.

Kitty thought, I'm waiting too. I'm waiting for you to remember what happened to me in Beziers. I'm waiting for your eyes to fall on me.

She got up and took the cigarette out of Veronica's hand and stubbed it out, and without saying anything led her to the bedroom. She could feel her beginning to resist, to protest, but she, Kitty was determined; she wanted love. No words would do. In fact, she no longer hoped for any words; she needed only speechless desire. And she felt that all the future hers and Veronica's together would be determined by what followed in the next few moments.

He told himself that perhaps it was the heat, or the exhausting task of the vine clearance, or both of these, but Aramon's gut was now so devoured by pain that sometimes he had to get down on his knees and then lie curled up on the ground in the position of a d.a.m.ned foetus to help the spasm pa.s.s. No day went by free of this agony.

His appet.i.te had gone. Sweet things he could bear to suck on a spoonful of jam, a square of chocolate and then sit still and wait for the fix of sugar to get into his blood, but even bread, turning to mush in his mouth, made him gag. And the thought of eating meat was now horrifying to him, as if the flesh laid out at the boucherie boucherie might have been human... might have been human...

'What can I get you, Aramon?' Marcel, the butcher at La Callune, would ask him. 'A bit of veal? Some nice merguez merguez?'

Even the smell in Marcel's shop Aramon found disgusting.

'Nothing for me, my friend...' Aramon mumbled. 'Just some bones for the dogs.'

And then, as he left the shop, he'd hear Marcel talking to other customers about him: 'Lunel's not himself, pardi pardi. Is he?'

He sat at his table, sipping sirop de menthe sirop de menthe and smoking. He wondered whether a cancer was developing in his stomach. He even wondered whether he'd been poisoned. Because this could happen in the modern world. Toxic microbes could enter the food chain or the water supply. You could die slowly, a bit more each day, and never know why. and smoking. He wondered whether a cancer was developing in his stomach. He even wondered whether he'd been poisoned. Because this could happen in the modern world. Toxic microbes could enter the food chain or the water supply. You could die slowly, a bit more each day, and never know why.

Other symptoms began to torment him. Sudden dizziness. Everything clawing itself towards darkness. One minute he'd be standing there out in the heat with birds and insects alive all round him, and the next second he was somewhere else lying by a stone wall, or face down in the earth, with the world gone dumb and the shadows cast by trees falling where they never normally fell.

These strange gaps in the sequence of time... he allowed them to remind him of that long-ago era when the things his body did made him black out and Serge would come and slap him alive again, and help him or even carry him to his own bed. He knew there was no connection between the one and the other. Those moments had been willed. He'd opened a door and gone in and the going in had overwhelmed him like nothing else in his life. But none of what was happening to him now was willed. Aramon could see clearly that the episodes episodes that blighted his sister's life since that time were now advancing on him. that blighted his sister's life since that time were now advancing on him.

He considered going down to see the doctor. But the idea of the doctor eyes staring into his mouth, hands palpating his stomach made him feel weak. And he knew that if the doctor had bad news for him he wouldn't know how to conduct himself.

He woke up very early one morning to hear the dogs crying like wolves.

He tugged on his old work clothes and his boots and took his twelve-bore shotgun out of the rack by the door and picked up his cartridge bag and went out. And when the hounds saw him they began clawing in a frenzy at the mesh of the pound.

Aramon reached for two cartridges from the bag and broke the gun to put the cartridges in and saw that there were two spent cartridges in the barrels. Though he kept walking towards the dog pound, his brain jammed itself here, where these cartridges were. He knew that never in his life had he put his shotgun away with two spent cartridges in the barrels.

He opened the gate of the pound and went in, and the stink inside it was so bad it made him retch, and he spat yellow phlegm into the dust. His first thought was that his own condition, his own sickness, had made him less tolerant of the stench of the dog enclosure, but then he looked around him and saw that at the back of the pound was a hound lying dead there in the morning shade, with some of its flesh torn away and flies beginning to settle on two or three blood-stained wounds.

Aramon stood still and stared at this. Then he began to take in the state of the pound and he saw that it was filthy, with excrement everywhere, and that the water troughs were dry and he asked himself when he'd last come here with a bag of bones or even watered the animals. But he couldn't remember.

The dogs were jumping up and clawing at his legs, his groin. He saw in their mouths the foam of thirst. He pushed them away and went to the corpse and grabbed the stiff hind legs and began to drag it through the dust, still carrying his shotgun. Then he looked up and saw Audrun standing there, watching everything, and she held her flowered pinafore up to her face and said: 'Mon dieu, Aramon, what a stink! What have you done?'

Done? What did she mean? He hadn't done anything. It was only that caring for the dogs had... well... it had slipped his mind... What did she mean? He hadn't done anything. It was only that caring for the dogs had... well... it had slipped his mind...

'I've been out on the vine terraces,' he said, 'working like a savage. And now I've got some illness. I've been poisoned.'

'Poisoned?'

'I could have been. The way my gut hurts.'

'Poisoned by what?'

'Anything. These days, you don't know what's going to finish you off.'

'Nonsense. You talk pure nonsense. Did you shoot the dog?'

'No. Why would I kill a dog?'

'Then it just died, did it? They're all dying of starvation. Look at them!'

Pity for the creatures moved Aramon now. They were blameless. He'd fill their trough with water, drive down to Marcel's for another heap of bones...

'It's not my fault,' he said, 'if something's poisoning me. I need help. I told you weeks ago. I can't manage things any more. One man alone... what can he do?'

He closed the gate of the pound and the dogs went crazy, clawing at the wire and braying, and Aramon thought: If Serge were alive, he'd flay me for mistreating the dogs. Then he remembered the cartridges in the gun and he was about to say something about this to Audrun, who was following him down towards the house, when she reached into the pocket of her overall and brought out a copy of Rua.s.se Libre Rua.s.se Libre and said: 'Did you see this? I came to show you this.' and said: 'Did you see this? I came to show you this.'

Aramon let the corpse of the dog fall. Dead things weighed so much; you couldn't lug them far. And the earth was so dry, digging a grave for the animal would take all the strength he had. He turned to face his sister, breathing hard. She held out the newspaper.