The Returned (41 page)

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.’

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 mum’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 make-up, and nobody will see.’
She put her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Nobody will see.’

Léna took Camille to the bathroom and applied make-up 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,’ smiled Léna. ‘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 make-up 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 queue 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 towards the boys while trying to appear indifferent.

‘Strange to think what’s happening down there,’ said Jérôme, nodding through the large windows towards 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 which 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, and 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 left the town did 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 towards
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 judgement 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 further 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 thought you were out of your mind,’ said Jérôme. ‘Who the hell are you planning to use this lot 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.

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 got 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.

Thomas indulged in a moment of fantasy, seeing himself bricking up the cell, blocking out the light in triumph, hearing the final cry of anguish and defeat from the dead man.

He’d noted that Laure’s car was not in her driveway as he set off for work, but she hadn’t turned up at the station. It came as a disappointment, of course. By now, she would
be long gone, presumably with Julie and the boy. It was a shame, he thought. She’d been a good officer. Someone so senior abandoning her post could trigger a cascade, and so Thomas quickly
covered it, telling everyone that Laure was ill and would try to be in for the afternoon.

A report of overnight disturbances at the Lake Pub had come in person soon after daybreak. The owners of a nearby house had driven to the station to tell them; they were on their way out of
town, and made it clear they weren’t planning to come back any day soon.

Deciding it was time to get out of the station and take his turn on the streets, Thomas took Alcide to check out the situation. He expected there would no longer be any troublemakers there by
the time they reached the scene, which suited him fine.

When he radioed back to let the station know they’d arrived, he was dismayed by the level of static. He looked at Alcide.

‘Atmospherics?’ the young officer suggested.

‘I hope so,’ said Thomas. At least that way things were likely to improve, but he thought it was overly optimistic. Failing radios fitted into the pattern of attrition which the town
seemed to have succumbed to.

The Lake Pub appeared to be empty, but it had taken a hell of a beating. As they approached they could see that every window was broken. Stepping with care, they entered through the open front
door and surveyed the devastation within. There wasn’t a piece of glass intact in the place; shattered bottles lay all over the floor. Tables and chairs weren’t just overturned –
some of them had been broken, legs snapped off. Light fittings had been torn from the walls and ceiling, and smashed.