The Returned (5 page)

Her first thought was concern for the child. On the bus, she’d presumed the driver knew him, that he might even be a relative. She hadn’t noticed him get off the bus at her stop, but
there he was, alone. Looking at the building.

Julie frowned and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at
her
.

She watched him. He didn’t move. She shook her head.
Not my problem
, she thought. She took her logbook over to the sofa, but it was only a matter of seconds before her nature got
the better of her and she went back to the window.

The boy was gone.

Her doorbell rang. It made her jump slightly, and she swore. She hadn’t realized she was so on edge. She went to the door. When she opened it to find the boy standing there, somehow she
wasn’t surprised.

She should have been, she knew. The distance the boy had covered in so short a time; the entry key code for the building. It wasn’t
possible
, but it was real.

‘Are you lost?’ she said. The boy just looked at her, calm and still. ‘Can’t you get home?’ Nothing. His face showed almost no emotion, but Julie saw one thing
there: a need. He needed help. ‘What’s your name?’

The door across the corridor opened. Julie’s neighbour, Nathalie Payet – one of the few people in the building Julie ever spoke to, and then it was hardly by choice. A car-crash of a
woman, she was the kind who was pushing fifty and still in denial that she’d ever hit thirty, dismayed if anyone should refer to her as ‘madame’. Horribly overfamiliar, she was
chronically unable to keep her nose out of other people’s business. Julie made a conscious effort not to look to the heavens, but a bolt of lightning would always be welcome at times like
this.

‘Is everything OK?’ said the woman, then she made a show of ‘noticing’ Julie’s uninvited guest. ‘What a handsome little boy!’ she cooed, crouching down
to him. ‘Hello there!’

Julie felt the boy’s hand slip into her own and tighten.

Nathalie Payet stood. ‘Does he live with you? He’s a shy one. What’s his name?’

Julie looked at the boy, caught by his gaze. She wanted to get rid of her neighbour – just to answer quickly, shut the door and then try to get to the truth of her unannounced visitor.
Time to improvise. ‘Victor,’ she said.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Mmm,’ she said, in a way that Julie didn’t like the sound of. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, affecting girl-to-girl camaraderie. She
lowered her voice, all smiles, none kind. ‘A young man rang at your door earlier. Quite handsome, actually. Dark and curly, the kind of hair you can really
grip
.’ She leered.
Julie felt the boy’s hand leave hers, as he moved into the apartment. She shot a glance after him before forcing her attention back to the woman in front of her. Her unwelcome neighbour took
this as a cue to get even more suggestive. ‘Called himself Simon. He was looking for Adèle Werther.’ The leer widened. ‘Is that your dating name? Don’t be shy,
we’ve all done it. Playing away.’

‘Not at all,’ said Julie, as stonily as she could manage. ‘She lived here before me. Whoever he was, he obviously didn’t know she’s moved.’

Her neighbour’s face dropped with disappointment. No sauce for her here, as always. ‘Ah. OK.’

‘Goodnight, Mademoiselle Payet.’ Julie stepped back, forcing a polite smile. She started to close the door.

‘Goodnight, Julie,’ her neighbour managed, just before it shut in her face.

Julie found the boy in the kitchen, calmly eating from a packet of biscuits as though he belonged there. ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Julie, but her sarcasm was lost on him. He
looked at her, and gave her the slightest of smiles. ‘You’re hungry?’ she said. He nodded. ‘I’ll cook you something, if you talk to me. Something nice. Just tell me
where you live, so I can get you home safe.’ She had had enough experience of kids to know bribery was usually the fastest way to get results. He said nothing, however. Julie shook her head.
So much for that. ‘Then you’ll get what you get,’ she said.

For all she knew the boy could be allergic to everything, but she had some frozen rice in the freezer and reckoned she was safe enough with that. He watched her as the rice heated in the
microwave; she watched back, staying silent too in a game she felt she was destined to lose.

She put the plate of rice in front of him, and he ate without a pause. As he ate, Julie wondered about the young man her neighbour had mentioned – presumably, the man she had passed on her
way out to see Monsieur Costa earlier. He’d come looking for Adèle. Thoughts of Adèle led, inevitably, to thoughts of Laure; Adèle was an acquaintance of Laure, and that
was how Julie had learned this apartment was available when she’d first taken it, eight years before. A different time. A different life.

The apartment had been a bright place, a happy place, for a while. She and Laure had even started making plans; Laure’s job as a police officer had been going well enough for her to hope
for a promotion. Then things changed, and everything Julie had was ripped away . . . Ever since that night in the tunnel, her apartment had been more like a tomb.

She looked at the boy. Whatever the circumstances, she was glad of the company, but the circumstances were likely to catch up with them both before long.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve waited long enough. Talk.’ Nothing. ‘You understand me, yes?’ He nodded. ‘And you have the ability to speak?’ Nod.
‘So if you won’t tell me, I’ll call the police. They’ll come for you, and your parents won’t be happy. Shall I call them?’

There was no reaction. He just kept eating, watching her with that same flat expression. She went to get the phone, to show she meant it. ‘OK, I’m calling. Here I go.’

She dialled. When they answered, she said nothing. The boy was watching her, that need in his face, and she couldn’t do it. She tried, but she just couldn’t. If he was running from
something, she couldn’t just send him back to it. At least not until she knew what it was.

She hung up. ‘Just for tonight, then. Tomorrow I’m taking you to the police, you hear me?’

He ignored her, just continued eating until he’d finished his rice.

‘Was that enough?’ she asked.

He nodded. Julie took his plate to the sink. When she turned, the boy had gone. She went through to the living room. He’d switched on the television, still on the horror channel
she’d been watching earlier. Screams filled the room; she hurried over to switch it off.

‘Uh-uh. Not for you.’ A clock caught her eye, and she realized how tired she was. ‘Isn’t it time you went to sleep?’

The boy said nothing.

‘At least tell me your name.’

He looked up at her with that same need in his eye. ‘Victor,’ he said, and he smiled.

For a moment she was taken aback that he’d spoken at all; then, she was annoyed at his response. But her annoyance vanished as the boy’s eyes locked onto hers; Julie found herself
smiling in return. ‘Victor it is, then. For now. Maybe one day you’ll tell me what your real name is, huh? Come on, shoes off. Sleep.’

He lay back on the sofa; she fetched a blanket and put it over him. He closed his eyes. She had to resist the urge to put her hand on his head, stroke his hair before she went, but she
managed.

Julie left the room and put out the light. She didn’t notice the boy’s eyes open again, as he watched her go.

Léna had spent the evening the way she usually did: in the Lake Pub with Frédéric and Lucho. Away from the house, away from those fretful eyes her mum had
worn for as long as she could remember. Well, ever since Camille died, and her mother’s overprotection started to go through its destructive loop – growing until Léna
couldn’t breathe and she pushed against it hard, and her mum stepped back and sank into whatever state it was she’d found herself in. Depression, anxiety, grief, loneliness. All that
and more, round and round in a vicious cycle.

Her mum close and in her face, shouting and crying and angry and scared, or her mum distant and mute. Whatever state her mother was in, the best option for Léna was always the same: to be
out of the house.

The night had started pleasantly enough, but then it had soured a little.

‘Hey, Léna,’ Lucho had said. ‘Your dad’s seeing Lucy again?’ He’d pointed over to the far end of the pub, where her dad was talking to Lucy, offering
her a cigarette. ‘That’s the third time this week.’

As Léna looked, her father’s eyes met hers for an instant. He looked away, a kid caught in the act.

‘
Awkward
,’ said Lucho.

Frédéric sighed and cuffed the back of Lucho’s head. ‘You’re such a prick.’

Léna ignored all of it and drank her beer. Lucy saw plenty of men. She worked behind the bar, but given the reputation she’d developed Léna had no idea why Toni Guillard, the
man who ran the Lake Pub, kept her on.

The obvious answer – that Toni was sleeping with her too, perhaps in lieu of rent – was one she didn’t buy; Toni was as straight-laced as they came, a hulking great man who
looked ashamed of himself if he even
swore
. The thing was, Léna didn’t mind Lucy, and so far that was how the rest of the pub’s clientele seemed to feel too. She was a
strange one, a woman who came across as confident and outgoing, but never actually talked about herself, about where she came from.

Lucho found it all very amusing, though.

The night had got back on track soon enough. Pool, beer, more pool. People turned up and she chatted and mixed, but it always ended up with her, Lucho and Frédéric. It had been
that way for a long time. They were both in the year below Léna, but she’d known Frédéric since forever. He was only three months younger than her, on the wrong side of
the school intake cusp.

The pair had, Léna thought, saved her life after Camille’s death. Almost every friend she had, and of course the closest of all, had died that day. Lucho, meanwhile, had been seeing
Léna’s classmate Mathilde for a couple of months at the time of the crash, all cloyingly sweet first-love stuff. Mathilde had also been on the coach; her death had hit Lucho deep and
hard.

And Frédéric . . . the less said about that, the better.

But with all three of them in free fall together, they’d managed to take care of each other. Tonight, that meant doing shots until they couldn’t walk. She’d already lost count
when Frédéric held his mobile towards her. ‘Léna, it’s your mum. Shall I get it?’

Léna scowled. She wasn’t late, not yet. Sure, she’d turned off her mobile, but really . . . trying to get hold of her by calling Frédéric? Her mum could fuck
off. ‘No, she’s a pain in the arse.’ Frédéric nodded and put his phone away.

Lucho gave her a gentle punch in the arm and pointed to the drink in front of her. ‘Léna, it’s your turn.’

She nodded, but she needed a moment. The call from her mum had left her out of sorts. She stood.

‘Giving up?’ said Frédéric with a sly smile.

‘Not on your life.’ She took the last shot from the table and downed it, feeling more unsteady on her feet than she’d expected.

‘Your round,’ she said to Lucho. ‘I’m going to the toilet. Won’t be long.’

Frédéric put his hand on her shoulder, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No throwing up!’ called Lucho, grinning.

‘Come on,’ she laughed. ‘Who do you think I am?’

In the toilets, she splashed her face and then ran cold water over her hands until they ached, looking at herself in the mirror. It had been a long time after the crash before mirrors had held
anything for her but ghosts.

As she walked back past the bar, a good-looking guy she’d not seen before entered and looked around, then headed over. For a moment Léna thought he was coming specifically to her;
she allowed herself a little smile. His dark curly hair was untidy and he looked as if he’d dressed himself in a suit from a charity shop, but she could forgive that.

Then he veered away and Léna’s smile faded. It wasn’t her he’d been heading for.

‘Excuse me?’ the young man said to Lucy, behind the bar. Léna paid close attention, while trying to look as uninterested as possible.

Lucy nodded.

‘Is Adèle around?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘Adèle? I don’t know her.’

‘She works here.’

Lucy looked distracted as another customer demanded a drink. ‘If an Adèle worked here, I would know. Sorry.’ She turned away to serve the person waiting.

Léna smiled again and sat down next to the guy. ‘I know an Adèle,’ she said. ‘There can’t be many of them.’ He looked sceptical, but Léna
wasn’t going to give up there. ‘Tall brunette, pretty, green eyes? Works at the library?’

‘She doesn’t work at the library,’ he said. ‘But the rest sounds like her. Adèle Werther.’

‘I don’t know her last name, but she lives near here. Buy me a drink and I’ll take you.’ She held out her hand. ‘Léna.’

He took it, his grip cold and strong. ‘Simon,’ he said. ‘So, what are you having?’

A voice came from beside her. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

She turned to Frédéric with a glare. ‘Who are you, my mother?’

‘Come on, Léna,’ Frédéric tried. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I’m fine where I am,’ she said, giving him a run-along gesture with her hand. Frédéric shook his head and slunk off.

She and Simon had a half-pint each; he necked his almost without a pause. Léna shrugged and did the same. As they got outside she looked around, suddenly regretting leaving the warmth.
The ground was wet, and the sky looked as if it could rain again any minute.

Still, she’d had the beer, and the price was a few minutes’ walking with a cute guy, even if he was almost completely distracted. After that, she’d just head on home and let
Frédéric suffer.

‘That way,’ she said, and pointed. The guy set off. ‘Can’t you slow down?’ she said. Simon was walking as fast as he’d been drinking. He slowed a fraction,
and Léna kept pace. ‘I’ve never seen you at the Lake Pub before,’ she said.

‘I’ve never seen you, either.’

‘Really?’ said Léna. ‘I practically live there. Not much else to do in this town. Have you lived here long?’

‘I was born here.’