The Returned (7 page)

‘Nothing,’ she said. Her smile said otherwise.

‘Come on, out with it . . .’

She hesitated. Tempting as it was, it didn’t seem like the right moment. ‘I’ll tell you tonight.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘No, tonight.’

‘What? Are you pregnant?’ He’d been kidding, of course, but he’d got it. She raised her eyebrows in answer. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You’re really
pregnant?’

She nodded, suddenly unsure how he would take it. ‘Are you glad?’ she said. He hugged her close, and she realized he was crying.

The good kind of tears, he’d told her, and by the time he left to go to his own apartment and get ready, she’d believed him. Three hours later she was standing in the church, and he
was late. She was already becoming angry with him when she saw the priest’s eyes move to the church entrance behind her. She saw something in those eyes. The smallest hint of panic.

And she turned. When she saw the police, the bouquet fell from her hands. She’d looked down at it, and had left it on the floor. She’d known she didn’t need it any more.

Adèle was alone in her bedroom; Thomas and Chloé had both been up and around for a couple of hours. Thomas had left the bedroom door open so the sounds of
activity and the smell of breakfast would come up to her. Gentle nagging that she should get out of bed; Thomas always on guard, always there to make sure she didn’t slip back into her old
ways.

But not pushing. She was glad of that. At work, she knew, Thomas had a reputation for accepting nothing less than total commitment, but at home he was all kid gloves.

Even when, like this morning, they had an appointment to keep.

At last she dressed and went downstairs. She paused outside the kitchen when she heard Chloé’s voice from inside.

‘What’s Mum doing?’

‘She’s having trouble getting up,’ said Thomas.

‘Like last time?’

Adèle felt her stomach twist, hearing Chloé say that; so much anxiety in the girl’s voice.
Last time
, which had only been a few months back; Adèle had hardly
left her bed for a week, the depression sudden and severe.

‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s just tired. Eat your breakfast.’

Adèle took a breath and went in. Thomas saw her and beamed. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She walked over and hugged him.

‘It’s OK, you’re up now. Should I go to the church on my own?’

‘No, I’ll come,’ she said. ‘Just give me five minutes.’

He lowered his voice so Chloé wouldn’t hear. ‘I can call Dr Boisseau.’

‘No, I’ll be fine. Please, I’m OK.’

Thomas watched her closely, appraising her. After a few seconds he nodded, satisfied that she was being honest. Thomas understood. He’d been there that day, one of the police to give her
the terrible news; and after, he’d helped her pick up the pieces that her life had become.

‘Sorry I was asleep when you came in,’ she said. ‘How was your night?’

He grimaced. ‘There was a fire. You remember Michel Costa?’

‘The teacher? Of course.’

‘His house was destroyed. Arson.’

Her face fell. ‘Was he . . .?’

‘There was nobody inside,’ said Thomas. ‘And he was nowhere to be found. But not long after I got up this morning, there was a call. He’d –’ he paused, just
for a moment – ‘fallen from the dam.’ Thomas looked to the floor. ‘We, uh, don’t think anyone else was involved.’

Jumped
. She knew that was what he’d meant to say. But there would be no talk of such things, not in this house. He was always looking out for her.

When they got to the empty church, Father Jean-François was as warm as ever. They talked through their options for the ceremony, Chloé sitting a few pews back
playing video games with the sound turned down.

Thomas did all the talking; Adèle found it difficult to pay full attention. She kept thinking about that day ten years ago, when she’d been left waiting in this very church. She
kept looking at where she’d stood; she could even remember exactly where the flowers had fallen.

‘If you decide by Thursday,’ said Father Jean-François, ‘we can include the texts.’

‘Thursday is fine,’ said Thomas. He turned to Adèle. ‘You’ll have time to think it over.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t really like any of them.’ She could see Thomas and the priest share a concerned look.

‘It’s OK,’ said Thomas, giving her hand a squeeze. ‘We can work something out.’ His phone rang. He took it out and glanced at it. ‘Work,’ he said.
‘Sorry.’

He left the church to take the call.

‘Mum,’ said Chloé. ‘I need the toilet.’

‘There are loos through there,’ said Father Jean-François, as Thomas rushed back in.

‘I have to go,’ said Thomas. ‘Emergency. Will you be OK without me?’

Adèle saw the look on his face – she could tell this was something serious. She stood and put her hand on his arm. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll fill you in on
everything later.’ He nodded, apologizing again as he hurried away.

She looked at Father Jean-François. ‘It’s been a busy day for him,’ she said. ‘There was a fire last night, and then this morning . . . Did you hear about Monsieur
Costa?’

‘Yes,’ said Father Jean-François, grim. ‘I heard. And whatever has called Thomas away, I’m sure I’ll be told promptly if it’s serious enough. Sometimes
it seems that to be a priest is to be a conduit for bad news.’ He caught himself, and gave her an awkward smile that was part-wince. ‘Back to business. Were there any of the texts that
appealed more than others? I’m sure I could find some you’d like.’

‘I don’t know. Nothing stood out.’

‘Well, in that case maybe we could sing more hymns?’

She shrugged, finding it difficult to raise any enthusiasm. ‘That might be better.’ He looked at her, smiling kindly, saying nothing. ‘What?’ she said.

‘I get the sense you don’t trust me any more.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I know you, Adèle,’ he said. ‘Something’s wrong and you won’t tell me.’

She nodded, and he waited for her to get her thoughts in order. ‘Last night,’ she said. ‘I thought Simon came back.’ There was no judgement in the priest’s eyes,
only concern. ‘It felt so real. He talked to me. Shouted, even. It hadn’t happened to me in years. I thought it would never happen again. I thought I was cured, but . . .’ She
stopped, and shook her head.

‘You know, Adèle, yesterday a parishioner came to see me. She was devastated because she’d spoken to her husband who’d been dead for twenty years. She told me that it
was as if he’d reappeared in the flesh. As if he had come back.’

‘You think that’s possible?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘The people we have loved carry on living within us. It’s common for us to see them again, to imagine them talking to us. And it can feel just as real as
you and I talking now, because we miss them so much. We want them to be here. It’s normal for Simon to be on your mind, so close to your wedding day. But you mustn’t worry. Marrying
Thomas won’t stop you thinking about Simon, but that’s OK. Once you accept that, you’ll find peace. It’s very important to be at peace with our ghosts. Contrary to what
people think, they mean us no harm.’

Adèle nodded, trying to absorb what he was telling her. She hoped he was right. ‘And if I see him again?’

‘Don’t turn him away,’ he said. ‘Talk to him.’

There was a sudden deep thump from the structure of the church, followed by a long watery rumble. Father Jean-François looked up with a resigned expression. ‘The plumbing’s
been acting up all morning,’ he said.

Then Adèle heard Chloé shout for her, fear in the girl’s voice. They ran through to the toilets to find Chloé standing in front of a row of sinks. She looked towards
her mother with terrified eyes. Adèle went to her and took her in her arms, staring at the sinks.

In each, dirty water was rising slowly from the open plughole, as the room filled with the smell of decay.

Alain Hubert hadn’t liked the look of the guy from the moment he came in.

The diner Alain ran was as brightly cheesy as the food it served, fifties-America themed with the building mocked up to look like an aluminium railway car, albeit about three times as wide as
the real thing. It was on the edge of town, the last eatery on the road south, and most mornings the place was quiet enough to let him run it alone, extra staff starting shortly before the
lunchtime rush.

This morning the diner’s only customer was the strange woman who’d been waiting at the door when he’d opened up; she’d then muttered endlessly about the prices, accusing
him of trying to mug his customers before finally ordering a big plate of food.

The comment about mugging stung him, although the woman couldn’t have known about his less-than-savoury past. It had been a long time since Alain had given up that kind of thing.

‘You’re not homeless?’ he said, noting the old clothes she was wearing and her sour demeanour.

She gave him a curious look, then sighed and disdainfully handed him a fifty-euro note. ‘Toy money,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What was wrong with the franc?’

It was the kind of comment he expected from older customers, but she looked to be in her mid-forties. Homeless or not, there was something about her he just didn’t like, but she seemed
clean enough and she had cash. Alain settled on
eccentric
. He hoped she didn’t plan on becoming a regular customer.

Saturday was normally deserted until eleven, giving him time to get his head around the weekly stock reorder, but so far he’d hardly even got started on it. It meant he would probably have
to stay late to get it done, so by the time the ruffled guy in the suit came in Alain was already in a bad mood.

The man came over. ‘Hello.’

Alain looked him up and down. Young guy, unruly black hair, good-looking and confident. It made Alain dislike him even more.

‘Yes?’

‘What will this get me?’ He held out some loose change.

Alain doubted there was more than forty cents there. He sneered. ‘Get lost.’

‘Just a piece of bread? I’m starving.’

Something about the man bothered him. Smug, sure, but that wasn’t all. He smelt of trouble, and Alain wanted him out. ‘I said, get lost.’ They locked eyes for a moment, but the
man shrugged. He didn’t look pleased, of course, but Alain was happy he’d got the message.

As the guy turned and took a step towards the door, Alain went behind the counter, turning his back on him as he did so.

Big mistake.

Alain felt the glass hit the back of his head. He fell to the floor, and the next thing he felt was the bastard’s fists impacting his face. Two, three times, the guy’s eyes on fire,
lost in his rage.

‘Please,’ Alain managed, and his attacker stared, as if realizing what he was doing. There was an instant of shame on his face before he stood and backed off, then made for the door.
Alain got up slow, just catching sight of the guy sauntering off down the road as though nothing had happened.

He looked over to the woman, who was still sitting, eating. ‘You saw that?’ he said. She shrugged, completely uninterested. He called an ambulance. By the time they came, the woman
had gone.

The police got there a few minutes after the ambulance, long enough for Alain to work out what had made him so uneasy when the guy who’d attacked him had first come through the door.

There had been something feral in those eyes. The anger was already there, just waiting for an excuse to explode. Alain had known more than his fair share of people like that in the past. Hell,
the desire to get away from that kind of company was why he’d finally got his act together.

A guy like that was always bad news. There was no telling what he was capable of.

Léna woke. It had been a long night, and she hadn’t fallen asleep until close to dawn.

A
long
night.

Her parents had run upstairs the moment they’d heard the screaming, hers and Camille’s. Her mum had held Camille and offered her hand out to Léna, and all of them had cried
and cried, until Léna had insisted on explanations. Camille had woken in the mountain, she was told. Camille had walked home. Camille was back, and prayers had been answered.

Léna listened, and found herself growing colder with every word, colder and more frightened.

Camille’s distressed eyes were trained on her the whole time. ‘What happened to Léna?’ Camille asked, and it took Léna a moment to realize she was talking about
how old she looked.
She doesn’t know
, Léna thought.
She thinks it’s still four years ago. She doesn’t know what happened to the coach.

Léna could see it in her father’s face too, and in her mother’s. The news had to be broken to her. They went to her mum’s room, to a drawer where all the photo albums
were kept. Alongside them was another book of memories – morbid, Léna had always thought, to keep what amounted to a scrapbook of the accident, of the memorial service, but her
mother’s mental state had hardly been
even
, at the time. Or since.

She watched Camille hear how most of their friends had died; how
she
had died. Léna watched the terror grow on her dead sister’s face.

And she felt nothing. Only unease. Watching, and wondering what it was that sat in tears a few metres away.

Léna had excused herself, run to her room, gone to bed fully clothed and unable to stop shivering. Sleep had come eventually, and when she had woken the urge to stay in her room was
overwhelming.

But she couldn’t stay there forever. At last, Léna got up and ventured out to the landing. She opened the bathroom door and managed not to jump when she saw Camille standing in
front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection.

‘Sorry,’ Léna said, backing out.

‘Wait,’ said Camille. ‘Do I scare you?’

She lied. ‘No.’

‘I scare myself,’ said Camille. She took a step towards Léna. ‘What happened to me?’ Another step. Camille went to embrace her, to put her head on
Léna’s shoulder. It was too much. Léna moved back and closed the door, breathing hard. She went to her room and sat, restless, on her bed for over an hour, until she
couldn’t sit any more. Then she went downstairs to find that her parents and Camille were having breakfast around the table.