The Returned (8 page)

‘Anyone want a yoghurt?’ asked her mum, overly bright, fussing. ‘Want some tea, Camille?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Léna watched, frustration growing. Her mum saw the look in her eye and gave her a forced smile.

‘Léna . . . Do you want some coffee, maybe?’

Léna shook her head and took out a cigarette, enjoying the disapproving look her dad gave her. Disapproving, but silent.
Let them shout at me
, she thought,
and I’ll
damn well shout back
. ‘So is this your plan?’ she said.

Her mum looked wary. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretend everything is normal?’

‘No,’ said her dad wearily. ‘Nothing is normal. But
this
. . .’ He gestured towards her. ‘This isn’t helping.’

Léna could feel everything bubble up inside her. ‘You’re both crazy,’ she said. ‘How do we even know it’s her? She might be an impostor.’

‘Stop it, Léna,’ said her mum, suddenly looking on the verge of tears.

‘What? It happens. People pose as someone else.’

Camille stood, and shouted back: ‘Who else would I be?’

Léna scowled at her. ‘You’re someone who read about the accident and realized you look like her. So you came here to see what you could get.’

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ said her mum.

‘
I’m
being ridiculous? I tell you who she
can’t
be, Mum. She can’t be Camille.
That’s
ridiculous.’

‘How do you think I feel?’ said Camille. ‘Put yourself in my place.’

‘I don’t care how you feel,’ said Léna. ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

Her dad stood and yelled, glaring at her. ‘That’s enough!’

She glared back for a moment, then walked out, making sure to slam the door hard. She stood in the driveway, fuming. After a few seconds her father came out too.

‘Why are you taking it out on her?’ he said.

‘My God! Doesn’t anyone realize what’s going on here? Camille can’t just come back like this. It’s not possible.’ She looked at her dad, loading her voice
with as much sarcasm as she could muster. ‘Is it like
baby Jesus
? She died, and was resurrected?’

‘Please, Léna.’ He looked around at the neighbouring houses. ‘People will hear.’

‘What? You think you can hide her?’ The look of near-shame on his face told her that was exactly what he’d been thinking. ‘If you think it’s so fucking
great
, why not shout about it?’ she said, flinging her arms around and raising her voice. ‘We should throw a big party to celebrate.’

Her dad took hold of her. ‘I said that’s
enough
!’

‘Or what? Will you hit me?’

It was a low blow; her dad’s face fell. He took a long breath before looking up at her, almost despairing. ‘I don’t know how this has happened, but your sister needs
you.’

‘My
sister
died,’ said Léna. ‘Do you understand? She’s dead. And while
that thing
is in the house . . . I won’t be.’

She started walking.

Claire was in the kitchen alone when Jérôme came back in.

‘Where’s Camille?’ he asked.

‘She’s gone to her room. She wants to be left on her own. Maybe she can get some sleep. Where’s Léna?’

‘She’s gone out,’ he said, resigned. ‘She needs some time. Please try not to worry – she’ll come home later. I think I’ll go back to my apartment and
change, if you’ll be OK? I’ll be back soon.’

She nodded, then thought of something. ‘Jérôme? What if you brought some of your things here? For Camille’s sake?’

Jérôme raised an eyebrow. ‘What would Pierre think?’ She shook her head, scolding:
There was no need for that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘You’re right. I’ll see you later. And really, don’t worry about Léna.’

‘I’ll try,’ she said. She saw his eyes flick upwards to Camille’s room, but she stopped herself commenting on it. He was still clearly uneasy in Camille’s presence,
but he had to get past his concerns, for all their sakes. She didn’t even think he’d held his daughter since her return; he might not even have touched her. How could Léna accept
Camille, if Jérôme didn’t?

It would happen, though, Claire knew. She could tell they had no doubts about who Camille was, not really; Jérôme’s wariness and Léna’s denial were symptoms of
their unwillingness to accept the miracle they’d been given, this second chance. Soon, they would see it for what it was: a gift from God.

She called Pierre and asked him to come round. She hugged him when he arrived but there was a formality to it, a symbol of how their relationship had to be, at least for the
time being. They sat and she told him of the unease in the house, and of Léna going off somewhere.

‘I called her several times,’ she said. ‘She won’t pick up.’

Pierre smiled at her. ‘Doesn’t she often do that? There’s no need to worry about her, or Jérôme. They’ll accept her, Claire. Soon enough. Has Camille said
much? Has she . . .’ He paused, as if he was having trouble finding the right words. ‘Has she any memory of the time between the crash and now?’

‘No,’ said Claire. Pierre looked disappointed. ‘She remembers everything before the accident. Her life, all her friends . . .’ Claire looked away, thinking of
Camille’s face when she’d learned that most of those friends were dead. ‘Have you happened to speak with any of the other parents?’

He nodded. ‘Some. Of course, I’ve not said anything about Camille, but I thought, perhaps . . .’

‘That maybe others had come back? So did I.’ She looked at him, expectant.

He shook his head. ‘It seems not,’ he said.

A voice came from the stairs, a combative edge to it. ‘Hello, doctor. Still no bag?’ It was Camille, looking at Pierre with suspicion.

‘Did you manage to sleep?’ asked Claire.

‘No, not for a second.’ She turned to Pierre. ‘What’s your explanation for that?’

‘Everything has an explanation,’ he said.

Camille sighed. ‘Great.’ She went to the front door and grabbed a coat.

Claire stood, immediately tense. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Out. I’m suffocating here.’

Claire looked to Pierre for support. He stood and went over to Camille. ‘That isn’t a good idea,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She brushed the hand away. ‘What do you know? Who are you anyway?’

‘Pierre is a good friend,’ said Claire. ‘He’s here to help. You can trust him.’

Camille didn’t look at all convinced. ‘So tell me,
Pierre
. Am I some kind of zombie?’

He shook his head slowly, smiling. ‘No, you’re not some kind of zombie.’

‘That’s not what Léna thinks,’ said Camille. ‘She said I was an impostor, but she doesn’t think that, not for a second. She knows who I am, and it scares
her.’

‘Léna missed you so much,’ said Claire. ‘It’s difficult for her to accept that this is real.’

‘So if I’m not a zombie, what am I?’

Pierre smiled. ‘You’re a miracle.’

‘I don’t believe in miracles,’ said Camille, her voice flat.

‘It’s the truth,’ said Pierre. ‘I went to your funeral. I saw you in your coffin. And here you are. You’ve been granted a new life, a new existence.’

‘But why me? There were forty people on the coach. Why was I saved?’

Pierre shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We don’t have all the answers, but there’s no need for you to be afraid. What’s happening to you is
miraculous, however you choose to believe it’s come to be. Someone is watching over you.’

She looked at Claire, lost. ‘I just want a normal life, like before.’

My little girl
, Claire thought. How could Léna and Jérôme not see that? How could they deny her? She wrapped her daughter in her arms and renewed her vow to keep her
safe. Whatever happened.

Soon after Pierre left, Camille went to her room again to try and get some sleep. Claire made a start on preparing dinner, and as she did she realized she was smiling: making
dinner for Camille. Her worries about Léna were still with her, yes; but those were everyday worries, and miracles always won out over the mundane.

She went upstairs to freshen up, but as she reached the doorway to her own bedroom she stood dumbfounded, staring. The drawer with the photo albums was open; the album they had shown Camille had
been torn into pieces and strewn across the bed, alongside another one that contained pictures of Léna.

Cuttings and photographs alike had been torn up; Léna at every age between the time of the crash and now. Everything Camille had missed.

Claire stared at the destruction for a long time, appalled that Camille would do such a thing. Resentment was inevitable, she thought, but even so. This was unacceptable.

She went to Camille’s door and opened it carefully in case she was asleep. Her daughter was sitting on her bed staring at the wall, her expression blank.

‘Camille?’ There was no movement, no answer. ‘
Camille?
’

Then her daughter’s eyes seemed to focus. She looked around herself, disoriented, before turning to face her mother. After a few seconds, she smiled. ‘What?’

‘Sorry, were you trying to sleep?’

‘Yes, but no luck. What is it?’

‘Did you . . . did you go into my bedroom?’

‘No,’ said Camille.

‘Please,’ said Claire. ‘You can be honest. Tell me if you . . . touched anything.’ She recalled the blank look on Camille’s face as she’d entered the bedroom,
and thought of sleepwalkers. ‘Maybe you don’t remember?’

‘I swear, Mum, I haven’t been out of the room. I promise. Why are you asking?’

Claire looked at her daughter for a long moment before shaking her head. She was telling the truth, Claire decided. The truth, as far as Camille was aware of it. ‘No reason,’ said
Claire.

There was no need to tell her, Claire thought to herself; no need to tell anyone.

She fetched a bin bag and returned to her bedroom to tidy the mess. As she collected the ripped pieces, she stopped when she realized the covers of the albums had also been torn in two. One was
thick vinyl-covered card; the other was leather. Torn, just as easily as the paper of the photographs.

She put it all in the bin bag out of her sight, not wanting to think about it.

Because there was no need to worry. No need to worry at all.

Hell of a day, Inspector Laure Valère thought. The night before had been interesting, with the Costa man vanishing after setting his home on fire and almost taking his
neighbour’s house along for the ride. Then this morning, the old man had been found. A phone call came in from the technicians at the dam, and Laure, as the senior officer on duty, had packed
Alcide and Bruno off to handle the scene. She’d called Captain Pellerin at home to let him know – Thomas liked to be kept up to date on anything significant, even when, as this morning,
he’d been off duty.

Laure had been living in the town for nine years now, and Michel Costa had only been the second suicide at the dam in all that time. That struck her as odd. Perfect location for the suicidal,
offering great views and melodrama for those wanting to make a statement on their way out.

And certainty of death, of course. A little messy, from the sound of Alcide’s voice when he’d called in.

The mess had kept coming, though.

The attack at the diner was more run-of-the-mill. The perpetrator had done a bit of a number on the manager, who had, frankly, been lucky to get away without needing stitches on the back of his
head where the glass had hit. Bruno had known more about the manager than Laure did; Alain Hubert had been in trouble with the law many a time, when he was a younger man. With the only witness
leaving the scene before the police got there, there was more than a little suspicion that Hubert had been paid a visit by some old associate. For all the man’s protestations about having
left criminal behaviour behind him long ago, it wouldn’t be a surprise if debt – unofficial and unpaid – had been behind the assault.

Still, they had CCTV footage, and the town’s security camera system was being used to keep an eye out in case the assailant made an appearance, but surely he was long gone.

Yet that hadn’t been the end of the mess. The worst of all was still to come.

A man had been walking his dog through the underpass by the town hall when he came across what he thought was a woman’s corpse hidden in the bushes at the tunnel exit. As second in
command, Laure had gone to the scene, only learning on her arrival that the victim was still alive.

She had been stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen at least a dozen times, but it was even more disturbing than that: a ragged fragment of human tissue sitting on the skin of the woman’s belly
had been tentatively identified by one of the paramedics.
From the woman’s liver
, he’d said, giving her the information in a whisper away from other ears, because that
paramedic knew about the older cases, seven years before.

Laure felt herself grow cold. She thought of Julie, then: of that New Year’s night when they had gone their separate ways, Laure heading back to the party, Julie back to her apartment. It
had been the next afternoon before Laure had surfaced, hungover, to the terrible news.

From the scene of the present stabbing, she called the captain at home once more to inform him of this new discovery, and he told her he would come to the station immediately. Seven years
before, there had been two killings, one survivor, and half a dozen suspects. None of the suspects panned out, but the man who’d been police captain at the time, hounded by the mayor, had
done his own piece of hounding – he and a group of like-minded officers had focused on one of the suspects and had pushed hard. They managed to scrabble together a sloppy case from hearsay
and coincidence, and ran with it until the case fell apart in a mess of litigation. Too close to the victim at the time, Laure had watched it all happen from the sidelines.

The fallout had been the end of the old captain’s career. The mayor, just as culpable in the eyes of some, had tried to save his position by funding the state-of-the-art CCTV system which
the town had ended up with. Ultimately, though, the only thing that saved him was the fact that the attacks stopped.