Trespass. Part 12

'What is it?' said Aramon.

'Look at this picture,' she said.

He didn't have his spectacles with him. He'd just flung on his clothes and picked up the gun. 'I can't see it,' he said.

She'd folded the paper in half and she waved the page in front of his eyes. 'Look!' she said.

He stared at the blurred image. 'Who is it?' he said. 'I can't see a thing.'

She s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and read: ' 'ENGLISH TOURIST STILL MISSING. Police today renewed their search for Englishman, Anthony Verey, reported missing on Tuesday. Verey, 64, a British Art Dealer, was thought to have been driving his rented car-'

'Verey?' said Aramon. 'Verey?'

'Yes. Isn't that the man-'

'How could he be "missing"?'

'I don't know. But it's the same man, isn't it? The one who came here?'

Aramon hefted the gun over his shoulder, reached out for the newspaper. He held the picture very close to his face and slowly, very slowly, his eye focused on an eye. And there was something familiar about the eye, something which sent a s.h.i.+ver through him and he felt this s.h.i.+ver travel the length of his body and go down into his shoes.

'Could be him,' he said. 'If you don't know these hills, you can get lost in them...'

'Strange though,' said Audrun, 'that he went missing the day he came back here. Don't you think? Don't you think that's odd?'

The day he came back here.

Aramon lowered the picture and looked around him, not knowing what he was looking for, but knew that he had to keep looking and looking... as if there might be something there in the devastated dog pound, or in the way the holm oaks moved in the hot wind which would jog his faulty memory. 'Came back here?'

'Yes. On that day...'

'What day?' said Aramon.

'Tuesday. The day he went missing.'

'He never came back here.'

He saw his sister shake her head. Shake and shake, as though scolding a child.

'You accuse me of being crazy,' she said. 'Now you're losing your mind. I saw saw you, Aramon. I was ashamed of what a peasant you looked, in your dirty work clothes, next to that smartly dressed person.' you, Aramon. I was ashamed of what a peasant you looked, in your dirty work clothes, next to that smartly dressed person.'

'Saw me... ?'

Audrun began to walk away. 'By the river,' she said. 'With Verey.'

'When?' he called, helplessly.

'On Tuesday afternoon. That body stinks, by the way. You'd better bury it pretty fast.'

Aramon looked down at the dead hound. The wounds were in its neck and in its stomach. There were bite marks around them. The flies had returned and were crawling over them. And at his back, the other dogs were still crying and he knew he had to get water to them and he had to clean the pound and bring them food, because to have let animals suffer like this was a terrible thing...

'Audrun,' he said, 'help me...'

But she just kept walking away.

He went in and telephoned Madame Besson. He told himself he wasn't so stupid or made so dumb by pain that he couldn't find a way to sort out at least some of the things that confused him. The phone was answered by Madame Besson's daughter, who told him that her mother was out with a client.

'Verey,' said Aramon. 'That Englishman they say has gone missing. He made one visit to my house, uhn? Not two. He made one one visit.' visit.'

The daughter was silent. After a moment, she said: 'I'm afraid I don't know. You'll have to check with my mother. And I think she has someone else who's interested to see the mas.'

'Yes?'

Aramon immediately felt his spirits lift. The huge sums of money promised by the sale entered his brain like music, like the old sweet jazz his father used to play when Bernadette was still living: 475,000 euro... 600,000 euro... The numbers jived and s.h.i.+mmered. 650,000 euro! Because, Jesus Christ, the house and its land was making him ill now. He was too weary to keep on shouldering such a burden. If it wasn't lifted from him soon, he was going to die.

'I'll ask my mother to call you,' said the daughter.

'When?' said Aramon.

'When she gets in, this afternoon.'

Aramon rolled a cigarette and sat smoking it until the pain in his gut diminished a little. Then he went outside and began digging a grave for the dog. As he raised the pick and brought it cras.h.i.+ng down into the earth, he felt the weight and the pain of it, all along his arms and through his shoulder blades.

Veronica lay in the dark.

She thought how strange it was that, when her brother was missing and might be dead, the night could be so quiet. She wanted the world to be out there in a blaze of official light, searching for him. She almost thought she heard him calling to her: Please help me, darling. I'm trapped. I'm dying... Please help me, darling. I'm trapped. I'm dying...

This was so unbearable that Veronica got up and pulled on her robe and fastened it tightly round her, to cover the scent of s.e.x she could smell on her own body. She went into the kitchen, and drank cold water from the tap, splashed it over her face, and stood there staring at nothing, dismayed by her own behaviour. For what had she done in the face of the tragedy that seemed to be occurring other than to call in the police and give them the facts and answer a few questions, and then just let herself go wild with Kitty in bed the wildest she'd ever been. Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Why was human conduct often so shockingly inappropriate? Veronica thought of herself as 'civilised' a civilised woman, known for her stoicism and her kindness. Now she saw that she was also no better than an animal. Why was human conduct often so shockingly inappropriate? Veronica thought of herself as 'civilised' a civilised woman, known for her stoicism and her kindness. Now she saw that she was also no better than an animal.

It wasn't that she needed to apologise to Kitty. Not at all. Kitty had played her erotic games with her every step of the way. What Veronica longed to be able to do was erase those hours altogether. They embarra.s.sed and mortified her. She promised herself that she wouldn't let Kitty touch her or even kiss her again until Anthony was found. She owed him this, at least. He was Lal's flesh, Raymond Verey's flesh, just as she was. She owed him or his memory a period of s.e.xual abstinence.

Made calm by this decision, Veronica sat down at the kitchen table, pulled a pad and pen towards her and began to make notes.

What to do now? she wrote at the top of the page. Knowing that, really, there was nothing to be done except to wait for news, she also knew that she had to do something. She couldn't just stay quietly as Les Glaniques with Kitty. The voice that cried to her she wrote at the top of the page. Knowing that, really, there was nothing to be done except to wait for news, she also knew that she had to do something. She couldn't just stay quietly as Les Glaniques with Kitty. The voice that cried to her Help me, help me, darling Help me, help me, darling had to be heard. had to be heard.

Follow the trail, she wrote. she wrote.

This felt right. She'd drive to Rua.s.se, see Madame Besson and get directions to the isolated house Anthony was supposed to be visiting.

She told herself that she, V, would know somehow, she would know whether Anthony had been there, or not. There would be some sign of his presence or of his absence.

Verify, she wrote. she wrote.

But, after visiting the house, where should she go?

Veronica found a map of the Cevennes and spread it out on the table and stared at the brown contour lines and the snaking yellow of the roads and the black dotted lines of the ramblers' tracks. And she knew what these things represented: a wilderness one of the last protected wildernesses in Europe. Anthony wasn't the first person to go missing there. The Cevennes hid the bones of countless lost people. Some of these or so Veronica had been told by Guy Sardi were German infantrymen, shot by the Resistance in 1944 and buried in the scrub and never named.

The telephone rang at 8.15 and woke Veronica, who had gone to sleep with her head on the kitchen table, thinly cus.h.i.+oned by the map.

'Veronica,' said a loud English voice, 'it's Lloyd Palmer, calling from London. I just switched on the news and I'm in total shock.'

For a moment, Veronica couldn't remember who Lloyd Palmer was. Then she recalled a few visits made long ago with Anthony to a house in Holland Park, dinner served by a butler, Palmer's wife wearing the kind of huge diamonds that sent out little daggers of light from her throat. One time, on the way home with Veronica in a taxi, Anthony had told her that, in event of his death, Lloyd Palmer would be the sole executor of his estate.

'I want to help,' boomed Lloyd. 'What a total nightmare. Tell me what I can do. Shall I fly over?'

Veronica waited before answering. This, she told herself, was what she would do in the coming days: consider everything suggested or offered, and then wait before answering.

'Veronica, are you there?' said Lloyd.

'Yes,' she said calmly, at last. 'It's good of you to call, Lloyd.'

'He's alive, isn't he? The radio said he could be "lost" or stranded. They'll find him, won't they?'

Veronica looked up and saw Kitty at the kitchen door. She was naked. Veronica looked away. She turned her back on Kitty.

'I don't know if they're going to find him,' Veronica said to Lloyd. 'I just don't know...'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' said Lloyd. 'It's unreal. I spoke to him just a few days ago. D'you think he crashed the car?'

Kitty didn't leave. She stood there, puffy-eyed, barely awake, idly scratching her pubic hair. Veronica took the telephone and went out onto the terrace, where a hot sun was already falling. She closed the door behind her. A voice in her said: This is no one else's business. Only mine. I'm the one responsible for everything and I'll be the one to find my brother.

'Lloyd,' she said, 'it's no use asking me questions, really. I'm absolutely in the dark. Anthony left here in the car, on his way to see a house on Tuesday morning. I packed some water for him in a cold-bag. That's all I can tell you for sure.'

'He wasn't a good driver, was he?' said Lloyd. 'He was always turning round to speak to you, if you were the pa.s.senger.'

Pa.s.senger.

This lit up a new thought in Veronica's tired mind. Was it possible that Anthony had stopped to pick up a hitch-hiker, or to help someone apparently stranded on a lonely road, and had then been mugged for his wallet and his phone, and for the car itself? Because despite all his sophistication the veneer veneer he'd cultivated over the years there was a vulnerability about Anthony which seeped through and which would instantly have been apparent to a stranger. he'd cultivated over the years there was a vulnerability about Anthony which seeped through and which would instantly have been apparent to a stranger.

'He wasn't a good driver, no,' said Veronica to Lloyd. 'Or rather, no he isn't isn't a good driver. We can't start talking about him in the past tense.' a good driver. We can't start talking about him in the past tense.'

'Oh G.o.d, sorry, absolutely not!' said Lloyd. 'I didn't mean it.'

Veronica ran a bath and lay in it, watching a spider perfecting its web in one corner of the bathroom ceiling.

Verification and abstinence. In these words appeared to lie some kind of appropriate resolve. Already, Veronica was preparing herself for the journey to Rua.s.se and beyond. She was only waiting for Madame Besson's office to open at 9.00. In these words appeared to lie some kind of appropriate resolve. Already, Veronica was preparing herself for the journey to Rua.s.se and beyond. She was only waiting for Madame Besson's office to open at 9.00.

She heard Kitty come to the bathroom door, but Veronica had locked it. Kitty called softly: 'I've brought you tea, darling.'

Consider everything suggested or offered, and then wait before answering.

Getting no reply, Kitty knocked on the door. 'I've got a cup of tea for you.'

'It's OK,' said Veronica. 'I don't want anything.'

She heard Kitty pause, hesitate. Then walk away.

Veronica felt relieved. And it was at this moment and not before that she concentrated once again on what had happened to Kitty yesterday in Beziers. Veronica asked herself what she felt about it, this rejection by the gallery.

And she knew that it didn't surprise her. It seemed terrible to admit this almost a betrayal but Kitty's talent was so small, so almost not there, that it might have been better if it hadn't existed at all.

If it hadn't existed at all, Kitty would have had no unrealistic hopes for it and that part of her which yearned and yearned and never gave up would have given up and been still thus relieving her, Veronica, of the exhausting obligation to collude with her hopes. Because this was all it amounted to, all the praise she had to heap on Kitty's watercolours it was no more than dishonest collusion with a lie.

And it wearied her. She saw this clearly now. Kitty's unrealisable dreams were exhausting. They took up too much precious time.

Kitty insisted on making breakfast for her: croissant, coffee and melon.

The food made her feel less tired, but when Kitty came to her and put her arms round her, she gently pushed her away. And when Kitty said that she was coming with her to Rua.s.se, Veronica stood up and said: 'No.'

'Yes, I am,' said Kitty. 'I'm not letting you go alone.'

'Well that's OK,' said Veronica coldly, 'because I'm not asking for permission.'

Then she gathered her things and began moving towards the car and Kitty followed her, but Veronica didn't turn round or say goodbye, just got into the car and drove away. As she went, she found herself photographed by two press men, who'd been waiting in the lane, but she set her gaze resolutely beyond them.

As Veronica drove, it affected her as it always did, the beauty of the road to Rua.s.se: the s.h.i.+mmering of the plane trees, their shadows bisecting the tarmac, the sunflowers, like yellow dolls animated by the wind. She remembered how much she'd been looking forward to finis.h.i.+ng her work on 'Decorative Gravels' in Gardening without Rain Gardening without Rain and beginning the chapter ent.i.tled 'The Importance of Shade'. and beginning the chapter ent.i.tled 'The Importance of Shade'.

And then she found herself remembering how Lal, brought up in a land of suns.h.i.+ne, had always scorned the idea that anybody needed shade as protection from the sun in England. 'If you've spent your childhood in the Cape,' Lal used to say, 'the words English summer English summer are an oxymoron.' are an oxymoron.'

But there had been hot days. Lal exclaimed over them as over a h.o.a.rd of gold. All her normal tasks were sacrificed to them. In the garden of Bartle House, she'd lie on a cane lounger, wearing a bathing costume or a strapless sundress and white-rimmed sungla.s.ses, pointing herself at the sky. And her skin soon enough turned an obediently sweet honey brown.

The boy, Anthony, would bring out an old tartan rug and put it down on the gra.s.s and play with his toy soldiers, positioning them in open formation, moving steadily towards Lal's lounger. When they reached it, he'd make them form a column, then scale the base of the lounger, one by one, to arrive near Lal's feet and as she felt their little bayonets touch her skin, she'd laugh and say, 'Oh no! Not another bridgehead!'

Sometimes, he'd press the soldiers' bodies in between Lal's toes, pretending they were dead and lined up in a mortuary, and hold Lal's feet still as she giggled and squirmed. He told her that her scarlet toenails were the blood of his valiant men.

One time, Anthony stayed too long in the sun, too long on the tartan rug. His face went very red, then pale, then he was sick on the lawn and the doctor was called and he was ill with sunstroke for days and days. But Lal was a careless nurse. She left Veronica to carry up trays of broth, put clean sheets on Anthony's bed. And as soon as Anthony showed signs of recovery, she abandoned them altogether and went to London, to stay at the Berkeley Hotel. 'You'll be fine fine, darlings,' she said. 'Mrs Brigstock will keep an eye. She'll ring if there's any kind of crisis.'

After a few days of this abandonment had pa.s.sed, Veronica went out into the garden with Anthony, still dressed in pyjamas, clinging to her arm. And she could remember, now, that he kept saying: 'Let's not go into the sun, V. Let's not go into the sun.' So they walked very slowly to the spinney and sat together under the trees.

'I'm on my way!' she said aloud now, her voice strong and purposeful above the throbbing of the car's air-conditioning. 'It's V. I'm coming to find you.'

It was like a poison in her blood, Kitty decided, the 'V' part of Veronica.

It was at the root of every selfish act, every unkindness. Veronica was loving, compa.s.sionate and clever; V was none of these things. V was a sn.o.b and a tyrant. She was a relic of a vanished time.

Kitty lay down and slept for a while. It had always been her way of trying to overcome misery. But the late morning heat in the room was suffocating and after sweating through a nightmare in which she found herself abandoned by Veronica for ever, she got up and showered and sat in the shade of the terrace, sipping water and eating fruit, and tried to order her thoughts about what was happening.

It wearied her to realise that Anthony's disappearance would be the only only subject talked about at Les Glaniques from now on. In fact, this was such an exhausting thought that Kitty began almost to wish that the wretched man would suddenly reappear. Scarred a little, of course. Someone who had had to subject talked about at Les Glaniques from now on. In fact, this was such an exhausting thought that Kitty began almost to wish that the wretched man would suddenly reappear. Scarred a little, of course. Someone who had had to confront confront terror and pain for once in his pampered life. But alive. And, with any luck, traumatised sufficiently by whatever had happened to him in the Cevennes, to abandon his idea of coming to live in France. terror and pain for once in his pampered life. But alive. And, with any luck, traumatised sufficiently by whatever had happened to him in the Cevennes, to abandon his idea of coming to live in France.

Then, V would revert to being Veronica. Things would be as they once were...

Kitty yawned. Getting Anthony back meant finding him. Kitty judged that the French police might be fairly slow in their search for an ageing English tourist and thought that, after all, Veronica might be right to do some searching on her own.

But it now occurred to her that Veronica was heading to the wrong place. Perhaps only she, Kitty Meadows, had understood that Anthony had already found a house he loved: the Mas Lunel. Until she'd pointed out the ugly bungalow to him, he'd been in a possessive rapture about it. She'd seen it, felt it in him as he stood there surveying the view, at the upper window. He'd been imagining himself installed in that house, lord of the land. And then she'd deliberately spoiled it for him. Had enjoyed seeing his features cloud over with dismay.