Trespass. Part 14

'Aramon,' she said. 'Anything like this, it's only a question of time. You can hide things, like you tried to hide the car, but in the end, they come to light. So you've got to try to remember what happened. That's your best hope to try to recollect. You've never liked doing this, going back over things you wanted to forget, but now you have to, so that you can defend yourself better. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

He was still clutching Bernadette's handkerchief, worn thin by time. He wiped his mouth with this. He nodded.

'The car's locked,' said Audrun. 'So first you have to remember what you did with the keys. Then we can see whether there's anything inside it...'

'It's gone,' he said.

'What's gone? The place where you put the keys? You've forgotten where you hid them?'

'All of it's gone. Did I do something terrible? Perhaps I did, Audrun, perhaps I did, because...'

'Because what? Because what what?'

'Jesus Christ, I found two spent cartridges in my gun! I don't know how they got there. Why would I leave them there? I'd never leave used cartridges in the gun. And what did I use the gun for? I don't know know!'

He began crying again. Audrun told him to have another pull at the gla.s.s of pastis and he gulped this down.

'I think it'll all come back to you,' she said calmly. 'Often, we think that certain things have gone clean from our minds, but then we get some clue it might be a photograph or the smell of something and we can put it all back together. I can help you. I think you should sleep now, but when you're feeling better, tomorrow, I can help you fill in some blanks, because, as I keep telling you, I saw saw you that day, with Verey. I saw you from my window...' you that day, with Verey. I saw you from my window...'

He turned his pleading face to hers. 'Don't go to the police,' he said. 'You're my sister. Don't betray me.'

She took his hand in hers and held it tenderly against her bony chest.

'It was the money, wasn't it?' said Audrun. 'Verey wouldn't pay your price and you were disappointed. Money makes people insane.'

Veronica felt that she was falling into a trance. A trance of sorrow.

In the middle of doing the simplest things, this trance came on. When she sat down to put on her shoes, she sometimes stayed like that, staring at her feet, for minutes on end.

It was June now and very hot. The journalists and photographers who'd cl.u.s.tered near the house after the police announcement had first been made had gone away. Rua.s.se Libre Rua.s.se Libre's references to the case were now in very small print. The Inspecteur Inspecteur in charge of the search remarked to Veronica that when someone disappears, the chance of their being found alive diminishes severely after the third day has pa.s.sed. in charge of the search remarked to Veronica that when someone disappears, the chance of their being found alive diminishes severely after the third day has pa.s.sed.

'That doesn't mean you can just give up!' Veronica screamed at him.

'Non, Madame,' said the Inspecteur Inspecteur patiently. 'Of course we're not giving up. We'll find your brother alive or dead.' patiently. 'Of course we're not giving up. We'll find your brother alive or dead.'

Alive or dead.

What made Veronica's sorrow so hard to bear was the knowledge that she'd loved and protected Anthony all his life against their father's neglect, against Lal's bad temper, against his own anguished nature but she hadn't been able to protect him from whatever had happened to him now. In her dreams, he was buried alive and slowly suffocating and she woke up screaming. Kitty tried to stroke and comfort her, but she resisted this, afraid that tenderness would become pa.s.sion.

She talked to Anthony in her mind. She told him she'd been to the Swiss house. The police had done a cursory search of the place, found nothing unusual and left. But Veronica had seen something which convinced her that Anthony had had been there on that day. The Swiss couple owned some fine antique French furniture. And here and there, on the dusty surfaces of tables or cabinets there were lines, unmistakably traces left by fingers, and Veronica knew she knew with absolute certainty! that these were Anthony's finger marks. 'It wasn't that you were checking for dust, darling,' she said to him, 'were you? It was that you recognised objects of value and you wanted to been there on that day. The Swiss couple owned some fine antique French furniture. And here and there, on the dusty surfaces of tables or cabinets there were lines, unmistakably traces left by fingers, and Veronica knew she knew with absolute certainty! that these were Anthony's finger marks. 'It wasn't that you were checking for dust, darling,' she said to him, 'were you? It was that you recognised objects of value and you wanted to touch touch them. You wanted to love them for a moment. You wanted to imagine them taking their place among the them. You wanted to love them for a moment. You wanted to imagine them taking their place among the beloveds. beloveds. I'm not wrong, Anthony, am I? I know I'm not wrong.' I'm not wrong, Anthony, am I? I know I'm not wrong.'

A forensics team was sent to the Swiss house. Yes, indeed, Veronica was informed, there were clearly delineated marks on the furniture. But now, before undergoing further searches at the Swiss house, the team had to see whether they could match these fingerprints with those belonging to Anthony Verey.

The forensics people arrived at Les Glaniques and dusted the surfaces of Anthony's bedroom and bathroom for prints and then they took away Anthony's possessions took away almost everything that belonged to him while Veronica stood looking on, seeing the small bit of his life that he'd brought to France being delicately inserted into plastic bags. They even ferreted out his pyjamas, from where Veronica had placed them under his pillow on the day he disappeared, and started to put them into a bag.

'Don't take those,' she said. 'Why do you need those?'

'DNA, Madame,' they said. 'Everything is vital.'

Veronica lay down on Anthony's bed. The smell of him all the balms and unguents he used was still on the pillow even though the pillowcase had been taken away.

She remembered how he'd always adored perfume. As a teenager, he'd once been caught sitting at Lal's dressing table, going through all her bottles, one by one, and sniffing the contents. In his hand, when Lal surprised him, was a porcelain pot of v.a.g.i.n.al lubricant. Lal took the pot from him and threw it across the room and then hit the side of his head with the back of her hand. She told him he was a grubby and disgusting boy.

This had been during the summer holidays when Lal had brought her Canadian lover, Charles Le Fell, to Bartle House. Although Veronica had long ago guessed that her mother had lovers, it had apparently never entered Anthony's mind, and he told Veronica that, when he thought about what his mother was doing with Charles Le Fell, he wanted to kill him.

'Don't do that,' Veronica said. 'Canadians are quite nice.'

'I don't care,' he said. 'I'd like to kill them both.'

He crept around the house in the night, listening at Lal's door. Charles Le Fell was a very big man, six foot three with wide shoulders and enormous hands, like a bear's paws, whereas Lal was small and delicate, like a springbok. Human behaviour was so stupid, so completely wrong, Anthony told Veronica, if his mother could choose choose that, that hugeness, if she could willingly submit herself to that. And yet, secretly, he wanted to see it. He wanted to open Lal's door and see her naked body being crushed by Charles Le Fell. And then scream. He wanted to stand in his mother's bedroom screaming until he was sick. that, that hugeness, if she could willingly submit herself to that. And yet, secretly, he wanted to see it. He wanted to open Lal's door and see her naked body being crushed by Charles Le Fell. And then scream. He wanted to stand in his mother's bedroom screaming until he was sick.

He wouldn't talk to Charles Le Fell. At mealtimes, the amiable Canadian tried to make conversation about school, or about the things that were happening in the news, like the launch of the first Russian s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, Sputnik Sputnik, but Anthony only mumbled one-word answers and excused himself from the table as soon as his food was eaten.

Lal punished him by refusing to kiss him goodnight any more. She said to him: 'All of that is over. You have to grow up, Anthony. In every way. Or you'll never have a proper life. And you'd better start being civil to Charles or you can spend the Christmas holidays at school.'

'I hate women,' he said to Veronica one night. 'I hate every single woman in the world, except you.'

'I'm not a woman,' said Veronica. 'I'm a horse.'

He hated women, and yet...

Memories of Anthony's wedding began to chase round Veronica's tired mind.

'Just let that old stuff go,' said Kitty. 'Just get it out of your head, if it upsets you.'

But Veronica felt that it might be there for a purpose. She felt that there was a chance that if she allowed herself to examine it as one would examine evidence to present to a court of law then it might give her some new insight into what had happened.

She could see that wedding day very clearly...

Lal wearing a gauzy blue dress, but looking tired, suddenly looking older, and in the church turning round and searching the faces of the a.s.sembled guests, as though in the hope that handsome Charles Le Fell might reappear and call her his 'Lally-Pally', his 'sweetie-pie'...

Anthony, waiting in the front pew for the arrival of his bride, Caroline...

Anthony immaculate in a morning suit from Savile Row, his hair still dark then, his face tanned. Beside him Lloyd Palmer (yes, of course it was Lloyd, the best man!), the buoyant, dependable friend. And then suddenly, as the organ music struck up the bridal march and the congregation rustled to their well-shod feet, Anthony bent over, bent almost double, as though he was going to be sick on the flagstones, and Lloyd put a comforting arm round him. Veronica, in the pew behind, wanted to climb over the seat to be beside her brother, but all she could do hampered as she was by her tight silk suit and her satin high-heeled shoes was reach out her gloved hand...

He wasn't sick. He managed to straighten up as Caroline made her elegant progress down the aisle. But he never looked round to see his bride coming towards him. He held himself rigid and Veronica could see his whole body shaking with fear. He was meant to step out of the pew when Caroline drew level with him, but he didn't move. Caroline and her father waited. The bride's sharp features under the veil turned towards him, her eyes blinking in panic. Her hand, holding the bouquet of lilies, reached out...

Lloyd had to nudge Anthony out of the pew and into the aisle beside Caroline. The vicar stared down at them in dismay. Lal whispered to Veronica: 'Something's wrong, V. But what?'

But what?

He got through it. At the reception, he made a speech about love.

But later, when Veronica b.u.mped into him coming out of the hotel cloakrooms, he took her arm and led her away from the party into the garden, where a fountain in the form of a curly-headed cupid p.i.s.sed water into a lily pond.

'I don't love Caroline,' he said. 'I like her, but that's not the same thing, as we all know very well.'

'It may not matter,' said Veronica. 'It may all be all right in time. Think about arranged marriages. Sometimes, love happens later on...'

'Yes,' he said. 'So I've heard. What a wise old thing you are.'

He seemed to be about to return to the wedding reception, but then he caught Veronica's arm and held it in a painful grip as he said: 'This morning, V, I woke up at five and I walked to Chelsea Bridge and I had a set of butchers' weights in a Harrods bag and I began to put them into my pockets...'

'What stopped you?' Veronica asked. 'The thought of wasting a bag from Harrods?'

'I'm serious, V. I'm serious.'

'So am I, Anthony. If you wanted to kill yourself, then what stopped you?'

'Not what what', said Anthony, 'but who. who. A boy. Sixteen or seventeen years old. On the way home from some all-nighter, reeking of everything. And he wasn't even a beauty, but I didn't care. We went to Battersea Park. There are still a few places there where you can't be seen.' A boy. Sixteen or seventeen years old. On the way home from some all-nighter, reeking of everything. And he wasn't even a beauty, but I didn't care. We went to Battersea Park. There are still a few places there where you can't be seen.'

'And if the boy hadn't come by?'

'I don't know. Because why go on? I couldn't answer it and I still can't. Why Why?'

In the night, Veronica woke Kitty and said: 'I've been resisting this. But now I'm trying to face it. I think it's just possible that Anthony committed suicide.'

'Yes?' said Kitty.

'He considered it once before. Maybe more than once. Coming to France was his last throw at his life. I believe it was. And I think he may have understood up at that lonely house that it wasn't going to work... that everything was over.'

Kitty stroked Veronica's hair. Then she got out of bed and went to the chest of drawers where she kept her mannish underwear. She came back to the bed and held out a crumpled piece of cellophane.

'I found this when I went back to the Mas Lunel,' she said.

Veronica put her gla.s.ses on and squinted at the cellophane. 'What is it?' she said.

'Sandwich wrapper,' said Kitty. 'Cheese and tomato. From La Bonne Baguette. La Bonne Baguette.'

'So?'

'I could be wrong,' said Kitty, 'but it's the same flavour of sandwich that Anthony chose the first time we went there with Madame Besson. And I keep wondering... suppose he went back... to have another look at the mas...'

Veronica stared at the cellophane, turning it over and over in her hands. At last she said: 'We could give this to forensics. But I don't think Anthony went back there. In fact I know he wouldn't have. He'd made up his mind about that place. He knew the bungalow ruined it. Perhaps he thought he'd found it for a moment his paradise but then he saw it for what it was: not paradise at all.'

Aramon began praying to his dead mother, Bernadette.

'Help me!' he cried out to her. 'Help me, Maman...'

He knew she couldn't hear him. Or, if she did hear him, if she did did know what was in his heart and in his mind, then she wouldn't give him any comfort, because she'd also know that he'd long ago put himself beyond her love. know what was in his heart and in his mind, then she wouldn't give him any comfort, because she'd also know that he'd long ago put himself beyond her love.

But still he kept imagining her sweet face, calm and tender beside him. She was mending the holes in his own worn-out socks. She handled the darning needle as deftly as a high-cla.s.s tailor. On her feet, she wore rubber boots, flecked with farmyard mud, to which little bits of damp gra.s.s still clung.

He began ransacking the house, looking for the keys to the hidden car.

The pain in his gut made him growl when he had to reach upwards to high shelves or the tops of armoires. He found ancient blankets, bitten to threads by moths. He found Serge's fustian wartime coat with an S.T.O. badge still pinned to the lapel. He found a rolled map of the world, on which Europe looked large and Africa small. He found a selection of shoes and coat hangers and broken lampshades and torches. He knew these things were worthless, but something prevented him from lighting a bonfire and hurling them onto it. So he left them where they were, lying around on the floor in different rooms.

In the nights, he sweated. What he dreaded most was finding the keys.

He told Bernadette that yes, yes he knew he was capable of killing a man. Human life his own included hadn't been that precious to him, not after Serge died and everything had had to change, not after what had had been precious to him was denied him for ever. been precious to him was denied him for ever.

In his dreams, he killed Verey. He didn't know why this kept happening, but it did. He shot Verey in the gut. He saw his grey colon come bursting through the flesh of his stomach. Then he rolled the body in a blanket, or in Serge's old coat with the S.T.O. badge still pinned to it, and chucked it in the car. The body was light, almost like the body of a boy.

But when Aramon woke up from these dreams, he still didn't know the truth about what he'd done or not done. The first words on his lips in the mornings were to his dead mother: 'Help me, Maman, help me...'

Then Madame Besson phoned.

'Monsieur Lunel,' she said brightly, 'j'ai des tres bonnes nouvelles: I have another English family who would like to come and visit the mas.'

Aramon was standing in the kitchen. Five empty pastis bottles adorned the table. On the floor were piles of old farming manuals, mousetraps, broken fis.h.i.+ng rods, blackened roasting pans and stained crockery: all the detritus he'd tugged out of cupboards in his terrified search for the keys to the car in the barn. He stared at these objects, bent down and picked up a broken rod with an unsteady hand. Outside, he could hear the mistral tormenting the trees.

'Yes?' he forced himself to say.

'Would today be convenient?' said Madame Besson. 'The clients are in my office with me now. A Monsieur and Madame Wilson. I could bring them up to the mas at about three o'clock this afternoon.'

Now, sweat began to pour down Aramon's forehead and down the back of his neck. It was as though he'd forgotten all about trying to sell the mas, forgotten that more strangers could arrive to poke and pry into the house and into the barn. And now he saw that he couldn't possibly let anyone come here until he'd got rid of the car...

'Monsieur Lunel,' repeated Madame Besson, 'tell me if today would be convenient? I have the Wilsons right here...'

'No,' said Aramon. 'Not today. No, I can't...'

He heard Madame Besson sniff with irritation. To stop her from suggesting a different day and to stop himself from agreeing to this different day, he pressed the rod across his shoulder like you press a stick across the shoulders of a dog when you're training it to stay or sit and he blurted out: 'I've been meaning to call you, Madame Besson. To tell you... I'm not well. I'm afraid that I can't have anybody visiting me at the moment.'

'Oh,' said Madame Besson. 'I'm very sorry to hear that...'

'I'm confined to my bedroom. The doctor's ordered me to stay there.'

'Oh,' said Madame Besson again, 'well that is... very bad luck and I send you my sympathy. Nothing too serious, I hope?'

'Well,' said Aramon. 'n.o.body knows. n.o.body seems to know...'

'I see,' said Madame Besson, then, without a pause, she went on, 'But I must tell you, Monsieur Lunel, that if you want a sale, then I think you should let the Wilsons come today or tomorrow, when you may be feeling better. They have to return to England on Friday but they are really very interested to see the house. From the pictures and details, they say it sounds exactly what they've been looking for and they've been looking for more than a year now, and also, I don't think the price will be a problem for them, so if there is any way... I mean, I myself could conduct them on the tour of the property. N'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? I could explain about your illness. We would arrange to leave you in peace in your room...' I could explain about your illness. We would arrange to leave you in peace in your room...'

'No,' said Aramon. 'No. Things have happened to me... You have to understand. We must set this all aside.'

'Set it aside? What d'you mean by that?'

Aramon looked out of the window and saw yellow leaves flying in the wind, as though autumn were already arriving. He thought of them falling on his parents' stone mausoleum and settling there.

'Cancel the sale,' he said. 'I can't go on with it at the moment.'

When Audrun came up to the house the next day, she told him he'd done right.

'Your only hope,' she said, 'is to keep everybody away from here, Aramon. Barricade yourself in. Lie low. Wait till it's all forgotten. All you need to do is get rid of the car.'