boy,’ said Julie. ‘I had, um, an urgent appointment. I wasn’t long.’
‘Mmm. OK. So, is he family?’
Julie looked her steadily in the eye. ‘Yes.’
The woman raised an eyebrow but dropped the topic. A sudden gleeful eagerness spread across her face. ‘Have you heard about Michel Costa, the old teacher?’
‘No.’ Julie tensed.
‘You haven’t? This morning, he . . .’ She made a slitting motion across her throat, and Julie felt the floor shift under her.
‘What?’
‘He jumped from the top of the dam.’ The woman smiled, as if it was some crass titillation she was passing on, not the death of an old man. ‘Without a bungee rope!’ She
let her words settle for a moment, watching Julie’s reaction, then her smile suddenly vanished and she feigned sympathy. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘Not really,’ said Julie. ‘A little.’ She felt sick. She could have been the last person to see the man alive. Worse, she might be partly to blame. She’d spotted
something wrong. Nothing urgent, nothing that would have indicated anything like
this
, but still. She knew that she had let the old man down.
She wondered if she should talk to the police about it; it was certainly possible that they would discover she was one of the last people to have seen him, and come to question her.
Well
, she thought,
if that happens, so be it
. But if not, she wanted nothing more to do with the police.
‘Poor Monsieur Costa,’ said her neighbour, turning on an air of melancholy. ‘He burned his house down before he did it, you know. He was nearly seventy-five, wasn’t he?
He didn’t have long to wait. Must have been desperate to end it all like that. He’s to be buried in the old chapel graveyard, by his wife’s grave. The funeral will be tomorrow, I
heard.’
‘So soon?’ said Julie.
The woman lowered her voice and looked around, as if she was imparting a great secret. ‘Isn’t it. I suppose there are no relatives to summon, and they’ll certainly not want an
open coffin . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘But they obviously want it out of the way as quickly as possible. I imagine burying a suicide victim in consecrated ground might stir up some
resentment, if they let it fester.’
‘Don’t people know what century we live in?’ said Julie, genuinely angry that anyone might take it on themselves to object.
The woman simply shrugged. ‘It’s the worst of sins, don’t they say?’
Julie felt her stomach clench and gave her neighbour a withering look.
Oh, I can think of worse
, she thought.
‘
Goodbye
, Mademoiselle Payet,’ she said, and went into her apartment.
Victor was in the kitchen, in what seemed to be his usual state: silent and eating. He gave her a gentle smile as she walked in.
Julie sighed. She needed answers from him. ‘Victor? You have to talk to me now. I went to the police station. No one is looking for you. You have to tell me where you got lost, or why you
ran away. Was it a different town?’ Victor took another bite of a biscuit and watched her, smiling. He always looked as though he knew something she didn’t, and it unnerved her.
‘I can’t keep you,’ she said. ‘Even if I wanted to, I can’t. And . . . I don’t have any toys. Nothing for children. You’ll be bored here.’ Not
even a flicker.
Shit
. It still felt like a staring contest, and the boy wasn’t going to blink any time soon.
A few more days then
, she thought.
But no more
. She would have to find a way to make some discreet enquiries, and in the meantime hope he would open up to her. Otherwise she
would have no choice: hand him over to the police and throw him to the mercy of fate. Even the
thought
of doing that made her feel ill. She had experience with how merciful fate could
be.
He sat there looking at her, seemingly straight into her heart. Still silent, still smiling. Julie shook her head, exasperated. ‘Come here, then. I want you to try something on.’
A coat. She’d thought of
‘Mmm. OK. So, is he family?’
Julie looked her steadily in the eye. ‘Yes.’
The woman raised an eyebrow but dropped the topic. A sudden gleeful eagerness spread across her face. ‘Have you heard about Michel Costa, the old teacher?’
‘No.’ Julie tensed.
‘You haven’t? This morning, he . . .’ She made a slitting motion across her throat, and Julie felt the floor shift under her.
‘What?’
‘He jumped from the top of the dam.’ The woman smiled, as if it was some crass titillation she was passing on, not the death of an old man. ‘Without a bungee rope!’ She
let her words settle for a moment, watching Julie’s reaction, then her smile suddenly vanished and she feigned sympathy. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘Not really,’ said Julie. ‘A little.’ She felt sick. She could have been the last person to see the man alive. Worse, she might be partly to blame. She’d spotted
something wrong. Nothing urgent, nothing that would have indicated anything like
this
, but still. She knew that she had let the old man down.
She wondered if she should talk to the police about it; it was certainly possible that they would discover she was one of the last people to have seen him, and come to question her.
Well
, she thought,
if that happens, so be it
. But if not, she wanted nothing more to do with the police.
‘Poor Monsieur Costa,’ said her neighbour, turning on an air of melancholy. ‘He burned his house down before he did it, you know. He was nearly seventy-five, wasn’t he?
He didn’t have long to wait. Must have been desperate to end it all like that. He’s to be buried in the old chapel graveyard, by his wife’s grave. The funeral will be tomorrow, I
heard.’
‘So soon?’ said Julie.
The woman lowered her voice and looked around, as if she was imparting a great secret. ‘Isn’t it. I suppose there are no relatives to summon, and they’ll certainly not want an
open coffin . . .’ She pulled a face. ‘But they obviously want it out of the way as quickly as possible. I imagine burying a suicide victim in consecrated ground might stir up some
resentment, if they let it fester.’
‘Don’t people know what century we live in?’ said Julie, genuinely angry that anyone might take it on themselves to object.
The woman simply shrugged. ‘It’s the worst of sins, don’t they say?’
Julie felt her stomach clench and gave her neighbour a withering look.
Oh, I can think of worse
, she thought.
‘
Goodbye
, Mademoiselle Payet,’ she said, and went into her apartment.
Victor was in the kitchen, in what seemed to be his usual state: silent and eating. He gave her a gentle smile as she walked in.
Julie sighed. She needed answers from him. ‘Victor? You have to talk to me now. I went to the police station. No one is looking for you. You have to tell me where you got lost, or why you
ran away. Was it a different town?’ Victor took another bite of a biscuit and watched her, smiling. He always looked as though he knew something she didn’t, and it unnerved her.
‘I can’t keep you,’ she said. ‘Even if I wanted to, I can’t. And . . . I don’t have any toys. Nothing for children. You’ll be bored here.’ Not
even a flicker.
Shit
. It still felt like a staring contest, and the boy wasn’t going to blink any time soon.
A few more days then
, she thought.
But no more
. She would have to find a way to make some discreet enquiries, and in the meantime hope he would open up to her. Otherwise she
would have no choice: hand him over to the police and throw him to the mercy of fate. Even the
thought
of doing that made her feel ill. She had experience with how merciful fate could
be.
He sat there looking at her, seemingly straight into her heart. Still silent, still smiling. Julie shook her head, exasperated. ‘Come here, then. I want you to try something on.’
A coat. She’d thought of
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