Free Stone Bruises by Simon Beckett Page B

stiflingly hot. As I chew the bread and cheese, I look over the vine field towards the lake. From where I sit, there’s just the glimmer of water visible through the trees. There don’t seem to be any ill effects from my stupid attempt to reach it last night. No fever has developed, no throb of renewed infection. Only an increasing tension that has nothing to do with my foot. God knows where I’ll be this time tomorrow, but it’d be good to at least see the lake before I go.
    Finishing my food, I settle myself on the crutch and set off down the track. In the daylight I can see that the vines look half dead. The leaves are mottled and curling at the edges, and the sparse clusters of grapes droop like tiny deflated balloons. No wonder the wine smells so bad.
    The sun is merciless. I thought it would be easier walking on the track now I can see what I’m doing, but in the heat it seems longer than it did last night. It’s rutted and uneven, with tyre marks set into it like concrete casts. The crutch skids and slips, and by the time I get to the end of the field I’m soaked with sweat. It’s a relief to reach the shade of the wood. The trees don’t seem remotely threatening in the daylight. Like the ones nearer the road, they’re mainly chestnuts, and I’m grateful to be under their green canopy.
    As I follow the track through them I find myself listening for a repetition of the scream I heard the night before. But there’s nothing more sinister than the chirrup of crickets. The statues too have lost their menacing aspect. There are about a dozen of the stone figures by the track, clustered apparently at random in the thickest part of the wood. All are weathered and old, and now I see that most are damaged. A broken-hoofed Pan capers next to a featureless nymph, while nearby a noseless monk seems to raise his eyes in shock. Standing slightly apart from the others is a veiled woman, the stone artfully carved to resemble folds of cloth covering her face. A dark oil stain mars one of the hands clasped to her heart, staining it like blood.
    I can’t imagine what they’re doing hidden away in the trees, but I decide I like the effect. Leaving them to their slow decay, I carry on down the track.
    The lake isn’t much further. Sunlight glints off it, dazzlingly bright. Edged with reeds, the water is so still it looks as though you could scoop a hole in its surface. Ducks, geese and waterbirds glide across it, dragging V-shaped trails in their wake. I breathe in the scented air, feeling the knots of tension ease from my shoulders. I’m realistic enough this morning to know that I won’t be going swimming, but the thought is no less seductive.
    I walk up to the top of a bluff that overlooks the lake. A lone chestnut tree stands there, spreading its branches out over the water. It looks deep enough to dive into from here, but then I notice a murky shadow lurking like a basking shark a few yards out. A submerged rock, waiting for anyone careless enough to jump in from the bluff. I should have known, I think. Even the lake has traps in it.
    I lower myself to the ground, leaning back against the tree as I gaze out over the water. Coming down here has been tiring but I’m glad I made the effort. I won’t get another chance, and my foot doesn’t seem any worse. The bandage Mathilde put on earlier is already grubby, but there are no fresh bloodstains and the ache is becoming more of an itch. My anxiety’s cost me another day, but there’ll be nothing to stop me leaving tomorrow.
And then what?
    I don’t know.
    If there’s an upside to having stepped in the trap, it’s that it’s taken my mind off everything else. While I’ve been here I’ve been too preoccupied to worry about past or future, but that’s about to end. One more night and then I’ll be back where I started. On the run in a foreign country, with no idea what I’m going to do.
    My hands are trembling as I reach for my cigarettes, but before I can light