THE DRONE OF TRAFFIC on an unseen ring road. The intermittent roar of a chainsaw on wood. Sun glistens on the wet black surface of the car park. It could still be France — or anywhere at all.
Bright kicks the fence with his pointy buckled boots, found in a crate of dumped pirate paraphernalia outside a community theatre. Suburbia, French or otherwise, always makes him nervous. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow,’ he mutters. ‘Gone today, elsewhere tomorrow.’ He does, indeed, wish that he and Lewis were somewhere else — but where might that be?
The lace curtain flickers in the corner of his eye. The French maid is watching their departure. In spite of the Reverend’s certain approval of her demure manner and long legs, Bright also finds her appealing, and more than a little sad. ‘She likes you,’ whispered Lewis as he carried their bags to the car. ‘Never would have picked you as a lady’s man! No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Bright. It’s slightly confusing, even to himself. Even though he appears misanthropic, his appeal is usually instant, and furthermore of such long-lasting effect that — as we’ve seen — hundreds had turned out on a bitterly chilly night to honour the last minutes of his life. ‘I can’t fall in love here,’ he says to Lewis. ‘Not in transit. My papers aren’t in order.’
This had raised another chuckle from Lewis, which turned to a grunt as he lifted Bright’s suitcase into the boot. ‘Ufff. What you got in here, man? A dead body?’
Glancing over his shoulder at the floral pension Bright sees, in sixty short seconds, an alternative life. Once Lewis has driven away, leaving him behind, he will stride back upstairs, find the maid behind the curtain and possess her, body and soul. Over the next few months he’ll do odd jobs around the hotel, the maid will fall deeply in love with him, her parents will heartily approve, and there’ll be a quick wedding followed by an early pregnancy (or the other way around).
Soon he’s known in the village as the eccentric English writer. He will finish another book — or not.
Some years later, he will be replaced in the maid’s affections by someone more suitable. Or vice versa.
With relief, he can then leave for Paris to live out the rest of his life in exile. Or he might return to England, head down but heart free: the prodigal son who often surprises and almost always disappoints.
But what’s the noise, you ask? That rumbling that lies under the sixty-second/six-year story Bright is telling? It’s the huge black torrent of his loneliness. He’s like a human seashell; put your ear close enough — risk it — and you’ll hear the roaring.
‘Lewis?’ He turns his back on the window, on the girl’s hidden yearning, with a tearing in his heart. Why can’t it ever be easier? This is what troubles him, as he stands in the floodlight of the morning sun, which stretches the shadows of the shrubbery to troublesome proportions. ‘Lewis, shouldn’t we be leaving?’ What he really means is: let’s get the hell out of here.
In spite of the fact that Lewis has emphasised what a long drive is ahead of them, he’s been under the BMW bonnet for some time. ‘Lewis, is everything all right under there?’ queries Bright. ‘Can I help?’ He’s probably less capable of fixing a car than Lewis is of writing a novel, but life is crammed with ostensibly helpful questions that mean something quite different.
The bonnet rears up like a gleaming black tidal wave. ‘I love you!’ — and Lewis emerges, phone clutched in his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he says to Bright. ‘Just wanted to talk to my wife before we leave. I don’t use the phone when I’m driving.’
There’s a strange grunting from the bushes. A stoat backs out, dragging a dead hedgehog in its mouth. The casual savagery with which it repositions its teeth in the soft belly impresses Bright. The dual-bodied shuffle and the trail of blood are mesmerising.
‘Ahem?’ Lewis is holding out the phone, looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘I was asking if you’d like to call anyone before we get on the road? I’ve got cheap international roaming. Call anyone. Anywhere.’
Bright pauses, blinking hard against the sunlight. ‘Thanks, but there’s no one.’ He pulls on his dark glasses and gets into the front seat.
‘You sure?’
‘No one at all.’ Bright bites hard on the inside of his cheek, making his eyes stream, until finally Lewis starts the motor. Soon the cul-de-sac is behind them, and the motorway ahead, and all the while Lewis goes on killing Bright with his kindness. ‘You’re welcome to borrow some funds, until you’re on your feet again. Hell, we could even keep in touch if you want to. Texting, emailing, whatever method you like.’
Bright half-lies against the door, manoeuvring himself into a position where, at any minute, the seatbelt could slice straight into his neck. Half an inch deeper and his arteries will spray, and there will be blood and black coffee and long years of exhaustion all over the pale fawn leather of Lewis’ front seat. ‘That’s kind,’ he says in a tight voice. ‘But you know, I like being out of touch. Excluding oneself from the communications loop makes one see more clearly what’s wrong with the here and now. It’s not always a good thing to be part of the automatic conspiracy.’
Lewis clears his throat uncertainly. ‘Right. You — you want to see people on your own terms.’
The seatbelt slackens, and Bright gasps with the release of pressure. He sits upright and smoothes his hair. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for the offer.’ His voice sounds almost normal. ‘Besides, from tomorrow onwards, I’ll be earning money again.’
‘They actually pay you to go there?’ Lewis sounds surprised.
‘Of course!’ Bright laughs. ‘I wouldn’t participate out of the goodness of my heart! They’re paying for our expertise. To document what we’ve been through.’
‘Paying you for what you’ve been through. I… I see.’ Lewis passes a lorry, then another and then a third. Not until there’s clear road ahead does he speak again. ‘My wife said to say hello, by the way. She says she knows who you are.’
‘That sounds like a Mafia line!’ Bright attempts a joke, but the sleepless night is flaring in his stomach and his cheeks are hot.
‘Her book group did your novel. Some of them found it a bit hard to understand. An old head on young shoulders: that was the consensus.’
‘Better than the other way around.’ Bright lays his sizzling face against the cool glass.
‘Joanna said to ask you what happens after the book ended.’
‘How should I know?’ says Bright, surprised.
‘Well, you wrote it!’ Lewis looks equally surprised.
‘I went with him as far as I could,’ explains Bright, ‘all the way to the last page. I can’t follow him any further. Tell Joanna she can make up the rest.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be too happy with that.’ Lewis sounds nervous at the prospect of returning empty-handed, epilogue-free. ‘Apparently the entire book group was mystified by the ending.’
‘That makes a whole lot of us,’ says Bright, aiming blasts of vented air at his face.
‘So what’s your next one about?’ Lewis ploughs on, perhaps thinking he can placate Joanna with insider titbits about future plots.
‘I have no idea. I hadn’t anticipated still being around now.’
Lewis burps. ‘Excuse me. Damned reflux. All that butter.’
Bright’s also feeling a little queasy. Ahead of them the motorway is a blur of exhaust fumes and flickering brake lights. The harsh sunlight is breaking repeatedly into thousands of pieces, falling, bouncing against glass and steel. He sees himself in the side mirror: wild-eyed, flushed, hair on end. ‘Lewis? I think I need to sleep a bit.’
The back seat is a lot more appealing than it was yesterday, and softer than the bed he’s lain on for eight wakeful hours last night. There’s a surprisingly threadbare rug, which scratches his face in a not unpleasant way; it smells a little of dog, and a little of grass. The car sways and finally he closes his eyes.