time. If he had any god at all, now, it was gravity, it was light, it was the idea that things could
be understood, and superstition could be banished. For all the good it had done him.
He had burned it all. His life, and everything in it, putting a flame to the pile of photographs and documents he’d assembled in his living room. A lifetime of certificates, of deeds, of
bills.
There are always costs, he thought. Always payments to be made.
The flames had spread; too late, he’d realized that the fire was out of control. He’d run from the house, his wife calling for him to untie her. He didn’t stop. She
didn’t stand a chance, he knew, but he just kept walking as the fire raged behind him. He wondered if that hadn’t been his intention all along.
He’d felt so tired; so glad it would soon all be over with.
It was the sight of the water that snapped him from his thoughts, as he realized where his walking had taken him. He was halfway across the dam. Of course, he thought. Given everything that had
happened all those years ago, where better?
Michel Costa climbed the low wall at the edge of the road that formed the top of the dam, looking out over the town that was waking after a long night. He moved his gaze to the hard ground far
below him. He looked to both sides, taking in the sweep of the arch that was holding so much back, standing guard over the people in the valley ahead. Such a graceful structure, he thought.
But always payments to be made.
He leaned forward until gravity claimed him.
12
Adèle Werther lay on her bed and tried to think of nothing, because whatever she thought of, it brought her back to
him
. To Simon.
She’d not told Thomas about what had happened the night before, not yet – if she ever would. She had managed to ease the fears of her daughter, Chloé; ease them enough for
Chloé to promise not to mention it to Thomas either.
But she saw Simon whenever she closed her eyes, saw him the way she’d seen him last night: standing outside the house, looking in through the living-room window, his hand on the glass.
Thomas had been out working, the downside of him being made police captain. He was justly proud of what he’d achieved, and she was proud of him too: ‘Captain Thomas Pellerin’
had a ring to it, and in a fortnight they would be married. But it was a small town, and Thomas was diligent at his job. Any significant police incident meant he would be gone.
Chloé had been upstairs in her room at the time. If she’d been with Adèle in the living room, Adèle could have asked her to look.
Do you see anyone there, Chloé? No? Nothing. It’s nothing. All in your head.
But Chloé hadn’t been with her. Adèle had closed her eyes, and when she’d opened them again Simon had gone from the window. Two seconds of relief was all she’d
had before the knocking on the door had paralysed her.
Then: ‘Adèle, it’s me.’
His voice. Ten years since Simon’s death, and in all the times she’d imagined seeing him since, she’d not once heard his voice.
‘Open up!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door!’
No
, she thought.
Not again. I can’t start this again
.
‘Adèle, I know you’re in there. What’s going on?’
The knocking became more violent: hard, repeated thumps, Simon losing his patience suddenly, something she remembered so well no matter how hard she tried to forget. Adèle found herself
beating the wall beside her in time with the knocking.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said. ‘Open the fucking door.’
‘Leave me alone!’ she yelled. The knocking stopped. She heard Chloé’s door, heard her footsteps coming down the stairs.
‘Mum?’
She looked at her daughter. Nearly ten years old, and Adèle could see much of Simon in her face. Not in her temperament, thank God.
She could feel the tingle in her hands from hitting the wall, and she looked at them, wondering if it had been her own fists making all the noise. If it had all been her.
Of
be understood, and superstition could be banished. For all the good it had done him.
He had burned it all. His life, and everything in it, putting a flame to the pile of photographs and documents he’d assembled in his living room. A lifetime of certificates, of deeds, of
bills.
There are always costs, he thought. Always payments to be made.
The flames had spread; too late, he’d realized that the fire was out of control. He’d run from the house, his wife calling for him to untie her. He didn’t stop. She
didn’t stand a chance, he knew, but he just kept walking as the fire raged behind him. He wondered if that hadn’t been his intention all along.
He’d felt so tired; so glad it would soon all be over with.
It was the sight of the water that snapped him from his thoughts, as he realized where his walking had taken him. He was halfway across the dam. Of course, he thought. Given everything that had
happened all those years ago, where better?
Michel Costa climbed the low wall at the edge of the road that formed the top of the dam, looking out over the town that was waking after a long night. He moved his gaze to the hard ground far
below him. He looked to both sides, taking in the sweep of the arch that was holding so much back, standing guard over the people in the valley ahead. Such a graceful structure, he thought.
But always payments to be made.
He leaned forward until gravity claimed him.
12
Adèle Werther lay on her bed and tried to think of nothing, because whatever she thought of, it brought her back to
him
. To Simon.
She’d not told Thomas about what had happened the night before, not yet – if she ever would. She had managed to ease the fears of her daughter, Chloé; ease them enough for
Chloé to promise not to mention it to Thomas either.
But she saw Simon whenever she closed her eyes, saw him the way she’d seen him last night: standing outside the house, looking in through the living-room window, his hand on the glass.
Thomas had been out working, the downside of him being made police captain. He was justly proud of what he’d achieved, and she was proud of him too: ‘Captain Thomas Pellerin’
had a ring to it, and in a fortnight they would be married. But it was a small town, and Thomas was diligent at his job. Any significant police incident meant he would be gone.
Chloé had been upstairs in her room at the time. If she’d been with Adèle in the living room, Adèle could have asked her to look.
Do you see anyone there, Chloé? No? Nothing. It’s nothing. All in your head.
But Chloé hadn’t been with her. Adèle had closed her eyes, and when she’d opened them again Simon had gone from the window. Two seconds of relief was all she’d
had before the knocking on the door had paralysed her.
Then: ‘Adèle, it’s me.’
His voice. Ten years since Simon’s death, and in all the times she’d imagined seeing him since, she’d not once heard his voice.
‘Open up!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door!’
No
, she thought.
Not again. I can’t start this again
.
‘Adèle, I know you’re in there. What’s going on?’
The knocking became more violent: hard, repeated thumps, Simon losing his patience suddenly, something she remembered so well no matter how hard she tried to forget. Adèle found herself
beating the wall beside her in time with the knocking.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said. ‘Open the fucking door.’
‘Leave me alone!’ she yelled. The knocking stopped. She heard Chloé’s door, heard her footsteps coming down the stairs.
‘Mum?’
She looked at her daughter. Nearly ten years old, and Adèle could see much of Simon in her face. Not in her temperament, thank God.
She could feel the tingle in her hands from hitting the wall, and she looked at them, wondering if it had been her own fists making all the noise. If it had all been her.
Of
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