Trench Rat - 1. Chapter 1

Ghostly presence.

I had never seriously considered the meaning of the expression. Not until my encounter in the French village of Ripont. Which was nothing like those crass but ever-popular horror films. You know, like the deathly face appearing in the bathroom mirror, or dusty standing lamps flickering inexplicably around the suddenly ice-cold living room, a quilt being drawn from the bed by an invisible hand, or the ominous shadow passing across the window of a long deserted home.

True ghostly presence, I came to understand, is more like sensing someone with you when you thought yourself alone. Not malevolent. No ill intentions. Simply there. Like becoming aware of a server at your table lingering quietly to take your order as you sit alone for lunch staring lost into the menu. Or sensing someone stop next to you as you daydream while waiting for traffic lights to change at a remote pedestrian crossing.

No drop in air temperature. No dimming lights. No slamming doors or other theatrics.

Exept for Alfie’s distinctive earthen odour of loam and sawdust.

*****

In all honestly, I should never have accepted the invite to meet up with old university friends in Switzerland. Unrequited yearning is like an addiction, one that stays with you for life. But once I had made up my mind everything fell into place. Ten day’s annual leave I needed to take or forfeit by the end of the year. Dr Kenmore’s sudden and, frankly, inexplicable decision to wean me off the antidepressants that had kept me grounded for the past six months. And, finally, flicking through the free magazine in the staff canteen and finding the advertisement for bargain coach fares to Lausanne.

Had haste been more of a consideration, I might have splashed out on a budget airline or the Eurostar and SNCF train services. I am frugal by nature and could have afforded the fare. But not only would the coach drop me near Juliette and Roberto’s lakeside chalet, the offer came at a price too attractive to pass up.

Were I still on talking terms with my mother, she would have scoffed and fired off one of her annoying aphorisms, a favourite being: You buy cheap, you buy twice.

And, more annoyingly, this time she would have been right.

Our bus looked depressingly third-rate standing opposite the regiment of plush National Express coaches. The driver informed us we would be half-empty due to a large party cancelling at the last minute. Perhaps they’d had inside information but I was grateful to have a seat to myself. Departing London’s Victoria Station at four-thirty on Friday evening, we crawled through rush hour traffic until something began clunking beneath the coach floor as though a shopping trolley had caught on the chassis. We had almost reached Lenham Heath on the M20 before the beast finally broke down.

By the time we joined the queue at the port at Folkestone, we had missed our scheduled ferry connection and had to wait two hours for the next. December squalls then ensured a roller coaster English Channel crossing, which, in turn, led to widespread seasickness. Motion sickness has never affected me, but the sensory effect of other passengers’ suffering scuppered my plans for onboard dining. By the time we trudged aboard the more modern French coach in Calais and hit the A26 autoroute, I experienced a combination of battle weariness and relief, convinced the worst was behind us.

Thirty minutes into the journey, our French driver decided to leave the autoroute and navigate narrow country lanes, possibly for a personal comfort stop, maybe to break the monotony of the twelve-hour motorway drive. Nobody knew.

Even when we pulled up in the darkened village square, nothing was announced—the driver simply opened the coach door and disappeared into the night. A very English murmur of consternation hummed around me like a swarm of bluebottles. For all anyone knew he had decided to abandon us there.

After ten minutes, a few baffled passengers disembarked in dribs and drabs to stretch their limbs and inhale the crisp night air like the first stiff and tentative steps of liberated prisoners. Craving neither, I stayed on board either trying to re-read pages of the novel I had been skimming or staring through the window at the December stars, savouring the chill country air invading the interior. I remained calm in my comfort until an impulse to grab my luggage and escape the cabin overwhelmed me.

Looking back now, I still find the decision impossible to comprehend. But I knew beyond all doubt that this remote town in the east of France was where I was meant to be.

Which is how I came to break my holiday plans. Juliette and Roberto’s invitation would have to wait. Even though I had talked myself into believing that my ex, Johann, might show up, the sensation, the, overriding demand to pack up and leave the bus at that moment eclipsed all other thoughts.

A few steps outside, I stood bemused for a few moments, a soundless argument going on in my head. Four younger passengers hunched together, sharing a hand-rolled cigarette, a cloud of ethereal tobacco smoke enveloping them. One by one, they turned to stare at me and the bulky rucksack hanging from my left shoulder. Through the gleam of the vehicle’s dipped headlights, silhouetted buildings huddled around the village square. Above me the night sky spangled unblemished by city skyglow. The sight brought a sense of calm and I dropped my bag to the ground lost in its beauty.

Minutes later the driver reappeared wobbling towards us while herding passengers back. Waiting to one side as people boarded he acknowledged me with a one-shoulder shrug after spotting the bag at my feet. Unspeaking and without stopping he bade farewell by belching as he mounted the stairs. From the top step, he reached for a metal clipboard with a pen attached by string and thrust the page towards me. When I stared blankly at the form he barked something in French and tapped a dirty fingernail at the end column. Unsure what to do, I signed against my name which appeared to satisfy him. Once reseated heavily in the driver's seat he slid the automatic door closed in my face. I watched the shocked expressions of fellow travellers framing the windows as the vehicle pulled away.

Very soon, the chirping sounds of the night forest swallowed up the growl of the engine, and I remained behind, alone, feeling a little lost and a lot foolish.

I stayed there breathing deeply. Familiar panic symptoms began to find a foothold until the sound of trickling water caught my attention. Lit by soft moonlight a fountain stood in the village square, a giant urn with four taps set at regular intervals around the centre glistening and spilling water into the dark pool below. I walked over, cupped a hand beneath one steady trickle and splashed icy water on my face before perching against the rim and wiping away tiredness with a clean handkerchief.

What had I done?

Mild anxiety had been stalled, but a familiar bubbling tremor remained that might build into a full-blown panic attack. A shiver rattled through me caused in part by the icy temperature and in part by dread. Without my medication to save me, I scanned the square while trying the deep breathing exercises the therapist had taught me at the daycare centre. Breath in for four, hold for seven, out for eigth. Four-seven-eight. None of the buildings looked inhabited. There appeared to be no sign of an inn or hotel. When something wet touched my left cheek—like the touch of an icy finger—I gasped and pulled my hand up to my face. Glaring down at the pool, I realised the culprit must have been an errant splash from a spout of falling water.

Just then, I remembered the fully charged phone in my backpack. Fastidious as ever, I’d purchased an all-inclusive roaming plan. Maybe I could search for a local hostel. But before I managed to locate the device, the sound of a single bell clanging from my left caught my attention. When I turned, I saw the tarnished gleam of light from the open doorway of a shop called Bistro Renard. Until that moment, I thought everything had closed for the night. A man's shadow exited and moved off with uneven steps, using his right hand and the wall of the building to guide him. Taking a steadying breath, I moved towards the light and opened the door.

Betrayed by the tinny chime, I stood exposed on the threshold. Blue smoke filled the small barroom, a space barely larger than someone’s living room. All chatter stopped briefly as I entered, and with no music playing, just a muted television on a shelf behind the bar, I felt doubly exposed. A few ancient faces glanced my way but returned instantly to their huddled conversations. Or perhaps they were playing cards. I couldn’t quite tell. But their inattention and continued discourse gave me courage enough to step up to the counter. Not that I would have understood much of what they said. My schoolboy French is more sparrow than pigeon.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” I said to the barman, peering behind the man to the array of bottles lined before the long mirror to see if I could spot a price list. “Un petite bière, s’il vous plait?”

I didn’t want a beer—having skipped dinner on the boat I was more hungry than thirsty—but it was the one item I could order with any confidence. Unsure of the cost, I handed over a ten-euro banknote, grateful for the foresight to bring both euros and Swiss francs.

“Un pression?” he asked, snatching the note off the countertop.

“Ah, oui,” I replied, even though I had no idea what he meant. I had never encountered the name of that brand of beer.

“Voici Ripont. Il n'y a pas d'hôtels ici,” said the bartender after slipping a small glass of golden draft beer on a paper coaster in front of me. Carved lines spilt from his eyes and ran through his dark nine o’clock shadow, descending to a frowning mouth. I suppose a tourist in what was probably the only watering hole of this remote village would be looking for somewhere to stay.

He wasn’t wrong. And it appeared I was out of luck.

“Je comprend,” I said to the head of the beer held at my lips.

Behind me, from the table of men, a deep guttural voice grunted something unintelligible. There ensued a quick-fire conversation between the barman and the person. Whatever was said, the barman did not appear to agree, adding dramatic shrugs and vehemently shaking his head. Spotting a barstool nearest the door, I perched out of the line of fire and searched through my bag. Without thinking, I let out a defeated sigh, discovering my cell phone had no satellite connection. And I was sure the place had no wireless internet, not that I would know how to ask. All I understood for sure was that I had run out of options. If the barman would let me use his telephone, perhaps I could call my mother—heaven help me. But then, what could she do at this time of night? There had to be somewhere in the village where I could get a signal. After that, who knew? I took a mouthful of chilled, sweet, fizzy beer and barely noticed the figure that stopped next to me, one hand on the door.

“You. Come with me.”

Before I had a chance to respond, the man pinged the door open and let a sobering gust of icy air into the bar. Without waiting, he stepped out into the night.

As I sat there, the door clanging closed again, the barman caught my attention. Without uttering a word, he glared at me, then flicked his head towards the door. Instinctively, I understood and chugged the remains of my beer before scrambling from the stool.