The Invisible Ones Read Online Free PDF Page B

I was before he came in. The office is subtly different, too. Leon has left a trace of himself, changing my office from the way it normally is. I really must cut down on caffeine, I think; it’s making me paranoid. Then, after a minute, I register that difference as a tangible thing: a faint, lingering aroma. Cigarettes? Cigars? Something like that, but not that. I’m relieved; for a moment there, I thought I was going crazy. Then I get it—it’s wood smoke.
    I look at my watch. It’s long after six, on a gray, drizzly May evening in the suburbs. Another plane roars overhead, on its way somewhere nicer.
    I have to get going. Not that I’m going somewhere nice. I’ve got work to do. You might say it’s a labor of love.

5.
    JJ
    It takes ages to get to Lourdes. We have to keep stopping to make food, or to take Christo out for fresh air, or to make Great-uncle more comfortable. Gran drives the Land Rover pulling her trailer, and Ivo drives the van pulling Great-uncle’s. There was a massive row when Gran wanted to take the number-one trailer—basically to show off to any French Travelers we might meet, but Granddad put his foot down. He calls this one “the kitchen,” and as far as he’s concerned, it’s nothing to do with him. So Gran had to put up with taking number two, although it’s flash enough to impress anyone, I would think. We haven’t seen any French Travelers, anyway, not yet.
    We pull into the service stations—they’re called “airs” here in France for some reason—to use the toilets and so on, and no one gives us any hassle. French service stations are much nicer than English ones. They have free ice machines and microwaves you can just use—you don’t have to pay or anything—and proper coffee dispensers that give you really great strong black coffee. I love coffee. Mum keeps moaning at me that I’m too young to drink so much coffee, but I can’t stop, I love it so much. I reckon I’m addicted. I don’t think coffee’s so bad, though. It’s not like heroin or fags. Uncle Ivo’s smoked a pack a day since he was ten, he says, and Great-uncle never said anything about it.
    We’re in the middle of France now. There’s still a long way to go, as Lourdes is right down at the bottom. Gran pulls into an air surrounded by some skinny little trees, and I carry Christo out into the sunshine.
    “Look, Christo, a lake— un lac . Regard! ”
    It’s beautiful here—there really is a lake, with ducks and geese bobbing up and down, the water shivering in the slight breeze, which makes the leaves of the trees flutter like millions of tiny pale green flags. They make a lovely, gentle noise. It’s clean, too—no rubbish anywhere. Over the past day and a half, I’ve decided that I love France; I wish we could live here forever and didn’t have to go home.
    Ivo gets out of the van and fires up a fag. He looks fed up, which is quite a common expression on his face. He comes over and offers me a fag, but I shake my head, as Gran will be out in a minute and then she’ll shout at me. She smokes like a chimney herself and couldn’t care less, but Mum made her promise not to let me smoke.
    “How’re you, my love?”
    Ivo strokes Christo’s hair, and Chris gives him his sweetest smile. My uncle’s often moody, but he really loves Christo—anyone can see it. I think he’s mainly unhappy about all the doctors who couldn’t help his son, and I can’t blame him.
    I pass Christo over—he’s so light it’s like handing over a bag of shopping—and Ivo wanders off along the shore of the little lake, fag still in mouth.
    I realize the lake is man-made, and quite recently: there are still scar marks in the earth at the water’s edge, and the bushes are surrounded by bare soil. But you can tell that very quickly, the plants will cover the bare earth and it will settle down and look like it’s always been here, with the ducks and the sunlight. The obvious care that these French people took makes