The Returned Read Online Free PDF

said Claire, with a manic edge. ‘I’m so happy.’
    Pierre gave Jérôme a quick look of surprise as he walked past.
Hadn’t thought the husband would be home, huh, Pierre?
Not the kind of visit the man had expected,
Jérôme thought. Not at all.
    Jérôme let them go upstairs. When they were out of earshot, he took his mobile and called Lucy Clarsen. She didn’t pick up, so he left a message: ‘Lucy, it’s me.
Jérôme. I need to talk to you. Call me.
Please
.’
    Claire thought Pierre was the one with the answers, but Lucy was the only person Jérôme knew who had ever claimed to speak to the dead – the only person he’d thought
might be telling the truth, at any rate.
And it didn’t work tonight
, he thought. Because how can you contact the dead, if the dead have already come back?
    Standing outside the bedroom door, Claire could hear movement from within. She’d expected Camille to be sleeping, expected to just sneak the door open so that Pierre
could see the miracle before him. She knocked instead. ‘Camille? Can we come in?’
    Camille wrenched the door open, angry. ‘Have you been tidying? Mum, why have you moved all my stuff?’
    Claire took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I tidied. I’m sorry.’ She smiled, even so. She’d waited a long time to hear Camille complain about that. ‘This is Dr
Tissier,’ she said; Pierre was no doctor, but the white lie Pierre had suggested on the way upstairs would help him reassure the girl.
    ‘Hello, Camille,’ said Pierre. There was hardly a flicker in his eyes when he saw her, Claire noted; he was considerably calmer than she had been when confronted with her resurrected
daughter. It was why she’d called him. He seemed unsurprised by almost everything.
    Camille frowned, immediately suspicious. ‘Why isn’t Dr Delouvrier here?’
    ‘He’s on holiday,’ said Pierre, improvising. ‘I’m filling in. Your mum told me what happened, but I’d like you to tell me, in your own words. Do you
mind?’
    ‘There’s nothing to tell. I was on the coach, and I woke up in the mountains. That’s all I remember. I think I had some kind of blackout. Maybe it’s amnesia . . .’
Camille’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps it’s a brain tumour?’
    Pierre smiled to calm her. ‘No, I don’t think so. Where did you get that idea?’
    ‘Will you examine me?’
    Pierre hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’ He indicated for Camille to sit on the bed, while he took the chair. Camille offered her wrist. Pierre took it in his hand, pretending to take her
pulse, looking at Camille with a degree of wonder. Claire stood in the doorway still trying to come to terms with the sight in front of her. But now three people had seen – it was no shared
delusion. Camille was
real
.
    After a moment Camille pulled her wrist away, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’re no doctor. You don’t even have any equipment with you. What are you, a psychiatrist?’ She looked
at her mother, but Claire said nothing. As far as Claire was concerned, her daughter was with exactly the right person.
    ‘No, I’m not a psychiatrist. Do you think you need one?’
    ‘I’m not mad.’
    ‘Camille, what do you think madness is? Shall I tell you? Madness is denying reality. We all do it at some point in our lives. Sometimes it seems it’s the only option. A coping
mechanism. When reality is too hard to accept, we would rather deny it, or pretend to, just to avoid facing the simple truths around us.’
    He glanced up at Claire. She realized that Pierre was speaking to her, just as much as to her daughter.
    Pierre looked back at Camille. ‘And I don’t think you’re one of those people. Whatever this is, Camille, promise me. Promise me you won’t run from it.’
    Camille sighed, bemused and a little wary. ‘I’m too tired for this.’
    ‘You need to rest,’ said Claire.
    ‘I already tried to. I’m so tired, but I just can’t get to sleep.’
    ‘We’ll give you something to help,’ said Pierre, still in his