look out across the sun-bright bay.
In the quiet, he could hear the sea stir against the bay, a background rush of water lapping on rock. The day moved into early evening and it was warm, and the smell of the sea was strong. He leant on the sill of the open window. There was crying somewhere, though he wasnât sure where, and a steady stream of people coming back from the edge of the delta field. He reachedfor the cigarette he had been given by one of the locals. There was a big NO SMOKING sign on the back of the door, but he guessed that George Cutler would have other things on his mind apart from the smell of smoke in one of his rooms. The death of his wife would be fairly high on that list.
A knock at the door. He listened. It came again, louder. He heard a womanâs voice, out in the corridor.
âAre you there?â
He sat up, his lips parched, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts.
âCome in,â he rasped, rising from the bed.
The door creaked open and Simone Cutler looked in, her face pale, eyes red. Sleepless. Just like him.
âWe were wondering if youâd like anything to eat?â
She came into the room. Instead of her waitress whites, she wore a dressing gown. Her hair was loose.
âNo,â Carl said. âThanks. Iâm not hungry. How . . .â He stopped, unable to finish the question. There was no need to ask.
Simone started to shake. She was next to him now, and Carl could smell traces of perfume and, deeper, her true scent. She raised a trembling hand to her eyes. The next thing Carl knew they were holding each other, a full-on hug, in the summer stillness as the birds sang in the sun.
He stroked Simoneâs unbrushed hair, pressed her closer. They sat on the bed and, as her dressing gown parted Carl automatically slid his hand between her thighs. He felt himself harden, and he gave himself to an emotion that blotted out fear.
November
12
Autumn was on the move, flinging storms in a fusillade from the Atlantic. On the main road south Carl stopped in his tracks, sucking deep for air. He was pushing himself too hard, full recovery still some way off, evidently. How long would it take?
This is how it is and how it would be. Pneumonia had given him a glimpse of the future and he now existed as a weaker, older man. Heâd never felt so tired and worn out. Was this to be his new peak fitness? Maybe heâd never fully recover.
Bed had suited him too well; it was as if he belonged in the hollow his dead weight had pressed into the mattress in Room 14. Try as he might, he couldnât make himself as strong as once heâd been, couldnât shake the disease. A deeper resting-place than his bed would have been no bad thing, one next to Howard and the German couple. But he wasnât going to die any time soon. There was here and now to consider; pressing concerns that demanded a response, even if it was jumping off a cliff or slitting his wrists. That was always an option.
Perhaps heâd pushed himself too hard, walking into the hills, following the invisible bars of his cage from one side of the bay to the other.
They were watching him, the villagers. Through binoculars they were scrutinising him as he plodded and puffed along the southern headland, on the road that curved up and out of the bay. He knew they were watching him because he was watching them. There were two pairs searching for him, he could see through his binoculars: the old woman in Bayview Cottage, standing at herliving-room window, and one of Cutlerâs boatyard crew down on the pier. Well, heâd give them a good show. He put one foot in front of the other, a feat of dexterity that was bound to amaze the observers.
He walked out from behind the trees, adjusted his headphones and headed south in time to the music throbbing in his ears. Thank Christ for solar power.
â¢
On the main road out of Inverlair where there was an opening in a line of rowan trees, a gravel track
In the quiet, he could hear the sea stir against the bay, a background rush of water lapping on rock. The day moved into early evening and it was warm, and the smell of the sea was strong. He leant on the sill of the open window. There was crying somewhere, though he wasnât sure where, and a steady stream of people coming back from the edge of the delta field. He reachedfor the cigarette he had been given by one of the locals. There was a big NO SMOKING sign on the back of the door, but he guessed that George Cutler would have other things on his mind apart from the smell of smoke in one of his rooms. The death of his wife would be fairly high on that list.
A knock at the door. He listened. It came again, louder. He heard a womanâs voice, out in the corridor.
âAre you there?â
He sat up, his lips parched, wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts.
âCome in,â he rasped, rising from the bed.
The door creaked open and Simone Cutler looked in, her face pale, eyes red. Sleepless. Just like him.
âWe were wondering if youâd like anything to eat?â
She came into the room. Instead of her waitress whites, she wore a dressing gown. Her hair was loose.
âNo,â Carl said. âThanks. Iâm not hungry. How . . .â He stopped, unable to finish the question. There was no need to ask.
Simone started to shake. She was next to him now, and Carl could smell traces of perfume and, deeper, her true scent. She raised a trembling hand to her eyes. The next thing Carl knew they were holding each other, a full-on hug, in the summer stillness as the birds sang in the sun.
He stroked Simoneâs unbrushed hair, pressed her closer. They sat on the bed and, as her dressing gown parted Carl automatically slid his hand between her thighs. He felt himself harden, and he gave himself to an emotion that blotted out fear.
November
12
Autumn was on the move, flinging storms in a fusillade from the Atlantic. On the main road south Carl stopped in his tracks, sucking deep for air. He was pushing himself too hard, full recovery still some way off, evidently. How long would it take?
This is how it is and how it would be. Pneumonia had given him a glimpse of the future and he now existed as a weaker, older man. Heâd never felt so tired and worn out. Was this to be his new peak fitness? Maybe heâd never fully recover.
Bed had suited him too well; it was as if he belonged in the hollow his dead weight had pressed into the mattress in Room 14. Try as he might, he couldnât make himself as strong as once heâd been, couldnât shake the disease. A deeper resting-place than his bed would have been no bad thing, one next to Howard and the German couple. But he wasnât going to die any time soon. There was here and now to consider; pressing concerns that demanded a response, even if it was jumping off a cliff or slitting his wrists. That was always an option.
Perhaps heâd pushed himself too hard, walking into the hills, following the invisible bars of his cage from one side of the bay to the other.
They were watching him, the villagers. Through binoculars they were scrutinising him as he plodded and puffed along the southern headland, on the road that curved up and out of the bay. He knew they were watching him because he was watching them. There were two pairs searching for him, he could see through his binoculars: the old woman in Bayview Cottage, standing at herliving-room window, and one of Cutlerâs boatyard crew down on the pier. Well, heâd give them a good show. He put one foot in front of the other, a feat of dexterity that was bound to amaze the observers.
He walked out from behind the trees, adjusted his headphones and headed south in time to the music throbbing in his ears. Thank Christ for solar power.
â¢
On the main road out of Inverlair where there was an opening in a line of rowan trees, a gravel track
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