Читать книгу A Single Breath - Lucy Clarke - Страница 6

Pulling his hat down over his ears, Jackson glances at Eva, who is curled in bed, the duvet tucked under her chin. Her eyes stay closed as she murmurs a sleepy noise that means, Don’t go.

But he has to. He can’t lie next to her feeling the way he does. He’s been awake for hours staring into the empty darkness, thinking, thinking, rolling back through his decisions and their consequences. He needs to get out of this house, feel the sting of winter wind on his face.

He lifts a corner of the duvet, just enough to expose Eva’s bare shoulder where he places his lips. He breathes in the smell of her sleep-warmed skin. Then he smoothes the duvet back down, picks up his fishing gear, and leaves.

The beach is wild and empty in the gloom. It’s one of those English mornings he’s still getting used to when dawn never fully breaks and the lamps stay on indoors all day. He paces into the wind, jigging his shoulders to keep warm.

Reaching an outcrop of rocks that stretches right into the sea, Jackson pauses. He watches the waves come plunging and rolling towards the rocks, breaking in an explosion of white water. He waits for a lull between sets and, when it comes, he climbs onto the rocks and hurries across them, making his way towards the very end of the outcrop. That’s where the fish will be biting as the current runs the hardest. He’s nimble-footed from a childhood spent running barefoot on the rocks and cliffs of Tasmania. He used to launch himself from them into the sea, bellowing and whooping before the water swallowed him.

He makes it to the end before the next set hits, the rocks behind him disappearing beneath a surge of foam. Strong gusts whip the spray off the backs of the waves and the air is alive with moisture. He turns from the wind, crouches down and opens his tackle box. Christ, he wishes he’d worn gloves. It’s freezing out here. Spray hits him in the back of the neck and it’s icy. His numb fingers make him clumsy and he drops a lure and has to scrabble between the rocks to get it. Second time around he manages to thread it with more success.

Eventually he casts out. The motion, once familiar and soothing, gives him no relief this morning. His thoughts too closely match the desolate seascape that broils beneath an angry sky. Standing on the rocks – his body starting to chill – he has the looming sensation that everything is starting to unravel. It is as if he’s shedding his skin layer by layer until the sharp bones of who he really is will be visible to everyone.

The vibration of his mobile phone startles him. He holds the fishing rod with one hand while he grapples in his coat pocket with the other. It will be Eva. He pushes away the lethal, dark thoughts, letting his brow soften as he imagines the timbre of her sleep-clouded voice saying, Come back to bed …

Already he’s thinking that he will – that he’ll forget all this. If he jogs he’ll be there in ten minutes. He can slip back into the warmth of their bed, press his body against the curve of hers, and remind himself that it’s real.

But when he presses answer, it’s not Eva’s voice at all.