Winterton Blue (18 page)

Lewis tries to stay parallel to the shoreline, but as he gets nearer, he sees the waves, steady and gentle, a milky frill skirting the sand. The sound they make is like breathing. The air feels sticky on his skin. Grains of light scatter in his vision. He wills himself to be calm.

When he reaches the groynes, he sits in the lee of a rusted post and rolls a cigarette. He takes out the match-box he stole from the raincoat in the hall; it has a motif of a leaping deer on the front, and a telephone number on the back. He doesn't recognize the code. Lewis tries one match, then another; each one fizzes wetly against the strike. He takes a third between his fingers and rolls it warm, flicks it with the edge of his nail. It flares at once, leaving a small yellow scorch on the tip of his thumb. Thick bolts of mist come in off the sea, so he can't tell smoke from air; they clear, to reveal the wan shore and the water, then crowd in again, wiping the view away. With his head against a horizontal strut, he looks at the world sideways; now he can't tell up from down. He wants to take the time to think about Anna, but when he goes over their meeting last night, he feels a knot of anxiety, caught like a bundle of wire in his ribcage. If she
knew
him, she wouldn't want to. Fact. He tries to recall what they talked about, but the memory is like a silent film—brilliant, sharp images, and no sound. He has spent the waking hours of the night trying to relive it, and still now, he can't get much beyond the weather, her mother, the names of film stars. He feels as if his memory is living an independent existence inside his head. The memories he'd like to forget trail him like scavenging dogs; all the good moments are lost in his need to escape them.

It's my mind, he says quietly, I should be in charge of it.

There is another anxiety: the idea that he can spend half the night sitting in the cold dark with a woman he's only just met, and feel as though he knows her intimately. Now he considers it—to him, it didn't
feel
remotely cold and dark. It felt light, and warm, and she was funny. She was lovely. He can believe he imagined the whole thing. If he saw her again, it would just be ordinary; she would just be anyone.

Looking up, he catches sight of a figure in a windcheater and jeans: it's as if he has magicked her. Anna, on the far end of the groyne, clambers awkwardly over the post. She's
singing to herself. Lewis can't make out the words, but it sounds military: it sounds like swearing.

Morning, he calls, turning his face up at her as she jumps onto the sand. She doesn't appear to hear him. Lewis is afraid she might walk straight past. He searches his mind for something to say; anything, to keep her. He tosses the box of matches into her path.

Shit! she says, suddenly aware of him, You scared me!

She bends down, picks up the matchbox, and throws it back hard.

Sorry, he says, Story of my life. Are you alright there?

Anna takes a few steps towards him, then falters. She turns sideways to inspect her closed fist, as if she's caught a secret.

Look what I've done, she says, spreading her hand for him to see. There is a gash across it like a second lifeline. In her other hand, she has a crumpled tissue smeared with blood. She gives him a rueful smile.

Come here, says Lewis, patting the sand next to him, Let's inspect the damage.

She kneels; now he can see her face more clearly. Her eyes are sharp with pain, or maybe irritation; her skin glows pearl. To Lewis, she is exquisite. He feels the wire in his chest unravel. Taking her fingers, he flexes them slightly, traces below the wound with his fingertip until she grunts at him to stop. She pulls her hand away and closes it against her heart.

That's nasty, he says, How did you do it?

Anna turns her head and stares out to the east, peering into the mist.

I was looking for something. I tripped. Those groynes are practically buried out there.

Looking for something . . . in the fog?

Anna thinks she knows the coast well enough now to correct him; she uses a word she has learned from her mother.

It's not a fog, she laughs, It's a fret.

Ah. So what's the fret?

She doesn't respond directly. She came out to photograph the wind turbines this morning, as she has every morning since her first sighting of them; she's annoyed to find they're not visible. She nods in the direction of the sea, thinking about her answer. They have to be seen to be believed; she won't put her trust in words.

Nothing, she says, Another time.

Another time, says Lewis, And we'll find that groyne and punch its lights out, yeah?

Another time, I'll show you what I was looking for. If you're still here.

She sits down beside him, dragging her hair from her eyes. Now and then she opens her hand, half-glances at it before curling it back in her lap.

Stings, I expect. You'll want to lick it, he says, wanting to lick it for her.

After a second, she spreads her palm, tentatively dabs it with her tongue.

He's been trying not to stare at her mouth; the colour is too true in the even light, but now he gives in and watches.

This weather's pretty awful, she says, tasting blood on her lip, Like drowning.

No, thinks Lewis, it's not like that at all. He follows her eyeline into the distance, then glances back at her face. He finds he can't not look at her.

Better than that racket last night, he says, Couldn't sleep for the noise.

Oh. I didn't hear anything. Is it the bed? Is it creaky? she asks, solicitous now, Because we can always put you in another room.

The bed's fine, he says.

She looks him in the eye.

But you didn't sleep?

Rust never sleeps, he says.

Anna hooks a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't know how to answer that. She heard it too last night, this
strange way he has of talking, as if he's learned the language from a textbook.

It's almost as though the sea isn't there, she says, gesturing into the mist, As if you could just get up and walk to Holland.

Why would you want to do that? he says, with a wild look that makes her grin, Tell you, I want to be able to
see
where the water is.

You like to swim? she asks, I never really got the hang of it.

Me neither. Which is why I like to see the water. Know your enemy, he says, with a bitter laugh.

But the sea isn't your
enemy,
she says, Surely you don't think that? And it has to be more interesting than this—she waves her hand, dismissive—This nothingness.

Actually, I think it's unreal, he says, looking about him, Like sitting on a cloud.

She breaks the moment with a burst of laughter.

How would you know? she cries, Spend a lot of time up in the clouds, do you?

Your mother told me you two are going on holiday, he says, wanting to hear her laugh again, So you'll find out soon enough. When you're on that plane and you're looking out of the window, don't be surprised to see me. I'll be the one smoking a fag.

And using
my
matches to light it, she says, nodding at the box on the sand.

Nah, he says, They're no good. They got damp, see?

He hands her a match from the box, holding it while she strikes; it flares immediately, a bright, sulphurous pink.

I'll bring you back some duty-free, if you like, she says, close enough now for him to touch her.

A present? he says, And you barely know me!

He leans forward, nudges her with his shoulder. He loves it when she nudges him right back.

I'll
sell
them to you, she says, If you're still around.

They're silent again, and close. He wants to say, Yes, I'll be right here where you left me, but he knows he can't. Anna opens her hand; the wound is gummy and the blood has dried. Specks of red glitter her palm.

Do you think I'll have a scar? says Anna, offering up her hand.

No, says Lewis.

How did you get yours? she asks, gesturing to the white line under his lip. Instinctively, he puts a hand up to caress it. He can't find the words to say, so he remains silent, but she feels his breathing change—more rapid, shallow—and when she looks into his face, it's closed. Anna stands up, brushing the sand from her jeans.

Are you coming? she says, Only, I need to get a plaster on this cut. And some coffee.

Lewis hears the invitation in her voice. He can tell by her expression that she expects him to say yes. It would be good to spend the day, get to know each other.

I'm staying put, he says, deliberately making his voice unfriendly, Catch you later, maybe.

She walks on without saying goodbye. From the corner of his eye, he sees her turn round once, twice, to look at him, then give up, her pace quickening along the beach. He gets to his feet, feeling his voice tight, and calls, Anna, Anna, stop!

But she doesn't stop and she doesn't look back.

From the sky, the land below is gauzy, soft as a dream. Sonia leans against the window of the helicopter cabin, shielding her head in the crook of her elbow, trying to see. It's like looking through a lace curtain. Most of the view is wiped away, except for one or two sharp patches of clarity, as if a hole has been punctured in the mist. She can just make out the lamp-posts on the promenade, like a row of spent matches. In a flaw of clear air, Sonia sees a figure moving swiftly up the steps, only to be swallowed again beneath the fog. Tight
beside her, Kristian has his eyes closed and is breathing through his mouth. His face is very pale, and when she touches his hand to comfort him, she feels his skin, clammy with fear.

It's getting worse, says the pilot, We're turning back.

His voice through the headphones is tense. Sonia can't see from her angle whether he's angry about the weather or about Kristian, suddenly deciding to come along for the ride. She pats Kristian's arm.

We'll be down in a minute, she shouts.

Kristian's face remains rigid at this news. A minute is still too long for him; under his breath, he's muttering something not even he can understand.

The platform is shrouded in mist, blowing off the sea. Sonia braces herself for a sharp set-down, but they sit perfectly on the landing pad, and she barely has time to unclip her harness before Kristian is clambering over her, trying to open the door. When the pilot slides the hatch, Kristian pushes past him and is sick on the grass.

Alec, I'm so sorry about him, says Sonia, He's not been up before.

And he's not going up again, says Alec, Next time, it'll just be you and me. Understood?

Sonia is thrilled by the sternness in his voice, and what she hears as the hint of a future date.

Yes, sir, she says, fighting back the urge to salute, Just name the day.

She puts her hand on Kristian's shoulder and watches Alec march away.

Very handsome, Kristian, wouldn't you say?

Kristian gets up, teary-eyed, from his crouching position, and gives her a weak smile.

Sure, he's handsome, he says, And quite severe. I kinda like that.

Me too, says Sonia, I kinda like that very much.

Lewis is sitting on the bench in the garden, has been sitting here all night long. But this time it's not his usual, vacant torpor: this time he's waiting. At the far end, a blackbird dots along the grass, pausing now and then to check on him. Lewis is content to watch. The sky is different again this morning, soft and blurred for a while, then kindled by a sharp, dazzling light. It's all the seasons in one go, he thinks. There's a chill in his bones, a welcome numbness. He's wearing his leather jacket and his black jeans. Lewis begins with the jacket, mentally searching the pockets; he has already actually searched them. There are four in all, two on the outside, and two built into the lining. The left outside pocket contains his pouch of tobacco, and a new acquisition—a key on a garish fob, found in the far corner of his windowsill. The right pocket, to his amazement, gave up the crumpled tissue Anna was clutching on the beach. He doesn't remember taking it from her, but he keeps hold of it in the palm of his hand. The blood smears have dried dark brown; when he puts the tissue to his nose, he gets a perfume he can't define. It makes his pulse quicken. The more he tries to find the scent, closing the tissue over his nose and mouth, the more elusive it becomes. He has his wallet in one inside pocket, and nothing in the other. He has searched his kitbag—he won't bother to search again: his lighter has gone. At one time, losing it
would have been important, it would have sent him awry, but finding something belonging to Anna is more than fair trade.

He has made up his mind to see her before she goes. He came down last night after he heard the rest of them go to bed, and sat alone on the bench, telling himself that if she came and found him here, it would be
her
doing: it would not be something he had caused. And she didn't come down. He was certain she would. He waited, watching the moon move across the sky. He smoked his roll-ups. At some point at daybreak, he felt his body jerking, the muscles twitching with fatigue. He felt his arm fall loose at his side.