Come Away With Me

SEVENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTY (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PART ONE (#ulink_015874b2-7f8c-5665-8b8b-4a9d51cda393)

ONE (#ulink_8a93bece-9be9-5aac-bf31-108402001e00)

February 2006

Adam felt the hairs crawling on the back of his neck. The familiar nightmarish fear was back. He gripped his fishing rod tightly. The woods rose up from the creek behind him dark and dense. He knew it was up there, watching him, he could feel it.

A moment ago, as he turned and reached for his jacket and glanced up at the trees, he had seen that the shadows had changed, knew the dark shape where light had been was someone, something, up there watching him. Waiting. Waiting until he had to pass it on the path before it jumped out at him.

He started to reel in his line, his ears alert for someone passing, then he could rush to the path and walk behind them back to the cottage. There was no sign of anyone else out on the creek path now. The curve of foreshore was deserted, only the sounds of curlews with their thin, quavering cries and a heron standing on one leg and the mist rolling towards him obscuring the sun as the tide slid inexorably in.

When he had secured his line, Adam closed his tin boxes, gathered his binoculars and made a little pile of his belongings. Now, he must turn slowly behind him to reach for his knapsack. He made himself look upwards into the wood. The shadow had gone. His path was clear. He threw his things into the bag, grabbed his rod and straightened up as the sun broke out again from behind a curtain of mist.

He took a step towards the old barn on the wharf to reach the path beyond it. He jumped violently, as half blinded by the sun he saw something lying against the wall of the building. He stared down at it. It was a woman, curled up on a coat, knees to her chin, wild hair hiding her face. She looked tiny, like a child, her thin arms folded round herself and she was very still. Jenny.

Adam stood frozen. He stared down at her and pity welled up in him, startling him with the power of it. His heart constricted, his eyes pricked at the sight of an adult stricken. His fear evaporated. It all began to make a weird kind of sense. Jenny had lost it. People sometimes went crazy when bad things happened.

He should run back to the cottage. He should fetch his mother, but somehow, he could not leave her lying vulnerable on her own on an old coat like a tramp. He just couldn’t. She lay oddly still. He put down his fishing rod, placed his knapsack on the ground and inched nearer to touch her.

She was not dead. Her flesh was warm to his fingers. At his touch she moved and opened her eyes. Adam backed away slightly. He did not know what to say.

Jenny, seeing him, struggled to a sitting position. He saw that her hands shook.

‘It’s all right,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s OK.’

She stared at him as if coming from some faraway place.

‘Adam.’ Her voice was husky, as if she had not spoken for some time. She held out a hand towards him. Adam could not quite bring himself to take it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to run for Ruth. He was out of his depth.

Jenny’s hand fell to her side. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry for frightening you.’ Her voice was dull, her face bleak.

Adam crouched in front of her. ‘Why…why were you following me and hiding in the woods? I don’t understand.’

Jenny didn’t reply and Adam said, ‘I’m going to get Mum. It’ll be OK. We’ll be back in five minutes.’

‘I wanted to talk to you, be with you, on your own…’ Jenny’s voice trailed off.

‘Why?’ Adam was uneasy.

‘You are so like Tom. So like him. I somehow thought you were my son; that I was your mother.’

Jenny’s eyes looked bruised and her face seemed to have shrunk under her mass of curly hair.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I must be going mad. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I would never hurt you. Please believe that.’

He nodded. ‘You’re not very well. It’s going to be OK. I’m going to get Ruth now.’ He hesitated. ‘Could you get to the cottage if I help you?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Adam, I’m so very tired.’

Adam leant forward and touched her hand. ‘You stay there, Jenny. I won’t be long.’

He turned and started to sprint along the path that curled round towards the cottage and his mother. At the bend he slowed to catch his breath. Behind him, he heard the sound of disturbed birds rising noisily from the water, breaking the silence. He turned. Jenny had got up and put on her heavy coat. She was wading purposefully into the water, flowing in fast and black on the incoming tide.

‘No!’ Adam screamed, as he started to run back, his legs pumping, his breath catching painfully in his chest. ‘No, Jenny, no, no, no.’

TWO (#ulink_3eae81ab-d4ad-5933-a38f-c43b3bd6eec3)

August 2005

Rosie lies between us, asleep, fat little bottom in the air; dimpled feet upturned like the inside of pink shells. She is wedged hotly between Tom and me, her face against Tom’s arm. Their breath rises and falls in the same shallow rhythm. Asleep, Rosie still looks like a baby; dark curls stuck to her head, cheeks flushed. I have to stop myself putting my lips to those soft cheeks.

Tom is half turned towards us, one hand under his head, the other hand on his thigh, his fingers splayed outwards as if to protect Rosie. His face is buried in the pillow, his short hair sticks up, his face damp from the heat of all our bodies in one bed on a close summer night.

His bare arms and chest are brown and broad. His skin shines with health. He is very fit.

The window is open to catch every breath of wind and I watch him in the yellow light of a street lamp, my body limp with wanting him, with the urge constantly to touch him. I love these snatched moments, these still nights of watching him sleep. I store these nights against the time when he will disappear again.