Suddenly—sticking up from behind a dune—the gaunt outline of a pitched roof. High against the stone wall—a window staring at them like a damaged eye.
She brought her hand to her throat.
• • •
THERE WAS NO lock on the door. As they entered, they had to step around the bulky shape of a motorcycle. Its wheels were caked with dust.
On the windowsill, a gas lamp and a box of matches. Hanging from a peg on the wall, a bone-coloured canvas coat and a hat, the suede band stained with the sweat of a man’s head.
She walked slowly into the large room. It was quite bare. An armchair, table and stool and an antique apothecary chest were the only pieces of furniture. On top of the desk was an old-fashioned nibbed pen and a pot of ink. Against one wall ran several shelves propped up by wooden brackets hammered into the wall. The shelves dipped in the middle from the weight of the many books.
The room still felt alive, she thought, as though it still expected to hear the footsteps of the man who once called this place home, who rested his head against the back of this chair, who read through these books, the oils from his fingers working into the pages.
A passage led off the room. To the left at the end of the passage was a doorframe—the hinges still attached, but no door. Through the opening she could see that it was the kitchen. She glimpsed a wooden crate filled with bottles of water, a large enamel bowl, a red-and-white tea towel, a plate and an upside-down mug. To the right, the passage ended in a long narrow staircase.
She started to climb the wooden steps, vaguely aware that Mark was following her.
It was much lighter on this floor. The rooms were large and empty, with the sun streaming through the windows, some of them without panes, completely open to the outside. There was sand on the floorboards.
She leaned against a wide wooden windowsill and looked out. From this vantage point she had a view of the other desolate houses that formed a straggling line, their pitched roofs tilted toward the horizon as if stoically challenging the constant onslaught of burning sun and wind-driven sand. And all around her the desert, so vast it took her breath away. Later this week she would release Adam’s ashes into that wilderness. The thought seemed utterly surreal.
‘His bedroom is over here.’
Mark spoke behind her and she turned away from the window, blinking after the brightness outside.
A metal-framed hospital bed with a thin mattress stood in the middle of the room. The sheets were white and the blanket navy blue. On an upturned crate, which served as a makeshift table, yet another gas lamp and next to it a book spread open and turned face-down. Against one wall a metal rod from which hung wire hangers supporting two jackets, a few shirts and three pairs of trousers. A pair of walking boots with thick laces rested next to an open woven basket holding underwear and pairs of socks.
She picked up the book, taking care to keep her finger in the fold at which it was open. These would be some of the last words he had ever read.
I stayed, not minding me;
my forehead on the lover I reclined.
Earth ending, I went free,
left all my care behind
among the lilies falling out of mind.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly so exhausted she couldn’t lift her hand.
‘Justine.’
She looked into Mark’s face and the anguish she saw made her mind flinch. She wasn’t up to dealing with anyone’s pain right now, not even her own. Her heart was numb. Her eyes felt dusty, as though no tears would ever flow from them again.
‘He saved my life.’
She waited.
‘I don’t know what to say to you. I feel responsible.’ Tears were rolling soundlessly down his cheeks.
The next moment he had crossed the room and was kneeling in front of her, his arms clutching her legs tightly. He wept as though his heart were breaking. She placed her hand on his head. She could feel the wet tears seeping through the fabric of her skirt.
He was slowly calming down. His shoulders heaved once more and a shuddering breath left his body. He looked up at her, his eyes still blurred. ‘I’m so sorry.’
For a moment she was silent, feeling eerily remote from his grief. But then she felt ashamed of herself. Adam had loved this man. And Mark must have gone through hell. She couldn’t even imagine the torment he must have faced as he floated in the water during his decompression, all the while knowing that Adam had already died somewhere in the tunnels below him.
Making an effort to keep her eyes fixed on his, she spoke slowly. ‘Adam had such respect for you, Mark, for what you were doing with your life. And you were a good friend—without you, he would not have survived here, he told me that. He called you his brother, did you know that?’
Mark shook his head, his face still crumpled.
‘You say they found this man, Grachikov.’
Mark nodded, his voice calmer. ‘Just in time. He was about to leave the country. He hadn’t planned on my surviving, otherwise he probably would have made tracks immediately.’
He pulled out a handkerchief from his coat and blew his nose sharply. Then he said, ‘It’s time to go. Rita will be waiting.’
‘No. I want you to leave me here. Come back for me tomorrow.’
For a moment it looked as though he would argue with her. But then he simply said, ‘I’ll leave the radio for you. Call if you need me.’
As they walked outside, she heard—very faintly—the sound of church bells. Of course—it was Sunday. The sound drifted with the wind into the dunes from the direction of the sea.
When they reached the Land Rover, she placed her hand on his arm.
‘When Adam was at Paradine Park I wanted to take his photograph. The only photograph I had of him was that dreadful one all the newspapers ran and, in that picture, he is not the Adam I knew. But he wouldn’t let me. So when he was asleep I sneaked a picture of him without his knowing about it.’
She paused. ‘I developed the film after he had left for Namibia again. But he wasn’t on it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was as though he had never been there. There was the bed with the sheets rumpled and the pillow had a dent, just as you would expect if someone had rested his head on it. But the bed was empty. He wasn’t there. No Adam. No wolf, even.’
‘Wolf?’ He frowned.
She ignored his question. ‘It feels as though it was all in my imagination. As though I was so lonely and so desperate that I had created this image in my mind—perishable, not real—of the man I was yearning for. And I suddenly wondered if the seventeen days we spent together were only a waking dream.’
She looked him in the eye. ‘Adam had this idea of soul mates, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘What a sad illusion that was. We have one life only, and this is it. And somehow Adam and I have managed to cheat ourselves out of our chance to be together.’
Mark hesitated. ‘I wanted to wait before giving these to you, but…’ He opened the door of the Land Rover. Leaning into the interior of the vehicle, he opened the cubby hole. From inside he took a manila envelope.
‘What is it?’
‘Adam’s watch. I thought you might like to have it. And a photograph.’
‘A photograph? Of Adam?’
He shook his head. ‘Adam left you a written message, Justine.’
‘He told me he had destroyed all the letters he wrote me.’
‘It’s not a letter. Well, not in the conventional sense. When the rescue team went down to the caves yesterday, they found that Adam had carved some words into the cave wall before he… he…’ Mark swallowed, continued swiftly. ‘Because I had told them that someone had tampered with our guideline and the tanks, they treated it as a crime scene and brought an underwater camera with them. So they took a picture. It’s in there. The message was addressed to you.’
She took the envelope from him with trembling fingers.
‘Y
ou’ll probably want to read it by yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow first thing.’
He got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The Land Rover growled into action. A spray of sand kicked up from underneath the back wheels.
She could hear the noise of the Land Rover long after she had lost sight of it and was left standing alone in front of the empty house, the envelope clutched in her shaking hand.
• • •
SHE WAS WALKING in the direction of the ocean.
He had told her that this was where he had headed that night after he had casually opened a photography magazine, discovering a miracle inside. And so she was following in his footsteps.
As she walked past the desolate houses, she wondered wearily how Adam had managed to stand living among these derelict ghosts. The idea that these houses had once echoed to the sound of laughter and the voices of the living seemed absurd.
High in the bright blue sky was a gossamer-thin moon. The sun was beating down on her. The wind blew sharp particles of sand against her skin.
She could hear the roar of the ocean drawing closer and then she crested a sleek white dune and the beach stretched out in front of her, miles and miles of pale sand and turquoise water. It was high tide and the driving wind was whipping the waves deep onto dry land. When the water pulled back, it left a thin film of slimy foam in its wake.
In the distance she could just make out the wreck of a stranded ship, the masts still tall and proud, its hull broken. It was pushed so high up on dry land, it looked as though the crew had sailed the ship there on purpose, as though they had become confused, unable to distinguish between an ocean of water and an ocean of sand.
She sat down and crossed her legs, tucking her fluttering skirt underneath her ankles. The envelope was not sealed and she lifted the flap and placed her hand inside.
She took out the watch first. He had been wearing this watch at Paradine Park and her heart jerked in recognition. The chunky knobs, the black Roman numerals—the watch was exactly as she remembered it. She fastened the watch around the wrist of her right arm where it dangled loosely. She was surprised at its weight.
She slid her hand back into the envelope and her fingers closed around the edges of the picture.
The quality of the photograph was surprisingly good. Even though the water was murky, she was able to read the words without any trouble. The size of the various letters was uneven and the words were strung together in a lopsided sentence:
Justine I will find you again
She placed her hand against her mouth but it was no use. She could not force back the sobs. Her entire body was shaking and the strangled sounds that forced their way past her fingers hurt her chest. She let her hand fall away and tipped back her head. And now she was howling, her mouth wide open. She shrieked his name, screamed into the roar of the ocean. The wind lashed her face and dried the tears immediately they left her eyes. She placed both hands against her breast. Such terrible pain. Her heart would collapse under the burden of so much pain.
She did not know how long she wept, but her body grew exhausted, the muscles in her shoulders tight and sore, her ribs aching. Her face felt swollen and a great tiredness made her lie down on her side and draw her legs up against her body. And there, in the hot sand with the repetitive, hallucinatory sound of crashing waves all around her, she went to sleep.
When she woke up, the first thing she noticed was that the wind had died down. The merest breath of a breeze lifted tendrils of hair off her forehead. The sand underneath her cheek was cool.
Dusk was at hand. The sea was calm, the waves broke quietly. The wet sand gleamed pink with the light of the setting sun. The first stars were out.
She was not alone. She knew that even before she turned her head. She was not alone.
The animal was barely two metres away. He was watching her, body turned sideways, head lifted. The thick collar of hair around his neck was almost blond and his flanks were hazed with silver. But the long hair growing down his strong legs and sloping back was spotted with darker flecks, deepening into black. His shadow was an uncertain shape on the white sand turned dusky in the twilight.
Windwalker.
The ears were pricked, alert. The nose was black and moist. The eyes gleamed.
Her breath caught in her throat. The animal had lowered its head. One paw was poised hesitantly. She thought: he will come to me.
For a long, long moment they stared at each other. She sensed an ancient recognition pass between them and the hairs on her arms lifted. She stretched out her hand yearningly, but the next moment the animal had turned away.
The strandwolf’s gait was unhurried. The strong shoulders moved easily, gracefully. It rounded the hump of the dune and she could no longer see it.
EPILOGUE
THE THICK CURTAINS were drawn tight against the windows, shutting out the blackness of the night. A table lamp with a scarf thrown over it to cut out the glare, and the flames from the gas fire at the far end of the room, provided the only light. It was quiet outside except for the faint scream of a car alarm in the distance. The hands of the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece stood at four.
The man in the deep armchair stretched his legs and massaged his arthritic hands. He got to his feet, wincing at the dull ache which had settled in his lumbar region.
Quietly he moved over to the bed. He brought his head close to that of the sleeping woman. She was lying on her back, her face half-turned, her mouth slightly open. Her long white hair was caught loosely in a bun that had started to unravel.
Satisfying himself that she was not in distress, the man returned to his chair. He tilted his head back against the headrest and allowed his tired eyes to wander through the room. They came to rest on the writing table pushed up against one wall. On top of the gleaming surface were books neatly stacked on top of each other and photographs in silver-plated frames. He felt himself smile as his gaze moved from one to the other.
Justine standing in front of the poster announcing her first New York exhibition. Justine swinging Thomas in the air, his chubby little face alive with glee, his dumpy legs flailing. Justine adjusting Chloe’s veil: mother and bride caught in the framework of an oblong mirror. The photograph he had taken of her on their silver anniversary: one of his favourite pictures. She was sitting at a candlelit table decked in white, a glass of champagne in her hand. By some trick of light the candles had reflected in her eyes so that tiny flames danced in their depths. She was smiling at him as if in secret.
A soft groan made him glance quickly at the bed. She was moving her head restlessly back and forth.
‘Barry…’ Her voice was whisper-thin. ‘Water.’
He poured water from the carafe into the glass and helped her into a sitting position. As he slid his arm around her back, he could feel her ribs. She had lost so much weight. Her neck was thin and her head with its thick hair seemed out-of-proportion large.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s just after four.’
She nodded and sank back into the pillows. Her hand, veined with blue, stretched out toward his. Her grip was still surprisingly strong.
‘You look tired, old man.’ She smiled at him.
‘I’ll still be able to dance you off your feet.’
‘That will be the day.’ She smiled again, but her eyelids were already drooping and a spasm of pain flitted across her face.
Her courage was remarkable. It was twelve months since he had sat with her in the consultant’s office, listening to a prognosis that had stunned him. His immediate reaction was denial—there were other specialists, other doctors. They would find someone who could help. She, in contrast, accepted the diagnosis stoically but she also refused to follow the doctor’s orders to slow down. ‘Live life ecstatically and with a vengeance,’ she said, ‘you know that’s my motto.’
And so they had travelled, camera in hand, to all her favourite places: the Blue Mosque; the Alham
bra Palace; Florence; Salzburg with its music. And for three weeks the entire family—their two children and their partners, as well as their four grandchildren—had rented a house in the Lake District.
A month ago she had told him she wanted to come home.
There was only one photograph on her bedside table: a picture of a house with a pitched roof and scarred walls. One window was without glass and the picture was taken from an angle so that the viewer looked straight through the peeling timber frame, the eye carrying onward through yet another broken window on the other side of the house and beyond it to the desert and a translucent horizon.
He had long since made peace with this photograph and with the memory of the man who had once lived within those walls. It was not always easy, sharing her with a ghost. He knew he would never be first in her heart. He knew his was not the face she saw in her dreams. He now accepted it, but when he was younger he had found himself jealous of a dead man. It had taken several years of marriage before he had reached a place in his life where he could simply be grateful for what he had.
And he did have so much. Justine had given him two wonderful children and she was indeed the joy of his life. Who would have thought the angry, tortured woman with whom he had first fallen in love would grow into a supportive, loving partner? He was aware she did not tell him her deepest doubts and most fervid desires. And she wasn’t always happy—of course not—but she never flinched. She attacked life head-on. And she rarely talked about Adam Buchanan. As a matter of fact, he could recall her mentioning Adam Buchanan only once. ‘He and I were meant to be,’ she had said simply. ‘But our journeys followed different routes. His journey was one of redemption. Mine was one of self-knowledge. The two did not overlap. The timeline was off.’
Her fingers twitched slightly and he looked down at her hand clasped in his. Until a month ago, she had worn watches on both her wrists. On the left wrist her own petite watch, on her right wrist a man’s watch with a thick chrome strap, its bulky shape making her wrist look even more fragile. The watches were set at different times, one an hour ahead of the other. But she didn’t wear them any more. Her skin was too sensitive now and her bones hurt.
Writ in Water Page 94