‘I’ll play it to you one day.’ He tips his head on one side. ‘Funny, you know you don’t look anything like her.’ He looks disappointed.

  It feels like an insult, even though I know it isn’t. I raise my chin. ‘Some people think I do.’

  He holds up his hand in a stiff salute. I watch him walk away, thin and dark. He hunches his shoulders, narrow-hipped in his black trousers.

  A man in a canoe glides past on the river. The canoe cuts through the water almost silently, the man working the oar expertly, dipping it from one side to the other. He must be going against the tide, but he’s travelling fast, water slapping at the side of the boat, the pointed prow breaking a path through the current like a sword.

  When I look back at Marco he’s already become a tiny marionette figure, disappearing into the greens and blues of the fields, marching out of sight. I look down at my arm, at the slightly smudged letters staining my skin.

  34

  Today we woke to a birdless sky, heavy with cloud. A fierce rain has been falling since daybreak. It beats down on the shingle. Billy and I huddle inside the pagoda, damp and shivering. The roof keeps us dry, although sometimes water finds a way in through the gaps between the pillars, a sudden splatter of wet down my neck.

  I pull the blanket tightly round my shoulders. The tickle in my throat has gone, but now it’s swollen inside and it hurts to swallow; my head is heavy and thick. I sneeze, wincing as the shock pounds inside my brain.

  Billy glances at me and then disappears outside for a couple of minutes and comes back with dripping hair and rain-darkened stones in his arms. He places them in a ring on the floor of the entrance, drags over a couple of branches and a piece of driftwood that he piled in the corner a couple of days ago, breaks them across his thighs and piles them carefully into a wigwam shape. But when he strikes a match, only the outer grains of bark catch. I watch as beads of gold flare, dying almost instantly. However much Billy rearranges the position of the branches or gets down on his belly to blow, the rest of the wood refuses to burn. ‘We need kindling,’ he mutters, squatting on his haunches and staring into the rain, chewing the inside of his mouth.

  A minute later, I hear the sound of ripping. He’s got the book in his hands, tearing it up, shredding pages of The Prophet, breaking the spine with a brutal twisting.

  ‘Don’t,’ I whisper. I can’t bear to see anyone destroying a book. Then I understand. Small flames feed hungrily on the screwed up pages. I watch lines of print blur and darken in the heat. Flames eat holes inside the poems. Branches glow hot and begin to burn. There is a pop and sparks burst. I shuffle closer to the warmth, grateful and tired. Even my bones ache. I sneeze again and drop my forehead onto my knees, closing sore eyes.

  ‘Wish I had some whisky,’ I murmur, remembering how Dad would always suggest a dram of whisky as a cure-all. The smell of it made me recoil. But the peaty taste, mixed with lemon and hot water, sweetened with honey, was what I craved when I’d had flu. Dad would hand me the glass with great ceremony, nodding approvingly. ‘That’ll have you feeling better in no time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Billy says, ‘I could do with a drop of the hard stuff right now. Keep out the cold. On check-point duty, half the men we stopped fell out of their cars pissed. Jesus, their breath alone could knock you out. The Irish drank more than me dad. Got some good bottles off ’em though.’

  The smoke from the fire is bitter. I cough, swallowing, trying to suppress the pain in my throat. ‘Sounds like they weren’t so bad then.’

  He stares into the flames. He is silent for a few moments and then he gives me a tight little smile. ‘There wasn’t any love lost. It was them and us. I was off-duty when a bomb went off in a pub. They needed help to get the bodies out. Starlight was already there–the medics–but there weren’t enough to go round. People sitting on the pavement.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his papers, takes a few strands of tobacco and rolls a cigarette. ‘You could smell the cordite, burning flesh.’ He licks the paper, rubbing it together between his fingers. ‘Inside the rubble I saw bits of body, scraps of clothing, odd shoes, a pair of smashed glasses. I remember picking them up. The metal was hot.’

  He lights his rollie with a stick from the fire. Takes a deep drag. ‘I found Chalky there, one of the blokes from my brick, sitting on the ground. Blood on his face. He didn’t recognise me at first. I got him up on his feet, helped him outside. Suddenly he clutches my shoulders: “Am I going home?” he says, sobbing like a kid. “I want to go home.” So I told him he was and he seemed calmer then.’ Billy pokes the fire, throws on a piece of driftwood. ‘I started to go off, get a medic over to him, and that’s when I heard the whistling noise. A soft little thwack. I turned round and Chalky gave me a look, kind of surprised, his mouth opening like he was going to speak. He crumpled, hit the ground, and I saw the hole in his chest.’

  ‘What’d happened?’

  ‘Sniper.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘He was your friend.’

  ‘More than a friend,’ he says, examining the end of his rollie. ‘Just four of us in a brick, you see. Done our training together, lived together, fought next to each other.’

  I shiver, feeling cold and hot. I want to lie down; my body weighs too much for my spine, which is boneless, a slippery thread. I droop, slumping over to rest my cheek on the cold, damp floor. The wind and the sea make lonely noises, and I wonder if I’ll get really ill and die here. I think of the German soldiers, their forgotten bones buried under the shingle. I feel sick. I close my eyes, trying to push away images of the destroyed pub, the broken glasses in Billy’s hands. Billy leans over me.

  ‘You need to drink,’ he says. ‘You can have my water. Here.’ He measures out some water into a tin cup, places it inside the curl of my hand. I close my fingers around the sides of the cup, but I’m too tired to lift it, too tired to sit up.

  The Bell is thick with cigarette smoke; the juke box drops another disc, Lionel Richie’s honeyed voice singing ‘Hello’. Marco shakes his head. ‘Can’t stay here much longer with this noise.’ He looks pained. ‘Maybe we should go back to my place. Listen to some real music.’

  I shift closer to him, wanting to feel the angles of his body against mine. He looks elegant in his long black coat, like a cross between a highwayman and Dracula. He puts his arm around me and I lean into him. I’m wearing my new dress. I found it in the Oxfam shop in town; black netting swishes around my legs. I’ve lined my eyes in kohl, drawn the outline of my lips in dark red. Goths want to look different. They exist on the edges of society, flaunting their costumes: night-people, flamboyantly other. It’s easy for me to feel at home in their world.

  Marco dips his head to kiss me. The noise of the pub turns around us: glasses clinking, the blur and chatter of voices, Lionel’s lingering vocals. We break apart, breathless, and I laugh. Nobody even glances at us. We’re invisible. The locals here have seen plenty of the art-school crowd come and go, goths, a few punks with safety pins in their noses. These older locals are implacable, timeless, sipping at their beer, ignoring the rest of the world.

  ‘They wouldn’t blink if you dropped a bomb on the place,’ Marco says. ‘Stuck in a time warp.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to bother them.’

  ‘Nothing bothers them,’ he sighs, ‘that’s the problem.’

  A boy in a checked shirt stands by the juke box. He stares at the playlist and makes his selection, jabbing at the button with a stubby finger. Daryl Hall and John Oates begin to play and Marco puts his glass down. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says.

  We’re in the street. It’s cold. The air is wet with drizzle. I turn up the collar of my thin jacket. The only part of me that feels warm is my hand wrapped in Marco’s fingers. We walk quickly, the wind at our backs. It’s only about fifteen minutes to his parents’ house. I love going there. When we’re in his room, there’s no banging on the door asking what we’re up to. Music is always playing, and his mother might come, bangles clattering, to stand at the foot of the stairs: ‘Let me know if you guys want something to eat.’ His father shouting from the sitting room, ‘There’s a bottle of wine open if you want it.’

  We have a routine now. Squatting on the floor of his bedroom, Marco will pull out a single, placing it on the turnstile with hushed reverence. His room is dim and warm, the light shaded in red. We’ll lie on his bed and as the track begins to play, he’ll kiss me. I hold his fingers tighter at the thought. Anticipation crackles through me like electricity, making tiny hairs rise, prickling across my skin. We walk quickly through the fine drizzle. He squeezes my hand back. I’ve decided that I’m going to sleep with him. I love him. I’ll tell him soon. Maybe tonight.

  There is a group of boys walking towards us. I can tell from their loose strides and loud voices that they’re drunk. They are pushing each other at the shoulder, beer cans in their fists. Bursts of laughter reach us. I begin to slow down, realising that the street is empty apart from the approaching boys and us.

  ‘What’s this then?’ Robert Smith looms out of the tangle of faces, pressing close to us. His breath stinks. ‘Pretty boy out for a walk.’ He stares at me with distaste. ‘Fuck. What do you think you look like? A bloody witch.’ He opens his arms wide, beckoning his mates, inviting their approval. ‘Fancy dress tonight. Look at this, fellas. Romantic, eh?’

  The others laugh obediently, coming closer, faces split into leering grins.

  Marco pulls me to his side. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘you’ve had your fun, reached the extent of your wit. We’re moving on.’

  We begin to walk past them, but Robert lurches in front, blocking our way. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Can’t you understand English?’ A vein at Marco’s temple pulses. ‘Didn’t think so.’

  ‘Fuckin’ poof.’ Robert narrows his eyes. ‘You don’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘Watch my lips,’ Marco says.

  ‘Just let us go,’ I say, but no sound comes out; my heart is beating so hard it feels as though it’s hammering out of my ribs.

  Robert smiles; he turns and hands his beer can with elaborate care to someone behind him. He rolls up his sleeves slowly, methodically, and clenches his right fist. With one lunging movement, he steps forward to take a swing at Marco. Marco drops my hand, ducking so that Robert misses, but the momentum carries Robert on so that he stumbles past, half-falling. Another boy catches him, sets him on his feet.

  Robert staggers back to us, his face a twist of rage. There’s wet on his chin–beer or spit–as he shouts, ‘Hold him.’ Several of the others grab Marco’s shoulders, clenching their fingers tightly on his black jacket, pinioning his arms. Two of them jostle him on either side, trapping him between them.

  ‘Stop it!’ I start forwards, my palms beating at Robert, my fingers reaching for his face; but he shoves me hard, so that I stumble back, arms flailing to stop myself from going down, net skirts catching in my heels.

  Robert takes his time; he gobs on the ground before pulling his shoulder back, taking aim. There’s nowhere for Marco to go, and he turns his head trying to avoid Robert’s fist. The punch lands on the edge of his cheek. I hear the impact of bone on bone. A spurt of blood flies out of Marco’s mouth; his neck makes a cracking sound and I scream.

  There’s a warning shout behind us. The boys let go of Marco, and they run, laughing, their uneven footsteps echoing in the street; Robert looks back, his mouth twitching angrily. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet,’ he shouts.

  Marco is breathing hard, wiping blood from his lips; he puts his hand to test his jaw tentatively. And a man and a woman come up. ‘You all right, son?’ the man asks, puffing and out of breath. ‘Bastards, I could see what they were up to.’

  Marco nods, feeling the damage to his jaw.

  ‘Want us to call the cops?’ The woman looks into my face, and in the glow from the streetlight I can see that she’s frightened and kind. She has lipstick on her front teeth.

  Marco is still panting. He gives a mute shake of his head. ‘No, don’t worry,’ I tell her. The couple dither around us for a few more moments, and the woman pats my shoulder anxiously. ‘Thank you,’ Marco says, trying to steady his voice, ‘we’re all right now.’ The two of them disappear into the black, shiny night, her arm in his. The woman’s shoes make a clicking noise on the wet pavement.

  Marco holds a trembling hand to his face. ‘Think I might have broken a tooth.’

  ‘You idiot,’ I tell him. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t, I suppose.’ He puts a finger inside his mouth and prods gingerly.

  I let out a sob. A streetlight above us blinks. The rain comes down harder and there’s a grumble of thunder rolling over our heads.

  ‘Come here.’ He puts his arms around me, pulls me into his chest. ‘It’s over now.’ Our hearts pound against each other. And we stand in the damp night, reflections of lights in puddles at our feet, my face against his wet jacket, smelling wool and tobacco.

  ‘Eva,’ a voice says. ‘Drink this.’

  Water trickles into my flaming throat. I cough and swallow. ‘Marco,’ I whisper. But there is no answer. I can feel fabric at my chin and press my face into it, trying to find him behind it, the thump of his heart beneath my cheek. I push my fingers into empty folds, and tears start, blurring the shadowy air.

  I wake inside my blanket, limbs stiff and sore. It’s dark. My throat is hot and tight. Looking up I can make out stars caught in rectangles of blue. I move my head to the side, licking my lips.

  ‘Here,’ a voice says and someone lifts my head, supporting me, and I taste liquid at my lips, let it enter my mouth, moving over my tongue. Fingers stroke my forehead. I open my mouth, wanting to say ‘thank you,’ but there are only strange grating sounds.

  ‘I didn’t know you were so brave,’ I tell Marco.

  And he looks at me and smiles. ‘Not really,’ he says, ‘stupid probably. Like you said.’

  I lean forward and kiss the bruise on his jaw, moving my tongue over the flowering of purple.

  35

  Clara is in the kitchen standing at the sink. She’s staring out of the window at the rain. Max wonders if she’s heard him come in. She doesn’t move. She remains absorbed in the blur of falling water outside the glass. He waits for a moment, taking in the uncombed streaky hair, her thin shoulders, square inside the dark denim shirt. She stands on one hip like a dancer, the other leg thrust at an angle, toe and hip turned out. The pose reminds him of something, and then he remembers: the sculpture of one of Degas’ little ballerinas that he saw in an exhibition in London with Eva years ago.

  Max moves towards Clara, until he’s standing just behind her. He’s struck by the familiar scent of her perfume. The underneath smell of skin. He wants to bury his nose in the tangles of her hair. He puts his hands on her shoulders, feeling their fragility. As if she would break. She jumps at the pressure of his touch and he feels her muscles tensing, bones lifting against him. Slowly, he turns her until they face each other.

  They stare at each other gravely. His heart stutters and he can hardly breathe. He closes his eyes and dips his face, searching for her mouth with his own. He wants her so much. But she twists from under his hands.

  She looks at the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says in a small, polite voice. ‘But I just can’t.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Max attempts, his voice croaking.

  ‘No, no it’s not OK,’ she bursts out, tearful, hands balling into fists. ‘I can’t go on like this. I feel stuck. I can’t let go of anything. And I’m angry with you. I’m still angry.’

  ‘What can I do?’ His shoulders sag. It’s hopeless. The distance between them seems insurmountable.

  ‘If you could just remember what happened,’ she says, rubbing her eyes. ‘I don’t understand how you lost her. I can’t believe you let her sail without a lifejacket.’

  ‘Clara, we’ve been over this.’ Max looks out at the rainy garden. ‘I don’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t done up properly… I just don’t know.’

  ‘You were supposed to look after her–you were supposed to keep her safe.’ She shakes her head, her cheeks wet. Her voice breaks. ‘And I miss her. I miss her so much.’

  He pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her. She endures his embrace, her spine straight, unrelenting.

  ‘I miss you too,’ he whispers into her hair.

  ‘I know,’ she says, lifting her head away from his chest.

  He lets her go and her hands flutter to her face. ‘Somehow we have to carry on,’ she says in a tired voice, and he notices how dull her eyes are, how her cheekbones jut out over deeper hollows. ‘The estate agent rang.’ She turns her back on him, beginning to clear the draining board, piling plates into a cupboard, picking up a pan. ‘Someone’s coming to see the house tomorrow,’ she says over the clattering of metal.

  Max has to get away. He doesn’t really make a decision. He finds himself walking the path to the sea wall. His legs are shaky. It’s still raining, but he hardly notices the water soaking his clothes, sliding across his skin.

  He trudges through the marshes, watching a heron standing on one leg by a dead tree. When he reaches the sea wall, he clambers the slippery bank, inhaling the tang of briny air. He hasn’t been here since that day. He can hear the familiar clink of masts on moored boats, the cry of gulls, wind in the grass. Rain on water. He looks down into the pock-marked river, and it seems impossible that the accident has happened, impossible that Eva drowned.

  He doesn’t blame Clara for her feelings–for her rejection of him. She’s right. He has failed. From the moment he saw Clara on that stage, fumbling over her lines, he was filled with the desire to look after her. Her vulnerability frightens him at times; he can’t understand how someone so intelligent doubts herself as she does; but somehow it gives her a humility that makes her more beautiful. He sees an echo of something similar in Faith.