Moon Read Free

then.'
        Amy took her hold-all from the back seat, Childes helping her lift it over. 'Will you call me tonight?'
        'I thought you'd planned to mark papers.'
        'I don't have much choice, with Sunday so busy. I'll have earned a few minutes break, though.'
        He forced a light tone. 'Okay, Teach. Don't be too hard on the kids.'
        'Depends on what they've written. I'm not sure which is more difficult: teaching them French or decent English. At least with computers your own machines can correct their mistakes.'
        He huffed, smiling. 'I wish it were that simple.' He kissed her cheek once more before she straightened. The first raindrops stippled the windscreen.
        'Take care, Jon,' she said, wanting to say more, needing to, but sensing his resistance. Getting to know Childes had taken a long, long time and even now she was aware there were places - dark places - inside him she would never reach. She wondered if his ex-wife had ever tried.
        Amy watched the little black Mini pull away, frowning as she gave a single wave. She turned and hurried through the open iron gates, running down the short drive to the house before the rain began in earnest. Childes soon turned off the main highway, steering into the narrow lanes which spread through the island like veins from primary arteries, occasionally slowing and squeezing close to hedges and walls to ease past oncoming vehicles, whose drivers adopted the same tactics. He clutched the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white ridges, driving by reflex rather than consideration; his mind, now that he was alone, was preoccupied with other thoughts. By the time he reached the cottage he was trembling once more and the sour taste of bile was back in his throat.
        He swung the Mini into the narrow opening before the old stone cottage, a patch he had cleared of weeds and brambles when he had first arrived, and switched off the engine. He left the bag containing his swimming gear in the car, jumping out and fumbling for the front-door key. The key resisted his first attempts to insert it in the lock. At last successful, he thrust open the door and rushed down the short corridor, just making it to the tiny bathroom as the bottom of his stomach rose like an express elevator. He retched over the toilet bowl, shedding, it seemed, only a small portion of the substance clogging his insides. He blew his nose on tissue, flushing the toilet and watching the soft paper swirl round until it was gulped away. Removing his brown-rimmed glasses, he washed his face in cold water, keeping his hands over his eyes for several moments, cooling them.
        Childes regarded himself in the cabinet mirror as he dried his face and his reflection was pallid; he wasn't sure if his own imagination was creating the shadows under his eyes. Stretching his fingers before him, he tried to keep them still; he couldn't.
        Childes replaced his glasses and went through to the sitting room, ducking his head slightly as he entered the door; he wasn't especially tall, but the building was old, the ceilings low, the door frames lower. The room lacked space, but then Childes had not packed too much into it: a faded and lumpy sofa, portable TV, square coffee table; low bookcases flanked the brick fireplace on either side, their shelves crammed. On top of one, by a lamp, was a small cluster of bottles and glasses. He went over and poured himself a stiff measure of Scotch.
        Outside, the rain had become a steady downpour and he stood by the window overlooking his diminutive rear garden, broodingly watching. The cottage, among a row of others, all detached, but only just, backed on to open fields. At one time the houses had all been field-hands' tied homes, but the estate had been divided up long since, land and properties sold off. Childes had been fortunate to rent one when he had come to the island over two, almost three, years before, for empty property was scarce