The Sing of the Shore. Lucy Wood

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      The van was there again. He hadn’t heard it drive up, or any doors opening and closing. But it was there. Jay watched it out of the window. He checked on the baby. He went back to the window, waited a moment, then went outside. He walked over to the van and looked in. There was an empty plastic bottle under the seat, and a newspaper on the dashboard from a week earlier.

      He circled the van twice in the drizzle, then thought about the number plate. What he should do was write down the number plate. He ran inside and found a pen, then crouched down next to the van to write. The number plate was covered in mud and he rubbed at it, saw an X and a 7, then rubbed again but the mud was too thick and wouldn’t come off.

      When he looked up, there was a light in one of next door’s windows. It flicked on, then off. The curtains upstairs moved.

      He walked over to the house. He glanced back at the road, then went closer, right up to the window. The rooms downstairs were dark. He pressed his ear against the glass but couldn’t hear anything. Something moved further back in the house – maybe it was an arm, or someone’s back, he just glimpsed something crossing into another room.

      He ran round the side of his house, down the alley and through the long grass on the bank. He scrabbled over the brambles, dropped the pen, and scratched his hand on a broken bit of fence. There was a low wall behind the house next door. He jumped down softly. The back door was padlocked. The windows were shut and dark.

      He stayed crouched against the concrete. The net curtains swayed against the glass.

      Something rustled in the bank above him. The rustling got louder, and then a blackbird ran out towards him, scolding loudly.

      He moved closer to the windows. They were smeared and dusty but he was sure there was something back there, in the darkness. He went closer. A voice murmured and someone laughed.

      There was a shout behind him. He turned quickly. It was the farmer he’d seen in the field. She was walking towards him, calling out, asking what he was doing. He looked at her, then back at the window. He realised his hand was on the latch. His fingers were rigid and scratched, the nails bitten right down. It didn’t look like his hand. He turned and ran, disappearing into his own house.

      He jumped at small noises. When the baby broke her bowl he brushed up every single piece with the dustpan. He picked out the tiny shards from the cracks between the tiles.

      It turned very cold. He stayed up late into the night with his ear to the kitchen wall, just the blue light from the fridge, and the white security lights coming in through the thin curtains. He paced the kitchen. When the baby cried he went straight to her and lifted her out of her cot and held her while he paced. She shaped her mouth into a sound and then gave up and blew a sticky bubble instead, and sighed.

      ‘It’s OK,’ he told her. ‘It’s OK.’

      Then he went back to the wall and listened. He pressed so hard that bits of paint flaked off onto the floor.

      He left Lorna sleeping in bed and came downstairs and listened all night.

      He heard the music again, faintly this time, somewhere towards the back of the house.

      Another time there was a hushed, crying sound, like someone had left a tap slowly running.

      ‘I no, I no,’ the baby said. She opened her eyes wide. ‘Sshhh,’ she said.

      The phone next door rang, cut out, then rang again. Jay stopped turning his phone on. He put it under a box in the wardrobe, then in a drawer. After a few days he took it out and threw it into the brambles behind the back window.

      Someone was leaving. He heard it clearly and distinctly.

      The baby looked at him, her head to one side. ‘Wha?’ she said. She frowned.

      A very cold feeling washed over Jay – it went from his neck down to his feet, almost rooting him to the floor.

      The voice came again through the wall. It was a man’s voice, but not as deep as the one he usually heard. ‘Going,’ it said. ‘The only thing to …’ A cupboard opened, then drawers opened, and something heavy was dragged across the floor. A zip crunched.

      Jay picked up the baby and held her to his chest. He stood by the front door. Footsteps thudded through the wall, more cupboards creaked open.

      He put the baby in her coat, then went outside. He crossed the front yard. The van wasn’t there. It was cold and the dishes seemed poised, tensed. They were pointing straight at him.

      His breathing was fast and shallow. He held the baby tight and she pressed into his neck. ‘Da?’ she said.

      There was no sound except for a rook cawing from a wet branch.

      The house next door was in front of him. The door was half-open. Jay walked over to it slowly. He went up the step.

      The rubble was still there. It was wet and bits of plaster had spread over the ground like snow. He pushed the door slowly and it swung inwards. It was quiet in there. There were no shoes by the door, no coats on the hooks. The hallway was long and dark. He turned and looked back towards where Lorna would be working. He imagined her at a desk, by a computer, listening.

      He thought of how he would tell her.

      He suddenly remembered the phrase they used to say to each other.

      The phone rang. He held the baby tight. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

       Dreckly

      Tide: 7.5 metres

      What I’m about to tell you is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. There was this one time when I bet Jory he couldn’t swim out to that rock with all the seagull shit on it and of course he went right ahead and did it and I lost my entire savings which weren’t really anything in the first place but still. I should have made sure the bet was for swimming out and back again because I had СКАЧАТЬ