A Single Breath: A gripping, twist-filled thriller that will have you hooked. Lucy Clarke
beneath the canopies and out into the open air.
She lets her legs carry her forward, moving through the modest city shopping centre onto tree-lined residential streets, and eventually into a well-maintained park where groups of young people loll on the grass talking and listening to music, cigarette smoke drifting into the air. Two women in tie-dyed skirts stand beside a table stacked with books, where a hand-painted sign reads: FREE BOOKS
Feeling the wooziness of jet lag suddenly overtaking her, Eva finds a bench in the shade of a large gum tree and takes a moment to rest. Eating nothing but plane food for the last thirty-two hours has left her feeling queasy, and she thinks she’ll buy some fresh fruit and then return to the hotel and give in to sleep.
First, though, she takes out her mobile phone and tries Dirk. She wasn’t able to get a hold of him before she left England, and as the phone rings and rings, she pictures a man standing with his hands in his pockets, a slight stoop to his posture, watching her number flashing up but not answering it. With a stab of frustration she ends the call, deciding she will go to his house instead.
She is slipping the phone back into her pocket when it suddenly rings.
‘Yes?’ she answers, expectant.
‘You’ve landed?’
‘Oh. Mum,’ Eva says, pushing a hand back through her short hair. ‘Yeah, a couple of hours ago.’
‘How was the journey?’
‘Long. But fine, really.’
‘Are you at the hotel?’ her mother asks, a slight shrillness to her tone.
‘No, I’m sitting in a park. I went for a walk.’ She glances at her watch and realizes that if it’s midday here, then it must be midnight in England. ‘Mum,’ she says, suddenly wary. ‘What is it?’
There’s a pause. She hears her mother draw a breath. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she begins. ‘They’ve found a body.’
*
Eva runs a deep bath, pouring in a miniature bottle of the hotel’s bath oil. Steam swirls in lemon-scented clouds as she peels off her clothes and steps in, hot water creeping over her ankles and shins. She lowers herself down, leans back against the tub and groans.
A body.
It washed up 200 miles along the coast, just beyond Plymouth. It was on the late news this evening, her mother told her. They’re doing tests to confirm the identity and should know the outcome in a few days.
Eva had wanted this news.
But also not wanted it.
She bends her knees and slides under the surface of the bathwater. Her short hair fans and swirls around her face. Warm water fills the pockets of air in her nose and ears, popping and tickling, pressing against her eyes and the seal of her lips. Underwater she’s aware of her pulse amplified in her ears.
She makes herself open her mouth. Water spills over her tongue, the insides of her cheeks, the roof of her mouth, the back of her throat. She wants to sit up, cough, open her eyes – but she holds herself still.
Her lungs begin to ache and she feels the weight of water holding her down. Her body fires out panic signals, sparks of pain shooting into her nerve endings.
She thinks of Jackson beneath the cold, brutal waves, his large hands flailing for purchase, the weight of his clothes and boots dragging him down. She pictures his eyes bulging in terror, salt burning them as he fights to live.
Then she imagines that moment when there are no more sips of oxygen to absorb, and he inhales – freezing salt water sucked deep into his lungs.
She bursts from the bath, water sloshing over the tiled floor, her mouth wide open, gasping.
This is how it felt, Eva, when I went under. The icy shock of that sea was immense. My whole body contracted – my heart squeezed tight, my muscles clenched, my tendons constricted. With that first smack of water, all thought was flushed out.
The sea was bitter and relentless – shifting, pulsing, whirling, gripping me, yanking me under. An attack from all directions. My clothes became a fishing net, tangling me further. I kicked and thrashed, my breath ragged, limbs turning hopelessly. It was like no sea I’d ever known.
I don’t know whether it was minutes – or even just seconds – before the water started to numb me to the bone. My body convulsed with shivers, the fear of death ballooning in my brain.
I fought for as long as I could, your image bright in my mind. But gradually all the pain and struggle seemed to slide away with the heat of my body, the fight in my muscles – and I gave up.
That’s all I can tell you, Eva – eventually I gave up.
Eva parks the hire car on the opposite side of the street from Dirk’s house but doesn’t get out. Her palms are damp from where she’s been gripping the steering wheel and she wipes them against her jeans.
She studies Dirk’s house, which looks tired in the afternoon sunshine. Red flakes of paint peel away from the blistered siding revealing a white undercoat. The front garden is overgrown and two plant pots lie broken on their sides. The curtains are open, which she hopes is a sign that he is in.
Feeling queasy with nerves and expectation, she climbs from the car, crosses the street, and walks the short length of the pathway to his front door. There is no bell, so she knocks, then stands back with her arms at her sides. She hopes Dirk will be in; she’s eager to hear his voice, to see Jackson in his face.
She wonders what they’ll talk about, whether there will be any common ground beyond Jackson. She tries to remember the walks Dirk mentioned in his letters, or the name of the book he was enjoying when he last wrote, but her mind feels permeable, facts and information draining away. She’d like to establish a connection, something enduring so that they can have a reason to keep in touch.
She hears movement from inside, as if a chair is being scraped across a floor. A moment later the door is opened by a man wearing a flannel shirt tucked into belted jeans. He has no shoes on and his grey socks are thinning at the toes.
Her breath catches as she sees clues of Jackson locked within the angle of the man’s nose, the line of his brow, the shade of his eyes. ‘Dirk?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m Eva Bowe. Jackson’s wife.’
His brow furrows into rows of deep creases. He rubs a large hand across his forehead, as if he’s trying to release a memory of this arrangement. The skin on his cheeks is bright red, broken capillaries spreading like a map over his face. ‘What … what’re you doin’ here?’
‘I tried calling.’
He looks past her as if he expects to see more people. ‘You’ve come from England?’
She nods. Her toes squirm in her sandals as she tells him, ‘I flew in three days ago. I … I wanted to come to Tasmania. See where Jackson was from. See where he grew up. Meet you.’ She is babbling and stops herself.
Dirk stares. ‘It’s a long way.’
‘Yes,’ she says.
He steps back from the doorway. ‘You’d better come in.’
He leads her into a small living room where a timeworn green sofa faces the window. A whisky bottle and glass stand on a side table and a television plays on silent, some daytime game show with an overdressed