Lucy Clarke - A Single Breath

Falling in love took her by surprise with both its strength and its suddenness, so unlike the steady relationships she’d ambled through previously. It was as if she’d slipped into a parallel world, one where only she and Jackson existed. In those first few months they mapped each other’s bodies, created a dialogue punctuated with their own private jokes, filled a past they hadn’t shared with the sheer and vivid pleasure of the present.

Now Eva feels the bump and jar of the plane as the wheels touch tarmac, wind roaring against the wing flaps.

‘Welcome to Tasmania,’ the captain says, and Eva feels her heart clench.

*

It is only mid-morning when Eva arrives at her hotel, so she dumps her luggage, peels off her winter clothes, and steps into a cotton dress. Her legs look pale and dry as she slips on a pair of leather sandals, then leaves to get her bearings in Jackson’s city.

Hobart, Tasmania’s capital, is set on the banks of the Derwent River, with the foreboding presence of Mount Wellington towering behind it. She heads out along the marina, the warmth in the air easing the tension in her muscles. Expensive yachts and tourist boats are moored beside battered fishing vessels, and shadows of fish circle in small shoals, breaking the surface to pick at sodden crusts of bread.

It’s a Saturday, but there’s still none of the rush or frenetic pace of a city. Everyone seems to be milling around in cafés, men wearing trainers or hiking boots, and women casual in flip-flops and shorts. After London, Hobart feels like a village – small, informal, laid-back.

She drifts on towards Salamanca, where a market fills the street. The air swirls with scents of fruit and sugared doughnuts – the faint whiff of the marina hovering in the background. She barely registers the stalls selling olives, vintage handbags, beaded jewellery, antique books, or the shoppers with colourful bags swinging from their hands. All she feels is the empty space at her shoulder where Jackson should be.

She imagines the warmth of his hand around hers as if they were walking together. She’d have persuaded him to pause at the antique jewellery stall so she could sift through old brooches and beautiful pocket watches, and he’d have wanted to buy her the prettiest one with money neither of them had. As they walked together he would’ve whispered a private joke about the man with the handlebar moustache selling cider, and then tugged her forward to introduce her to a friend he’d caught sight of, proudly saying, ‘This is my wife .’

When Eva looks down, she finds the fingers of her left hand are unfurled at her side as if reaching for him. She quickly stuffs her hand in her pocket and hurries from 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.