Lucy Clarke - A Single Breath

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014

Copyright © Lucy Clarke 2014

Lucy Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007481361

Ebook Edition © March 2014 ISBN: 9780007481378

Version: 2020-11-10

For James

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Read on to enjoy an exclusive extract of The Castaways

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Questions

A conversation with Lucy Clarke

The Story in Photos

About the Author

Keep up to date with Lucy Clarke

Also by Lucy Clarke

Keep Reading

About the Publisher

Pulling his hat down over his ears, Jackson glances at Eva, who is curled in bed, the duvet tucked under her chin. Her eyes stay closed as she murmurs a sleepy noise that means, Don’t go .

But he has to. He can’t lie next to her feeling the way he does. He’s been awake for hours staring into the empty darkness, thinking, thinking, rolling back through his decisions and their consequences. He needs to get out of this house, feel the sting of winter wind on his face.

He lifts a corner of the duvet, just enough to expose Eva’s bare shoulder where he places his lips. He breathes in the smell of her sleep-warmed skin. Then he smoothes the duvet back down, picks up his fishing gear, and leaves.

The beach is wild and empty in the gloom. It’s one of those English mornings he’s still getting used to when dawn never fully breaks and the lamps stay on indoors all day. He paces into the wind, jigging his shoulders to keep warm.

Reaching an outcrop of rocks that stretches right into the sea, Jackson pauses. He watches the waves come plunging and rolling towards the rocks, breaking in an explosion of white water. He waits for a lull between sets and, when it comes, he climbs onto the rocks and hurries across them, making his way towards the very end of the outcrop. That’s where the fish will be biting as the current runs the hardest. He’s nimble-footed from a childhood spent running barefoot on the rocks and cliffs of Tasmania. He used to launch himself from them into the sea, bellowing and whooping before the water swallowed him.

He makes it to the end before the next set hits, the rocks behind him disappearing beneath a surge of foam. Strong gusts whip the spray off the backs of the waves and the air is alive with moisture. He turns from the wind, crouches down and opens his tackle box. Christ, he wishes he’d worn gloves. It’s freezing out here. Spray hits him in the back of the neck and it’s icy. His numb fingers make him clumsy and he drops a lure and has to scrabble between the rocks to get it. Second time around he manages to thread it with more success.

Eventually he casts out. The motion, once familiar and soothing, gives him no relief this morning. His thoughts too closely match the desolate seascape that broils beneath an angry sky. Standing on the rocks – his body starting to chill – he has the looming sensation that everything is starting to unravel. It is as if he’s shedding his skin layer by layer until the sharp bones of who he really is will be visible to everyone.

The vibration of his mobile phone startles him. He holds the fishing rod with one hand while he grapples in his coat pocket with the other. It will be Eva. He pushes away the lethal, dark thoughts, letting his brow soften as he imagines the timbre of her sleep-clouded voice saying, Come back to bed …

Already he’s thinking that he will – that he’ll forget all this. If he jogs he’ll be there in ten minutes. He can slip back into the warmth of their bed, press his body against the curve of hers, and remind himself that it’s real.

But when he presses answer, it’s not Eva’s voice at all.

As she leaves the shelter of the headland, the full force of the wind hits Eva. Her hair whips back from her face and she hugs the flask of coffee tight to her chest. Clouds of sand gust along the shoreline, sending a tangled knot of fishing line pinwheeling along the beach.

A woman passes in the other direction, her purple coat flattened to her back by the wind. The fur-trimmed hood is pulled tight to her face, making Eva wish she’d thought to wear a hat. She’d forgotten how raw the weather is on the coast; in London it is muted by buildings and watched from behind windows.

She and Jackson had driven to Dorset last night for her mother’s birthday. It was a rush to get out of the city; Eva had been delayed at the hospital trying to turn a breeched baby, but still managed to wrap her mother’s present and clear the sink of their breakfast things before Jackson barrelled in late and exhausted from a meeting that had run over. The whole week had been like that: grabbing meals at different times, tension from work stalking them home, falling into bed too late and too shattered to talk. She’s pleased to have this weekend just to slow down.

Ahead, the rocks where Jackson will be fishing come into focus. Huge sombre boulders stretch right out into the sea. She wonders if he’s caught anything yet. It wasn’t long past dawn when she’d felt the give of the bed as Jackson slipped out from under the covers. She’d heard him stepping into his jeans, pulling on a sweater, and zipping up his coat. He’d leant over the bed and pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder. Her eyes had opened just enough to see him disappear through the doorway, a red woollen hat pulled down over his ears.

Just beyond the rocks she sees the flash of a boat. It disappears momentarily into a trough and she thinks the conditions are too rough to be out on the water today. She squints against the wind and sees it rise again on the crest of a wave: an orange lifeboat. She wonders whether there’s been an accident, and as soon as she has this thought, a slow trickle of unease seeps through her body.