Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3), стр. 98

His attention strays to the next grave.  Saying nothing, he pulls his hand away from mine and balls his fists, and I understand why.  This is his stepfather’s grave.

‘You’re here to see your mum.’  I smooth my hand on his coat sleeve.  ‘Not him.  He doesn’t deserve to be remembered.’

‘No.’

The word almost disappears on another gust of wind.  Lost in thought, he stares at the block of granite, the empty flower holder.

‘What made him do those things?’ he asks at last, with all the innocence of a child.  ‘What makes a human being behave that way?’

He glances up at the sky, as if he’s searching for answers, and rubs away a tear.

‘You’ll never know.  Not for sure.  Whatever the reason, it wasn’t your fault.  That’s the only certainty.’

‘I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to cry.’

‘There’s no need to apologise.’

He chews at his lip, turns his attention back to his mother’s grave.

‘I’ll give you some time on your own.’

His hand comes back to mine.

‘No. Stay.  I won’t be long.’

For a few minutes, we stand in silence, braced against the wind.  I have no idea what’s going through his mind.  Perhaps he’s asking her why she let those things happen; perhaps he’s trying to understand; maybe he’s forgiving her.  It’s not my business to ask.  Giving him the space he needs, I look back down at the town, and then the sea, trying to figure out where the horizon lies, but I can’t.  Everything’s blurred.  No clarity.  No black and white.

Finally, his fingers tighten around my hand.

‘Done?’ I ask.

‘Done,’ he confirms.  And then, out of nowhere: ‘I’d like to go for a walk.’

‘A walk?’

‘Down by the sea … I want to show you something.’

The drive into town doesn’t take long.  The roads are deserted.  We park near the seafront.  Dan produces an umbrella from the boot, and we walk through the winding streets of Old Limmingham, finally emerging onto the cliff-top.  Sweeping in from the North Sea, the wind grips us immediately.

‘On second thoughts.’  He pulls up his collar.  ‘Perhaps we should just go back to the cottage, light the fire and have sex on the rug.’

‘That rug’s seen better days,’ I complain.  ‘And besides, I’m intrigued.  What is it you want to show me?’

He seems embarrassed.

‘It’s not really worth it.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘Dan.’

Reluctant now, he takes me by the hand and leads me down to the promenade.  A smattering of rain soon gathers force, threatening to soak us.  He puts up the umbrella and aims it into the wind.  Wrapping his free arm around me, he pulls me in to his side, making sure I’m protected from the worst of the elements.

‘This is pure madness,’ he says.  ‘You’ll catch cold.’

I tut.  ‘We’re not in a Jane Austen novel.  People don’t get ill because they get a bit wet, not in the real world.’

‘Well …’  He nods at my stomach, and I understand immediately.  He’s worried about the baby.

‘I’m pregnant.  Not ill.  Don’t get over-protective.’

‘I can’t help it.’  He shrugs.  ‘Come on.  Let’s get this over and done with.’

Leaving the pier behind, we walk along the promenade, past cafés and shops, all closed for the winter; buckets and spades and seaside tat piled up in the windows.  We pass a lone dog-walker, a scattering of fishing boats that have definitely seen better days, a small Victorian pavilion.  And then, the promenade gives way to a narrow, uneven path, a final stretch lined with beach huts – the southern tip of the town.  We pick our way along the path, dodging puddles until we come to the very end, where any sign of civilisation has disappeared.  Beyond this point, there’s nothing but wild beaches and rugged cliffs: it’s marked by a groyne, a wooden coastal defence that stretches out into the sea, protecting the cliffs from erosion.

‘Can you see it?’ he asks, coming to a halt.

‘What?’

‘There.’  He points at a length of timber.

I snuggle up next to him, following the direction of his finger.  At first, I see nothing, but then it emerges, faint, but still visible.  Carved into the wood, a capital D.

‘I was nine when I did that,’ he smiles wryly.  ‘Making my mark on the world.  I’m surprised it’s still here.  The woods were your sanctuary.  This was mine.  It took me a few days to finish.’

Moved beyond words that he’s chosen to share this with me, I stare at the carving, one tiny remnant of his childhood.  And I conjure up an image in my head: a solitary boy avoiding the world, perhaps on a day like this, losing himself in his task.

‘Thank you.’  I look up at him.  ‘For showing me.’

His eyes glint.  His lips part, as if he’s on the verge of telling me something else.  And then he takes in a breath.

‘We’re about to get very wet.’  He nods out to sea, to a curtain of rain sweeping in.  ‘I don’t think this umbrella’s going to be enough.  Come on.’

Hastily he leads me back the way we came, guiding me under the cover of the pavilion just in time to avoid the downpour.  There are benches here.  Closing the umbrella, he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, dries off a bench and motions for me to sit.  Taking a seat next to me, he settles into silence for a few minutes, watching the maelstrom of raindrops as they churn up the sea.

‘I always felt more at home here on days like this,’ he says.  Leaning forward, he clutches his hands together.  ‘Grey.  Miserable.  Wet.  Cold.  When the sun came out, when the holiday crowds arrived, I felt like an alien.  I used to come here and watch them, all those happy families.  Buckets and spades, deckchairs,