Read Online Body of Water by Stuart Wakefield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Wakefield
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hesitated, half-expecting him to trip me as I passed him, but I shook the feeling off and stepped into the house. I fired a withering glare in his direction but underestimated his height and wasted the look on his collar bone.
I found myself in the kitchen and not the hallway as I'd expected. Blessed warmth radiated from an AGA on the far wall. I shambled towards it like an acolyte, my hands raised in soporific adoration. The nearer I drew to the enamelled cooker the heavier my feet became.
He lobbed some fabric in my direction. "For yir her."
I looked down at a mangled tea towel so dirty that I resisted lobbing it right back at him but I was too polite to refuse. With one hand I rubbed it roughly over my head before unzipping my sodden jacket. His shadow loomed behind me and I felt him tugging at my shoulders, until he finally wrestled it off me.
The familiar sound of wood dragging against stone broke the silence and something hard nudged the back of my knees. He pushed me down into the chair he'd pulled up for me.
"Yir wet throo." No hint of concern presented itself in the statement so I didn't bother to respond. "Ah'm oot."
I must have misheard him. Surely, not even out here in the Orkneys, could Oot be a regular name. "Your name is Oot?"
"Nae. Me name," he strung the words out, "is Dom. Ah'm gaan oot." He remained out of sight. I heard what sounded like the rubbing of bricks on canvas and guessed he was already at the door.
"In this weather?" I realised to my horror that I sounded like Mum. "Where are you going?"
I got up to face him and my mouth fell open. He must have been six-foot-five with a smooth, olive tan and a jaw-line you could build a city on. And then there were his eyes, slate-grey and ominous. Stamped above each one was a thick, black brow, as if to certify the workmanship of the steel discs below.
He tucked a lock of wayward hair behind his ear and ran the same hand over his face. It rasped against his stubble.
My vanity urged me to run away again, to lock myself in a bathroom and not come out until I was washed and polished. But even then I doubted I could compare to him. Judging by the size of his shoulders and chest alone I needed six months in a gym, maybe more.
His breathing quickened as he studied me carefully but he remained silent. I vowed never to take my shirt off in front of him.
When he finally spoke he failed to keep the anger out of his voice. "Ah dinnae ansa tae thee."
"When will you be back?" I couldn't help it. Mum had always wanted to know where I was going and when I'd be back. Although it drove me up the wall I knew that she did it for the right reasons.
He tilted his head and his expression changed from defiance to surprise. "Ere ye a peedie simple, beuy? Ah'll see ye the morn's morneen. Dinnae disturb Mackay. He's no weel the night. Find yirself a room and do whit ye will."
A gust of freezing air whipped around me as he opened the door then slammed it shut behind him, leaving me cold and perplexed. Although I had understood that my father wasn't to be disturbed and that I should find a room, I'd need an interpreter for the rest.
Gathering up my things I explored my temporary home. The house was beautiful, the downstairs largely decorated in honey tones. I imagined bright coastal light flooding the rooms on sunny days. Everything seemed old but new at the same time. I recognised the furniture's classic design but also its pristine condition. Even the wallpaper, although old-fashioned, looked like it had just been hung; the colours vivid and bright. As I climbed the stairs I felt like I was on the set of a period drama and my clothes felt out of place among the antiques.
But there was no comfort here. Yes, the house was decorated with things that should have felt warm and inviting but it didn't. It felt like a forgotten place, never lived in by breathing, laughing, loving people.
I climbed the stairs and felt increasingly uncomfortable that each step took me closer to
I found myself in the kitchen and not the hallway as I'd expected. Blessed warmth radiated from an AGA on the far wall. I shambled towards it like an acolyte, my hands raised in soporific adoration. The nearer I drew to the enamelled cooker the heavier my feet became.
He lobbed some fabric in my direction. "For yir her."
I looked down at a mangled tea towel so dirty that I resisted lobbing it right back at him but I was too polite to refuse. With one hand I rubbed it roughly over my head before unzipping my sodden jacket. His shadow loomed behind me and I felt him tugging at my shoulders, until he finally wrestled it off me.
The familiar sound of wood dragging against stone broke the silence and something hard nudged the back of my knees. He pushed me down into the chair he'd pulled up for me.
"Yir wet throo." No hint of concern presented itself in the statement so I didn't bother to respond. "Ah'm oot."
I must have misheard him. Surely, not even out here in the Orkneys, could Oot be a regular name. "Your name is Oot?"
"Nae. Me name," he strung the words out, "is Dom. Ah'm gaan oot." He remained out of sight. I heard what sounded like the rubbing of bricks on canvas and guessed he was already at the door.
"In this weather?" I realised to my horror that I sounded like Mum. "Where are you going?"
I got up to face him and my mouth fell open. He must have been six-foot-five with a smooth, olive tan and a jaw-line you could build a city on. And then there were his eyes, slate-grey and ominous. Stamped above each one was a thick, black brow, as if to certify the workmanship of the steel discs below.
He tucked a lock of wayward hair behind his ear and ran the same hand over his face. It rasped against his stubble.
My vanity urged me to run away again, to lock myself in a bathroom and not come out until I was washed and polished. But even then I doubted I could compare to him. Judging by the size of his shoulders and chest alone I needed six months in a gym, maybe more.
His breathing quickened as he studied me carefully but he remained silent. I vowed never to take my shirt off in front of him.
When he finally spoke he failed to keep the anger out of his voice. "Ah dinnae ansa tae thee."
"When will you be back?" I couldn't help it. Mum had always wanted to know where I was going and when I'd be back. Although it drove me up the wall I knew that she did it for the right reasons.
He tilted his head and his expression changed from defiance to surprise. "Ere ye a peedie simple, beuy? Ah'll see ye the morn's morneen. Dinnae disturb Mackay. He's no weel the night. Find yirself a room and do whit ye will."
A gust of freezing air whipped around me as he opened the door then slammed it shut behind him, leaving me cold and perplexed. Although I had understood that my father wasn't to be disturbed and that I should find a room, I'd need an interpreter for the rest.
Gathering up my things I explored my temporary home. The house was beautiful, the downstairs largely decorated in honey tones. I imagined bright coastal light flooding the rooms on sunny days. Everything seemed old but new at the same time. I recognised the furniture's classic design but also its pristine condition. Even the wallpaper, although old-fashioned, looked like it had just been hung; the colours vivid and bright. As I climbed the stairs I felt like I was on the set of a period drama and my clothes felt out of place among the antiques.
But there was no comfort here. Yes, the house was decorated with things that should have felt warm and inviting but it didn't. It felt like a forgotten place, never lived in by breathing, laughing, loving people.
I climbed the stairs and felt increasingly uncomfortable that each step took me closer to
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