Read Online The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) by Annelie Wendeberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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I try to convict them, they will probably win the trial. I have to find an alternative.’
I leaned back and watched the clouds crawl across the light blue sky. ‘I have no problem shooting Moran in his ugly head.’
‘Unfortunately! You might be developing an unhealthy habit.’
‘Let me take the watch for a while.’ I moved to his side. He placed the telescope in my hand and retreated into the tent. During the day, we would stay hidden. At this time of the year, only the first handfuls of tourists trickled into Littlehampton, too few to conceal our presence, but enough to possibly discover us or disturb the grave.
Night had fallen two hours ago. Moran hadn’t come. I walked along the dunes, chewing on two thick slices of bread with a piece of ham in between. The grass was soft under my bare feet. Blades tickled my ankles.
A gentle slope led me down to the deserted beach, littered with small rocks and stones polished by millennia of water licking land. The rush of the sea was like a welcome song. I should have lived close by it; it might have healed my soul. Like pulsing blood, a heartbeat, the whisper of caresses — at times gentle, other times rough as passion; the music would have filled my void.
I lifted the hem of my dress and sat down on a rock close to the water’s edge. The sea washed my feet and sand sneaked in between my toes. I closed my eyes, letting my ears take over my mind. Push and pull. Push and pull. The sea was reminiscent of Sherlock. An almost-embrace, then immediate retreat. A glance, gentle and caring, then his back turned towards me for the remainder of the day.
I pushed away from the rock, shed my clothes, and walked into the water, moonlight glittering on its black surface. Coldness stung my belly and my uterus hardened to protect the child. Seaweed curled around my wrists as though to pull me asunder. Foam danced across the gentle waves, up and down, lapping at my belly. I gulped a lungful of air and dove. With the sound of the sea in my ears and the blackness embracing me, I grew calmer.
Walking back to our hiding place, I spotted a slender silhouette next to the tent. He had his hands in his trouser pockets. I remembered the first time I’d set eyes on him. He had walked through tall grass, just as tall as it was now. The wind had bent it, just as it did now. I’d had the fleeting impression that his body was about to be bent by the wind, too.
I walked up to him, my hair dripping saltwater onto my shoulders and soaking my dress. ‘I’ll take the first watch.’
He lowered his head in agreement. ‘Moran is unable to cross the river at night. On this side, you are safe.’
I nodded. He had interpreted my shiver correctly. ‘He’ll not be able to send a wire at night, either,’ I said. ‘This isn’t London.’
Even if Moran arrived this very moment, found the grave, and interviewed the few Littlehamptoners who were still awake, and then learned we had left for London, he couldn’t do much. He would have to wait for the post office to open at eight in the morning and for the first train at nine twenty.
The wind gushed through my wet hair and I began to grow cold. He slid into the tent, retrieved a blanket, and laid it around my shoulders. My gaze was trapped by his and I didn’t know where to put my hands. My heart began to gallop and I could feel it in my throat and ears, in my legs and stomach.
‘I’m not tired yet. Let us sit here for a while,’ he said and waved at the grass to our feet. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now: how could you afford to study medicine? Your father was a carpenter. His earnings could have barely been enough to feed and clothe you.’
‘A handsome man helped the damsel in distress.’ I smirked at him and explained, ‘Carpenters in Germany and Switzerland, and I don’t know what other countries, have a funny tradition. As apprentices, they take to the roads, then find a master but do not remain
I leaned back and watched the clouds crawl across the light blue sky. ‘I have no problem shooting Moran in his ugly head.’
‘Unfortunately! You might be developing an unhealthy habit.’
‘Let me take the watch for a while.’ I moved to his side. He placed the telescope in my hand and retreated into the tent. During the day, we would stay hidden. At this time of the year, only the first handfuls of tourists trickled into Littlehampton, too few to conceal our presence, but enough to possibly discover us or disturb the grave.
Night had fallen two hours ago. Moran hadn’t come. I walked along the dunes, chewing on two thick slices of bread with a piece of ham in between. The grass was soft under my bare feet. Blades tickled my ankles.
A gentle slope led me down to the deserted beach, littered with small rocks and stones polished by millennia of water licking land. The rush of the sea was like a welcome song. I should have lived close by it; it might have healed my soul. Like pulsing blood, a heartbeat, the whisper of caresses — at times gentle, other times rough as passion; the music would have filled my void.
I lifted the hem of my dress and sat down on a rock close to the water’s edge. The sea washed my feet and sand sneaked in between my toes. I closed my eyes, letting my ears take over my mind. Push and pull. Push and pull. The sea was reminiscent of Sherlock. An almost-embrace, then immediate retreat. A glance, gentle and caring, then his back turned towards me for the remainder of the day.
I pushed away from the rock, shed my clothes, and walked into the water, moonlight glittering on its black surface. Coldness stung my belly and my uterus hardened to protect the child. Seaweed curled around my wrists as though to pull me asunder. Foam danced across the gentle waves, up and down, lapping at my belly. I gulped a lungful of air and dove. With the sound of the sea in my ears and the blackness embracing me, I grew calmer.
Walking back to our hiding place, I spotted a slender silhouette next to the tent. He had his hands in his trouser pockets. I remembered the first time I’d set eyes on him. He had walked through tall grass, just as tall as it was now. The wind had bent it, just as it did now. I’d had the fleeting impression that his body was about to be bent by the wind, too.
I walked up to him, my hair dripping saltwater onto my shoulders and soaking my dress. ‘I’ll take the first watch.’
He lowered his head in agreement. ‘Moran is unable to cross the river at night. On this side, you are safe.’
I nodded. He had interpreted my shiver correctly. ‘He’ll not be able to send a wire at night, either,’ I said. ‘This isn’t London.’
Even if Moran arrived this very moment, found the grave, and interviewed the few Littlehamptoners who were still awake, and then learned we had left for London, he couldn’t do much. He would have to wait for the post office to open at eight in the morning and for the first train at nine twenty.
The wind gushed through my wet hair and I began to grow cold. He slid into the tent, retrieved a blanket, and laid it around my shoulders. My gaze was trapped by his and I didn’t know where to put my hands. My heart began to gallop and I could feel it in my throat and ears, in my legs and stomach.
‘I’m not tired yet. Let us sit here for a while,’ he said and waved at the grass to our feet. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now: how could you afford to study medicine? Your father was a carpenter. His earnings could have barely been enough to feed and clothe you.’
‘A handsome man helped the damsel in distress.’ I smirked at him and explained, ‘Carpenters in Germany and Switzerland, and I don’t know what other countries, have a funny tradition. As apprentices, they take to the roads, then find a master but do not remain
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