Read Online The Smoke Jumper by Nicholas Evans - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nicholas Evans
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so tired. I’ll leave you guys to it.’
She kissed Ed on the top of his head. He said he wouldn’t be long.
‘Goodnight, Connor.’
‘’Night, Julia.’
She brushed her teeth in the black bathroom, which Ed called ‘the suicide cell,’ then went to their bedroom and undressed. Connor had given them the bigger room and thoughtfully pushed the two single beds together. There was a wooden rocking chair, a bedside table and a lamp with a frayed purple shade and in the corner stood a big old closet with one handle missing. There were dust-rimmed rectangles on the walls where pictures or posters used to be. Bugs were clattering against the screen of the open window and a few of the more enterprising had found a small tear in one corner and were doing demented loop-the-loops above the lamp.
She got into bed and opened her book. She was reading Anna Karenina for the third time and was more moved by it than ever. But now she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over again and soon she gave up and switched off the light. She could hear the rustle of the river outside and the muted voices of the men in the next room and although she knew it was warm, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders against the chill she still felt within her since seeing Connor’s photograph. She couldn’t get the image out of her head. Ed had called it ‘one hell of a picture’ without realizing that was literally what it was. But Connor had understood.
She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew, Ed was lying naked behind her, kissing the back of her neck. He wanted to make love and when she murmured that she was too tired he acted all hurt, saying it was going to be days, maybe even weeks, before they might see each other again. So she turned and let him stroke her and soon the image that had so troubled her melted and was gone. But in the soft collusion of their limbs there was that night, for the first time, a trace of sadness.
5
T he eagle rose in languid circles on the thermal, its shadow sliding across the canyon wall that glowed like baked ochre in the afternoon sun. In places the rock face was stained darker with patches of rust where winter water had run and parched tufts of scrub sprouted from its cracks and ledges like hair from an old man’s ears. Slowly now, as the sun lowered itself behind the canyon’s other wall, this tableau of color was being swallowed in a rising tide of shadow. Every so often the eagle called and the sound wafted away down the canyon in an echoing lament.
What, if anything, the bird made of the straggled band of beings many hundred feet below was impossible to tell, but the woe of its cry was never more apt. They came trudging along a trail that wound beside the bed of a dried-up creek. Their heads were bowed, their shoulders slumped, their faces caked with dirt and sweat. The trail was steep and their progress painful and slow and the dust they kicked rose in clouds around their knees. They were like pilgrims who had lost both their way and their faith or forlorn refugees from some distant atrocity, stripped of all but grief and self-pity. Which was what, in varying degrees, all but four of them were.
They were passing through a tangle of dead pines that had been ripped from their roots by the torrent of snowmelt that had raged down the canyon in early spring. And here they halted while one of their number stumbled away from the trail and hid herself behind a clump of willow scrub.
‘Let’s hear the call, Skye!’
There was a pause. The eagle called instead. One of the boys sniggered.
‘Come on, Skye. You’ve gotta call your number!’
Behind the screen of scrub, Skye McReedie, half-breed, cop killer and all-around no-hoper, squatted with her teeth clenched and her pants hitched around her knees, peeing into the dust. She was damned if she’d play their dumbass kids’ games.
‘Skye, if you don’t call it, we’ll have to come looking.’
Skye closed her eyes to
She kissed Ed on the top of his head. He said he wouldn’t be long.
‘Goodnight, Connor.’
‘’Night, Julia.’
She brushed her teeth in the black bathroom, which Ed called ‘the suicide cell,’ then went to their bedroom and undressed. Connor had given them the bigger room and thoughtfully pushed the two single beds together. There was a wooden rocking chair, a bedside table and a lamp with a frayed purple shade and in the corner stood a big old closet with one handle missing. There were dust-rimmed rectangles on the walls where pictures or posters used to be. Bugs were clattering against the screen of the open window and a few of the more enterprising had found a small tear in one corner and were doing demented loop-the-loops above the lamp.
She got into bed and opened her book. She was reading Anna Karenina for the third time and was more moved by it than ever. But now she found herself reading the same paragraph over and over again and soon she gave up and switched off the light. She could hear the rustle of the river outside and the muted voices of the men in the next room and although she knew it was warm, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders against the chill she still felt within her since seeing Connor’s photograph. She couldn’t get the image out of her head. Ed had called it ‘one hell of a picture’ without realizing that was literally what it was. But Connor had understood.
She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew, Ed was lying naked behind her, kissing the back of her neck. He wanted to make love and when she murmured that she was too tired he acted all hurt, saying it was going to be days, maybe even weeks, before they might see each other again. So she turned and let him stroke her and soon the image that had so troubled her melted and was gone. But in the soft collusion of their limbs there was that night, for the first time, a trace of sadness.
5
T he eagle rose in languid circles on the thermal, its shadow sliding across the canyon wall that glowed like baked ochre in the afternoon sun. In places the rock face was stained darker with patches of rust where winter water had run and parched tufts of scrub sprouted from its cracks and ledges like hair from an old man’s ears. Slowly now, as the sun lowered itself behind the canyon’s other wall, this tableau of color was being swallowed in a rising tide of shadow. Every so often the eagle called and the sound wafted away down the canyon in an echoing lament.
What, if anything, the bird made of the straggled band of beings many hundred feet below was impossible to tell, but the woe of its cry was never more apt. They came trudging along a trail that wound beside the bed of a dried-up creek. Their heads were bowed, their shoulders slumped, their faces caked with dirt and sweat. The trail was steep and their progress painful and slow and the dust they kicked rose in clouds around their knees. They were like pilgrims who had lost both their way and their faith or forlorn refugees from some distant atrocity, stripped of all but grief and self-pity. Which was what, in varying degrees, all but four of them were.
They were passing through a tangle of dead pines that had been ripped from their roots by the torrent of snowmelt that had raged down the canyon in early spring. And here they halted while one of their number stumbled away from the trail and hid herself behind a clump of willow scrub.
‘Let’s hear the call, Skye!’
There was a pause. The eagle called instead. One of the boys sniggered.
‘Come on, Skye. You’ve gotta call your number!’
Behind the screen of scrub, Skye McReedie, half-breed, cop killer and all-around no-hoper, squatted with her teeth clenched and her pants hitched around her knees, peeing into the dust. She was damned if she’d play their dumbass kids’ games.
‘Skye, if you don’t call it, we’ll have to come looking.’
Skye closed her eyes to
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