He didn’t know what the sound was, jolting into the
fuzzy warmth around his head. Was it the television, suddenly loud, or street
noise in a public place?
Gradually, his surroundings began to make sense; the curve
of the coffee table leg, numbers on the clock, a patch of green rug. And then
he became aware of the presence that made everything right; his Lucy. She was
twisting about on the sofa, doing yoga or something.
“I can’t br-eathe.” The wobble in her voice brought him back
to reality. Lucy didn’t do panic, so something must be wrong. With muscles that
didn’t work these days, and a blob in place of his brain, Jack couldn’t think.
He just needed to drift off and never come back unless it was to normality
again.
“Wake up! I’ve got to―” Lucy sucked her lips in, with a
strange high whine, “get to the hospital.”
“You’ll be fine.” Jack shook off the sleepy blur. Why was
this happening, just when he’d just managed to sink into oblivion? Nighttimes, when he was too wired, physically beyond rest and mentally grappling with the
irritations of the day, the mantra repeated in his head.
“You’ve been through so much, Jack. You must get plenty of
rest.” Actually they’d said it to Lucy, but in the warm aura of the overhead
light he’d grasped at the lifeline. Sleep had become his Number One Fantasy,
better than eating or even sex. Desire crept over him now, the softness of his
senses yielding, giving his whole being what it needed. He wanted to stay there,
saturated and undisturbed with colours from the flatscreen
flickering through his lids.
When he opened them, Lucy was crumpled in front of the
fireplace. Jack’s eyes blurred as he tried to rouse her. They had no curtains
in here yet, and a blind sky pressed against the window. Outside was a black
hole on winter evenings by four o’clock in the countryside. That was one
problem. A tell-tale stirring from an upstairs room was another. And then there
was The Road.
At the July viewing of the Charming, Secluded, Late-Nineteenth-Century Detached Farmhouse, with
original features, set in the vibrant landscape of North Norfolk, the agent
had promised the rough track would be sorted and surfaced by the time their
contract went through. A housing development was planned a couple of kilometres
away, Ms Lane said, and Lane and Smith were handling the sale of the
properties. Those homes would also need vehicle access. So no probs.
In the January gloom, Jack held Lucy’s cold hand and tried
to get a mobile signal.
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