Filed To Story: Wild Dark Shore Book PDF Free by Charlotte McConaghy
She says, “It’s perfect.” Then she adds, “But if you build it by the sea, that house will be underwater in no time.”
I give her a lift back to the lighthouse on the back of the quad bike because she is bleeding a lot and I’m not sure she’d make the walk. The ridiculous thing is that I do consider it first. I think of the amount of diesel it’ll take to drive the bike farther up the hill and then take it back down to the warehouse. I think of what that might mean we can’t use it for in future. That’s how obsessed I have become with the rationing. That’s how frightened I am of running out of supplies. Without a radio to the mainland for help, every single decision is weighted differently, every moment I stand on the edge of that drop, so close to falling.
We arrive at the front door. “I’ll get you some fresh bandages. You lie down.”
“I’ll take a shower first. I feel disgusting.”
“Two minutes,” I remind her.
“You’re kidding. All it does is rain in this place-there can’t be a shortage of water?”
“It’s not just the water, it’s also the power it takes to heat the water. Do you need help?”
“No.” She is taking the stairs slowly, with a short rest between each.
“I could carry you, if you-“
“I’m fine, Dom.”
“Righto, give a shout if you change your mind. I won’t peep at you or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She snorts and goes into the bathroom, closing the door.
A couple of hours later I am cleaning the windows. It’s late in the evening but the light carries on for hours yet, and this is a big job, I can’t let it get out of hand. Every bit of glass in this place gets covered in thick layers of salt. This salt gets everywhere, into everything, and cleaning it is tedious beyond belief. Along with the wind, it’s extraordinarily harsh on buildings. It works away at the windows, at their edges, and despite my almost obsessive efforts, there is always wind whistling its way through somewhere.
“Do you have a needle and thread?”
Her voice startles me and I drop my cleaning rag out the window. I watch it flutter four stories down to land in the grass. I turn my eyes to her, unnerved at how quiet she was and wondering how long she’s been standing there. “Yeah, why?”
“Am I obliged to tell you everything I’m doing?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m a prisoner, then?”
I step down off my stool. “Think of the island like a military base. Everyone and everything has to be accounted for. Or it all falls apart. Nobody’s exempt.”
She considers this. “What happens if someone steps out of line? Do you dole out the punishments, Dom? Judge, jury, and executioner?”
I level her with a look. “You’re wasting my time.”
Rowan grins. “God forbid we waste time! Some of my stitches need redoing.”
“And you were just gonna go at it yourself, were you?”
“Yes.”
It is my turn to laugh. “Go and lie down. I’ll be in to you shortly.”
The wound is on her hip, and it’s deep. It is the shape of a bite, a large flap of skin unattached to the rest of her. Dark blood is smearing from it, even still, and I wish she’d told me the stitches had busted-at this rate it’s bound to get infected and I shudder to think how much blood she’s lost.
“Do you know how to sew?” she asks me. She’s leaning up on her elbows, looking at the gash.
We’ve run out of rubbing alcohol-I’ll have to get some more from the base, but for now I dab some vodka on the wound to make sure it’s clean. “I do.”
She winces at the sting. “You ever sewn skin before?”
“Who do you think did all yours? Lie back and don’t look.” Until now there’s always been a doctor down at the base for when the kids needed stitches, and for the one time I nearly sawed off a thumb. Rowan’s wounds were my first attempt and I guess I didn’t do a very good job. It’s not like sewing fabric. Her skin is thick and almost rubbery, and I have to really force the needle through. Rowan makes a sort of growl and reaches for the alcohol.
“That’s not for drinking.”
“Fuck off, Dom,” she says, and drinks it anyway.
When I’ve finished we both look at the Frankenstein patch job.
“Fine, subtle work,” she says, and it makes me laugh.
“You’ll have a scar,” I say, as I smear petroleum jelly over the wound. There’s no avoiding it, given that butt-ugly stitchwork.
“It’s just a body,” she says, and as I dress and bandage the wound, I am all too aware of this body, and of my hands on the warm skin of her navel, her waist, her ribs. The flesh of her, the
realness of her. A powerful wanting comes over me and I could lower my mouth to this body right now, I could taste her, and then I think
don’t do this, don’t start thinking this way, she’s dangerous, and also
she’s married, for god’s sake, and then I think
I’m married, except I’m not, am I?
“You’ll need antibiotics,” I say.
“I’ve already been taking them.”
“We’ll remove the stitches when the wound’s closed. You let me know.” I head for the door, taking the medical rubbish with me.
“Thanks, Dom,” she says.
I wasn’t expecting it, or the sincerity of it, and I force myself not to look back at her.