Winterton Blue Read Online Free Page A

like a trap-door closing, Let’s get that sling sorted.
    Her mother pulls it from her neck and throws it on the window-seat.
    Here you are, she says, opening her hand, Look. I’ve even found you a key!

THREE
    In the toilets at Victoria coach station, Lewis bends over the sink, scoops up the sudden burst of water from the tap, and splashes it over his face and his head. Under the bored eye of the attendant, he dries himself at the hot-air blower, repeatedly hitting the button with the flat of his hand. He dozed off for the last part of the journey into London, only waking when the coach began its stop-start passage through the capital. He looks into the square of reflective metal that passes for a mirror, marvelling at how he could sleep. It’s what the headaches do to him: first, there’s the black pain clouding his vision like ink in water; afterwards, a dreamless sleep. On waking, the pain is gone, and time is gone, and whatever has triggered the headache in the first place has also gone, receding so far back into his consciousness, it too becomes dreamlike. Lewis always emerges from these episodes in a state of near-euphoria, as if he’s been given a second chance at life. That’s how he bears it. But seeing himself now, he doesn’t look reborn: his face is haggard under the blue fluorescent strip, completely drained of colour. His teeth when he bares them are luminous, as is the scar running in a straight line below his lip. He traces a finger along it, considering his next move: before he can find work, he’ll need to find a place to stay.
    Lewis goes straight across the road and into the first café he sees. He orders tea, and because everyone else is eating, a bacon sandwich. He sits at the window, gazing out at the traffic and the choked diesel air inside the entrance to the station. His kitbag is on the floor between his feet. To calm himself, he does a mental inventory of all his possessions. In his bag, neatly folded, are one zip-up fleece, one pair of jeans, three white shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of underpants. On top of these, there’s a washbag with a toothbrush, razor, the half-full dispenser of hand-wash he took from Manny’s kitchen—he liked the smell good enough—and a deodorant stick. He’s out of toothpaste; he didn’t think much of Manny’s brand, or the way the tube had been squeezed and bent out of shape. In one side pocket of the bag is his Swiss army knife and a book of poems that he’s had from way back—since he was at school. Lewis doesn’t often look at it, but knowing it’s there is enough. In the other side pocket are a rolled-over packet of dried beans and a black felt pouch with a silver chain inside it: not just any old chain; it belonged to his brother, and now it belongs to him. His tobacco and lighter and wallet are in his jacket pockets. He goes through the inventory one more time, listing under his breath and very quickly: fleece jeans shirts socks pants washbag book of poems knife beans pouch—and chain. That’s it, perfect. He feels the wash of relief sparkling through his blood. He’s sufficiently calm, now, to eat the sandwich. Lewis resists the urge to lift the top slice and inspect the meat. Closing his eyes, he finishes it in two bites.

    Anna’s room for the night is at the top of the house; a space tiny enough for only the barest of furnishings: a single bed, a wardrobe, a tray with tea things on it, a bedside table. On the wall are two pictures, generic guest-house scenes: a pair of fluffy kittens in a basket, and a painting of a country lane and a river. The ceiling slopes down to the window, hiddenby thick beige curtains. Anna pulls them back to reveal the view, and feels the wind butting at the glass. On the beach below, it chases the sand into a blur, pushes the clouds across the sky like bolts of smoke. She likes this space, this vantage point, even though the room is