Chapters (50)
Up at the house, Nefyn scraped the ashes from the fireplace. He’d need to be kept warm. She bundled the kindling into the grate, pushed it back. The wind was coming from the sea today, drawing the chimney. She had watched him sleep last night. Almost newborn. The swelling in his eye had eased, allowing her to see the symmetry of his face for the first time. Dark eyes, angled cheekbones. Middle-aged. His skin peeling slightly from having been in the water. Clearing Joseph’s room, she had placed more clean clothes out for him. Cooked some broth her mother used to make. There was an urgency in her preparations. He would be safer here. She looked across to the window. It would be getting dark soon. He was so unsure on his feet still that moving him in the complete darkness would be dangerous. She had not given him another tablet today, so he would be in more pain, but that would be preferable to him being unable to navigate the treacherous path from the cove to the cottage. She must go down.
She found him asleep, his head resting against the open boatshed door, his face serene. She stood, looking at him for a moment, before kneeling. Touching his arm gently.
‘Wake up, come … come with me.’
His confused eyes took her in warily but his weakness made him compliant. He pulled himself up on the doorframe, leant on to her thin shoulders. Nefyn felt his weight skew her centre of gravity. They walked slowly towards the foot of the path. When it came into view, he shook his head.
‘No … no. It’s impossible. Please.’
She looked up at him through the half-light.
‘No, it isn’t, nothing is impossible.’
He looked at her, the pain gnawing at his insides, but there was something in the steadiness of her face that made him trust her.
‘Come on.’ She pulled at him and they started their slow and painful ascent.
They had barely reached the cottage when the team of searchers rounded Porth y Wrach in their dinghy. They came ashore determined to comb the beach and cove one more time before the light died. They walked in a perfect line across the shingle. One officer came to the boathouse, pulled at the door and looked in, but it was dark. Nothing but an old boat. The smell of oil. Dampness. The others shouted at him. They were finished for the night. He turned, walked towards them, not seeing Hamza’s old clothes strewn across the boatshed floor.