Chapters (40)
- Cover
- About the Author
- PENGUIN BOOKS
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- THE BEGINNING
He raised his glass to her. ‘Cheers.’
‘I’ve always loved storms.’
‘Me too. Storms, wind, snow … I couldn’t live in a place there wasn’t weather. Rolling skies.’
‘There’s weather in Ireland, anyway.’
‘I remember once when I was just a kid, thirteen or so, there was this freak gale where we lived – a bit like the gale you had in ’eighty-seven, except this was only in one small area. My parents were out for the evening and it was just me and my little sister. It was wild.’ Irene listened, amazed: he hadn’t said more than a sentence or two since she’d met him. Here were full paragraphs, without even being prompted. ‘There was this horizontal rain hitting the windows,’ he continued. ‘Like there was an army shooting at us from the garden, and lightning so bright it lit up the whole sky. Our cherry tree was ripped up by the roots and the roof of the garden shed Dad had spent months building blew off and at one point our garden bench flew past the window. Just flew by like a bird or something. You could actually see the shape of the storm swirling around on the lawn.’
‘Were you scared?’
‘Terrified. But I loved it. My sister didn’t.’
‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
‘Why would you?’
The old curt tone was back. Irene winced.
‘Sorry,’ he said after a pause. ‘That sounded rude.’ He paused again. ‘She died, actually.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Years and years ago now. A car ran her over. She was ten.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘Really sorry.’ She was about to ask him, stupidly, if he missed her a lot but stopped herself. You say things when you’re ready.
‘Katherine.’
‘What?’
‘She was called Katherine.’
‘Is that why –?’
‘I guess so.’
They drank their whisky. The rain was gradually easing. It was no longer just a roar of falling water in their ears, but a rapid staccato beat.
‘Time to get dry,’ said Luke.
‘I guess.’
But she didn’t follow him down at once. She stood for a few more seconds in the rain, the inky water roiling underneath her and the dark sky teeming above, and thought about the dead sister, and about Juliet, and about all the people who go too early into the plunging night.
