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The air today is cold and blowing in hard, bringing with it a veil of icy droplets from the surface of the sea. But the man is wearing only a shirt and jeans. No jacket. No bag. No hat or scarf.
The poodle is her parents’. She is eighteen years old and should be dead by rights.
“Come on, you shitbags!” She strides across the beach and makes a grab for Griff. Griff thinks a game has been suggested and darts playfully away. She goes after Hero, who runs away from her. Meanwhile poor Sadie is being dragged about by her scrawny neck, barely able to stand upright,
“Fine,” she says, “fine. You stay here. See how you get on without me. Go and beg for scraps outside the fucking butcher’s. Have a good life.” The dogs stop and look at her. She turns and walks away. “Do you want some dogs?” she calls to the man, who is still sitting in the rain. “Seriously? Do you want them? You can have them.”
“You gave him a jacket. You’re already getting involved.” “That was just an act of simple human kindness.” “Yes,” says Derry. “Exactly.”
“I don’t know what his name is. And he doesn’t know what his name is. He’s lost his memory.”
reminds me of that vid that goes “what is ur name” and the guy goes “Yu” and the guy who asked the question goes “NO NOT ME WHO ARE YU.” And Yu goes “YES IM YU” and the guy goes “NO WHAT IS YOUR NAME.” And YU goes “I IM YUU” and then other guys comes out and he asks “what’s ur name?” The guy says “IM MI” and the guys “YES YOU WHATS UR NAME” and the goes “IM MII” ah that’s funny
As if she’s starting to wonder why he’s in her house. After all, he could be anyone.
“Fried?” she says. “Scrambled?” “I have no idea,” he says. “You decide.”
But now Kirsty was fifteen, Gray was seventeen, and Rabbit Cottage was virtually the last place on earth either of them wanted to be.
She was almost as tall as him now, his sister, all legs and hair, not quite grown into herself but almost there. The resemblance between them was startling enough, he hoped, for it to be obvious that the gawky, scruffy girl in a damp waterproof jacket, patterned nylon sweater, and faded baggy jeans walking alongside him was not romantically connected to him in any way. She was a slow developer. She’d worn her hair in a plait down her back until only recently and still didn’t wear makeup. But she was suddenly quite desirable—he could see that—raw and new like a half-blossomed flower,
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Her face, devoid of makeup, natural, unlike so many girls his age. No earrings.
She’d seen something entirely different pass over him then. A wash of fear and anger, gone before she’d had a chance to analyze it, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined it.
Alice doesn’t argue. The basis of her friendship with Derry is that Derry is always right.
She scouts for a note of some kind, but there’s nothing. Sadness plummets through her; she feels heavy-limbed with disappointment. And then she feels concern, a burn of anxiety and fear. She thinks of his hazel eyes, his woolly schoolboy hair, his utter vulnerability. She cannot imagine him out there alone. She really cannot.
A barley-twist pole, a pastel-colored horse, a girl with brown hair; she goes up, she goes down, she’s smiling and waving and then she’s gone.
As children they’d spent their days down there, picking their way across the slimy rocks in plastic boots and sou’westers. But now that they were older they preferred to take towels and sun cream, a windbreak, and folding chairs and walk a quarter of a mile across town to the wider sandy beach below the high street.
There is no mention of the empty apartment with the flickering light.