Page 26 of Deep Blue Lies
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you. If you were writing?”
“Well, yes,” he replies at once. “Yes, I was, and you arerather…” He looks out past me, a vexed expression on his face. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Ava,” I swallow. “Ava Whitaker.”
At this he seems to freeze. Behind the lens of his glasses his eyes blink several times. Then one of the eyes twitches, pulling his whole face into a strange spasm.
“Whitaker?”
“Yes.”
He blinks again, then breaks into a nervous-looking smile.
“I’m sorry, that means nothing to me. Good day to you.”
He goes to shut the door on me, but there’s something about his manner that made me expect this, and I throw myself forward, my hand stopping him from doing so.
“Wait! Please.”
He stops again, eyeing me now with clear anxiety. I’m not sure why, and I have no idea what to say next.
“Please help me, I have no one else to ask.” I give him my best pleading look, trying to make myself seem as vulnerable and appealing as possible. “Please could you just take a look at this photograph? See if she looks familiar?”
He seems to take an age considering. Then behind me I hear a juddering noise. I don’t even really notice it at first, but I see his eyes focus on something behind me. It’s the tractor, the one I overtook on the way up. It’s finally got here, and now it seems to be stopping. The driver kills the engine and the noise stops. There’s a fence opposite Duncan’s house, and the driver ambles over to it, yanking at the wooden structure and finding a bit that’s broken. Then he whistles as he goes back to the tractor for some tools. As he does he seems to notice me – or maybe Duncan – it’s hard to see, but he raises a hand in greeting either way. I turn back to the writer,
“Please Mr Duncan?”
Slowly his eyes come back to me and my hand, still preventing him from closing the door. There’s a look on his face that’s odd, he looks scared.
“I’ll look. But not here. It’s better if we go inside. Quickly.”
Without waiting for an answer he pulls the door open and stands back so that I can walk past him. The change is startling, and there’s a moment when I consider whether this might be a bad idea. But I can’t exactly say no now. I take a deep breath.
“Thank you,” I say, and step inside.
SEVENTEEN
I try to look around, but the place is pretty dark.
“Would you like a drink? Some tap water perhaps?”
I don’t, but I say yes anyway and follow Duncan into his kitchen. It’s quite small, and he obviously hasn’t cleaned up from breakfast, nor last night’s dinner. This seems to embarrass him, and he tidies away a half empty bottle of wine, a plate that goes into the sink. This seems to give him second thoughts about the tap water and he goes to the fridge instead. His hand hesitates by a bottle of Diet Coke, but it’s mineral water he takes out.
“The water here’s fine to drink,” – he gives a nervous laugh – “but it comes out warm, so I fill this from the tap.”
“That’s fine, thank you,” I say, as he looks for a clean glass. As he pours I look around some more. There’s an open door leading off to some sort of study where I can see his computer screen, sat on a wooden desk. I can see the cursor blinking at the bottom of a page of text. I guess I really did interrupt his writing. On the walls are framed pictures of what I suppose are the covers of his books. And pencil sketches too. Views of the island maybe – landscapes anyway, and a pencil sketch of a girl, just inside the door. They’re all quite good, the portrait especially, but maybe notquitegood enough to justify hanging on the wall?
“The problem is island infrastructure is very poor,” he goes on, not making eye contact with me. “And with the heat…unbearable. Especially in the summer. It’s essential to keep hydrated.” I realise he’s still talking about the water, so I take a sip. I feel a strange need to put him at ease, not for my sake exactly but…I notice on the table there are five pencils, a sharpener and a pile of shavings. He’s made them all the exact same length.
He laughs again, the same anxious sound.
“I apologise if I seemed rude – or awkward – outside.” He speaks cautiously, one hand fiddling with the button on his shirt. “I was…writing, you see. When you knocked? It can be challenging to be pulled so suddenly out of one world and into another. So to speak.”
“Sure. Of course. I’m really sorry to disturb you.” I’m kind of regretting coming in here, and it feels rude not to ask, so I do. “What were you writing?
For a moment he looks at me like this might be a trick question, and then he gives his laugh again.
“Haha!” He tries a smile, but one side of his face doesn’t move. “I was…” – his tongue comes out of his mouth and licks all the way around his lips – “defusing a bomb in a bank vault in Geneva. Well,Iwasn’t,” he clarifies, relaxing a little now. “Myprotagonistwas. We were literally seconds away from it detonating, when you appeared. Perhaps if I look a little startled, that will explain it?”
