Endless Blue Seas Read online

  “I must want to chuck my money into a pit?”

  “Pretty much. I would’ve thought it needs knocking down and something else building instead.” Which would be pretty sensible.

  Gabe’s smile this time wasn’t shy or nervous or embarrassed. His eyes were filled with hope, a flicker of excitement. “That’s kind of the plan. I just need to decide on my final design.”

  “You managed to get an architect out here?”

  The only new buildings in the area were generally estates, none of them especially nice and thankfully few and far between. There were one or two very distinct buildings that had been remodelled over the years, floor to ceiling glass windows that gave the perfect sea view, but a total rebuild would be expensive and unusual.

  There was another smile, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I am – was – an architect. I just need to decide exactly what I want.”

  Okay. That I hadn’t expected. He was an architect chopping word for my Nan and helping out on the boats.

  Any response I was going to give was hindered by a loud shout and a change in the air.

  “I thought you were coming to see me?” Catrin thundered towards the beach, looking every inch a fairy in her tiny cropped T-shirt and shorts that were short enough to not really be shorts. More like oversized knickers.

  “I was. I… we… got talking.”

  “Hey, Gabe. How’s it going?” She stood on tiptoes because she hadn’t grown since we were twelve and kissed Gabe on his beard.

  “Good. Just finishing for the morning.” He showed no sign of being perturbed by her full-on behaviour, but then, if he was an architect he would be used to a different world than here, one more like the world where I lived.

  “Come hang with us. We’re heading out to Lligwy to sunbathe and catch up.”

  I snapped my head round to stare at her. “We are? When did I agree to this?”

  “You agreed to it when you didn’t come home for five months.”

  I smiled and shook my head. I had no issue with that sort of day. Already it was warm for June and the island had its own microclimate, meaning that if the weather on the mainland was rainy, it could be completely different here.

  “You’re more than welcome to join us?” Catrin was back to giving Gabe the interrogational stare.

  He needed to have a good excuse. I hoped he had an amazing one, because I wasn’t sure I could cope with spending any longer with him.

  I felt guilty.

  One of my pupils had died, as had his mother and baby sister, and I was here in the sunshine and feeling interested in a situation that wasn’t me trying to give my all to my class.

  “I need to go home and catch up on some sleep. I was up all night.” He looked at me as he explained, and I saw paint on his arms, fine splatters of it caught in the fair hair that was there.

  “You’re renovating at night?” I frowned, my eyes stuck on the different colours. If he was, why? The house might be pulled down and why the rainbow?

  Gabe slowly shook his head. “Painting pictures.”

  “Oh.” Now it made sense. “You were up all night painting?” I’d seen him taking photos on the beach, maybe they were used to help him with inspiration. As someone who dreaded teaching art lessons, I couldn’t begin to comprehend the process.

  “I was. I use the barn next to the house: I have lighting set up in there. And a sound system.”

  Realisation dawned. “That’s where you’re sleeping?”

  He laughed, sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. A grown man sleeping in a barn.”

  Catrin shrugged. “I’ve slept in worse places. But there’s no way you can do that when the autumn storms start. You need a plan.”

  She had that look on her face that suggested she had gone into plan and fix mode, and it wasn’t one I thought Gabe needed to experience right now. “Let the man get some rest and we can hit the beach. No doubt we’ll see you later”. My eyes didn’t leave his face even though I was speaking to Catrin.

  He gave a short nod. “Sure. There’s a beach party tomorrow, I think? I’ve been told I have to go to it.”

  “Who by? Because they’re right. You’ve been far too much of a recluse.” Catrin was nothing if not unfiltered.

  In fact, this was pretty good for her.

  “Shep. And a couple of others. But I’m not making enough of being here. I mean…. I’ve been here four months and…”. He stopped and laughed. “I sound like I’m talking complete shit. I’ll let you ladies get on with your day.” He picked up one of the containers of fish, biceps flexing.

  I tried not to look, because I knew that Catrin would notice and we’d be having words later, but it was too difficult.

  At least I felt alive for the first time in months. That was a gift.

  Gabe

  She was pretty. I don’t think I’d used that adjective since I was about twelve, but it summed her up well. Half-a-foot smaller than me with dark brown hair, brown eyes and freckles, she looked delicate and dainty, which made her sound like my great-aunt’s china tea set that I’d once smashed by accident.

  I didn’t think I’d be able to smash her though. She was unsure and I sensed the same apprehension that I’d felt myself, but I also sensed her strength and maybe that was what made me afraid. And curious.

  The barn doors were wide open, just as I’d left them when I’d headed out into the before-dawn morning. I’d gone without sleep for longer, three, four days after I’d been discharged from the hospital after more surgeries than I cared to think about, but right now I was exhausted and I wanted to sleep. And to think about Anya.

  The large canvas practically called my name. My usual lines weren’t needed for this, its style completely different than normal. The hues of the sunset covered the white, darker shades to the top and sides, almost a vignette. What the painting needed was her essence.

  What I needed before I went anywhere near it was sleep.

  I yanked off my jeans and threw them into a pile of washing that was growing quicker than a nettle patch. At some point soon I had to start to get my life together: Catrin had been right; I couldn’t live through winter here in the barn. Part of the house was liveable; the kitchen, bathroom, one reception room, one bedroom. The rest needed to come down. The part I could keep was the old part, the original farmhouse and the part of the building that had soul.

  The ladder up to the mezzanine area of the barn where I slept was rickety and unstable. I’d never brought a woman back here. I’d fucked a few since moving here: women on weekends away, staying in lodges and posh caravans, looking for a screw to pass the time and make them feel good.

  Did I feel used or a user? Something told me I probably should feel one, at least, although when I’d lived in London I’d acted in the same way. All the women loved an architect in a suit. My behaviour had been no different, although I had felt more in control back then. Of a lot of things.

  The mattress took up most of the mezzanine. It was thick and comfortable, orthopaedic to support the bones of my body that were probably still healing. The sheets were pretty clean – I had a thing for clean sheets – and I felt safe up here, away from traffic.

  I closed my eyes, usually hating to sleep during the day, but my body clock was fucked and I knew that if I didn’t catch up I’d be a mess for a few days.

  I was just about losing consciousness when a vibration nudged me back into reality. My phone was down to about six percent battery and usually I’d ignore the call but it was my sister’s name on the screen. I liked my family. They were good people and they’d been through a lot because of me. I especially liked my sister and her rugrats, so I was answering.

  “Janie.” My voice sounded sleep-ridden already.

  “You sound tired.” She was ever the observer.

  “I am. I was up painting all night and then went out with the boats. How’s things?” It would sometimes have been easier to lie to my family, for them and for me, to tell them that everything was fine when it wasn’t,
or make something up about what I’d been doing so they didn’t believe I’d become a recluse. But I didn’t want to lead them on and give them false hope.

  “That sounds good. The painting. What of? I saw the scenes of the beach you did. They’re phenomenal – you really need to consider an exhibition.”

  Janie didn’t say where, although I knew she was referring to Bristol, where we were from and where she and my parents still lived.

  “The island has a huge art scene. I’m going to show a few in the next one here. Bangor’s the same. And there’s been a lot of interest off my website.” I pulled the duvet over me. The day was going to be a warm one, perfect for Anya and Catrin to sunbathe, but the barn was cool and shaded right now.

  “We’ll come see when you do. In fact, book me in somewhere. I guess things will get booked up quickly there over the school holidays.” She sounded tired.

  “How are Jayden and Lucas?” I missed my nephews. Janie would too if she was away from them for more than a few hours and it was one thing I felt a bastard for, leaving her without any support. Our parents were good, and her husband was too when he was around, but he was in the army and away for months at a time, so she was pretty much a single parent.

  “Boisterous. Active. Missing their uncle. Not that I’m trying to guilt trip you, mainly because I know it won’t work. We are going to spend some time there when school breaks up. I need a break and the idea of them having a big long peaceful beach to run wild on sounds amazing.” There was a sigh at the end of her sentence. One of hope. “Tell me about this new painting and send me photos after. What’s it of?”

  I wondered what to filter out. If I described how Anya had looked last night, Janie would become excited with the idea that I was moving on and the picture wasn’t like that. It was Anya’s vibrancy that I’d wanted to capture, the energy she radiated. But I couldn’t give her that detail, it was too much to say out loud and those words would only give false hope anyway.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d be ready for.

  “The sea at sunset. There was a woman walking along the beach and the colours were perfect.” It was a brief but truthful explanation.

  “You’re using colour?”

  It didn’t help that my sister was a child psychologist.

  “I have been for a few weeks.” And I knew exactly what she’d read into that. She’d see it as me improving, that there was more colour in my life and not just the monotones that I’d put into my art for the last eighteen months.

  “That’s good. Any decisions on what to do with that monstrosity you’ve bought? Once it’s done, I can drop Satan’s spawn off for school holidays.”

  It was at this point, any thoughts to speed up the renovations or rebuilding of the house were put on hold. I adored my nephews. In short doses. And not without another adult to help referee.

  “Not yet. I might start playing around with plans soon.”

  “If it helps, I wouldn’t abandon you with them totally.” I heard a long sigh. “I don’t know if Liam’s going to leave when he said he would.”

  I knew there had been another reason for her call. This didn’t surprise me. Liam was a career military man and had been since before he’d met my sister. She could’ve travelled with him, but she’d had her own career and they’d made it work for over a decade and two kids. Clearly now was a sticky patch.

  “Janie, you know him. He will finish at some point, but it has to be when he’s ready.”

  There was silence then another sigh. “I know, Gabe. But the boys are such a handful and I really could do with some support. He says all the right things when I speak to him, and when he FaceTimes them, but it isn’t enough right now.”

  “I’ll book you in at the guesthouse. Maybe for two or three weeks. The kids will love it here and I can take them off your hands during the day.” I fought a yawn.

  “That’d be good. I’ll let you sleep. I have a client in five. Talk to you later.”

  I hadn’t helped her or been overly sympathetic which was what my sister often wanted. This was a reoccurring issue between them. Then Liam would take extended leave and all would be well.

  I lay back in bed, switching my phone off because there was no need to speak to anyone else – there wasn’t really anyone else to speak to. The period between getting out of hospital and then the rehabilitation unit had been the time when people had dropped away, unable to cope with what had happened and not knowing what to say. And if they hadn’t dropped away, I’d pushed them.

  My eyes closed and my thoughts drifted away from my sister and the people I’d left behind. Instead, my mind flicked to the woman on the beach, Anya, with her dark hair and freckles and the smile that had been as nervous as mine. Her top had been tight enough to make out what secrets were underneath and her shorts had exposed long legs.

  My dick grew hard. It had a been a few weeks since I’d had any relief and although I’d not gone without fucking, it had been a long time since I’d felt the urge to do it myself. There hadn’t been anyone that I’d fallen asleep thinking about, no one but a situation had caused me to get hard.

  I wrapped my hand around my cock and thought about her tits, how she hadn’t seen me looking. I thought about it being her mouth wrapped around my dick as I held her hair tight, her brown eyes looking up at me. The range of fantasies I went through as I jacked off was wide and broad and dirty. The accident, even though it was never an accident, had changed me. The guy who liked things fairly straightforward had morphed into someone who knew what it was like to die and now sought the extremes.

  Whether Anya would be interested in a hard and dirty fuck I didn’t know. Maybe not. I didn’t even care. She wasn’t here, so the only people involved were my hand and my imagination.

  I woke to silence.

  The sound of metal crunching. Tyres screeching along asphalt. A scream, maybe from me, maybe from my passenger.

  The last noise he ever made.

  In a head on-collision, passengers rarely survive. You have more chance of living if you are the driver. The steering block protects you, you protect yourself as something in your brain tells you what is approaching and you can brace.

  This time, the car also contained my nephews. They were chattering before the impact happened, arguing over what to play. And then the slam came and what I dreamed was not a dream, but reality, my brain yet again trying to process what had occurred, not knowing what to do with the memories.

  The crash was not my fault. It wasn’t me driving drunk down a road the wrong way. It wasn’t me who was speeding. It wasn’t me who had a blood alcohol level of something so fucking stupid they shouldn’t have found a fucking brain in there when they did the post-mortem examination.

  But it was me who survived.

  The only survivor.

  I’d never believed in survivor’s guilt before, but I could now testify that it was a real thing. My best mate, Ryan, had been in the car next to me as we drove home from an awards dinner. Our trophies were in the back. We’d gone through seven years of university together, both training to be architects. He had just dated the same girl on three consecutive nights; I’d shagged her sister but he didn’t know that because he probably would’ve killed me. He never found out though because by the time the car had stopped spinning he was dead.

  And every time I was tired to the point of unconsciousness I dreamed about it. My brain taking advantage of exhaustion to push forward the things I needed to deal with but couldn’t.

  I pushed back the sheets. I was sweating, a light coating across my skin. The air in the barn was still cool, the light from outside shooting in through gaps between the boards in the doors. Turning over, I moved onto my stomach and breathed into my pillow, only smelling the stuff I used on my own hair and not that of a woman.

  My breathing was still laboured and disorientation lingered. Janie had been on at me to see a therapist, so I’d found a place that didn’t have one. And I didn’t drive, unless it was a boat, so there was
no chance of me finding one to talk through what had happened.

  I got out of bed and pulled on a fresh pair of grey sweats, barely using the ladders to get down. My hair was a rat’s nest and I’d need to brave the bathroom in the house to get rid of the paint and sweat before my next contact with a human, but now I wanted twenty minutes just to add to my painting.

  I built up Anya’s silhouette, adding light to the ends of her hair. In my memory of last night, she had glowed and I wanted to capture that, how I had seen her. Twenty minutes became an hour, which became two and I was lost on a different plane.

  This was my therapy. It was where I created space and processed what had happened.

  By early afternoon I had saturated myself. I went into the dilapidated house and found the bathroom that had been installed somewhere in the mid-sixties. Credit to the plumbing job, it still worked and although the shower was questionable in what other life forms it hosted, it was powerful and hot.

  I’d promised Helen that I would repair the summer house on their land. It’s was a large wooden building, erected a decade ago. The structure was still sound, but it needed repairs. She wanted to kit it out so that kids staying there could use it as a den, somewhere to play hide and seek or shelter when it rained. It had a couple of storeys and she knew enough about my previous career to understand that I could make sure there would be no law suits brought against her. There was also the incentive that if the summer house was there, it was a place where my nephews could hang out and give their mum a chance to read or even sleep.

  I ran along the beach, my trainers in a backpack that contained a few tools I figured I’d need to start with. If I said I didn’t think about Anya sunbathing somewhere I’d have been a liar, although I wasn’t tempted to run over to Lligwy beach and see if she was there. She couldn’t be what I needed. Unless what she needed was simply a man with a good sized cock capable of knocking out a few decent orgasms, because that was all I was capable of right now.

  The steps up to the guesthouse were slippery from the sea fret the night before. I ran up them two, three at a time, ignoring the slight twinge in my leg. The surgery had been brutal, the rehab worse, but I functioned. Not as well as I had done, but better than if I was dead.