300 Days of Sun by Deborah Lawrenson Read Free Book Online Page B

the sea, we could see the lighthouse on the horizon marking the Cape of Santa Maria, the southernmost point of continental Portugal.
    Fishing activity was all around, most visibly on the smallest scale. Men rowed solo, their boats stacked with rods and other gear. Groups of men and women stood knee-­deep in the water with rods and lines; here and there rods stood upright, screwed into the wet silt to allow one person to operate several lines. Clam diggers bent and scraped at the mud, reminding me yet again of Nathan.
    There was no getting away from what was now an obstinate unease about him. Our conversation on the ferry to Faro beach took on a significance it hadn’t at the time. He’d said he hadn’t come by plane but by bus. So where had he come from? Another town on the Algarve? From Spain? If he could afford the not inconsiderable fees for the language course, it surely could not have been a lack of money that made him opt for the bus.
    The ferry docked. A man standing on the jetty fished out an octopus to cheers of encouragement.
    I followed the other passengers down a sandy path in the direction of the lighthouse. There were plenty of buildings here, of solid Moorish design in white-­painted stone with roof terraces and pretty gardens of cacti and other parched-­earth plants. They looked like holiday homes. At the beach, walkways of wooden slats led off left and right. It was as well to keep to them; the sand under my flip-­flops was too hot to walk on.
    The beach was not crowded, and the further I went, the more isolated and exposed it became. I swam in the grey-­blue rollers with only a few other bathers in sight, but lasted only half an hour in the raw dazzle of the sun before I returned to a more populated spot where sunshades were available.
    The cry of a doughnut vendor against a background of waves collapsing and receding brought Nathan to mind yet again.
    The only possible conclusion was that Nathan Emberlin was not his real name. Possibly he had chosen it because it was one of those rare things, a completely blank slate. But why?
    T he wind picked up and fanned some life back into the coast. By the time I had returned to town, washed the sticky sand out of my hair, and assessed the red burn marks on my shoulders, the temperature had fallen back to a pleasant simmer for the evening.
    I wandered down towards the marina. Perhaps I would try a new place to eat that Tomas had recommended. With plenty of time to decide, I had a fizzy water at a waterside kiosk. A ­couple of guys raised their glasses to me, and I felt good as I strolled towards the maze of cobbled streets. I’d worried sometimes over the past few months that I’d forgotten how to have fun.
    A top in one of the clothes shops had caught my eye on the way to class, and I thought I’d go and try it on, might even wear it later to one of the clubs Nathan talked about. It was about time I had a little adventure. I turned the corner into the entrance on the Rua Vasco da Gama.
    About thirty metres ahead of me was a tall man with white hair and a loose cotton drill jacket. He looked just like Ian Rylands. I picked up my pace, keeping him in sight. The evening parade packed the street. Casual shoppers stopped dead and changed direction right in front of me. ­Couples stood reading menus outside restaurants. Children ran swerving arcs through the crowd. I bumped into someone and in the seconds I looked away from the white-­haired figure ahead, to apologise, I lost him.
    I walked faster towards the junction with a small triangular square where restaurant tables were laid for dinner under some trees. Cars were permitted here, and on the other side of the square the man was waiting to cross the road. I could see his face. It was Ian Rylands. There was no doubt about it. I called out. He appeared not to hear.
    I carried on behind him, deciding not to run, just to catch up naturally. Only a few streets to the northwest