Frieda Klein 2 - Tuesday's Gone by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

motion, but now she was used to it. It was like the blood inside her body.
     She was used to the night sounds as well – the wind in the trees and in the thick rushes
     that sounded sometimes like a moan, the rustle of rodents from the bank, the sudden
     shriek of the owls. There were foxes here, and fat rats with long, thick tails. Herons
     and white swans that looked at her with their wicked eyes. Mangy cats. She had had a cat
     once, with a white tip to its tail and silky ears; it used to wash itself so
     fastidiously and purr like a steady motor. But that was a long time ago, in another
     life, and she was another person now.
    Very cautiously, she stepped into the
     cockpit of the boat and from there on to the path. She was wearing dark clothes – navy
     tracksuit trousers and a thick grey hoody – so even if someone was looking, they
     probably wouldn’t see her. She was always careful. The important thing was never
     to let your guard down or think you were safe. She walked slowly along the track,
     feeling her body unstiffen. She had to keep fit and strong, but it was hard when you
     were cooped up all day. She did press-ups inside sometimes, and two or three times a day
     she did twenty pull-ups, using the rim of the slightly openhatch as a
     bar and counting out loud so that she didn’t cheat. Her arms were strong, but she
     didn’t think she would be able to run far or fast. Sometimes when she woke at
     night, her chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. She wanted to call out for help
     but she knew she mustn’t.
    She walked past the other boats moored to
     the side by thick ropes. Most of them were empty from one week to the next, and some
     were falling apart, their paint blistering and wood rotting. Some had people on board;
     they had plants on their flat roofs, and bikes that lay on their sides with the spokes
     whirring when the wind blew. Even in the dark, she knew which boats were inhabited. It
     was her job to be vigilant. When they had first come here, it had been exciting, a
     mixture of hiding and setting up home. It was their safe place, he had said: no one else
     would know they were there, and whatever happened, they could retreat here and wait
     until danger had passed. But then he had left, returning only for a few days every
     month. At first she had wondered how she would pass her days when she was alone, but it
     was surprising how much there was to do. The boat had to be kept clean, for a start, and
     that wasn’t easy because it was old and had been long abandoned before
     they’d found it. There were damp patches on its sides and water leaked in through
     the floor, round the sides of the shower and toilet, and up through the boards in the
     kitchen area. The windows were narrow rectangles that no one could see through from the
     outside. The doorway was always kept closed, and when she washed her clothes in the tiny
     sink with the tablets of soap he bought her, then laid them out over chairs and the
     table to dry, the air smelt thick and slightly festering.
    Once there had been space, comfort, light
     flooding in through large windows, and roses on the lawn. She remembered, as in a dream,
     clean sheets and soft clothes. Now shelived with the dark, enclosed
     space; the long winter nights, when it was so cold her breath smoked and ice formed on
     the inside of the little windows; the candles guttering secretly when she didn’t
     even dare use the dynamo torch he had given her; the fear, an ache in her stomach. Yes,
     you could even get used to fear. You could turn fear into something that was strong and
     useful and dangerous.
    She turned back. The drops of rain were
     increasing and she didn’t want to get too wet. The winter had been so cold and so
     long. For weeks, the paths had been hard with ice or covered with thick snow. She had
     felt like an animal in its burrow, watching flakes fall outside the windows. Waiting,
     always waiting.
    Sliding back down the hatch, she