Offcomer by Jo Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

leaned out into the wet night.
    A deer. Picking its way delicately through long grass and fallen branches, sheltering from the rain. It seemed strange that it should be alone, that it should have drifted off from the rest of the herd. It dipped its head and began to graze. The rain settled on Claire’s hair, spangled her face. She leaned out further, staring into the dark. The deer’s head went up. In one long sinuous movement it turned and fled, skimming the grass like a ghost. She couldn’t see what had startled it. She watched its white, heart-shaped rump as it bounded away.
    She sat back on her heels. The bed creaked.
    “Ready?” Alan called.
    “Not yet.”
    Claire reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse.

THREE
 
    Claire gently pulled the door to behind her, heard the Yale lock slide into place with a click. She turned, hesitated on the doorstep. She would have to go back to Grainne’s house now. She felt stomach acid rise at the back of her throat, swallowed it down.
    Fuck.
    She looked up and down the street. Dark windows, neat gardens, cars tucked into the kerb. This could be anywhere in Belfast. This could be any street in any city. Even if she wanted to get to Grainne’s, she had no idea which way to go.
    For a moment she saw herself turning back, trying the door. It would open smoothly and she would slip past it, back into the dark hallway. She would silently climb the stairs to the bedroom, step out of her clothes and slide into bed, curling up against Paul’s warm back, pulling the downy duvetover her and sinking into the soft mattress. Shutting her eyes and drifting away from herself. And, all night, her sleeping body would lie beside his, as if it belonged there.
    But the door was locked behind her. She had heard the lock click into place. Going back was not an option.
    She paused again at the garden gate, hand already on the latch. The metal was cold and dewy. She glanced up and back at the bedroom window. Unlit. All she could see was the pale lining of his curtains. She slipped out through the gate.
    She would go back to Conroys. If she walked back the way they’d come in the cab, she would get there eventually. It would be the last time she could walk into the bar and find everything the same.
    Claire turned down the street. She walked quickly, unevenly. The cut on her foot was hurting her. It was weeping again; she felt the lymph sticky against her shoe. She stroked her thumbs absently across her fingertips, became gradually conscious of their texture, aware of the tiny rub of their printpatterns, their tenderness. The tip of her tongue was pressing against the smooth back of her teeth, moulding itself into the sensitive silk of her hard palate. She became aware of her hair brushing against the tips of her ears, of the still-wet softness between her legs.
    She was going downhill. Conroys was on the docks, and the docks were by the lough, and that was almost sea, so downhill was the way to go. She passed shut and shuttered shops, bright-lit phone booths, overfull rubbish bins. She smelt the scent of freshly baked bread in the air and water rose in her mouth.
    The road was deserted. No passers-by at all. Not a cab, not even the occasional solitary staggering drunk. It was late,she realised suddenly, uneasily. It was very late. She stopped dead. She cast around her. The sky was deep blue, scattered with orange-reflecting clouds. There was a dark, leafy park on the right. She turned round, glanced back up the hill. A clock hung high up on the building behind her. The hands pointed to half-past two. Conroys would be shut. Tired and sore, she would turn the last corner to find the bar in darkness, the shutters padlocked into place. She would stand there, at the bolted doors, frozen by the knowledge that there was nowhere else to go. By half-past two the place would be empty and Gareth would be at home showering, or asleep, Dermot’s head cradled in the crook of his arm. But perhaps the clock