Myths Of The Moon

She swallowed.

‘Well, you said it.’

Daniel stood up, stretched his shoulders slightly. His dark face was wry.

‘Thanks for breakfast, Carla. I think I’ll go for a walk.’

She found herself staring at him in consternation, in spite of her suppressed anger.

‘I don’t think you should go alone…’

A sardonic gleam sharpened the cool green. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll steer clear of the lower cliff-path.’

‘Even so…’ Why was she feeling so guilty? But if he was still getting headaches, and still suffering from amnesia, surely he shouldn’t be left to his own devices for too long?

‘Even so?’ he teased gently. ‘I’ve been discharged from hospital. I’m feeling fitter by the hour. The police haven’t managed to pin any unsolved murders on me yet. And making idle conversation with you seems to be fraught with unexploded time bombs. I need some air.’

‘Of course.’ Turning away, she closed the dishwasher with a controlled click, and briefly shut her eyes. ‘I must get back to my study. I’m in the middle of a book…’

‘In that case, I’ll keep out of your way.’

There was no expression in his voice, but she found herself swinging round abruptly.

‘If you need anything, let me know.’

‘Thanks.’ He shot her a cool smile and strolled towards the door. ‘And stop looking so worried. You haven’t been officially appointed my keeper, have you?’

‘No.’

‘See you later.’

When he’d gone, she hung on to the worktop fiercely for a few seconds, then felt almost limp with reaction. She watched him disappear across the gravelled yard, and into the cottage, his loose-limbed, rangy walk holding her gaze, in spite of her anger.

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to finish the routine morning jobs, before marching purposefully into her study and slamming the door shut.

Here was her sanctuary, her haven. Here was the place she’d retreated to when things had got unbearable during her marriage. She switched on the word processor, slotted in the disk, and tried to immerse herself in the complexities of her current plot…

For once, her characters seemed to elude her. Inspector Jack Tresawna, the drily spoken Celt with the passion for local history and a habit of accidentally tapping in to another dimension in the course of his investigations, somehow lacked any substance in her mind. Instead, all she could see as she concentrated on her story was the dark, rather harsh image of Daniel’s face. In place of Jack Tresawna’s piercing blue eyes she kept seeing Daniel’s equally piercing green. Sea-green, and amused. Watchful and intelligent, beneath those straight dark eyebrows, and above lean, slightly hollow cheeks. Tresawna’s firm mouth blurred into Daniel’s well-shaped, slightly quirky lips.

Carla sat motionless at her desk, staring into space, the two images melting together in the most exasperating way in her mind’s eye. It was almost as if Daniel and Jack Tresawna had merged into the same man. Which was the craziest idea she’d had so far, she lashed herself impatiently. But the lunatic notion refused to go. It totally blocked her ability to write. The intricacies of her plot defeated her. The multi-layered strands waiting to be neatly unravelled stayed stubbornly tangled.

Finally, she abandoned the attempt. Fetching her waxed jacket from the hook in the hall, she thrust her feet into wellingtons and set off towards the coastal path at an impatient pace. When she couldn’t write, walking often proved therapeutic. It was a cool, breezy November morning. The sun still defied a depressing weather forecast and was steadily gilding the green and blue landscape. It would soon be December, but it had been such a mild autumn, there were even more wisps of tamarisk still blooming, lacy pink on the feathery bushes. The deeper pink of a few late-flowering wild valerian dotted the hedges as she made her way through to the open cliff-top.

The lower path was blocked, but she took the higher one, which wound round behind banks of gorse and bracken, and eventually looped back towards the cliff edge.

Then she saw Daniel. He was sitting not far above the spot where he’d fallen, his Barbour jacket spread out beneath him, elbows resting on bent knees, hands thrust into his hair, staring fixedly out to sea. He looked so isolated, so frustrated and alone, her heart seemed to squeeze idiotically in her chest.

Drawn like a magnet, she found herself steering her steps down towards him. He heard her approaching, and slowly turned to watch her.

‘Hello again,’ she said brightly, stopping a few feet away.

‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt, then smiled ruefully. ‘I thought you had a book to finish? Did you feel obliged to make sure I hadn’t fallen over the cliff again?’

‘No. I couldn’t concentrate. Walking helps…’ She hesitated. Pride dictated that she exchange pleasantries and then continue on her way. But something about that lonely aura he’d projected kept her rooted to the spot. She heard herself saying, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Be my guest.’ He moved to the edge of the spread Barbour, and after a few seconds’ inner battle she forced herself to sit down, at the furthest edge away from him. Feeling prim and prudish, she sensed his humorous glance. She kept her eyes on the horizon. ‘I’m not scintillating company this morning,’ he added. ‘I’ve been sitting here staring at St Michael’s Mount out there, wondering why the hell I can’t remember who I am!’

‘Getting angry about it won’t help. Stress could make it worse.’

‘What a wise woman you are, Carla.’ The mockery was tempered with a wry smile. The sudden glimmer of warmth in his eyes made her look quickly away again.

‘At least you know that’s St Michael’s Mount,’ she pointed out.

‘Yup. Which tells me I’ve been in this part of the world before.’

‘So it does!’ She turned to him, eyes alight. ‘And slowly but surely it will all come back, Daniel.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. If I can survive the wait.’

‘Are you a naturally impatient person?’

He shrugged. ‘Impatient is maybe the wrong word. Active. I’d say I feel like I’m naturally active. I get the feeling I’m used to a lot of challenge in my life. Mental and physical.’

She gazed at him, her brain whirring in fascination.

‘Let’s just run over everything we know about you again,’ she suggested firmly. ‘You’re roughly…thirtyish, I’d say.’

‘Is that meant to be compliment or insult?’

‘Neither,’ she said crisply. ‘Let’s try to keep this impersonal, shall we?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She shot him a vexed look. Couldn’t he take her efforts to help a little more seriously?

‘You don’t have an accent. Apart from an Oxford-style accent, that is. Which suggests you’re well-educated. You seem intelligent…’

‘Can my ego cope with all this?’

‘You were walking east along the coast path, from the Penzance direction. You were wearing denims, checked brushed-cotton shirt, brown leather walking-shoes, this green jumper and the Barbour jacket we’re sitting on. On your wrist you were wearing an eighteen-carat-gold Rolex Oyster Chronometer which the police seemed pretty sure was worth a small fortune. In the pocket of your shirt you had a hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes. And that cryptic note from “R”. Is that it? Is there anything else at all?’

He slanted a ruthless grin at her. ‘You missed the dark green socks and the navy striped boxer-shorts.’

‘Are they significant?’ She would not blush.

‘Strangely enough, they could be,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The boxer-shorts had a label from an up-market New York store. Not your run-of-the-mill boxer-shorts at all.’

‘Yes. Well, that’s interesting. You’ve either been to America, or you’ve got a sweet old American aunty who sends you American boxer-shorts for your birthday, maybe?’