Away in the distance, inland, she could see lights. A house. People who might help. But she was alone on the beach and for the first time she realized in panic that from here on she would be alone in life too.
She broke down and cried then, unable to believe that he was gone, that he was lost to her. How would she go on without him? Sodden, shivering, bleeding from many small cuts, she pushed herself to her feet and stood there, taking in the thundering sea, the ghostly moonlit sand and glossy wet pebbles, the sheer vast emptiness of it all.
‘Redmond!’ she screamed.
But no one answered.
No one came.
Walking away from the beach felt like a betrayal, but Orla knew that if she was to survive, she would have to get out of the chilling wind that was flattening her wet clothes against her skin. And she might yet find him alive. She clung to that hope as she stumbled through the dark, trembling and falling and crying, towards the lights of the house. Her shivering had intensified, and she knew that hypothermia was setting in, it was all she could do to resist the overwhelming desire to simply lie down and surrender to the cold, to sleep and never wake again.
The massive roar of the sea sounded a counterpoint to her frenzied heartbeat as she forced herself to walk on, to survive this. She passed a stack of lobster pots, a pile of nets and old chains, ropes and weights. Tripping over something in the sand, she sprawled head-first on to a narrow walkway beside an upturned rowing boat, its paint peeling off. Using the boat for support, she pulled herself upright and staggered painfully on. Her shoes must have fallen off in the sea; when she glanced down her feet were bloodied and her tights were in shreds. Her feet were so numb she couldn’t even feel the pain of the gravel biting into the soles.
Redmond.
She was at the cottage now, gulping, trying to compose herself. An old bike was propped against the wall. There was no sign of a car. Instead of a doorbell there was a miniature brass bell suspended on a bracket, a brass gnome crouched beneath it, holding a chain. She yanked at the chain, and the bell rang.
Nothing happened. She yanked it again.
Jesus, please, please, will you open the fecking door?
It seemed like an age before she heard movement. Bolts being thrown back. Then all at once a small man was standing there. He was sixtyish, with a thick mop of springy grey hair. His face was as gnarled and weathered as driftwood. Bright hazel eyes stared out at her in surprise from under dark brows. He wore a white shirt, pulled up to his elbows to show sinewy workman’s arms, red braces, and black trousers shiny from wear.