Across the Bridge by Morag Joss

Author:Morag Joss
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2010-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Four

Some time after it was properly dark, one of the bonfires went out. Soon after that the other grew bigger, burning fiercely enough to send smoke high into the night air, where in the moonlight it drifted like a grey veil over the river. As the flames flew up I thought I caught the sound of faint voices raised in satisfaction, or triumph. Maybe some form of cooperation was at work and two groups had joined around one big fire, or maybe one group had overwhelmed the other. I couldn’t tell. I stayed outside wrapped in wads of bedding, listening for anyone who might be approaching in the dark along the shore. From time to time I dozed.

My first thought when I heard footsteps from the track and then Silva’s voice, followed by a man’s, was that she had found Stefan. But in an instant I knew it wasn’t him. The voice was older and deeper, and she was speaking as if to a stranger.

“I am here now, thank you.” The man said something I didn’t hear. I got to my feet and called out.

They came around the side of the trailer, and we all stood for a moment, trying to see one another in the dull moonlight. The man was solidly built, that was all I could make out. Then Silva gave a cry and rushed forwards to hug me. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and my eyes filled with tears, but over her shoulder I saw the man watching us steadily, as if trying to find something out. Would not a normal person have looked away at such a moment?

“They haven’t come up here, have they?” Silva asked, withdrawing from me and looking downstream. “Are you all right? They haven’t come this way?”

The man was gazing towards the fires.

“Thank God you’re back,” I managed to say.

“You’re so cold,” she said.

“I had to stay out to watch. I couldn’t light a fire. If I’d lit a fire they’d have come.”

“They might have done,” the man agreed.

“This is Ron,” Silva said. Her voice lifted when she spoke his name. “He brought me across the river. This is Annabel, my friend.”

He nodded at me. “You all right?” He spoke without smiling, though his words came through the dark as if he required an answer.

Silva said, “You’re so cold. Come on, get inside.”

We went in and lit candles. Silva used the gas ring to boil water and make tea. Ron and I watched her, and in between we watched each other. The trailer was cramped, and we settled onto seats and moved as little as possible, like tired roosting birds. We hardly spoke. It was too late – and our being all together too unexpected – for polite conversation among strangers. Besides, all the questions that came to mind (Why did you come here? Where do you live? Who are you? ) would, out loud, have sounded not curious but distrustful. And the remarkable thing was that although I

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