The Lost City by Henry Shukman

Author:Henry Shukman [Shukman, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Thrillers, Espionage, Literary
ISBN: 9780307386427
Google: TP8_gmJTnwMC
Amazon: 0307386422
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2009-04-07T07:00:00+00:00

3

Sarah was sitting in the doorway of their hut. The moon had risen clear of the mass of hillside above, and beyond the silvery dirt of the compound the trees were dark like an inky lake. The sound of the river had become distinct and near.

He talks so much. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that.

I like it. I like big ideas, Jackson said. Maybe not a lot of people are living like this, Western people, but it’s real. Here we are.

She let out a little sigh that was also a laugh. The end of her cigarette glowed, a red star in the dark.

Come and sit here, she said, touching the wood of the doorstep beside her. Jackson settled his head into her shoulder, and her hair fell across his eye, filtering and fracturing the moonlight.

When they went inside Sarah wanted to know more about Connolly.

What must be hard to understand is how we grew up hating ourselves, as men I mean, assuming all women despised us. At least I did.

Come on.

Seriously. I remember going to the beach as a seventeen-year-old—fit, OK-looking, not a complete moron—and seeing the girls in bikinis and just kind of trying to slip past hoping I wouldn’t disturb them.

Everyone feels like that at the beach. You should get a glimpse inside those girls’ heads. Can he see the mole on my back, how does my ass look, no guy will ever want me, et cetera. After all, they’re the ones who have to lie there like meat at the market waiting to be chosen.

The women you’re talking about are American. There are all these hunky American guys walking past who are confident enough to pick and choose, who don’t think any girl who gave them a second glance would be doing them a grudging favour. You have no idea what it’s like to be an English male in single-sex education.

Maybe. Anyway, tell me more about the mysterious Connolly.

She rolled onto her side and wrote with a finger on his chest, reminding him that he was a man and had a man’s chest, and that she was a woman and that it was good to lie naked together.

He sighed. I’ve been sort of trying to.

She said nothing but looked at him, her eyes pockets of shade containing a star each. The room was quiet; a creak of wood somewhere came and went. Silence pressed in on the ears. He felt he needed to break the quiet before it became oppressive.

I guess there is something else. I don’t know what happened that night in the jungle. When Connolly died. For a long time I was convinced—well, in the rain and with my leg in such agony, and the fire coming in and everything. I just don’t know what happened. I think I fired some rounds. I think I did. The doctors told me I was wrong, the army said we had fire coming in all around and Connolly got hit by it. But I used to think it was me.

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