The Adjacent by Priest Christopher

Author:Priest, Christopher [Priest, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 9780575105393
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2013-06-19T20:00:00+00:00

12

THE INSTRUMENT BASHER (cont’d)

Krystyna finished her story. She and Mike Torrance sat side by side on the churchyard’s wooden bench, leaning against the hard raised back, their shoulders resting companionably together. Torrance was intoxicated by the warm feeling of her arm against his, and as she waved her hands about to express herself the movement made him tingle with an inner excitement. Sometimes she pressed her fingers to part of his leg, or then she would move slightly away and turn to face him directly to say something with extra conviction or sincerity, but she would return and fold her body affably against his once more. Once, when she told him of her last glimpse of Tomasz in the ruins of Kraków, she paused, her breathing shuddering, her hand suddenly hot on his. He put his arm around her then, as she cried.

Torrance was lost in his own feelings, an astonishing surge of love and affection for the young woman he had met only a few hours before, not only a stranger to him but in fact the first person he had encountered in his life who had not been born in Britain. He was confused by the intensity of his feelings: why it had happened, what she might want from him, what they should do next. Above all, he was wondering how he could ensure that this would not be the last time he saw her.

He felt the minutes ticking by, the afternoon slipping inexorably away from him. So she spoke, softly, intently, telling him of her lost lover in Poland, her life in the sky and her passion for flying, the planes and the flights, the dangers, the long struggle to escape from the Germans.

He knew that all too soon they would have to part, that he was inevitably destined to return to the reality of his life on the Tealby Moor base. He knew that Krystyna was also aware of that, because he saw her glancing at her wristwatch, the reminder of time running over, or in this case out.

When he dared, he said, ‘How long do we have before we must return?’

‘Maybe half an hour.’

It was no time at all! ‘Can we meet like this again?’ he said.

No answer to that came. She turned away sharply, looked down at the grass. ‘Don’t say any more.’

He obeyed, biting back the words he wanted to declare, words he already knew would be pointless: a plea for more time with her, much more time, a frantic plan to run away together. She was half-turned from him, her shoulders hunched over, her dark hair tipping forward to obscure most of her face, but her left hand held his tightly and soon her other hand crept across and held it too. She would not look at him.

Then he heard her say, quietly, as she turned to look at him again, ‘I know you are not Tomasz, that you could not be him, that it is not fair of me to hope you might be him, that you only remind me of him because you are so tall and your hair is the same.

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