No Way to Say Goodbye Read Online Free PDF Page A

kind of person, and couldn’t remember having been touched by a beautiful beach or a field of flowers but now, on this cold and miserable evening, he looked out onto the jagged grey rock above the winding road, which wove through drenched and dripping woods, and it captivated him.
    Even so, after two hours’ jolting through potholes the scenery was getting old.
    When he arrived into the town it was after seven and the rain kept coming down. A small black-and-white signpost revealed that he had reached his destination and he sighed with relief. The cliff-top twists and turns had been an unexpected challenge and he felt he’d run and survived Nature’s gauntlet. The town opened up before him, and even through the endless drizzle he found its quaint charm, coloured walls and jagged stone alluring. Despite his exhaustion, and because he had no idea where he was going, he circled the town twice, driving slowly so as to soak it all in. Large windows revealed warm rooms with candles placed on tables, the flicker of log fires in open bars, restaurants with low lighting, a chef and waitress sitting opposite one another, a bottle of wine between them.
    He reached the top of the town for the second time and flagged down the only man on the street, handed him the address on a page printed from the Internet and asked for directions. The other grinned widely, showing his gums, and before Sam knew it, he was sitting in the car beside him. “You’re nearly there now – I’ll take a ride with you. I’ve a boat to check on,” he said, and put out his hand. “Jerry Letter.”
    “Sam Sullivan,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand.
    “Then we’re both Sullivans!”
    “I thought you said your name was Letter?” Sam was confused.
    “I did, and it is and it isn’t,” he answered.
    “OK,” Sam agreed, and drove in the direction that Jerry was pointing.
    Jerry laughed to himself. He liked Americans. They were a lot better to banter with than the Germans. Germans never seemed to have much time for Jerry. “I’m the postman,” he said, after a moment or two.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Jerry Letter – I’m the postman.”
    “Oh. OK. That should make sense.”
    “Ah, but it does. You see, you and me, we’re not the only Sullivans in this town. There’s plenty more. In fact, the place is full of us, and as for first names you couldn’t throw a pint in any direction without hitting a Jerry, a John, a Jimmy, a Robert, a Peter, a Frank or a Francie. So, you see, to tell one Jerry Sullivan from another, we just call each other by what we do or what we wear or what we’re into.”
    Sam laughed.
    “Take the right.” Jerry nodded.
    Sam took the right and looked to his left at the boats wrestling with the high tide. Hills rose behind the dark blue water, the heather casting a purple hue on the sky, and to his right he saw a line of little cottages built of rock, standing firm against the battering wind. “That’s you.” Jerry gestured.
    Sam stopped the car directly in front of the cottage. “Looks good,” he said, supremely glad to have arrived.
    “It may look good but the place has been empty for a year. I hope to Christ she’s not damp.”
    Before Sam could respond Jerry was helping him remove his bags from the boot and waiting for him to produce the house keys.
    Once inside, Jerry took a good look around. “She seems fine. Lucy’s been taking good care of her.”
    Sam just shook his head – as entertaining as Jerry Letter was, he wanted him gone.
    Jerry was no fool, and once his American friend was settled and he’d ascertained the man was a New Yorker, unmarried, some sort of executive, and had travelled alone, he took his leave. “Well, we’ll see each other around so, Uncle Sam.” He tipped his hat and walked out into the rain, as relaxed as though it was a fine day.
    Sam scratched his head. Holy shit, that guy should work for the CIA!
    Without stopping to assimilate the ground floor of his new home he went