The Art of Standing Still Read Online Free PDF Page B

way, he would soon be evicted from there too. Anger welled up inside her. She couldn’t stand this clutter, the evidence of two wasted years, any longer. She had to get him out, now. Out of her life, out of her boat, and out of her head.
    She couldn’t decide which would be worse: Richard coming to get his things or taking them to his new place herself. The latter was out of the question, as she didn’t even have his address. Part of her really wanted to just take them to the side of the boat and gently tip the contents into the river. Instead, she gathered them up and grabbed the keys. She squeezed the bags through the narrow cabin door and hauled them up onto the deck. The temptation to ditch them overboard resurfaced.
    With the torch under one arm and both hands full, Jemma struggled down the ramp and across the towpath. House clearance in one’s pyjamas in the early hours was an odd sight, she was certain. If someone did step out of the shadows, and she shivered at the thought, it was too dark to witness the deed. She dragged the bags over to where her car was parked and stuffed them into the boot of her hatchback, struggling to get it closed.
    â€˜I hope they get stolen,’ she muttered.
    With a shiver, Jemma held the torch out in front of her
and followed its unsteady beam back to the river. The dew on the grass soaked into her slippers. She carefully skipped over a muddy patch. A noise behind her in the bushes made her jump.
    â€˜A fox,’ she said aloud, just in case it wasn’t.
    Like a child running down a dark corridor from the bathroom, she sprinted up the ramp onto the Ebony Hog . She bolted the door behind her and leapt into her bed, pulling the covers up around her head. For the first time in months, she wished Richard was there. She could snuggle up to him, and he would soothe away her fear.
    Her breathing slowed but her skin prickled, and the volume on her senses seemed to have been tuned to ‘high’.
    â€˜A fox,’ she said again, more quietly this time. She had left the rubbish bin on the deck and expected to hear it being overturned at any minute.
    Nothing.
    Then she heard the footsteps. They crunched slightly on the gravely path. Even footsteps, the long stride and flat heels of a man. No particular hurry, but not dawdling either. Perhaps a late dog walker.
    The footsteps were getting closer now. Jemma struggled to swallow her fear.
    She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest seemed full. She tried to exhale, as if she could breathe out this irrational fear. The tightness gripped her chest, and the breath would hardly come.
    The footsteps still approached. Then they halted. Right beside her ear.
    She kept motionless. Perhaps he was stopping to light a cigarette or to get his bearings. She heard him walk back a few paces, towards the stern then back again. Was he waiting for someone . . . or searching for something?
    Finally the footsteps moved on, upstream towards Monksford. She heard the metallic clang as they crossed the bridge. Jemma could breathe again.
    Trembling slightly, she inched her way out of the berth and edged down to the galley. She grabbed the largest and sharpest knife in her collection and, gripping the handle, lay back in bed, listening . . . always listening.
    Then she heard it, a single loud splash, a short distance upriver. Too big to be a pebble and too small to be a body. Her nerves jangled like a wind chime as she strained to hear the faintest sound. Had the man come back to search the river? This time, it didn’t sound like someone searching, but like something being dropped into the river.
    Only silence filled the night. She lay awake for what seemed like hours, listening, grasping the knife.

    JEMMA WOKE WITH A START. HER HAND STILL CLUTCHED THE HANDLE OF THE knife, and the sunlight that streamed through the crack in the curtains glinted on the blade. Her knuckles were stiff and her head ached. She slid the knife back into the