Where the West Wind Blows Read Online Free PDF

body with my arms.
    I am not ready to go home. In the distance I can see I left the attic light burning and I can just make out the outline of the cottage; a grey lump in the twilight. I know I will find warmth there and that the bed is soft but the memory of that erotic dream still lingers. It is as though I have been recovering too quickly and James has come to me in a vision. “Whoa,” he says, “slow down, you are going too fast. Don’t forget me. Not yet.”
    But it isn’t too fast. Forgetting James is slow, painfully slow. Sometimes it feels I am trying to pull myself out of a tight, dark box and no sooner have I managed to get my head out and my hands on the rim, than someone comes along and stamps on my fingers, plunging me downward again.  It is better out here in the cold where the black box seems a little further away. Here, the wind and the rain blow the danger of darkness away; not far enough but at least, out here, I can breathe.
    A movement below takes my eye again and I see the seal has returned and is silently drifting among the jagged rocks. Keeping my eye on him, I lean closer, following the white wake that betrays his path.
     
    “Get away from the edge!” A loud voice cuts through my musing and I let out a scream, almost losing my footing as strong fingers suddenly dig into my bicep, big hands tugging at my shoulder, pulling me backward, throwing me to the floor. 
    My heart is banging beneath my ribs, my mouth suddenly dry with shock.
    “M - Mr McAlister? What are you doing? I was watching the seal.”
    I scramble to my feet, my heart beating a tattoo.
    “Was y’ now?” His face is pale as he sits down on a scattering of boulders and begins to roll a cigarette with trembling fingers. His tongue runs a long the edge of the paper as he surveys me with one eye closed. “It’s a little early t’ be out seal watching, even for you.”
    “What does that mean? Even for me?”
    “I mean, woman, that y’ keep odd hours. I’ve seen you, on the beach at midnight; on the cliff top at dawn. I’d like t’ know what you’re about.”
    I scramble to my feet.
    I am gob smacked.
    What I’m about?
    “What about you?” I retort, the anger beginning to overspill and take control of my tongue. “If I’m keeping odd hours then you must be too, or you’d not know of it.”
    He leans back, extracts a hip flask from his pocket and makes a harsh humourless sound, like a dog barking.
    “That’s a fair point but you have to confess, it’s not usual for a lass to be wandering around in the wilds after dark.”
    “I like the dark.”
    He offers me the flask but I refuse it with a negative jerk of my head.
    “Scared of it, more like. Or scared of yourself. Or your cottage. What is it? Is it ghosts or your own thoughts that drive you out here in all weathers?”
    I open and close my mouth, astonishment and irritation warring, fighting for victory. He is an aggravating man. I screw up my eyes and give rein to the rough side of my tongue.
    “No wonder the village people hate you, if this is how you treat people.”
    I turn to storm away but he lets out another bark of laughter, his next words arresting my movement.
    “Hate me do they? They know nothing …” He subsides into silence, chewing the inside of his mouth as he stares narrow-eyed across the sea, the wind whipping his hair.
    In my pocket I can feel my sketchbook digging into my hip and I long to take it out. I study his face and know I could capture him in a few quick lines, I know I can. He is just a collection of thick, heavy marks on a page.
    I hope he doesn’t notice the close attention I am paying to his bone structure, pigment, skin tone.
    I am fascinated, in more ways than one.
    “Why do they hate you?” I am startled by my own question and, from the way he looks up at me, one eye closed, the hip flask halfway to his quirked lips, I can tell I’ve surprised him too. He lowers the bottle un-tasted and keeps me pinioned in his