Read A Half Forgotten Song for Free Online

deep breath. Locking the car behind him, Zach walked to the edge of the low cliff. A narrow path ran unevenly through tan-colored earth and rocks to the beach, and without a second thought he began to pick his way down it, skidding on loose scree until he reached the bottom. He made his way across the rocks to the shoreline, crouched down on one large, flat boulder, and dipped his fingers into the water. It was shockingly cold. As a child, he’d have been in, regardless. He’d never seemed to feel the cold, although there were pictures of him, skinny in saggy wet trunks, grinning over a bucket of prawns, with his lips quite blue.
    Beneath the water the dull rocks came alive in shades of gray and brown, black and white. Some of the clots of foam floating nearby were an unhealthy yellow, but the water was glassily clear. Sometimes things were too big, Zach suddenly thought. They were too big to step back and look at them all at once. Doing so was overwhelming, frightening. You had to get up close, look at each constituent part, and tackle something of a manageable size first. Start small. Build up to the bigger picture. He put his fingers back into the water and touched a flat rock that had a bright white stripe running across its exact center. He thought about painting it, sifting through colors in his mind to find the exact blend he would need to re-create the cold water, the immaculate stone. He wasn’t sure if he still could, but it had been many, many months since he’d even felt the urge to try. Calmer, Zach stood up and dried his fingers on the seat of his jeans. His stomach rumbled hotly, so he went back to the car and back to Blacknowle, where he’d passed a promising-looking pub.
    The Spout Lantern was a crooked building, with walls of Portland stone beneath an undulating tiled roof. The hanging baskets outside were dry and leggy at the end of the season, with strings of brown lobelia trailing from them; the sign showed a curious-looking metal lamp with a handle on top and a long, tapering tube sticking out from one side—it looked more like a misshapen watering can than anything else. The pub sat in the center of the village, where the buildings clustered around a tiny green and crossroads. The pub was the only amenity he could see; a faded Hovis sign painted on the wall of one cottage spoke of a long-gone shop; a letterbox in the wall of another told of a vanished post office. Inside, the pub was cool and shady with that familiar, sour background smell of beer and people that was no longer masked by cigarette smoke. An elderly couple were eating fish and chips at a small table near the fireplace, even though the fireplace was empty and swept clean for the summer. Their whippet eyed Zach dolefully as he crossed to the bar and ordered half a pint and some ham sandwiches. The barman was friendly and highly vocal. He spoke too loudly in the quiet room and made the whippet wince.
    A few other people were scattered farther along the room, eating lunch and talking in hushed voices. Zach suddenly felt too conspicuous to take a table by himself, so he stayed at the bar, sliding onto a stool and peeling off his sweater.
    “Looks cold but it isn’t, is it? Funny sort of day,” the barman said cheerfully, passing Zach his drink and taking his money.
    “You don’t know how right you are,” Zach agreed. The barman smiled curiously. He spoke with a home-counties accent at odds with his rustic appearance—a battered flannel shirt and canvas trousers that were frayed and thready around the pockets and hems. He looked about fifty, and had curls of gray hair reaching down to his collar, growing in a ring around a bald pate.
    “So what brings you to Blacknowle? Holiday? Looking for a second home?”
    “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m actually . . . doing some research.” Zach felt suddenly uneasy about saying so, as if once this was known he would have to act differently. Act as if he knew what he was doing. “Into