Read The Haunted Storm for Free Online Page A

and to the vague and unsatisfactory term “the world” she attached, in her own speculations, a precise, elaborate, and meticulously organised meaning – was retreating from her with the formal inevitability of a mass of high waters after a flood; and this was the only true cause of ruin, and the only true reason for anguish.
    With her hands pressed tightly to the sides of her head she trudged up the slope and into the dunes, where the going was heavy on the deep, soaking sand but where, at least, the force of the wind was broken and dispersed. Something in her chaotic state seemed to have improved a little: it was caused, she realised, by the simple dogged action of walking, which went a little way towards imposing a measure of order on the confusion of memories and emotions and movements that she was trying, now, to organise into a recognizable semblance of herself. Gradually the whirl of ideas began to find one or two vortices to settle around. She found herself wondering why, first of all, she had instinctively reacted as she had done towards the stranger, and why she had justified it to herself so emphatically afterwards; for now, a little calmer, a little less oppressed, she began to recognise in this refusal a cause of great potential sorrow. And secondly she began to take stock of herself once more: her head was less painful now, and as the rain seemed to be easing off, she took her hands away from her ears and brushed her hair back, pressing the water out as much as possible. She shook her coat, shivering with distaste as drops of moisture on the collar ran down her neck. Well, she had not drowned, nor had she been raped; so for the time being, she thought, her body was safe enough.
    Half unconsciously she began to divide up the scattered pieces of sensation and knowledge that moved along with her into what was hers and what belonged to the night and the wind and the rain. And one of the first things she made herself acknowledge – with an involuntary smile – as she came out of the sandhills and into the grassy field, and saw the lights of the town in the distance, was the fact that her name was Elizabeth Cole.
     
    Her next task was to get herself home. This involved making a train journey of an hour or so, and then waiting for a bus; and the bus, when it came, took twenty-five minutes or half an hour to travel the six miles between the town and the village she lived in, and by that time she would be half dead, she thought, or more than that: completely dead, and her body would walk into the house and climb the stairs and get into bed, and close its eyes on the emptiness forever.
    But for the moment her eyes were open. She looked half-hopefully down each street as she came to it, feeling the usual silly fears: suppose she met him coming round a corner? Suppose he, too, were to get on the train, and come up to her in the corridor with a knowing smile? Better to ignore the fears, to pretend that she was in disguise – and so, indeed, she was, she thought.
    A clock outside a jeweller’s shop told her the time, and she realised that she had three-quarters of an hour to wait for a train. As she passed a coffee bar the smell of food reminded her of how hungry she was: she stood and stared inside for a moment, thinking how clean it looked, how bright and warm and comfortable. In every way it was ideal: and all she had to do to be allowed to sit in there for a while was pay for some food and a cup of coffee, perhaps, and she had money in her purse.
    She sat at a table with her back to the street and ate greedily. The place was nearly empty: there were only a boy and a girl in the corner and a man on his own reading a newspaper. She felt more sure of herself now,. The red plastic of the seat was more than comfortable; it was as soft as mist. The colour reminded her of a dress she had had as a small girl.
    She thought of taking off her raincoat and hanging it on the coat-rack by the door that led into the kitchen. But