Excerpt of Resistance by Owen Sheers
(Page 2 of 4)
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Tom must have been up early. Very early. Not in the morning at all but in the
night. She turned on her side and shifted herself across the bed. The blankets
blinked with her movement and she felt a stab of cold air at her shoulder.
Pulling them tight about her neck, she lay there within the impression of her
husband, trying not to disturb the contours of his map. Everything about her
felt heavy, as if her veins were laced with lead. She was trying to think where
Tom could be but the barks of the dogs were distracting her. Her mind was
blurred, as buckled as a summer's view through a heat haze. Why hadn't he taken
the dogs? He always took the dogs. Did he say something last night? She couldn't
remember. She couldn't remember anything past their dinner. She opened her eyes.
In front of her the bedroom window was bright about the ill–fitting blackout
cloth, a thin square outline of light burning into the darkened room. She
blinked at it, confused. The window looked into the western flank of the valley,
and yet there was light. Too much light. The sun must already be over the Black
Hill on the other side of the house. She must have slept late. She never slept
this late.
She rose quickly, hoping movement would dispel her mild unease. Tugging roughly
on the heavy blankets, she made the bed, tucking their edges under the mattress.
Then she plumped the pillows, shaking them as if to wake them. Brushing a few of
Tom's hairs from the one beside hers she paused for a second and stilled
herself, as if the hairs might summon Tom himself. She listened, one hand still
resting on the pillow. But there was nothing. Just the usual ticks and groans of
the old building waking and warming, and outside, the dogs, barking and barking.
She pulled back the blackout cloth and opened the thin curtains behind it with
both hands, unveiling the room to light. It was a bright, clear day. She closed
her eyes against the glare. When she opened them again white spots shimmered
over her vision. Drawing the sleeve of her nightdress over her wrist she wiped
away the veneer of condensation from one of the small panes and looked down into
the yard below. The dogs, both border collies, both bitches, sensed the movement
above them and barked and strained harder in response, pulling their chains taut
behind them. Sarah looked above the outhouse where they were tied. Over the top
of its jigsaw slate roof she could see the lower paddock rising up to meet the
sweep and close of the valley's end wall. Except for a few grazing sheep it was
empty, and so were the steep–sided hills on either side, their edges bald
against the blue sky.
Turning away from the window, she pulled her nightdress over her head. Again she
felt the cold air on her skin. The dress's neckline held her hair for a moment,
then let it go all at once so it fell heavily about her shoulders. She sat on
the edge of the bed, put on her knickers, a vest, and began balling a pair of
woollen stockings over her hand, her forehead puckered in a frown. Catching
herself in the dressing–table mirror she paused and ran a finger up the bridge
of her nose between her eyebrows. A slight crease was forming there. She'd only
noticed it recently; a short line that remained even when her brow was relaxed.
Still sitting on the edge of the bed she gathered up her hair and, turning her
profile to the mirror, held it behind her head with one hand, exposing her neck.
That crease was the only mark on her face. Other than that her skin was still
smooth. She turned the other way with both hands behind her head now. She should
like a wedding to go to. Or a dance, a proper dance where she could wear a dress
and her hair up like this. That dress Tom bought for her on their first
anniversary. She couldn't have worn it more than twice since. Tom. Where was he?
She dropped her hair and pulled on her stockings. Reaching into the
dressing–table drawer, she put on a blouse and began doing up the buttons, the
crease on her forehead deepening again.
Excerpted from Resistance by Owen Sheers
Copyright © 2008 by Owen Sheers. Excerpted by permission of Nan A. Talese, a
division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may
be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
