by C B Cox
I take a deep breath and drag hard on the bar. It lifts a quarter of an inch. A small gap opens up. I brush away leaves, sand and soil. I see a three foot square hinged timber hatch held together with flat iron bars. I stymie a gasp. I glance around to check I’m not being watched. Satisfied, I ease my fingertips into the gap. My hand throbs to the increasing rhythm of my heart. A dot of blood appears in the center of my injured palm. I wipe sweat from my temples with the bandage.
What the hell am I looking at?
My fingers slide easily into the channel running around four sides of the square. I tense and lift. There’s a tortured screech. To my astonishment, the hatch rises up and rests vertically on its own weight on sturdy hinges. I peer down into a dark, circular void. A minute later, after my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I make out a six foot diameter vertical shaft of red brick with a steel ladder bolted along one side. A delicately flickering yellow glow illuminates the bottom of the shaft. It appears to be some kind of cavern.
OMG!
I’ve owned the island for ten years and in that time I’ve walked every square inch of it, yet I had no idea this shaft – the cavern below it – existed.
“Tern Island, you’ve more secrets than the CIA!” I whisper.
Curiosity compels that I investigate it.
I set my foot on the ladder’s top rung and start my descent. I slip into the shaft with ease. The brick walls are smooth and covered in salty excretions. A narrow vein of water cascades vertically down the bricks behind the ladder. I count twelve rungs before reaching the bottom. I step off the ladder, but retain a firm grip on the freezing cold steel.
I’m standing in a ten foot square brick cavern, with a solitary tunnel leading off beneath the causeway. Four lit candles sit in recesses hewn into the brickwork either side of the ladder. It’s a clear sign that somebody has been here, recently.
Are they still here?
I shouldn’t stay. I’m still gripping the ladder when I hear a faint scratching behind me. I bite my lip and turn slowly to the source of the noise. As I do so, I glimpse the leathery whip of a rat’s tail as it scurries into a hole in the wall. Every fiber of my being shouts, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!, but I’m fascinated. For years, I’ve heard tales of secret tunnels all along this stretch of coastline, and now that I have one of my very own, here on Tern Island, I feel compelled to investigate.
I release the ladder, turn and step into the tunnel. I halt. The tunnel is around a foot taller than me. Several yards along another candle burns. After scaling the cliffs, this is a walk in the park. I set off along the tunnel. It’s firm underfoot with the feel of smooth stone. Candlelight illuminates my path. I follow the light for twenty feet before the tunnel splits two ways at a Y-shaped junction. The left spur is in complete darkness. The spur on the right is narrower and emits a faint yellow glow.
I follow the illuminated spur to the right. Fifteen feet along, the tunnel opens out into a dome-roofed, ten foot square, cavern. Candles glow inside recesses cut into the brickwork. Shadows dance over the arched brick ceiling. As I pass, the candles waver. It’s beautiful. I imagine an ancient burial chamber. Visualize mummies, sarcophagi and gold artifacts. I spin through three hundred and sixty degrees. I’m completely awestruck.
Around the perimeter of the cavern, someone has carved recesses into the brickwork, at irregular intervals. They remind me of bookshelves. I peer inside the nearest one. It’s a trophy cabinet of neatly arranged tiny animal bones. The skull of a rodent sits atop a rib cage and numerous severed limbs arranged into a neat triangle. The second recess is much larger than the first. It contains a deer skull. A glinting silver object catches my eye in the next recess along. It’s deeper than the others, maybe a foot deep.
I recognize the object straight away.
My heart leaps into my mouth. A scream catches in my throat. I grasp the object. Gasp for air. Breathe shallow. It’s the framed photograph from the study: my smiling parents. I had no idea it was missing. I move closer and peer into the recess. My face reflects in mirrored lenses – my missing sunglasses. There are more items in the recess. My hair-grip – the one I haven’t seen since my first week at the lodge. At the back of the recess – tight against the brickwork – is my pencil with the heart-shaped emoji. Two pairs of women’s white lace panties hang from brass hooks from the soffit of the another recess.
I collect the photo frame.
I realize I’m hyperventilating.
These are the things I suspected Levi Wiley of stealing. Pins and needles fizz through my fingers. The wound on my hand bleeds through the bandage.
Is this Levi’s secret?
I have to get out of here before he returns. No way do I want him, or anyone, to catch me here.
Noticing another recess, I pull up. It’s larger than the others. I have to see what’s inside. My curiosity is greater than my fear.
I step over to it, lean forward and peer inside. Inside sits a dusty denim rucksack with tan leather straps. It’s old and frayed. The edges of the straps sport chew marks. Tin badges are pinned to the front flap: Green Day, Blink - 182, Linkin Park, CND. I reach in and drag it forward to the lip of the recess, to take a closer look. It brings with it a fug of dust. I cough against a clenched fist. The letters ‘L.W.’ are embroidered on the flap.
Leona Watson, the missing Canadian hiker? Levi Wiley? Who’s to know?
I recoil with horror. The rucksack slips from my fingers and lands on the stone floor with a dull thud. Its contents spill out.
A human skull rolls and settles against my ankles. Empty eye sockets stare at me from the floor. The jaw flops open as if to speak. The mandible has become dislocated from the maxilla. Perfect straight teeth form a macabre smile.
I let out a blood-curdling scream.
My belly cramps. I slump over, settle my hands on my knees. And start to retch.
From nowhere, a blast of cold air runs the back of my legs. My bones turn to ice.
Have I been discovered?
I bolt along the tunnel towards the safety of the ladder. Progress is slow and painful. It’s as if I’m running through quicksand. My lungs scream.
At last I reach the junction. Halt, gasping for breath.
I can’t remember which way.
Left? Or right? I’m disorientated. I place a hand on the wall to save me from collapsing on the stone slab floor in a heap. I touch something soft. Cobwebs. The instant the word pops into my head, I see images of Harry Potter cornered by huge spiders in a subterranean cavern. I jump with a start and drop the photo frame. The glass shatters into a million fragments against the unyielding stone. My hand slips into another recess. When I extract it, cobwebs stick to the bandage.
I wipe away the cobwebs with my other hand. It’s not cobwebs. It’s a pocket-sized fragment of lilac fabric. Something hard and flexible is wrapped inside. I unwrap the fabric and reveal a pair of distinctive, black designer glasses.
Martha’s!
I scream, but no sound passes my lips. Fear engulfs me. My knees buckle. I settle my weight against the wall and slide to the floor. Despair claws at my heart. I draw my knees up to my chest and sit and stare at Martha’s glasses.
“Martha,” I say, forlornly. It’s only a murmur, but it’s enough. Her name jolts my brain. Synapses crackle like fireworks exploding on July 4.
Did Levi kill Leona Watson?
How can he have Martha’s glasses?
Where is she?
What will he do to me, if he catches me?
I have to get out of here!
Which way?
The waking nightmare seems to last forever, but only a few seconds can have passed. Cold sweat crawls down my back and pools in the dimples at the base of my spine. A blast of frigid air licks my left cheek. Adrenaline rushes to my legs, releasing me from the paralysis. I drag myself up on the wall, drop the glasses next to the shards of glass. Captured in an ice-cold blast of air, I shudder.
Run!
My instinct cho
oses the tunnel on the left. Can I see the faintest hint of daylight? I bound into it.
Somewhere distant, a door slams behind me. A rush of cold, dank air rushes past. The echo reverberates from the walls, excites the air, and my ears pop. The ringing does nothing to conceal the slow pound of footsteps. The footsteps increase in volume.
My loose sole catches on a joint. A frustrated growl rumbles deep in my diaphragm and escapes through gritted teeth. I stumble forwards, kicking out each foot furiously in front of me, shaking at my legs to loosen my shoes. I send them flying into the air ahead. Footsteps echo from the brickwork.
I see daylight at the base the shaft. Run as fast as I can toward it. I reach the shaft and throw myself onto the ladder. Clamber, upwards. Blistering pain sears through my bare feet. Three rungs from the top, I lose my footing. My chin smashes against a rung. I bite my tongue.
“Come on,” I yell, spitting blood. I reach the top and clamber out. I stall, turn and glance down the shaft. The yellow light dims. A hand appears on the ladder.
The hatch! Close the fucking hatch!
There’s no time to lose. If I don’t close the hatch, I’m done for. He’ll catch me.
Then what?
The hatch lands in the frame with a dull thud. I rear upright, panting hard. I spin and glance back along the causeway toward the big house. I see the tree trunk. Collect it and roll it over the hatch.
It ought to buy me some time.
Chapter Forty-Six
The voice inside my head rages.
Which route to take?
Shall I hole up in Tern Lodge?
No! He’ll trap you inside…
Bastard will burn it to the ground with you inside…
Find a weapon… Will a kitchen knife suffice?
No! He’s too strong. He’ll overpower you…
Hide out in the woods…
No! He knows those woods intimately.
There’s nowhere left to hide!
Run to Tern Lodge!
Slipping and sliding over the mud, I scramble up the terracing. In my haste to reach the top and Tern Lodge, I don’t even look down as I run past Bella’s grave. The desire to escape is overwhelming. My mind blanks out her death. I will my muscles to drive me forward through the pain barrier. My body and mind are in full survival mode as I fly across the porch and snatch at the door handle.
Someone, maybe me, I can’t remember, has locked the door. Momentarily, my sanctuary eludes me. I settle my shoulder against the door and shove hard. It won’t budge.
Key. Key. Key… Where is the goddamned key…
I pat my pockets. I’ve locked myself out. Perhaps the door has locked itself on the latch behind me?
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
The spare. Look under the plant pot…
I spin, press my back against the door and peer out across the garden in the half-light. Pray that I’m alone. That I’ve not been followed. Nothing stirs. I suck a long breath and push aside the flower pot. The vivid stench of dead geraniums assaults my nostrils. Desiccated leaves crumble under my fingertips.
The key is gone!
Clacking manically, an agitated blackbird scuttles into the undergrowth.
Run!
At a break in the clouds, moonlight illuminates my escape. I stumble through the garden and woods like a wounded deer towards the steps leading down to the beach.
Reaching the tops of the steps, I take a firm grip of the rickety handrail. I halt to catch my breath and let my heart rate slow. My heightened senses search for the telltale signs that my hunter is gaining on me. Something tells me that he’s close, hidden in the shadows, somewhere. I turn and gaze towards the ocean lapping against the shore.
I crank my head on one side and listen hard. But for the gentle rasp of the surf, all is quiet. Dark foreboding clouds steal the moonlight. I blink away my dread: try hard to think clearly.
The lodge is the one place on the island I ought to feel safe, but all along he’s had a key. He’s intruded into my sanctuary – my home – and stolen my things. The bared teeth of the animal, known as fear, gnaws at my gut. A mischievous demon sits on my shoulder and whispers into my ear.
Has he crept around while you slept?
It’s him you’ve been hearing at night.
What does he want?
Were you violated?
“Stop it,” I scream, squeezing my eyes tight shut, pressing my thumb on the ragged, bleeding bandage. It’s all I can do to drive the beast away. I draw a long invigorating breath deep into my lungs. I need to focus.
I can make it to the jetty. I can escape in the boat. It’s my only chance. I’ll motor around to the next bay and find help at one of the townships along the coast.
A twig snaps close-by. A fox yelps in the woods beyond the steps.
Move your ass, woman!
A shaft of moonlight spotlights the lobster boat. It bobs on the swell.
Thank God.
It’s tied at the end of the jetty by a sun-faded, frayed rope. I inhale with relief. A cackle escapes my throat. My hand shoots over my mouth. I shush myself. Check behind.
Be quiet!
I sprint across the sand, bound onto the jetty and spot a metal ladder bolted to the timbers at the far end. Limpets decorate every surface. I lower my feet onto the first rung. Sharp creatures rip at my knuckles and feet as I make my way down the ladder.
I won’t look back. Can’t look back. I’m imprisoned by fear. I push away the feeling and descend to the boat.
Landing on the deck, the boat pitches, rocks and rolls. I almost fall overboard. I flop onto my butt, reach out and take a firm grip on the gunwale. Seawater sloshes around my toes. It’s freezing cold. The shock of it does little to quiet the rush of blood through my ears and the bass drum thumping in my chest.
A line is looped through a rusty cleat bolted to the jetty and tied securely to the boat’s bow. Another line secures the stern. I need to start the motor and release the lines.
Is that the correct order? Or do I release the lines and then start the motor?
I shouldn’t doubt myself. The boat isn’t much bigger than the launch on Charles’s yacht. I’ve performed this maneuver many times before.
I can do this. Stop panicking!
I can’t remember. I’m lost in a fog of indecision.
Just untie the lines, woman!
I waste valuable time trying to untie the hitch. The saturated rope refuses to release from the rusty cleat. The bandage around my hand gets shredded. When it does finally come free, I turn my attention to the bow. The swell of the ocean frustrates my efforts to release the loop from the post. Silent, angry tears course down my cheeks.
The planets align. The boat comes free of its mooring and drifts away from the jetty. At last, I’m escaping the island. But I’m not safe, yet.
Start the motor!
The boat seesaws furiously on the swell. Struggling to stand, I negotiate my way to the stern. Sucking air, I desperately try to calm my breathing and stop my teeth from chattering. It’s not working. Cold shivers race along my arms. I reach the stern, fall onto the tiller and push it forward. The propeller lands into the ocean with a splash. I snag the toggle on the start cord between my fingers. Excruciating pains shoot along my arm. My frantic heart pumps yet more blood into the deep crimson stained bandage. My temples burn.
I muster all my strength and pull hard on the start cord. Frantic whirling dies on the night air. I pull again. Same result. I try again. Almost drag my arm out of the socket. Nothing. The motor refuses to start.
I bite my lip. A low growl escapes my lips. I close my eyes. Concentrate. Am I missing something?
Think!
When I open my eyes, I see that I’ve drifted to the area where Bella fell. I whimper. Exhale. My heart hurts. Something catches my eye. A man stands silhouetted in the moonlight on the cliff top. It’s a deja vu, moment. He’s got lucky since I’ve drifted here on the swell. Whoever it is
watching me struggle, appears to be waiting for me to fail.
The demons chatter their grim dialogue inside my head.
What does Levi want from me?
Did he kill Bella?
Did the son-of-a-bitch push her over?
What did she ever do to you, Levi?
Given his accident, does he have a morbid fascination with cliffs?
And this place?
I must stop overthinking. I need to get the damned motor started. Then I remember: the choke! The engine will be cold and damp. It needs more fuel. I yank the choke lever out. Try again.
With all my strength, I drag hard on the start cord. The motor stutters asthmatically to life. I thank the Gods. Increase the revs. Push the tiller away from my body. Set a heading for the open ocean.
The bow rises from the swell. Bluish smoke spits from the exhaust. The thick acridity of unburnt gas surrounds me. The bow sinks. I’ve applied too much power, too early. I push the choke lever in. Hold my breath until the engine calms and settles into a steady beat. The bow rises again. I’m transported over a breaking wave. An invisible hand presses me into the seat. I wipe the spray from my face and aim the bow into wind. The set of my jaw softens. A smirk plays at the corner of my mouth. My brain tingles. My stomach relaxes. Fresh air rushes into my lungs. I turn and glance back towards the cove. I allow a spark of hope to enter my heart. It’s an alien feeling, but nonetheless it’s there. I feel it. Optimism. Anticipation. Unfamiliar, though welcome emotions.
The boat bounces on the swell. I cling to the wooden hull with my left hand and hold the tiller with my right. I’m aware that a sizable wave could hurl me overboard at any moment. I revel in the vibrations from the tiller. An electric hum rushes through the ragged bandage around my right hand. The discomfort reminds me that I’m alive.
Alive! And free! Wonderful emotions.
A triangular tendril of moonlight reflects brightly from the surface of the ocean, ahead. Through the froth, I see the outline of an unfamiliar headland two miles distant. I set course for the headland and pray for safety.
