All My Secrets

by Sophie McKenzie

  ‘So I can’t stop thinking that maybe I saw Irina’s ghost,’ I finish, my eyes filling with tears. ‘The red hat and black coat are the same as the woman in the article. So is the date of Irina’s death. I know this place is famous for ghosts and I really think she might be haunting me. I want to speak to my uncle to . . . to find out more about how she died. If maybe someone could have made a mistake about the circumstances or the place. Can I call him?’

  ‘Mmm, I see.’ Mr Lomax sits back in his chair. I wait for him to go on. I feel better for having told him everything. After a long pause, he taps his fingers together. ‘I’m going to overlook your running off last night when I asked you not to, Evie, but only on condition you don’t do it again. Deal?’

  I nod, wiping my face.

  ‘The thing is, Evie, that when we suffer a terrible loss our brain sometimes struggles to process what has happened. We’re liable to look for meanings that aren’t there . . . for something to make sense of what, ultimately, makes no sense: why a loving mother should be taken away from her baby. Why that baby should grow up, naturally wanting to find out more about her mother, perhaps even to be like her mother.’

  I frown, unsure what he’s trying to say. ‘Are you telling me that I can’t phone my uncle?’

  ‘I’m simply saying that I’d like you to examine your thoughts more carefully. For a start, are you sure you saw someone in the woods yesterday? As you are bound to have heard already, the island is famous for its light which can play strange tricks on the vision. Peculiar sightings are common here: shadows, bursts of bright white light. At sunrise and sunset in particular, the light seems almost ethereal, other-worldly.’

  ‘I’m sure I saw someone,’ I say stubbornly.

  ‘OK.’ Mr Lomax sighs. ‘Then let’s examine the evidence.’ He holds up the photocopy of the newspaper article. ‘You say the description of the woman given in this sounds like your mother: blonde, below average build and height. Well, wouldn’t you also say that could describe literally millions of people?’

  ‘I guess,’ I say reluctantly. ‘But what about the date?’

  ‘Over a thousand people die in the UK every day. I think it most likely a complete coincidence that your own mother passed on the same day.’ Mr Lomax pauses. ‘Perhaps my next point won’t weigh very heavily with you, but, though I don’t remember exactly where I was on that day fifteen years ago, I can’t believe a woman could have died here – or a mysterious stranger be suspected of murdering her – without my father mentioning it.’

  He points to the article. ‘My dad clearly doesn’t know the woman, it says so here, so she wasn’t an Institute inmate or a member of staff.’ He pauses. ‘It rather suggests to me that the whole business was probably invented or at least misrepresented by the newspaper. It certainly seems unlikely the unfortunate woman was ever found, which makes it even less likely any kind of crime actually took place.’

  I shake my head. ‘Maybe your dad just didn’t want to talk about what happened.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but even supposing this unnamed witness mentioned in the article really did see a woman being pushed into the sea, it doesn’t mean that woman was your birth mother.’ Mr Lomax sighs. ‘Do you not think it’s possible that you’re simply looking for connections that aren’t there? That you are so desperate to feel a bond with your birth mother that you’re seeing – or more literally imagining you see – her spirit when it simply cannot be so.’

  I gulp. The way Mr Lomax puts it sounds so logical and yet I’m sure of what I’ve seen – and the article is definitely too big a coincidence not to check out.

  ‘Don’t you want to know the truth about what happened here?’ I ask. ‘I know my dad has told you about me not finding out until very recently about . . . about Irina Galloway being my real mum. I’ve already been lied to about that, so maybe there are other lies too, other secrets.’

  A shadow passes over Mr Lomax’s face. For a second, his calm expression morphs into a look of guilty confusion. Again, I’m certain that he knows more than he’s saying. I fidget in my seat.

  ‘Evie, I’ve read your file and spoken to your father,’ Mr Lomax goes on gently, his face resuming its calm expression. ‘I understand that you are in terrible pain. It’s an awful thing to have to struggle to become a young woman, without the presence of the very person who is supposed to be here to show you how. I myself lost my own mother when I was a child. She died after a long, slow illness and, although that was nearly forty years ago, the hole her loss left in my life can and will never be filled.’

  ‘Wow, that must have been awful,’ I say sincerely.

  ‘It was very hard,’ Mr Lomax acknowledges.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Are there any records that might say if Irina was here, from when your dad was in charge?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Mr Lomax says, though he sounds relieved rather than afraid. ‘None of the files relating to my father’s stewardship of the Institute have survived. The paperwork only goes back ten years, to when I took over the island and set up the Lightsea Young Adult Development Programme.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I chew my lip, There’s no mistaking the ‘I’ve-dodged-a-bullet look’ on Mr Lomax’s face. He seems determined to block or discredit every single suggestion or idea I come up with. ‘I’d still like to talk to my uncle.’

  Mr Lomax clears his throat. ‘I understand that, but we have the “no contact” rule for a very good reason and we only make exceptions in extreme circumstances which, I think you’ll agree, is not the case here where you’re basing your request on a series of allegations and suppositions.’ He pauses. ‘Do you agree?’

  I don’t. But it’s obvious that Mr Lomax is never going to allow for the possibility that I really saw Irina’s ghost. I give a tiny nod.

  ‘I also think, if you give the programme here a chance, you’ll really find it helpful. Your uncle certainly seemed to think you would.’ Mr Lomax sits back. ‘What do you say? Are you prepared to let me keep this newspaper article to help you let it fade from your mind?’

  ‘OK,’ I reluctantly agree.

  ‘And will you promise to focus on what I believe is really at the root of this: your grief over your mother? Are you prepared to be open to the opportunities Lightsea can offer?’

  I stare at the floor. The carpet is as threadbare as Mr Lomax’s jumper. His look of guilty confusion from a few moments ago flashes into my mind again.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say.

  ‘Good.’ Mr Lomax offers me a relieved smile. ‘Now go and join the others for breakfast, and we’ll talk some more in a day or so.’ His gaze drifts to the window.

  I leave the room, feeling troubled. It is, of course, possible that Mr Lomax is entirely right about what I saw and that the news report did indeed invent or misinterpret what happened here fifteen years ago. It’s certainly possible that the woman – even if she was murdered – wasn’t Irina.

  But my instincts tell me that David Lomax is covering something up.

  And I need to find out what.

  Thirteen

  The others are halfway through a huge cooked breakfast when I walk into the kitchen. Pepper and Josh are deep in conversation, though they both wave at me as I stroll over. Kit and Anna are talking intently too; so intently that they don’t even notice me. Does Anna like him? I don’t know. It’s even harder to tell if Kit’s interested in her or just being friendly.

  Deeply hoping it’s the latter, I sit down at the end of the table beside Samuel. Samuel squints at the sausage on the end of his fork.

  ‘Did you know that a grandmother once found a dead kitten inside her sausage?’ he asks.

  I forget Kit. ‘Er, OK . . . eew, really? That’s disgusting.’

  Samuel keeps his gaze on the sausage. ‘They think the kitten must have wandered into the factory where they made the sausages and bits of it got caught up in the machinery.’

  I glance down at the bacon and sausages on the table, my appetite vanishi
ng. Everyone else except Anna, who’s picking at a thin slice of apple, is munching away. I take a bread roll and nibble at the edges.

  Was Irina pushed off Easter Rock fifteen years ago? And, if so, by whom? How on earth am I going to find out?

  ‘OK everyone, I’m Mr Bradley.’ The burly young man who rushed past Miss Bunnock and me last night is standing by the door. He scowls, winding his scarf tightly round his neck. His chin is covered with dark stubble, his hair tousled as if he’s been out in the wind. ‘All those doing outdoor chores need to be by the front door in five minutes.’

  Josh and Pepper groan loudly, while Anna heads to the wallchart, offering to check who is supposed to be doing which chore. I pocket the rest of my roll and stand up.

  ‘Where did you get to after meditation?’ Kit asks, appearing beside me.

  I shrug, my heart giving a little skip that he’s talking to me. ‘Mr Lomax wanted a word,’ I say. ‘Nothing major.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kit nods. He indicates the wallchart. ‘I’ve already looked,’ he says. ‘You and me are outside.’

  ‘Oh—’ I start.

  ‘What about me?’ Pepper demands. ‘I know it’s toilet cleaning this afternoon, but . . .’

  ‘We’re doing food prep in the kitchen this morning, Pepper,’ Anna says timidly, turning from the chart. ‘Everyone else is outside with Mr Bradley.’

  Pepper groans again. Josh pushes himself up from the table.

  ‘At least “outside” is better than peeling veg,’ he says.

  ‘But there’s food inside,’ Samuel says, looking puzzled.

  ‘Come on.’ Kit ushers me to the door as Pepper slumps back into her chair.

  ‘I’d even rather do stupid meditation with Loonymax,’ she moans as we leave the room. ‘At least you can daydream while you’re breathing through your arms and legs or whatever it is you’re supposed to . . .’

  Her loud, clear voice echoes around us, still complaining away, as Kit and I cross the hall with Josh and Samuel trailing in our wake.

  ‘That girl has a definite problem with authority,’ Kit mutters under his breath.

  I glance at him, unsure what to say. ‘Well, no one likes being told what to do,’ I venture.

  Kit opens his mouth, but before he could speak Josh sidles up between us.

  ‘Depends who’s doing the telling,’ he says with a wink, then saunters over to the boot rack.

  ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ snaps Mr Bradley who is waiting by the front door.

  There is just time to tug on our boots before Mr Bradley chivvies us outside and sets off at a brisk pace. It’s still chilly and misty outside, though the sun is already burning through the clouds. But we’re walking too fast to feel cold. Even Kit is almost jogging in order to keep up with Mr Bradley, while Samuel is running flat out. Before we are over the first hillock, he starts panting for breath, falling behind the rest of us.

  ‘Mr Bradley,’ I call out. ‘Please could we slow down?’

  ‘No,’ Mr Bradley barks, barely glancing over his shoulder. ‘The pace is not excessive. You should all be able to keep up!’

  We keep going for nearly ten minutes before Mr Bradley steers us up the hill that dominates the south-west tip of the island. We’re all out of breath by the time we reach the top. It’s an amazing spot, especially now the mist has rolled back from the shore. From where we stand, you can see the oval shape of the island and the sea on all sides.

  ‘Orienteering session,’ Mr Bradley shouts over the wind. ‘That way is north-east.’ He points towards the trees and rocks where I saw the dark figure in the red hat yesterday. ‘High rocks run along much of the coast. The very tip of the eastern part of the island, opposite where we are now, is Easter Rock.’

  I shiver at the mention of the place where the woman in the article was killed.

  ‘The rocks in the sea around that part of the island are particularly dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah, we know.’ Josh catches my eye as if to ask: How many more times are they going to mention it?

  I nod to show I understand.

  ‘Lightsea House is over there.’ Mr Bradley points in the direction we’ve just come from. The roof of the house is just visible beyond another copse of trees. ‘The boathouse, jetty and Boater’s Cove are along the coast to the south-east. There are many caves dotted around the island that run underground from the sea to the interior of the island. They flood when the tide rises, making them a drowning risk. It’s also easy to get trapped in one of the many bays and coves. Water rises, cutting off all routes out and in. Result again: drowning. Understand?’

  ‘Yeah, we get it,’ Josh grumbles.

  Kit crosses his arms. ‘Well, I think it makes sense to keep explaining how dangerous the water can be.’

  Everyone except Samuel, currently preoccupied with a nearby tree, stares at him. Even Mr Bradley looks slightly bemused.

  ‘Quite,’ he says. ‘Good. Anyway, time to go back down the hill.’

  As we jog down the slope, Josh moves closer to Kit.

  ‘Nice job on the sucking-up front, man,’ he says with a grin.

  I suppress a smile. Kit ignores him.

  We reach level ground a few moments later. Mr Bradley directs Josh and Samuel to a patch of trees to gather wood, then turns to Kit and me. ‘You two can help me with the boat repairs.’

  My stomach cartwheels as we say goodbye to the others and follow Mr Bradley along a winding path. I’m about to spend at least the next hour with Kit. We emerge on to Boater’s Cove after about ten minutes. It’s a pebble-strewn, horseshoe-shaped beach bounded by high rocks, with a wooden boathouse right on the shore and a huge, covered woodpile lined up against a low fence leading round to the trees. The jetty where Andrew and I were dropped off yesterday is visible in the distance.

  ‘What would you like us to do, sir?’ Kit asks.

  ‘Today, varnishing,’ Mr Bradley says.

  He leads us into the boathouse. I’ve never been anywhere like this before: a large, square, wooden shed full of boating gear, with one wall open to the sea. A small boat with the name Aurora painted along the side bobs on the water inside. Waves from the sea smack gently against its hull.

  Mr Bradley hands out tins of varnish and brushes, then shows us how to apply the varnish properly to the inside of the boat. After checking we know what we’re doing, he wanders outside, saying he’ll be back in half an hour. Kit and I are alone.

  It’s nice inside the boathouse: cool and shady, but with the sun shining brightly on the water outside. A gull squawks overhead. We work for a few minutes in silence, then Kit clears his throat.

  ‘I wasn’t sucking up earlier,’ he says. ‘I just don’t see the point in making a big fuss about everything like Josh and Pepper do.’

  ‘Right.’ I don’t quite know what to say. On the one hand, he’s right about there not being much point in moaning. On the other, you can’t just let grown-ups walk all over you.

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘What were you talking to Mr Lomax about earlier?’ Kit asks. ‘Is everything OK?’

  I chew on my lip, stumped again. Here in the light of day it seems silly to even consider the possibility of ghosts, but the coincidences still remain. I’m torn between explaining everything to Kit and keeping quiet about my suspicions. In the end, I just tell him that the figure I’m sure I saw in the woods resembles the woman described in the newspaper article who, in turn, sounds like my real mum.

  ‘So it’s all seems a bit weird . . . that they look alike, you know . . . blonde, dying on the same day . . .?’

  I’m hoping Kit will nod and agree with me. Instead, he frowns. ‘Yeah, I can see it’s a bit weird, but as a coincidence it doesn’t really add up, does it?’

  ‘Oh?’ I say, feeling thrown. I keep my voice carefully light: ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean to be nosy, but how was your mum supposed to have died?’

  ‘Everything I’ve been told or read says she was in a traffic acciden
t in Nottingham, a hit-and-run.’

  ‘Right.’ Kit frowns again. ‘ So if your mum was the woman pushed into the sea, why would anyone go to the trouble to retrieve her body and leave it on a road hundreds of miles away?’

  ‘Presumably so that no one would connect her death with Lightsea,’ I say.

  ‘OK . . . but how would they make it look like a hit-and-run? I mean she wouldn’t have the right injuries on her body.’

  I wince. ‘The rocks in the sea could leave bruises that might look the same as those from a lorry.’

  ‘What about the fact that there would be water in her lungs?’ Kit persists. ‘You wouldn’t expect to find that if someone had been run over in a road accident. And all those details would be in the post-mortem.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I concede, my face flushing. ‘But post-mortems can be faked, can’t they?’

  ‘I guess, but it seems really unlikely.’ Kit turns to face me, varnish brush in hand. ‘Look, I’m just saying it’s strange and . . . and don’t take this the wrong way – but . . . well, does it make all that much difference? Your birth mum is gone, which is very, very sad, but knowing exactly how she died isn’t going to change anything.’

  I focus on the patch of wood I’m slathering with varnish, pretending I’m brushing it carefully. Inside I turn over what Kit has said. Like Mr Lomax, he sounds cool, logical and rational. But like Mr Lomax he’s wrong. It does matter how Irina died. And I can’t discount the possibility that her death happened here, just because it can’t be explained rationally.

  We work on in silence for a few more minutes.

  ‘Evie?’ I look up to find Kit shuffling along the boat towards me. He stops about an arm’s length away, then puts his hand on an unvarnished bit of wood next to mine so our fingers are almost touching. My heart gives another little skip.