‘We shouldn’t be here,’ I said, dazed.
‘Too bloody late for that.’ Mother drew her hair back from her face. ‘This was your—’
‘No, Mother, listen. Look.’
‘Which one?’
‘Look around.’
Mirabelle and Aunt Charlotte leaned towards us. The wind buffeted so heavily that it was hard to open our eyes beyond a squint.
‘Remember the briefing.’
‘The what, Ursula?
‘The briefing, Aunt Charlotte. The introduction. Game of Thrones and Sexy Back?’
‘He wasn’t called that, I don’t think, dear.’
‘Never mind what he was called. Take a look around.’
She scanned the weary, seasick faces.
‘What do you see?’
‘Very little really, dear.’
Mother was growing impatient. ‘Just tell us, Ursula, without the dramatics. What are we supposed to be seeing?’
‘We’re on the wrong boat,’ Bridget said.
There was a pause. No one moved, as if staying still might in some way help. Slowly, we looked from person to person. Not one of them had been in the briefing. There were no fat City boys, or Tough Mudder T-shirts, no tight-haired influencers and definitely no Kemp. We were on the wrong boat. And it was a boat being steered by a crazed drunk chasing Moby Dick and mermaids into the full force of a rising storm.
‘Excuse me,’ I shouted, ‘but where is Kemp?’
‘Who?’ Spear shielded his face from the spray.
‘Kemp?’ I saw Mother narrowing her eyes at me. ‘Sorry, I mean Mr Brown. Brendan Brown.’
Spear’s face gathered into confusion. ‘What’s that clown got to do with anything?’
‘Are you taking us out there to meet him or does he come along later?’
He was frowning at me. ‘I’m not going anywhere near the man.’
I paused and Nell staggered to her feet as the deck rolled to the side. ‘Brendan Brown?’ she said. A look of realization seemed to spread across her face. ‘Bo-No, have you got that register up front? Did you check it this time?’
Bottlenose laughed manically.
Nell looked back to me, her face slick with seawater and rain. ‘Are you supposed to be with Brendan Brown?’
I nodded. ‘We thought . . . Well, we were told . . .’
‘We need to turn about.’ Spear drew up his shoulders and sighed. ‘You ladies have got on the wrong boat.’ He turned to Nell and lowered his voice a little. ‘How did this happen?’
Nell looked suddenly angry. ‘Oh come on, we were picking up at Leverburgh. How is it always my fault?’
Spear looked away. ‘Somehow it always is. Got a bloody talent for it.’ He turned to Bottlenose. ‘Turn her around.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ Bottlenose laughed and drank from the bottle as he fell across the wheel. The boat lurched into the fierce waves. The lightning sparked against the flint sky.
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ Mirabelle shouted. ‘How have you only worked this out now, Ursula?’
‘Oh, and what about you, genius? The boat was there to pick us up. I’d no idea if Kemp was meant to be there too. He could have just been for the introduction. These guys look more serious. We could have been meeting him at the camp. I tried to ask when we were meeting them, but as usual I was ignored and told to sit down.’ I pulled myself up straight. ‘You’ve got eyes in your bloody head as well.’
Aunt Charlotte leaned towards me. ‘Can I just ask who this Kemp person is? And also, are we being kidnapped? I’ve always wanted to be kidnapped.’
‘Don’t start, Aunt Charlotte. I’ve just about—’
The rain drowned out our voices, drumming on the deck as loud as falling stones. The boat tilted so hard we grabbed for the sides. Waves smashed high and over us, soaking our skin and clothes.
‘Pandora, Ursula, what can we do?’ Aunt Charlotte’s eyes were wide and frantic. I could see the salt crystals crusted on the ends of her eyelashes, the raindrops falling across her raw face like tears. She was so desperate. And in that single moment I saw it. Aunt Charlotte, my Aunt Charlotte was in grave danger. We all were, and I had put us there. The wind was filled with such a fine grit of sand and salt that the air itself felt like it was scouring me, as if it was trying to wear me down.
‘It’ll be OK,’ I shouted over the squall, but I couldn’t tell if she could hear me.
Nell stumbled in front of me and before she could steady herself, she was quickly thrown onto the bench next to Angel. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he didn’t move at all. I watched the young man as he looked into her face and gave an unnervingly calm, long, slow smile. It was just a moment, but she seemed to linger in it. So did he. I watched his fingers slowly slip through hers. She noticed his vast array of bracelets and Angel seemed all too ready to start talking her through them. She looked genuinely engaged by him.
We were hit by another wave and a slash of lightning opened the sky. A sulphurous smell clung to the damp, salt air. Nell and Angel still didn’t move.
Then everything seemed to move in a strange shift. Spear started shouting angry words above the top note of the storm. ‘Right, ladies and gents, time to get serious.’ He seemed almost disorientated by his own temper and pivoted onto his back foot as another wave took us. He grabbed the first rucksack — Mother’s unfortunately — and hurled it over the side. He managed to throw out three more packs before we could process what he was doing. It was all happening before we could move or scream.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Mirabelle dragged herself to her feet, staggering from side to side.
‘No gear, no fear!’ Spear shouted and flung another rucksack overboard. Aunt Charlotte made a lunge for her bag and lay spreadeagle across the deck.
‘There’s no way. No way.’ She was shaking her head wildly.
‘That was bloody Hermès!’ Mother’s mouth hung open. The boat rolled hard to the left and Mother was thrown back into her seat.
‘We’re heroes of pain!’ Spear roared above the noise of the engine and the baying wind. He was utterly manic. He hurled another rucksack, then spun round, crazed and wild.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Mother stared at him, seawater pouring down from her hair. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Jess and Ryan, both looking disorientated and angry, began to stand, but as they rose, the boat listed again and the deck was almost vertical. A long line of lightning fell out of the dark clouds and filigreed across the sky. It lingered in the darkness for a moment like the white roots of a tree spreading out. Bottlenose was leaning hard on the wheel and as we rounded another wave, noise filled the air as if we were being shelled. A great split of wood was the last thing we heard before we hit the water. As the mast keeled over towards the sea, I saw the distinct shape of the horseshoe fly through the air and strike Bottlenose squarely on the back of the head.
White, foam water filled up my mouth and my nose. I was blind. My ears surged with pain from the pressure of the water and a great tide of blood rushed through my head. My legs were being pulled towards the seabed. My breath was so loud in my head that the outside world faded into a dull pulse. My clothes circled my waist, twisting around me, my hair wound round my face like weeds. I was being gathered in by the sea, swallowed. I could hear voices, distant screaming but it was a muted noise. Then I was rising, fast through the waves. And I could see hands pushing down on a head . . . and those green eyes were staring back at me in desperate horror.
And then they were gone.
CHAPTER 9: AN ANCIENT WORLD
Coarse waves, thick with salt, washed over my legs. Cloying sand sucked me down, rough pools of water gathered beneath my face, grinding grit into my cheek. I was in that weightless moment on the cusp of waking where nowhere seems familiar, when no memories will settle or form into a recognizable pattern. My eyes were raw, stinging with seawater. Salt crusted my skin with crystals and stuck to my lashes like barbs.
<
br /> A view formed through the letterbox slit of my lids. A bruised sky. A world grey with rain. It was an insipid mist that hung over the land, the sky still heavy and the air dank with briny water. It was dusk. I had no idea how long I’d been there. Fragments of memory washed in like wreckage. They bore no resemblance to anything I remembered. My recollection was just remnants of what I’d seen, driftwood that no longer fit together.
I could see Dad lying in my young arms, the breath so desperate to escape quickly from him, to leave the body of a dying man.
Now I saw Mother sending me off on my first day at boarding school. She didn’t wait for me to disappear before she turned away back to her life.
Then Mother was there, in front of me, her arms slick with water as she held them up.
‘Christ!’ Clumps of wet sand fell into my mouth. ‘Mother!’ I sat up and the full picture of our vast new prison opened out. An abandoned wilderness, bleak beneath a dead sky. The sand was dark with rain. I could taste the salt on the air, hardening everything. The contours of the hills merged with the layers of cloud into one lost landscape, thick mist stealing their edges and smudging their form. Distant islands were no more than dark silhouettes, shadows on the horizon. When I stared long enough, strange forms seemed to move through the mist.
I took one long breath of silty air then pushed it out. ‘Mother!’
‘Don’t shout, Ursula!’ Mother stood over me, her shape flat against the stone sky.
‘You’re alive!’ I breathed. A great flood of relief surprised me.
‘I’m yet to be convinced.’
Another groan and a body rolled over on the dark sand.
‘Am I alive too?’ Aunt Charlotte moaned.
‘No,’ Mother answered. ‘This is hell.’
The wind and rain all seemed to be advancing over the sand, bombarding us.
My clothes hung heavy around me, bloated with seawater. They rubbed against my bruised arms and shins. My hair fell limp across my face and my eyes bulged with wet, salty grime. I felt sick, as if I’d been pumped full of brine.
I looked around. There was a small amount of wreckage but no big pieces of debris and crucially, no other bodies. Mother and I had washed ashore together, spat out by the sea in an unceremonious heap. Aunt Charlotte was sprawled out on the sand a few feet away, her face half-buried in the sand. She was moaning like a snared animal but making very little attempt to move. There was no one else on the beach — no Captain Bottlenose, no Spear, nor his wife, no Jess and her partner, no Bridget, not even Mr Bojingles.
‘Where’s Mirabelle?’ Mother was nothing if not predictable.
Sadly, I hadn’t forgotten Mirabelle either. I’d just hoped Mother had.
‘Mirabelle?’ Mother scanned the beach as if she had in-built Mirabelle radar. I can’t be sure she hasn’t been fitted with something like that.
In some ways, I hoped Mirabelle was alive because if she was actually dead then Mother would never let her go. She might as well move Bob the Therapist in at that point.
We began to peel ourselves off the sand.
‘Is everyone OK? No broken bones, no—’
‘No, everyone isn’t bloody OK, Ursula.’ Mother was smoothing down her hair manically. ‘Where the hell is Mirabelle?’
I shrugged. That was unwise. It did look a bit flippant.
‘For God’s sake, Ursula. Show a little compassion!’
‘For Mirabelle?’
She sighed and walked towards the shore, looking out at the fierce waves. There was little chance of anyone coming out of that alive now but I decided it probably wasn’t the time to say that to Mother.
I tried to envisage myself being whirled by the force of the sea, the waves churning around me. My mind tumbled. I couldn’t settle on one face, they just melted into the surf. It was all confusion. Then I saw them again. They shone out at me from the waves of memory. Green eyes. That’s all I could see. Why green eyes? What had I seen?
Yap.
The image was gone.
‘We’re alive!’ Bridget’s voice carried along the full length of the beach. There was no sadness or shock on her features, just joy for her own survival. ‘We’re alive!’
‘Oh, joy,’ I called.
‘It’s Bridget, darling,’ Aunt Charlotte murmured. ‘Joy’s gone, remember?’
Yap.
‘Mr Bojingles is so wet though.’ Bridget shook her head in dismay.
‘That’s because he’s been in the sea, Bridget.’ Mother doesn’t do sympathy.
‘We’re all wet!’ Aunt Charlotte was flicking sand out from her hands. ‘We’ve been bloody shipwrecked, Bridget. What did you expect? I nearly drowned!’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d float, dear.’ Bridget picked up the wet dog and stroked slowly down his back. ‘So, who’s left alive this time?’
We stared at her silently.
‘You do have a nasty habit of going on trips where people die, don’t you?’ Her teeth closed into a grin, like a bone-white cage. The dog yapped again in agreement.
‘And yet, you always seem to survive, Bridget?’ Mother was in no mood for Bridget or the dog.
In the distance, I saw a lone dark figure trudging across the sand. The rolled shoulders and disgruntled stomp were unmistakably Mirabelle. She filled my view like a great storm cloud.
‘Oh, thank God!’ Mother ran towards her as if war had just ended. I couldn’t bear to watch. I gathered myself and scraped back my hair. My throat was raw with salt, my fingers brittle with cold.
I stood and scanned the shoreline. Debris littered the waves: unfathomable and disjointed pieces of a boat, some luggage, bottles and tins. Then, among the wreckage, I spotted a bundle that seemed to turn against the foam with a strength of its own. A long, white hand reached through the thick sand and clawed its way up. There was a sudden glimpse of a face before the body collapsed into the water again.
‘Someone’s alive!’ I said, almost to myself. Then louder. ‘Someone’s alive!’ I ran to the edge of the water. The body, face down, tried to move. It struggled to raise its head with the helpless motions of a newborn. I crouched down and rolled it over. The black hood fell back.
‘Angel.’
He coughed and salt water slipped down his chin in a silvery, thin trail. ‘I’m dying,’ he breathed.
‘No, you’re alive,’ I said. His hair clung to his head in slick, black curls. His face was haggard and drawn.
‘My . . . my boots.’
We looked down his legs to the bare feet. He’d been in the sea so long the skin was puckered into colourless ripples of skin. Violet veins traced below his pale flesh.
‘They were . . . everything.’ He shook his head.
‘Is this one alive or not?’ Bridget shouted over.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, which one is it?’ She was faultlessly callous, and I found myself imagining her rolling around like a dead fish in the surf.
‘Shut your mouth, you dirty old bag,’ Angel shouted. ‘Don’t even speak to me.’ His reaction was bizarrely sudden and vicious. It was so incongruous that it seemed a little crazed.
Bridget drew her head back as if she was offended. But then we all knew that nothing offended Bridget. She covered the dog’s ears. ‘I’ll thank you not to speak to me like that in front of Mr Bojingles.’
‘The dog can’t bloody understand.’ Angel began rearranging his various bracelets and chains.
I looked down to the rolling water’s edge. Among the debris, there was another bundle of filled-out clothes turning over in the waves, but this one did not struggle against the sea. It followed the water’s flow like the rest of the wreckage. It was face down in the water. I ran towards the floating dark mass. ‘Someone’s out there!’ I waded into the waves.
‘Wait, Ursula!’
Aunt Charlotte was beside me. The water pulled round our legs as if it was dragging us back under. We strode further out, each step pulling through the heavy waves.
‘Hello! Hi
there!’ I shouted into the sharp-edged wind, my voice drowned by the rush of the sea. I glanced at Aunt Charlotte, but she didn’t speak.
‘Hey!’
The body wheeled and tumbled as if it was made of nothing more than the outer coat we could see, plunging and turning with a worrying lightness on the waves. I waded further, the ice cold digging into my stomach now. A plank of jagged wood smacked into my side. I bounced up and down as the waves came in, trying to jump over each rising, cold flood of water. It was up to my chest now and I held my arms high above the waves. I reached out and grabbed for the sleeve.
It grabbed back.
There was a hand on my arm, grasping, travelling fast to my head and pushing me down. There was spume and spray in my eyes and desperate hands grabbing my face.
Aunt Charlotte dove at the hands and held hard. The head reared up. It was Bottlenose, his face livid with fear, his eyes wild against the ocean. His beard ran with chains of seawater, his hair silvered and slick against his face in the failing light. He was ashen, as if he might be made from the sea’s grey surf, as though he had already died out there. But his struggling arms said otherwise. There was a strength to him that I could not have imagined.
‘Get him in,’ Aunt Charlotte shouted. ‘I’ll hold his arms.’
He kicked and flailed as if he’d been caught in a net. He was shouting and swearing all the way back to shore. We dropped him back on the sand and he looked up to heaven as if he truly believed in something he could see there. ‘I was dead. I was surely dead.’
BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2) Page 7
