by A. M. Castle
I can tell from his hearty tone that he’s about to do one of his disappearing acts, but I want to go first – and I don’t want him coming with me. I disentangle Ruby, though the embrace feels like a welcome confirmation that I do have a good mothering gene somewhere after all, and announce brightly to the group, ‘Well, I’m off back to the house.’ Then I stump away before anyone has a chance to follow.
I can’t help it. As soon as I’m round the corner I have to pause, try to get my pulse back under control. I look around. Close up, the rough-hewn shape of the boulders seems somehow elemental. I think again about that near miss. What was all that about?
Surely there’s no one here who wishes me ill? I have my moments, but I’m a nice enough person really … Oh God, introspection isn’t good for me. I’m finally starting to relax again, when I hear something that makes my heart lurch.
A footstep on the path behind me.
Chapter 22
Tasha
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
Where is he, where is he? Dad turning up like that has properly scared him off. And Aunty Vicky before that. Just when we were getting somewhere. Just when we were finally sorting some things out …
We must talk. Otherwise there’s a danger he’ll get it all wrong. He might not even believe all those things I said. And I meant every word. I feel it again, just at the thought of him, that bubble of happiness, that Christmas-morning joy I used to get when I was a kid. Before I realised the rustling and swearing was Mum and Dad, dragging the stockings upstairs, trying not to argue again.
Raf – I love saying his name, even just to myself. I feel all melty as I think about him. Raf. But I’m not going to drift off into a daydream about him. I’m trying to be practical, actually help him with his work, now that I’m an influencer. Nessie would kill herself laughing if she could hear me call myself that, but even she has to admit I’m soaring now on my Insta. Over 7k followers, and more by the day. And I haven’t had to flash the flesh, like some girls do. Well, not much, anyway.
I think Raf was impressed, when I told him about it earlier. He pretended not to be, but now I’m getting sponsorship, it takes it to a different league. It’s just a few things at the moment, a discount code or two, a pair of trainers, a swimsuit. But they’re brands I actually like, so it’s not lying when I recommend them. I told Raf he should do the same.
As a PT he could be getting way more business, putting some routines on TikTok. He’d get free stuff, too; the latest weights and that. He can be so old-school though. When I suggested it he suddenly looked … disapproving.
Wait, could he just be jealous? That’s just popped into my head, but I know I’m right. I smile. I do have a lot of male followers, it’s true. It’s not something I think about much at all, the number of fit-looking boys signing up. It’s a compliment, but a lot of them might just be pretending to be single. The messages they send … It’s hot air, isn’t it?
It puts a whole different slant on things if he is jealous. Aw, so cute. But he should know better. He’s never had any competition, not since that lame parents’ do last Christmas. I mean, we’ve known each other forever. Since birth, really. But something happened that evening. Since then, I’ve known we are meant for each other. We just clicked. It was amazing. Like I was broken at birth, and he glued me back together. He was so easy to talk to, not like other boys. And when we first touched … It still gives me shivers.
Something weird is happening this weekend, though. Suddenly we can’t chat like normal. I miss that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was getting cold feet.
Some of it is people popping up all over the place here, getting in our faces. No privacy. Maybe we should just accept that, though? Come out of the shadows. I don’t want us to be a secret; not after all this time. I never wanted it, really. My mum may be a pain sometimes but I usually tell her everything – the stuff she needs to know anyway. This feels like a sort of invisible mattress that’s got stuck in between us. Keeping us apart. It feels wrong.
And it’s not like she wouldn’t be happy for me. Take the other day. ‘I’m worried you’re working too hard, all these study sessions with Rebecca. You need to let off steam, find a boyfriend,’ she said earnestly. Little does she know that ‘Rebecca’ is actually Raf. Raf’s dad, Bob, is fine with me being round there. Boys’ parents are so much cooler than girls’ parents.
It was Raf who said it would be more exciting as a secret. He was right; it felt so tingly. When we met up, I was breathless, dizzy with it. But now … We should stop hiding. I’ll talk to him about it. As soon as I can find him. This island is like a maze. From the top, you can see down, spot everyone. But once you’re on the paths, the high walls keep people on their own tracks, in a rat run or something. It’s beginning to get to me. It’s like we’re trapped.
I turn another corner, and suddenly the place goes from creepy to amazing again. It’s another of those views out to sea. It reminds me of Highway 1 in the States. We went on a family road trip when I was younger. Two, maybe three years ago. Mum and Dad were getting on, and even my sisters weren’t too much of a pain. We went from LA to Big Sur, and round every bend was a view that had me grinning; surf pounding, the blinding sky of California and, out in the ocean, leaping blue-black blurs. Only dolphins playing. How cool was that?
The colours aren’t as vivid here and the sea is much louder. Maybe it’s the wind, and those massive waves further out, but everything seems angrier than California. When I peer over the edge – oops, not too far out – the sea is literally beating the rocks below. Like it hates us all.
To think this is Aunty Rachel’s now. How great must it be, owning your own island? Even if it’s a bit of a cold and unfriendly place.
I call her Aunty, but Rachel’s not a real relative, not like all Mum’s great-aunts who are always bugging her. I could count the number of times I’ve seen Rachel on one hand. Well, until recently. She’s super-glam. It feels good to sort of have her in the family. It’s Mum who always refers to her as ‘Aunty Rachel’, but she’s actually my godmother. Sometimes friends have mentioned her, when she’s been in a photo alongside some megastar at Cannes or the Venice Biennale, and I’ve been able to say, ‘Oh yeah, my godmum.’ I try and be offhand, like it’s just one of those things, but I see why Mum gets such a thrill from it. Even after all these years, she has a huge girl crush. Though if you say that, it makes her furious.
What I can’t get over is the fact that they’re the same age. Don’t get me wrong, Mum looks great. But she’s a mum; that’s the first thing you notice about her. Rachel, though. She looks better than most of my friends. She must work out constantly. I slide a hand down my belly, suddenly realise my thighs are rubbing together as I walk. I’ve let things slip.
I hope Raf hasn’t noticed I’m looking chunky. Maybe that’s the reason he still wants to hide us? I look down, scuff a few pebbles out of my way, my sight blurry suddenly. Then I hear a cough. God, it’s bloody Nessie coming round the corner. A moment’s inattention and she’s caught up with me. Typical. ‘Have you found any clues?’ she asks, in that voice that’s one second from a whine.
I blink. Then I remember. The treasure hunt. There were meant to be numbered clues everywhere. Surely they would have leapt out? ‘No. You?’
She shakes her head. She’s trying that casual thing again, but I know she’s dying for us to do this together. I think about walking on, but then … Well, actually – why not? Just this once. Raf is nowhere to be seen. I might as well have her company.
And to tell the truth I don’t want to wander around here on my own. It’s creepy. We can have a laugh like we used to, bitch about the grown-ups in our little gang of two. We’d hide under the covers when Mum and Dad were ‘discussing things’ at the tops of their voices. We’d tell each other stories. Lots of happy-ever-afters with princesses who stayed at home to cook and clean, and princes who put the bins out without being asked every single time.
‘Shall we look
together?’ I say. Ness’s smile lights up her face, banishing all trace of her boring emo pose. I realise I’ve actually missed this and we have an awkward hug.
‘Yeah, why not, Miss Hippy Chic,’ she says – but she means it nicely. We walk off arm in arm. She’s not nearly as noxious when she’s being true to herself.
We’re a team again, and I feel like we’re invincible, or something.
As though nothing could ever go wrong.
Chapter 23
Tom
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
Having Ruby in tow is not ideal. Too old for a piggyback, she’s trailing along behind, happy as Larry – but she’s slowing me down. And her incessant chatter is cutting my concentration. She has Gita’s endless curiosity about stuff that doesn’t concern her.
Every now and then I try and be all educational, just like Gita, and ask Rubes the name of a plant or a bird. Her answers have me in stitches. By the time she says ‘phoenix’ when I point to our umpteenth gull, she’s got us both gasping. ‘Isn’t it funny, the way they look like their eyes are painted on?’ she says, watching one swoop dangerously close. I’m more concerned about those razor claws than the eyes, as the bird comes at us. I put my arm over her thin shoulders and pull her away.
By the time we reach the bottom of the winding path, even I am tiring, and Ruby has been quiet for a while. She sits on one of the rocks marking the edge of the causeway, chest heaving up and down. Quite a hike for a little ’un. ‘Why does the path disappear?’ she asks the moment she’s got her breath back.
‘It’s the tide,’ I say absently, scanning the sides of the entry point, looking back at the steep steps cut into the rock, and the contrasting ribbon of path with its deceptively gentle slope. Whichever route you pick, it’s quite a way back up to the castle. And, down here, there is literally nowhere to go – except into the sea. Just as I think that, a more ambitious wave hits the rocks and the spray flies up, catching Ruby smack in the back.
Luckily she finds it hilarious, though once the giggles wears off, her wet clothes are going to bring her mood right down. If Gita were here, she’d be clucking about pneumonia, freaking the child out. I just strip off my jacket, remove her sodden top, and wrap her up. The sleeves hang down, the hem is level with her knees. ‘Do you like my new dress?’ she asks, and I laugh.
Encouraged, she simpers and twirls. ‘I’m Rachel, I’m wearing a beautiful ballgown,’ she lisps.
‘Enough, now,’ I say quickly, grabbing her arm and getting a handful of empty jacket. I adjust my grip. ‘We’d better get a move on. It’s a long way back up that hill.’
She looks, too, craning her neck. High above us, we see the sheer face of Castle Tregowan. Behind it, a massive bank of grey and purple cloud has built up. When did that happen? I’m surprised, though I knew the storm was coming. Suddenly Ruby seems more of a titch than ever. ‘Come on,’ I say.
I should have known better. Ruby may be small, but she’s stubborn as any mule. ‘We were having fun! I want to stay here.’ Christ. I turn to her, ready to let fly, but her bottom lip is already wobbling. I don’t want to be Angry Dad. ‘Let’s see who can get up to the next level fastest,’ I say with false brightness. ‘On our marks, get set, go!’
That’s more like it. Ruby shoots up the steep steps like a greyhound out of a trap. She won’t keep that up for long, but it gives me time to look around. Soon I start the long climb myself. But by then, Ruby is nowhere to be seen.
‘Ruby?’ I shout upwards. The wind howls and the seagulls screech in answer, out at sea. Nothing from my daughter. No sound of her feet on the stone steps, and when I touch the metal handrail, there’s no vibration. It’s still, and cold.
‘Ruby!’ I shout again. Then I start to take the steps two at a time.
Chapter 24
Gita
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
When Tom burst in, looked wildly around, and then asked me, all casually, if I’d seen Ruby, I didn’t need any further prompting. I shot up and ran straight out onto the hill. ‘Yes, of course I’ll keep an eye on her,’ he’d said to me.
Now I’m standing on the edge of the steps down to the jetty and I can see … absolutely nothing. These intertwining pathways make it hard to find people. Was some Tregowan ancestor trying to repel visitors? My mind is windmilling from one thought to another, but behind them all, there’s a single phrase repeating. Where’s Ruby? Where’s Ruby? Where the hell has she disappeared to?
She’s nine years old, she’s alone on the island with a storm coming. And she can’t swim.
‘Don’t keep pushing it,’ Tom used to say, when he got back from the local pool at the weekend, with Ruby’s sausage of costume and towel suspiciously dry. ‘She’ll do it in her own time.’ I’d throw together a lunch and get on brightly with the day, but of course I worried. Ruby’s resistance to swimming has been monumental. I hoped peer pressure would do it, when they had lessons at school. Years of villa-and-pool holidays got us no further. Then Tom even booked her a private course. Nothing doing.
Now here we are, surrounded by a vicious-looking, freezing cold sea, and my baby is all alone out there. One step too far on any of the paths and she could be in the water. Vicky comes up to me as I’m craning out.
‘Whoa, careful there. What are you looking at?’
‘Looking for. Ruby’s missing,’ I say, turning to her.
‘Shit.’ Now she’s leaning out, much further than I was, and I grab her jacket at the back. ‘Anything?’
‘Nope,’ she says, planting her feet back on the path. ‘Let’s go down and look. The stairs intersect with the circular path on every level. We can split up, take one path each. That way we’ll cover the whole place.’
Vicky’s clear plan ought to be a comfort. Instead, terror leaps into my throat. I was half-expecting her to say I was being ridiculous. And usually she’s too muzzy-headed to deal with anything except her beloved numbers. ‘She hasn’t been missing long,’ I offer, and she looks shifty. ‘What is it?’
‘I was walking down there earlier, and a boulder nearly knocked me off the path,’ she says. Her eyes are wide.
‘Do you think something could have accidentally hit Ruby?’ I say immediately. She glances away. ‘Hang on. You mean … You can’t be serious? You think it was … deliberate?’
‘It missed me by a whisker,’ she says.
Now there are iron bands around my chest.
‘Listen, Ruby will be fine,’ she says. It’s probably the tone she used to reassure clients when Lehman Brothers collapsed. It does nothing for my blood pressure. ‘Let’s just get down there.’ She sprints for the steps. I’m left with the circular path. She means well, but surely I should take the quicker route? Ruby needs me, not her. But I start to jog round anyway. Arguing will waste more time. When our paths intersect, we’re both out of breath.
‘Anything?’ I say, when I can speak. Vicky’s fringe is plastered to her forehead but her short cut is finally looking like a good choice. My longer hair is flying everywhere. She shakes her head.
‘Let’s try shouting,’ I say, screaming Ruby’s name down towards the foot of the hill, where I can see the waves spraying up now, lashing the sides of the island. The wind wrenches the words out of my mouth. Maybe the gulls hear me; nothing else will. Vicky and I look at each other, and then my most undemonstrative friend, with her lifelong phobia of public displays, not only grabs my arm, but pulls me in for a full hug.
Oh God. This is bad.
Chapter 25
Rachel
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
I put down my hairbrush. The one hundred strokes thing is old-fashioned, but it reminds me of my first nanny. I zone out when I’m doing it. There’s so much said about mindfulness techniques, these days. People have forgotten the ancient self-soothing rituals.
Not that there’s a reason for me to be tense. Everyone’s cloaks and wigs are now in their rooms. But it’s annoying they’re not oohing and aahing over th
em. They’re all still scattered around the island. That wasn’t the idea. They should have been back in the Great Hall by now. But they seem to be enjoying wandering off piste in all ways, these friends of mine.
I pick up the gold brush again, draw it through the silken strands of my hair. I admire the effect in the mirror. Then I crane forward. I hope that’s not a wrinkle. Despite myself, the brushing ritual, I’m still on edge. My big night is looming. I don’t want a thing to go wrong.
Why are they taking so long over the hunt? Those laminated numbers were in position this morning; the servants made sure of that. But where are they now? I stride the few steps over to the picture window and look down. I can’t see a single one. They were large, square A4 signs, big enough to be visible up here (of course I checked). They can’t all have blown away, though I can see from the way the clouds are scudding that the wind is really picking up. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that someone had deliberately been all round the island and thrown the numbers into the water. That’s not playing the game. Not my game, anyway.
I catch myself frowning again. This will never do. This is my special weekend, my celebration. I’ve been so excited, putting it together. All I require is a little co-operation. Is that too much to ask?
Of course it’s not. But then I’m used to being let down. I brush again, standing at the window, smoothing the hair over my shoulder. Now it’s crackling with static. I watch the strands rise irresistibly towards the brush. The laws of nature. We subvert them at our peril. I throw the brush on the bed.
Movement catches my eye. What are they doing down there, my ants, my playthings? I heard a splash, earlier. And I can see people darting around now. Tasha is easy to spot, her skirt wheeling, Monroe-style. It’s not subtle, but I was a teenage girl once – I can forgive her. The other sister is with her, my little emo pal. Hope she’s not tiring herself out. Gita and Tom are on the level below. That’s the first time I’ve seen them together for longer than a couple of seconds, I realise. Even from here it doesn’t look good. They are squared up to each other. Jaw sticking out, shoulders hunched forward. And that’s just Gita. She looks riled enough to commit murder. If I were Tom, I’d step away from the edge a little. I’m not thrilled they’ve brought their squabbles to my door. Domestics happen to the best of us, but keep it behind closed doors, please, people.
