by J. M. Hewitt
Now, standing on the crest of the valley on the north side of the island, she’d never felt more alone.
A flash of movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye. Someone in the distance, amid the small copse beyond the stream. Bored, Melanie decided to follow them. Keeping low, she moved down the dip, past the second wood store and up the small hill. In the distance she saw a movement again, in and out of the trees, too far away to identify.
By the time she reached the copse nobody was there. Melanie’s shoulders slumped as she turned in a full circle. Pausing as she stared towards the south she frowned. Was that a boat approaching? Excited now at the thought of company, Melanie broke into a run.
She hooked her hands over the lip of the concrete wall and peered over. The boat had docked, though there was no sign of any passengers. Lying flat on the ground, Melanie waited patiently.
Ten minutes later, boredom set in again. Melanie pushed herself up, walking the length of the dock and scrambling down onto the wet rocks below. She moved carefully along them, out into the water, following the curve of the stones that formed a natural jetty. At the end, she held on tight, went into a crouch and hung on as she leaned out as far as she could to read the boat’s name.
The Barnard Castle.
Her left hand slipped and wedged painfully in a crevice. She pulled it out and reversed slowly back to the concrete part of the dock.
It was Ben’s boat, the man they’d paid to bring them here. Why was he back? And, if he was no longer on board, where had he gone?
Melanie turned towards the cottage, imagined the young boat captain inside, sipping tea or some of Gabe’s horrible whisky. With a smile breaking out on her face for the first time in what seemed like ages, Melanie ran towards home.
Harry sat in the chair in the cold front room of the cottage. He should be out, checking the traps, but Gabe would have that covered. He glanced at the fireplace, thought about building a fire to put on later in the evening, but it was a warm day, they might not need it.
He poked at the small hole in the arm of the chair. It looked like a cigarette burn, but not from him or Alice. The hole was decades old, like the chair.
His pills sat in his lap and he picked up the bottle, gave it a little shake. Removing the lid, he peered in at the two solitary tablets.
Just two left.
He hadn’t taken any for days, and he still felt okay. He checked himself for reassurance. Yes, he felt all right.
Not perfect, a little voice whispered. But good enough.
What if it came back?
Alice would leave him, she would take Melanie.
No, she couldn’t, he reminded himself. There was no way off the island. He wondered if she fully realised the fact, or indeed if she had thought about it at all. After all, from the docking bay you could see the bright lights of Salford. Subliminally it probably gave her all the comfort she needed.
The door crashed open, startling Harry from his thoughts. He spun in his chair.
‘Hey, Melly,’ he smiled. A genuine smile at the sight of his daughter. ‘Why are you in such a hurry?’
She stopped in the doorway, glanced around the room. Surreptitiously, Harry slid his pill bottle down the side of the chair cushion.
‘Is anyone here?’ she asked.
‘Just me, sweetie. Are you looking for your mother?’
She smiled but to Harry it looked like a grimace. ‘Yeah, she’s probably…’ she tailed off before waving her hand towards the door. ‘Out there. See you later, Dad.’
He watched her as she pulled the door closed behind her. His fingers fumbled down the side of the chair until they found the pill bottle. He pushed it in deeper.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Melanie circled the cottages slowly, stopping to look left and right. There was no sign of her mother. There was no sign of anyone. Where were they all? What did the inhabitants of the island do all day? Why wasn’t Harry involved? Why wasn’t she included? Where had Ben gone?
She scuffed the toes of her trainers as she made her way back towards the docking bay. If the boat was still there, she would go aboard, find out why it was here. A thought occurred to her: maybe Harry had arranged for him to come, to bring some treats. Wine for her mother, a sweet hamper for her. Melanie jogged onwards, smiling to herself at what lay ahead.
She scrambled down from the concrete platform, brushed her hand along the wooden trim of the boat’s starboard side. The boat rocked gently in the water as Melanie swung her legs over the side. She walked around to the little cabin, noted that the door was closed. She pressed her hands up against the small pane of glass above the door and peered in.
For a few seconds she watched the man, Ben, she reminded herself, as he lay face down on the narrow bed. He wasn’t sleeping though, she noted as he moved.
She pulled back, her hands flying to her mouth as she realised what she was looking at. Her face reddened as she pressed her fingers to her lips to stop a giggle erupting. Suddenly she wished Tanisha or Kelly were there to witness the boat man having sex.
She went into a crouch, thoughts whirling at her now. Why would the boatman sail all the way over here just to have sex in the privacy of his own cabin? The answer was immediate; because he was sleeping with someone who lived on the island!
Hot now in spite of the cloud cover, Melanie gnawed on her fingernail. It had to be Willow, after all, she was beautiful and the boatman was young. And the other women on the island were married.
Willow…
Just the thought of it made the mysterious girl even more interesting to Melanie than she already was.
On her hands and knees, Melanie crawled to the window at the stern of the boat. She inched her way up and put her eye to the window.
They were finished, she realised, half sorrowful she had missed the finale, half thankful she hadn’t witnessed it.
The woman had her back to Melanie, her spine long and strong, her skin creamy and smooth. Her colours were pale blue and a baby pink.
She’s happy, thought Melanie. Those colours are happiness and contentment and love and satisfaction.
Ben stood off to one side, saying words that Melanie couldn’t hear. The woman turned to him, a smile lighting up her face.
Melanie sagged against the side of the cabin, her fingers scraping the wood as she sank to her knees. And even though she couldn’t see them, she knew her own colours scraped and shifted to the deepest black.
Ben’s lover wasn’t Willow.
It was her mother, Alice.
Melanie ran as far away from the boat as possible. On the other side of the island the layout was completely different. There was no bay here, nowhere for a boat to dock, not even a small pebbled beach like there was on the other side.
Melanie passed through the old industrial building, once a factory for the island’s workers, now just barren land, graffitied and falling down. Possibly unsafe, Harry had said when they’d explored, poking at the crumbling brickwork. Best not to come here.
Well screw him, Melanie thought now. Irrationally she was angry at him, even though her sense told her that her fury should be directed at her mother.
But it wasn’t anger that came to the forefront of her mind when she thought of her mother. She felt hurt, wounded, sick on Harry’s behalf.
Harry who didn’t have a clue that his wife was cheating on him. Poor, stupid Dad.
Melanie picked up a handful of concrete chips and threw them at the wall of the barely-standing underpass. Her anger faded before coming back strong, directed at Ben this time. Ben the boatman was on her mind too. He knew Alice was married. She kicked at the loose gravel, sent it spraying in all directions. A glass bottle lay discarded near the underpass entrance. Melanie picked it up and smashed it against the wall. Flinging it to one side she came out into the sun, moving uphill now, to the very edge of the land.
She sat down on the mossy grass, moved over her front to peer over the edge. It was the high point of the isla
nd here, a thirty-foot drop onto the rocks and water below.
Melanie laid her head on her hands as she stared down. It was nice here, better than the network of canals back home, where the rubbish collected and the dog owners failed to pick up after their dogs. This was nature, she decided. And it was a little bit sad she had nobody to share it with.
Melanie pushed herself up and walked away from the water. It was too nice there, she decided, and it was being spoiled by the knowledge of her mother’s betrayal. She picked her way into the woods, crashing through the trees, moving faster and faster until she was running. When she reached the new, secondary wood store she stopped and slipped inside.
It was dark in here, and smelled of old, still damp, dank wood. She stared at the huge log pile, her angst about her mother replaced with pride that she had helped create this store. Through the dark brown, something glowed red near to the back of the stack. Melanie blinked, moved closer and put her eye to the pile.
There was something back there, a bag, or a piece of clothing. Melanie slipped her small hand in the gap, her fingers closing around something, not a bag, not material; it felt rubbery and hot. She pulled at it gently, yanking harder as it caught on a small branch, wiggling her hand as much as the space would allow to free it.
It popped out, sending her stumbling backwards. She landed on the dirt floor, the red thing flopping onto her chest.
Melanie stared at it until her vision went funny. A scream threatened, tears pricking at her eyes. With a yell she flicked it away to land in the far corner of the wood store. It sat in the shadows. Melanie turned on her side and screwed her eyes shut.
All the while her heart thumped in her chest and the tears spilled over to her cheeks.
His body was hard and firm. So unlike Harry’s, Alice mused, as she ran her fingers up Ben’s naked leg. She said Harry’s name inside her head again, wondering why she didn’t feel the need to snatch up her own clothes and run from the boat back to him.
She had never had an affair. There had been opportunities; countless colleagues and fellow lawyers and even clients, but she’d never even contemplated it before. And perhaps this wasn’t an affair. Maybe it was a need for comfort, for her body had been in some sort of shock, and Ben had seen and had tended to her in a way which had worked.
‘I can come over every week, now, if you want.’ Ben’s voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘My job on the east coast has finished, I’ve got more spare time.’ He raised himself up on a forearm and regarded her. Lazily he traced a finger over her stomach.
‘Yes,’ she said.
She smiled at him, went to get her clothes. He came at her again. Her shirt dropped to the floor and she opened her arms.
Harry was napping in his chair when she slipped inside the cottage. Melanie was nowhere to be seen. Alice breathed a sigh of relief; sometimes her daughter seemed to see right into the very core of her. She moved silently past Harry into the bathroom, tearing off her clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor. Ben’s sperm ran a track down her leg. As she heaved the cold water from the waiting buckets into the tub she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, marvelling at the woman who peered back at her. Her skin was glowing, her cheeks red. She moved back, cast a critical eye over the rest of her. What did Ben think of her forty-year-old body? She pinched at the skin on her stomach, looked backwards at her legs. Twenty years of wearing heels had been her cardio workout, and those years had served her well. All those long days meant she’d barely had time to eat, not like Harry who snacked at home all day. Nothing had spread, things were mostly nice and tight.
She sank into the cold water, thinking back over what she had done. How old was Ben? His own face was somewhat weathered, but being outside in all seasons on a boat would do that. His eyes were old, but his body was youthful, strong and supple. He was a contradiction, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had consumed her mind the way Ben had.
Alice burst out of the water, reached for the sponge on the side. He was late twenties, she imagined. Not so young that it was indecent or wrong.
She closed her eyes, draped the sponge over her face. What had the job been that he’d had on the east coast? Where on the coast? Whitby, Scarborough or Hartlepool? Was it on another boat, a fishing contract perhaps, or something else, a handyman job, like Gabe? She shook her head, not wanting her neighbour and her new lover in her mind at the same time. And why did he no longer have to go east? Had the contract finished, or had he made the decision that he’d like to see her more than once a fortnight?
Teenage dreams. She allowed herself a small smile. She was behaving the same way that Melanie would soon behave. But, like thoughts of Gabe, it felt wrong to include Melanie in her musings of wantonness. Instead she turned her thoughts back to the mainland and home. Maxine was on her mind now, and she missed her former friend with a sudden and deep passion. Not the Maxine of recent months, the one who was a back-stabber and a job stealer. But the Maxine of old, the one whom Alice could have told about Ben. She imagined it now, their whispered conversations, giggles, serious discussion of what Alice should do next.
Alice struggled upright in the bath. Maxine wasn’t here, she wasn’t even reachable on a phone. Alice couldn’t pop to the mainland to visit her.
Maxine was gone. Alice’s old life was gone. Those that were still present were caught in a no-man’s land. All that remained was Ben. It was a dangerous thing to cling to.
In the dark of the woodshed Melanie tried to talk herself down. There was no immediate danger, she realised that, and to calm herself she visualised all of the beautiful colours she’d ever seen in different people.
After what seemed like hours spent lying on her side with her eyes closed, it worked.
She rolled over onto her front, planted her hands on the floor and pushed herself to a standing position, and moved over to where the red thing sat, deep in the shadowy corner.
She stared at it for a long moment, before lurching forward and picking it up.
She turned it over in her hand, her eyes locked on the awfulness of it.
The colours of this monster: dark red, edged with black.
It dropped from her hand, landing with a soft flop on the ground.
The naked leg. The grubby T-shirt. The horribly deformed face.
Melanie curled her head to her chest. She remained like that until her knees protested and the tears that flowed from her eyes seeped into her mouth which hung slackly open.
Think, Melanie. Wake up and think! she hissed at herself from some deep part within; all the while sirens flashed red in her mind, danger, danger, danger.
Kelly, her head back at a painful angle as someone gripped her hair.
Dark red, edged with black.
Melanie turned and retched. Spent, she cracked one eye open and looked over at the piece of black and red material.
It was the mask that the man had worn in the house of horrors back home. It had been on his face when he had attacked Kelly. The man had been naked on his bottom half, his intentions clear to Melanie, and no doubt to Kelly who had been touched and grabbed and held against her will by this masked man. Or maybe more…
And now the mask, red and black and rubbery, lay a few feet away from Melanie. Miles away from the house where it had been worn.
Melanie shivered.
If the mask was here, on the island, did that mean the man who had worn it was here too?
24
Paul stared at Carrie. She smiled, to let him know it was okay, that she was okay. Even though she wasn’t.
‘Carrie…’ He breathed her name. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She shrugged, glanced over at the counter. ‘Do you want another coffee?’ She looked at her watch. ‘The CCTV won’t be ready to collect quite yet.’
He nodded, and relieved to get away from the intensity of his concern she hurried to get a refill for each of them. As the barista set about making their drinks she looked back at Paul, still motionless in the bo
oth. What had made her spill her guts to him? She’d never done that before, in spite of them working together for five years. She’d never told anyone before, apart from the police. Not that she had actually told him the whole story, just the bare facts, recited in an unfeeling monotone, like a news reporter. Uncaring, unfeeling, the only way she could tell it. She hadn’t even told him Hattie’s name.
And it always stopped there, the memory of that day. She had been pressed by the police, by social services, by her mother – until her mother stopped talking altogether. Later the professionals had changed; doctors, psychologists, therapists. None of them could ever get past the block. Dissociative amnesia was the label they had slapped on her. She blinked tears away, remembering the horror once she was old enough to understand it, once they had deemed her mature enough to deal with what they were telling her.
She had seen it happen.
It was what they’d said, the likelihood was she had witnessed whatever had happened to Hattie. And whatever it was had been far too traumatic for her young brain. Her mind had blocked it, thoroughly and totally. And for that she was ashamed. Her body, her brain had let her down.
She had let Hattie down too.
She scrunched her eyes closed and rubbed at them with balled fists. How could she tell Paul that? She could barely admit it to herself.
She looked at Paul once more. When she returned to their table, he would have collected himself, his policeman’s mind would have come to the forefront. He would continue talking, questioning. She would have to tell him that she couldn’t remember.
She was a rank above him; she shouldn’t have divulged something so personal in the first place.
‘Hey, excuse me,’ she called to the barista. ‘Can we get those to go, please?’
Paul said nothing about the sudden change of plan and for that Carrie was grateful. She suspected he noticed the wall she’d put up, her usual armour, and he slipped back into colleague mode easily.
