The Island House

by Amanda Brittany

  He appears, a stick in his mouth, and runs towards her, clearly hoping she’ll throw it for him. She prises it from his mouth, and lobs the stick. The dog bounds across the mass of weeds. She used to keep the garden reasonable in her teens, but when she moved out, her father let it go.

  ‘I don’t want a gardener,’ her father said, when she suggested the idea. ‘I don’t like people.’ It always made her smile when he came out with such harsh words. He was an amazing man and people would have loved him, if he’d only let them in.

  Henry appears to have lost interest in the stick, and is now sniffing along the back fence. Alice turns and heads back into the kitchen, where she fires up her laptop, and picks up her phone, now ten per cent charged. There’s a WhatsApp message from Faith:

  I spoke to Leon briefly. If you need to talk I’m here. And I really hope Mitch didn’t upset you mentioning the Winslows. X

  Alice smiles and answers that she’s fine.

  A speedy response from Faith:

  I’ll be over later to make sure x

  Truth is, Mitch had been a complete idiot bringing up The Winslows, and Faith bringing it up again isn’t helping. It was something she would have rather not known, and now they are fresh in her mind once more.

  She heaves herself onto a stool, and keys ‘The Winslow Touch’ into the search engine on her laptop. Mitch was right – the couple are all over social media. She adds her father’s name, and finds a YouTube link, hovers her finger over it, biting down on her lip. Does she really want to hear this couple pulling her father apart? No. But her curiosity is too much. She clicks the link.

  Dane and Savannah Winslow are beautiful people in their late twenties. They’re sitting on a velvet sofa, holding tall flutes of champagne, and tucking into canapés. Savannah’s red hair is tied in a messy knot; she’s pale, heavily made-up, wearing a sports jacket over a white T-shirt. Dane gives off a sexy vibe, legs spread wide. He’s black, lean, muscular, and wearing a navy, clingy silk shirt.

  Alice watches and listens as the duo pull her father’s books apart. She’s heard this kind of thing before. It goes with the territory, her father always said. But then the couple get nasty. Laying into him personally. His appearance – no wonder he was in hiding with those freaky eyes. His personality – he was obviously some total weirdo hidden away like that. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding something dark – really dark, if you catch my drift.

  ‘Good thing he’s dead, I reckon,’ Savannah concludes, ‘spares us having to put up with any more of his books.’

  A lump catches in Alice’s throat, and tears burn when she sees how many people have viewed the post. She glances at the spiteful comments below, the cruel implications, and anger bubbles. But she’s not only angry with this ridiculous couple, she’s also angry with her father for dying. That he left her with so many unanswered questions.

  A ping on her phone alerts her that someone has sent her a direct message on Instagram. She opens her account on her laptop.

  The message is from someone called Cameron88, and she remembers Faith telling her about the man who bought Gothic House. She clicks to accept the message:

  Hello, Alice. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you. I came across your Instagram account quite by chance, when hunting for things to buy for Flynn Hotel, and couldn’t believe my luck when I saw your sculpture. You must have really studied the building to get it so perfect in every way.

  I’m the owner of the hotel, and am pleased to say the sculpture now stands proudly in reception.

  I would very much like to meet you, and have attached details of a double room pre-booked and paid for in your name for next weekend – please do come if you can.

  Here is the website if you would like a further look: www.flynnhouseeast.co.uk

  Best wishes, Cameron Patterson.

  P.S. There are photos of Flynn Hotel on my Instagram account if you would like to have a look – along with a picture of my new acquisition – your wonderful piece.

  She clicks onto his Instagram account, where there are reams of photos of Flynn Hotel. The Gothic building stands on a cliff edge, with a steep, high roof rising to a point, and arched windows. Grooved vaulting, flying buttresses, and a large statue of a dog make the red-brick building unique. This is exactly what Alice created, what the place looked like in the black and white photograph she received – what the place looked like in her dreams.

  The latest picture on Cameron’s feed is of her sculpture standing on a black-wood dresser. She hovers her finger over the like button for a moment, before clicking it.

  She closes Instagram, and opens the hotel’s website where a photo of Cameron Patterson smiles out from the screen. He’s around thirty, with strawberry-blond hair, and a confident glow. There’s a quote in Gothic font saying ‘A hotel experience you’ll never forget.’ Another click takes her to a photo gallery, with amazing pictures of each room – some she’s already seen on Cameron’s Instagram profile. There’s a promise of isolation and authentic Gothic surroundings – the causeway to the mainland only available for four hours a day. The hotel is on Seafield Island in Dunwold, Suffolk, along the coast between Southwold and Lowestoft. Dunwold? The restaurant receipt she found in the tobacco tin was from Dunwold.

  Alice goes on a clicking frenzy. A lover of Gothic, she gets this place; can see why people would go there – especially at Halloween – but at the same time it’s unnerving how familiar the outside of the building is. She wonders if she’s seen the hotel on TV, perhaps advertised on a holiday programme, or even used as a film location. Then why had someone sent her the photo of the place? Why had her father hated her sculpture so much? Why does she feel she’s been there before?

  ‘Morning.’

  She turns to see Leon in his boxers and a crumpled white T-shirt, running a hand across his stubbled chin, his fair hair pillow-tousled. She observes the taut muscles in his arms, before turning away. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Henry bounds in through the back door, and greets Leon like a long-lost friend. ‘Hello there, boy,’ he says, ruffling the dog’s ears. He approaches the breakfast bar, and Henry follows, nails tip-tapping the quarry tiles.

  ‘Weird place,’ he says looking over her shoulder at the laptop screen.

  ‘It’s Flynn Hotel, on the Suffolk coast.’ She rises and grabs a mug from the cupboard.

  Leon looks suddenly awkward, as though he’s not sure if he should stay or go. He folds his arms high across his chest. ‘Looks like the kind of place you’d love.’

  ‘Mmm. I thought that too.’ She makes him some coffee, hands it to him. Wants to say so much more. ‘In fact, the owner’s invited me to go next weekend.’

  Leon’s eyes widen as he takes a sip of his drink. ‘Why?’

  ‘I made a sculpture many years ago. The owner thought it looked like the hotel and bought it.’

  ‘And he invited you to stay because of that?’

  ‘Mmm, it’s an extreme gesture.’

  ‘Yeah. Will you go?’ His eyes narrow, searching her face.

  The truth is, she desperately wants to go. The place is pulling her – begging her to visit. She feels certain she knows the place, that she may find answers there, a connection to her father, perhaps. But, on the other hand, it all feels a bit strange: the anonymous card with the tiger on the front, the photograph of Flynn House, a mysterious man turning up and buying her sculpture, inviting her to the hotel. She’s only just ventured out properly since her father’s death. Would she even be able to cope?

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Sorry. No. God no,’ she says with a shake of her head.

  Their eyes meet, the buzz between them tangible. ‘Last night,’ she says. ‘It was a mistake, right? We want different things, and—’

  The chime of the doorbell cuts her off.

  ‘That’ll be Faith,’ she says, heading for the door, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘Maybe it would be best if …’

  He raises his hand
, puts down the mug. ‘I get it.’ He moves past her, his body radiating warmth, and the aroma of sleep. He pauses, touches her cheek, kisses her lips softly. ‘I’ll sneak out the back way, once I’ve grabbed my jeans. I’ll be gone before we can wish things were different.’

  She doesn’t want him to go. Seeing him – sleeping with him – has opened up old feelings she thought she came to terms with a long time ago. She wants to talk to him, work this out, but knows if Faith sees him, she will bombard her with questions she doesn’t know the answers to herself.

  He leaves the room, and she listens for his heavy footfalls on the stairs before making her way to the front door.

  Faith stands on the doorstep, staring away from Alice at Leon’s car on the driveway next to her Fiat 500. She turns, swinging her ponytail, and smiles; touches Alice’s arm. ‘Morning, sweetie, how are you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ She fiddles with her earring as Faith stares into her eyes, as though searching for secrets. ‘Honestly, I’m totally fine.’

  ‘I was worried when you took off last night. I tried to call—’

  ‘My phone died.’

  Faith’s eyes are back on the car. ‘Got visitors, have we?’

  Alice shakes her head, her mind whirring for a way to explain the black Audi on the drive. ‘It’s the gardener.’

  ‘You’ve taken on a gardener?’ She glances again at the car.

  Alice scratches her neck, feeling a rush of guilt for lying. ‘Well, I haven’t actually taken him on yet … he’s just having a look out back so he can give me a quote.’ She grabs her friend’s arm and yanks her inside. ‘Come in for goodness’ sake, you’re letting the cold in.’

  Alice leads the way into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m so sorry again about Mitch—’

  ‘It’s fine, please don’t worry.’

  ‘He was disappointed that he didn’t get to meet you properly.’ Faith eases herself onto a stool.

  ‘Another time, maybe.’ Alice grabs a mug, spoons in some coffee.

  ‘Wow!’ Faith’s eyes are on the laptop screen. ‘That place looks incredible. It’s just like your sculpture.’

  ‘I know. Amazing, isn’t it?’ Alice moves to the screen, and they stare – mesmerised. ‘The bloke who bought it owns the place. It’s a hotel, apparently.’

  Faith pulls the laptop closer to her. ‘It looks … God, I don’t know how to describe it.’

  Alice nods and smiles. ‘Yeah, it really does.’

  ‘So is this where you got the idea for your sculpture?’

  ‘I guess so. I must have seen it on TV, or something.’

  ‘Wow, I’d love to go there.’

  ‘Mmm, well it’s certainly intriguing.’

  Faith looks up, her eyes locking on Alice’s. ‘Maybe we could go together sometime.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, the owner sent me complementary tickets.’

  ‘What? Why? Wow!’

  ‘You forgot when?’

  Faith grins. ‘When?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘What?’

  Alice laughs.

  ‘And at Halloween too. Are you going to go?’ She touches Alice’s arm gently. ‘It might do you good to get away. Maybe I could book a room too, come with you?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Alice’s head whirs with the thought of it, wanting to tell Faith about the photo, the strange pull of the place. ‘But what about the shop?’

  ‘Oh God. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Listen, if you fancy going,’ Alice says, turning to pour boiling water into the mug. ‘I’ll cover the shop. In fact, why not take my room. I won’t be using it anyway.’

  Faith furrows her forehead, looks back at the screen. ‘That’s far too generous, Alice. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go?’

  Alice shakes her head, deciding it would be too much. ‘I will visit at some point,’ she says, ‘but not right now. Halloween is the busiest time in Whitby. You go, Faith. I’m happy to run the shop.’ The confidence in her voice surprises her. She stirs the coffee, hands it to Faith.

  ‘Well, if you’re really, really sure,’ Faith says.

  ‘I am, honestly. It will be great to hear what you think of it.’

  ‘Mitch will love it and it’s his birthday next weekend.’

  The back door clicks closed. Leon’s left; but Faith is so engrossed in what’s on the screen, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  Alice gets up the booking confirmation, and is about to print it off when she notices the small print. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This room,’ she says. ‘It’s non-transferable.’ She looks up from the screen. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, honestly, it’s OK. In fact …’ She opens her bag, and pulls out an old till receipt, flattens it out. ‘Got a pen?’

  Alice roots around in a pot on the work surface, and hands her one.

  ‘It’s short notice,’ she says, scribbling down the web address. ‘But I’m going to see if I can get booked in for next weekend anyway. I’m all hyped now, and it’s the perfect gift for Mitch.’

  Alice can’t help thinking it’s over-generous, but Faith sounds so excited she says nothing.

  ‘If you’re really sure you don’t mind me taking time off?’ Faith says.

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’ But as Alice says the words, she knows she won’t be able to get the place out of her head.

  Chapter 8

  Halloween Weekend 2019

  Alice

  It’s Friday, the first day of the Whitby Goth Weekend.

  At 8.30 a.m., Alice pulls into the long-stay car park, rain bouncing off the roof of her Mazda as though it’s taken up tap-dancing. She finds a space, and kills the engine.

  It will be the first time she’s sat alone behind the counter at ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ since her dad died, but she’s certain it’s the right time – she can do this. She glances in the rear-view mirror at Henry sitting upright in the back, alert, ears pricked, as he looks about him. He will be with her – support her.

  It’s been half an hour since Faith called, her voice full of excitement, to say she and Mitch were about to head to Flynn Hotel. And Alice had been so close to suggesting closing the shop and joining them – taking Cameron up on his offer. But today and tomorrow will be the busiest days of the year in Whitby. She can’t afford to miss sales. Yes, her dad left her a fortune and his cottage, plus his books keep paying royalties, but her sculptures are what she does for herself – her identity. She needs to grip hold of that once more with both hands.

  The rain eases, and she gets out of the car, collects a ticket from the machine.

  Once Henry’s out of the back, wagging his tail, she locks the car, pulls up the hood of her rain jacket, and heads into the town centre.

  She hurries past the antique shop. The ventriloquist doll is still there, looking out at her from between the glossy brown Beswick horse and the mustard-yellow art-deco vase. She waves, doubting her sanity for a nanosecond.

  The rain stops as she turns the key in the shop door. ‘Typical,’ she says to Henry, who shakes raindrops from his coat.

  It’s cold inside, so she dashes through to the kitchen, puts the coffee machine on, and flicks on the radiator, before filling a bowl with water for Henry.

  At the counter, a warm mug between her palms, her eyes flick towards the bay window. She startles. A middle-aged couple dressed in black stare in at her. The man is wearing a top hat and cloak, the woman a bustled dress made from satin. Alice’s heart thuds, despite knowing they are here for the Whitby Goth Weekend. She should be used to the streets being flooded with people in ghoulish fancy dress and make-up over Halloween; she’s seen it year after year. It normally gives her a buzz. In fact, one year she dressed as a vampire, and loved how her customers reacted.

  The couple push open the door and smile and nod her way. There’s barely room for the woman to turn in her magnificent costume, which is more navy than black close-u
p and has a slight aroma, as though it’s been stored in a musty chest for a hundred years. His top hat almost touches the ceiling as they admire Alice’s zombie sculpture.

  ‘We might come back later,’ he says, buying a piece of Faith’s jewellery: a silver serpent bracelet.

  The woman links her arm through his, and as he goes to open the door, Leon strides in, almost bumping into the couple. Henry greets him with a woof and a wag of his tail and half his body.

  Alice hasn’t seen Leon since Sunday morning when he sneaked out the back door to avoid bumping into Faith, but he’s texted several times. They both agreed to keep things light. We want different things. We’re not right for each other. But there’s no reason we can’t be friends. The trouble is her heart says it’s so much more than that, but she’s got to hold back.

  She told him she would be working today, that this was her first day in the shop alone since her dad died, and by the look of the two takeaway coffees he’s holding in his woolly-gloved hands, he’s here to support her. She loves him for that.

  ‘I thought you’d need this.’ He looks awkward as he plonks the cups on the counter, and pulls himself up onto a stool, his eyes on her. ‘But I can see you’ve already got one.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She pulls from his gaze. Runs her hand over one of the cups. ‘I’ll manage both. I need my caffeine fix.’

  ‘Have you heard from Faith?’ he goes on, pulling off his gloves and unwinding his scarf from his neck. ‘Has she arrived at the hotel?’

  ‘She took off around eight this morning. I’m sure she’ll let me know, when she gets a chance.’

  ‘We should go there sometime.’ He falters. ‘As friends, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Leon, I—’

  The door swings open and a woman in a long white satin dress, her face painted to look skeletal, her hair white – a wig probably – enters. ‘Your shop is bloody amazing.’ She has a Scottish accent, smiles – at least Alice thinks it’s a smile.

  *

  Leon stays all day. It’s been almost impossible, being so close to him as they sat behind the counter, the woody aroma of his familiar aftershave evoking memories of their early relationship – days spent by the sea; whole days in bed; the candlelight supper he made her in the early weeks that burnt, and they ended up ordering a takeaway. Alice doubts herself now, tries to recall the reasons she pushed him away.