The Island House

by Amanda Brittany

  It was an hour later that Verity, sprawled on her bed reading, heard her brother cry out. Felix was dragging him up the stairs to the attic room – thump, thump, thump.

  Although the siblings were now teenagers, Hugh was still a scrawny boy. He hadn’t had his final growth spurt, Verity suspected – so Felix, a small man, had no trouble lugging him up the stairs and manoeuvring him into the box. Verity, on the other hand, was hefty. Felix wouldn’t dare cross her, not anymore.

  ‘You need to keep out of the bastard’s way, Hugh,’ she whispered to herself, as she heard the red door of the attic room slam. ‘When will you learn?’

  Once Felix had returned to his room, Verity made her way up to the attic and knocked the door: tap, tap, tap. She could hear her brother sobbing inside. ‘Hey, Hugh, it’s me. Keep strong, little one.’

  ‘It’s my arm, V,’ he called back, his words bludgeoned by sobs. ‘I think it’s broken. It hurts so bad.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Verity screwed her fists into balls. ‘I hate him. I hate him.’

  ‘Tell me the story about Rapunzel, V.’ He sounded like a small child.

  ‘OK, but if I do, you have to keep strong, Hugh.’ She leant her head against the door. ‘Once upon a time, a very long time ago …’

  *

  It was dark, gone ten o’clock, when Verity pushed the key into the red door, and turned it in the lock. She’d found it in Felix’s room, after searching for almost an hour. ‘Hugh,’ she said, flicking on the light.

  There was movement in the box propped against the wall. A panicked voice from inside: ‘Verity?’

  She hurried over. A padlock held the box locked. She looked about her, searching for something to smash it with. She spotted a saw hanging on the wall, lifted it down, and thumped it down on the padlock over and over.

  Hugh wheezed, breathless. There were holes in the back of the box, but his air was restricted.

  ‘Felix will never be back, Hugh. He’ll never hurt you again.’ Another whack – the padlock broke off, wood splintering. She opened the box to see Hugh, eyes red raw from crying. He held one arm limp against his side, taking shaky breaths as he stepped out onto the grass-green carpet, his face contorted in pain. He looked towards the door, fear in his eyes.

  ‘He’s never coming back,’ she said. ‘He’s gone forever.’ She touched her brother’s good arm. ‘He’ll never hurt you again.’

  Hugh smiled as Verity put her arm round her brother.

  ‘Let’s see what food there is in the fridge, shall we?’ she said, guiding him towards the door. ‘You must be starving.’

  *

  ‘Do you know where my father is, Nanny Bell?’ Verity whispered, a smile dancing on her lips, as the three of them were taken by police car from the island the following day. Nanny Bell had called the police when she arrived just after noon to report Felix missing.

  The nanny stared at Verity for a long moment, narrowing her eyes as though trying to weigh the girl up. ‘You’re a peculiar child, Verity Flynn,’ she said.

  ‘Why, thank you.’ Verity squeezed her hands into fists. ‘That’s incredibly kind of you.’

  It was clear Nanny Bell couldn’t hold eye contact. She pulled from Verity’s gaze.

  Verity took a deep breath. ‘Why didn’t you help us, Nanny Bell?’ She screwed up her face, angry with herself that she was allowing her tone to weaken – that she sounded vulnerable.

  ‘You do know you’ll end up in care, Verity. That nobody will want to foster the likes of you.’ Nanny Bell looked at Hugh, knotted up into himself like a tortoise in a shell. ‘They will like him, possibly—’

  ‘You’re wrong. Nobody will come between my brother and me.’ Tears burned her eyes. ‘No one will ever come between me and Hugh.’

  Chapter 16

  Halloween Weekend 2019

  Alice

  ‘I can come on the tour if you want me to – I don’t mind,’ Leon says, as Alice rises, about to follow Faith, Mitch and Lori across the bar towards reception. But his eyes look heavy. She knows he’s exhausted after the long drive.

  ‘No, it’s fine, honestly.’ The tour of the hotel isn’t Leon’s thing. In fact, the whole place is way out of his comfort zone. And the increasing unease she’s felt since they arrived is nudging at her too. But she has to do this tour – she’s sure her father is connected to this place in some way, and she needs to find out how.

  The grandfather clock chimes nine as the guests congregate in reception. The young couple from the bar sit together on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other. The woman giggles, tossing her red bobbed hair. She’s dressed in narrow black trousers and a black blouse, her bra visible beneath it. She looks familiar.

  Christine gives a little cough, trying to catch everyone’s attention, and Alice’s eyes move to where she’s standing with her clipboard. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks her.

  ‘Yes! Yes …’ Christine’s eyes are on the paperwork attached to the clipboard. She looks up suddenly, tears forming behind her red-framed glasses. ‘Well no, actually.’ Her voice is a wobble. ‘It’s just … well … Cameron hasn’t turned up, and his phone goes straight to voicemail … so it looks as though I’m going to have to do it, the tour I mean, and although I have notes, and I know the place quite well from the bumph he emailed to me earlier this week …’ She fumbles a tissue from her cardigan pocket, and sniffs into it. ‘I’m so sorry, everyone. I realise this is all a bit Fawlty Towers, and it doesn’t give a good impression of the hotel, but I hadn’t realised I would have so much responsibility when I accepted the job.’ She’s talking fast, her Suffolk accent broader than ever. ‘Mark, my son, wondered if it might be too much for me, especially after my Terry’s death, and I’ve been suffering terribly with the menopause. But truth is, now Mark’s living in France … I’d become lonely and thought this might be just the ticket. Mark doesn’t understand that I need to be doing something with my time, and I would never tell him how I feel. He’s got to get on with his own life without worrying about his mum—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Christine.’ Lori grabs her wrist, as though pulling on a brake, her voice assertive. She’s taller than Christine, slimmer, more attractive. Both of a similar age, but so very different. ‘The hotel will sell itself. Let’s take a walk around the place, and you can tell us what you know.’

  ‘Suck it and see?’ Christine takes a breath. ‘I have notes.’ She taps the clipboard with short fingernails, her face morphing into a smile. ‘I can do this, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Alice says, as Lori releases Christine and steps away from her.

  ‘Well I, for one, can’t be arsed with amateurs. Even if this weekend is a freebie.’ It’s the young woman with red hair, her accent upper class English. Alice stares, her heart thudding. She knows where she’s seen her before. ‘Let’s go to our room, Dane,’ the woman goes on, rising, taking the man’s hand. He springs to his feet like an athlete, all long limbs – his vest T-shirt clinging to his muscular body. And with a seductive tone she adds, ‘I can think of better things for us to do.’

  ‘The Winslows from The Winslow Touch,’ Mitch whispers in Alice’s ear. ‘Small world, isn’t it?’

  Alice recalls how she watched them pull her father apart on YouTube. She’s experienced first-hand how cruel they can be, and vows to avoid them for the rest of the weekend. Cameron Patterson has clearly made a mistake if he’s thrown this couple a freebie weekend in exchange for good publicity.

  ‘Take no notice of them,’ Faith says to Christine, as Savannah and Dane Winslow head towards the staircase, his arm draped around her shoulders, her high heels clipping the quarry tiles.

  ‘She’s got bitch written all over her,’ Mitch says, glaring at them as they head up the stairs and disappear from view. ‘That kind of woman needs to be taught a lesson.’

  Alice cringes, wondering what kind of lesson he means.

  Christine leads the group of four over to the photographs on the wall. Most are framed pictures
of Felix Flynn performing on stage, either magic tricks, or with his ventriloquist puppets. Alice moves closer. There are several puppets in the pictures, one has wool for hair and is dressed in a checked suit, another has sleek black hair combed away from its face, and is wearing a bow tie. She turns from the pictures.

  ‘Apparently, Mr Patterson found these photographs when he purchased the place,’ Christine reads from the clipboard. ‘The house was faded and shabby when he bought it in 2017.’ Her voice has brightened a fraction, and she seems more confident suddenly, as though the subject fascinates her. ‘It was creepy back then.’

  ‘Still is, if you ask me,’ Mitch says, his brown eyes scanning the pictures.

  ‘Yes.’ Christine looks about her. ‘I suppose so. But now it’s meant to be this way. In 2017 nobody had lived in the house for some time. The owner, Verity Flynn – Felix’s daughter – had lived in the cottage on the island, where Mr Patterson lives now.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘It says here several developers refused to take the place on due to the foreboding atmosphere.’ She gives a little shudder.

  Alice continues to study the photos, mesmerised, her eyes falling on a black and white head and shoulders photograph of a child of about four with short dark hair. It looks out of place amongst the pictures of Felix Flynn. ‘Who’s this?’ she says, coming over a bit faint, placing her hand on the wall for support.

  ‘Probably one of Felix’s children,’ Christine says, placing her finger on her chin. ‘He had a daughter, Verity, and a son, Hugh. There’s a portrait of the son in the dining room, painted by his sister.’

  Hugh Flynn? It couldn’t be of her father.

  ‘Did Hugh Flynn live here?’ Alice asks.

  ‘I believe so.’ She’s looking at her notes, fumbling. ‘The original owner, Felix Flynn, disappeared forty years ago,’ she explains to everyone.

  ‘Where are Hugh and Verity Flynn now?’ Lori asks.

  Christine shrugs, raking through her notes once more. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. It says nothing here.’

  Alice’s head swims. Was Hugh her father, and had he changed his name? But why would he? And he didn’t have a sister that she knew of. He’d kept things from Alice, that much was true – but surely nothing this huge. Tears sting behind her eyes. He never told her who her mother was, or anything about her early life. What’s to have stopped him hiding a whole lot more?

  ‘Did you see the portrait in the restaurant? The one I sent you?’ Faith asks, suddenly beside Alice, moving in close to her ear.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘It looks so like your dad, don’t you think?’

  Tears are nearing the surface. Her father is so clear in her mind it’s as though he’s standing right beside her. Go home, Alice.

  ‘This doesn’t look like Hugh or Verity to me,’ Lori says, moving closer to the photograph of the dark-haired child.

  ‘You knew them?’ Alice says, running her hand across the back of her neck.

  ‘A very long time ago.’ Her eyes fix on a photo of Felix Flynn. ‘Their father was an awful man.’ Lori takes out an inhaler from her bag and shakes it. ‘Oh dear, I’m almost out. I’ll need to get the spare from my room.’

  ‘Christine!’ Everyone turns. It’s Dane Winslow standing at the top of the stairs, topless, baring his muscular body with obvious pride. ‘We were promised champagne and canapés.’

  She looks up at him. ‘Yes … yes, of course. They’re in the fridge. I’ll bring them up after the tour.’

  He folds his arms high across his toned chest. ‘Now would be good.’

  Christine takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Well—’

  ‘I’m happy to wait if you need to get them, Christine,’ Lori says. ‘I should probably grab my spare inhaler from my room anyway.’

  ‘I’m happy to wait too,’ Faith says with a smile. ‘This jerk clearly thinks he’s more important than us mere mortals.’ Her words are sharp, loud enough for Dane Winslow to hear. He simply scoffs.

  ‘Alice? Mitch?’ Christine’s eyes dart from one to the other. ‘Do you mind?’

  Mitch grunts, and Alice shakes her head, drops down onto the sofa. Christine scampers away towards the kitchen, like a frightened rabbit, her flat shoes slapping the floor tiles. Within seconds, Lori heads up the stairs to collect her inhaler, and Dane disappears into the shadows.

  ‘I’m going to get some more cigs from our room,’ Mitch says, turning and making his way up the stairs after Lori.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Faith says, joining Alice on the sofa, her voice soft and comforting. She puts her arm around Alice’s shoulders, and pulls her close. ‘I hope this isn’t all too much for you.’

  ‘Don’t be kind, Faith. Please.’ Alice smiles. ‘You’ll have me blubbing.’

  ‘Is it the portrait?’

  Alice nods. ‘Yes … well, this place.’ She looks about her. ‘It’s making me feel—’

  A door slams behind them, and Christine appears once more, dashing across reception with a tray loaded with canapés, and a bottle of champagne. ‘I’m so sorry about this, ladies,’ she says. ‘I won’t be long.’

  As Christine takes the stairs, Alice rests her head on her friend’s shoulder.

  ‘You were going to say how it’s making you feel,’ Faith says. ‘This place.’

  ‘It’s just the dark atmosphere, I guess.’

  ‘The whole Gothic thing?’

  ‘It’s a bit unnerving, that’s all.’

  After a few minutes, Lori hurries down the stairs towards them, followed by Christine.

  ‘I better see where Mitch has got to,’ Faith says, getting to her feet, and leaping up the stairs two at a time.

  Alice rises too. ‘They’re quite something, aren’t they?’ she says to Christine. ‘The Winslows.’

  Christine nods. ‘I realise they are Mr Patterson’s guests, but I’ve no idea why he would want them here. They’re critics, apparently.’

  ‘Mmm, I’ve seen their awful YouTube channel,’ Alice says. ‘They can be very cruel.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ Lori says. ‘Nasty couple.’

  The trio fall quiet for some time. Waiting. Alice is close to backing out of the tour altogether, making her apologies – missing the security of Faith or Leon by her side – when she hears footsteps at the top of the stairs.

  ‘We’re ready,’ Faith calls from the landing. She stands with Mitch, her arm looped through his elbow.

  ‘Great. Shall we begin by heading upstairs?’ Christine says, and she and Lori move across reception. The stairs creak as the two of them head for the first floor, but Alice doesn’t move, frozen for a moment, staring once more at the solitary child in the sea of pictures of Felix Flynn.

  ‘Alice,’ Faith calls. ‘Are you coming?’

  She tears herself away, and hurries to catch them up. ‘Yes, sorry, on my way.’

  Leon

  The waxing crescent moon is visible through the bay window where Leon sits, his mind whirring. What the hell is he doing here with Alice? It took everything for him to walk away when she ended things, yet here he is, back where he started, and not only that; this time he’s keeping a terrible secret.

  The bar is deserted apart from Gabriela. The others have taken off on the ridiculous tour of this pretentious house. He rises to his feet, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, and slips it on. He needs air, needs to think, outside – alone.

  Well-placed lanterns and a string of bulbs brighten the patio, but their beam doesn’t reach far, and the crescent moon is scuppered by passing clouds. A neat lawn stretches towards a fenced-off cliff edge. The wind is fierce now, howling through the surrounding mature trees. The sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below is atmospheric.

  Leon breathes in the cold air, the sensation organising his thoughts. He thinks about Tegan. Their friendship, because that’s all it was – he had never promised her anything more. But still she clung to him like a barnacle to a boat – always calling and texting
. Had he been wrong to allow that friendship, knowing how she felt about him, knowing she seemed unstable? Had he let it go on too long, hoping she would take on his book? He hated that it could be true. And now she’s confided in him, told him things he doesn’t want bashing about in his head. Things he doesn’t know how to tell Alice. Things he must tell the police.

  He heads down the sloping lawn, carried partly by the wind, trying to unclutter his head. He stops yards from the edge and squints out to sea. The lights from the mainland silhouette a boat bobbing some way out on the rough waves. He moves his gaze towards the empty jetty, where lanterns swing to and fro. A gust of wind takes hold of one of the pumpkins, spins it into the air, and out to sea. The boat they travelled to the island in has slipped its mooring. It looks as though they are stuck on the island until midday tomorrow, when the tide goes out, so he’ll have to make the most of it. These are the moments he craves a cigarette – wishes he hadn’t given up five years ago.

  He flicks on his phone torch. The fence that hems the foot of the lawn is flattened in places. He steps back. The wind is fierce. He will struggle if it catches him in its grip. It could take him over the edge. He would never survive the fifty-foot drop.

  He looks at his phone. Reads again the message Tegan sent him a few days ago:

  Promise me, Leon. Promise you won’t say anything. It was an accident.

  The wind settles for a moment, whispering through the trees, as though planning an assault. Leon loses himself in thought, unaware he’s being pushed forward by the wind.

  A gust, like a shove from invisible hands, pounces, takes Leon’s body and thrusts him forward. He topples, slips over the crumbling edge. His phone falls from his grip, bounces, smashes against the cliffs.

  Heart pounding, he hangs, suspended for some moments. His fingers ache as he clings to the wire fence that stretches and creaks. Rocks and chunks of soil roll down the cliff, tumbling into the sea.