by Daniel Hurst
Maybe, just maybe, my daughter is alive after all.
But the twisted knot of pain in my stomach tells me that my hope is futile. My daughter has gone. She had died along with everybody else on that yacht. If there had been a survivor on that boat, then it wasn’t her. Maybe there had been no boat at all. The witness hardly seemed to be credible.
Even if there was then so what? I imagine there are plenty of boats sailing around The Bahamas and even if there was one near the yacht at the time of the explosion then it was probably speeding away because it was trying to escape the fire.
My head and my heart tell me that there is more to it. That maybe my daughter had made it off that yacht. Maybe that motorboat was involved somehow. And maybe the rumours of the explosion being suspicious are true and someone had planted a bomb on board.
But a strong part of me is telling me that she is dead. I feel it in the nausea that seems to rise up and send me running to the bathroom every twenty minutes. I feel it in the agonising stomach cramps that have gripped me ever since I first heard about the situation in Bimini. And I feel it in my arms and legs, which grew weak when I saw the reports about there being no survivors on board the fated yacht.
I am still checking Emily’s PhoGlo account at regular intervals to see if there has been any activity from her, but it has remained untouched. I have also been doing the same for the accounts of several people who the news reports told me were also on board at the time, including Mason Manor, Emily’s best friend, and Ryan Young, Emily’s boyfriend. But their accounts are just as quiet.
My heart sinks at the thought of never getting to meet the man that had seemingly made my daughter so happy. It’s only been a few days since I saw her in London, and she had been full of tales of the American comedian who had swept her off her feet and into whose apartment in Brooklyn she had moved, not so long ago.
I had seen the light in her eyes and the spring in her step and it had been clear to me that she was completely and utterly in love. I had never seen her like that before, but I recognised all the signs. I had been exactly the same way when I had met Emily’s father.
I know all about love. The butterflies in your stomach when the object of your affection is near. The aching in your heart when they are away.
The nerves. The excitement.
The passion.
It is the best feeling in the world, and I know from my own experience that you truly haven’t lived until you have loved. That is why I was so glad to see Emily going through that whole range of emotions as she told me about Ryan. Because I knew that for all the glamour of her new lifestyle, and the money and the fame that came with it, she had still been missing out on the best thing of all.
The love of a companion.
Seeing that she had found it was all the confirmation I needed that my little girl had finally grown up and was thriving in her newfound life of independence.
It is always scary to think of your child finding somebody that they love even more than you. I know Dave used to worry about the day a man would take him to one side and ask him for his daughter’s hand in marriage. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to be happy. He was just scared of losing her a little, of the idea that there was another man out there who could now take better care of his daughter than he could.
But I know that he was also excited for the day when he would get to walk Emily down the aisle, surrounded by all the wedding guests who had come out to share her special day. The speech he would have made after the meal, in which he would have told them all several funny stories about her childhood, before ending with a heartfelt note about how much she had enhanced her parents’ lives. And finally, the dance the two of them would have shared as the band played a song and the rest of the guests moved around them, a father and daughter, hand in hand, closing one chapter, as a new one began.
I had felt angry that both Dave and Emily had been robbed of such a day when we had lost him to cancer. Never mind the hole it had left in my heart to lose my life partner, I had been destroyed at the damage it had done to my daughter too. It had been an unbearable time but we had come out of the other end of it stronger and closer than ever. Seeing her so animated about the new man in her life had reassured me that at least part of the hole that had been left in her life when her father passed away had now been filled.
But now Ryan has gone too, just like Dave. Even if Emily did make it off that yacht by some miracle, then she too has lost a part of herself, just like I have. Perhaps it is better to die than to know that pain. Living with the knowledge that you will never see the person you love ever again is not an easy cross for anyone to bear. I barely survived it when Dave first died and every day is still a struggle when I wake up and remember that he is gone and never coming back.
If my Emily is out there somewhere now, then she will be facing up to that frightening reality as well. Never seeing the face of the man she loves. Never holding his hand. Never lying next to him and feeling like everything is okay because he is by your side.
I hate the thought of my daughter having her heart ripped out but it is either that or she is dead. I can only hope that she is alive and that I can help guide her through the pain of losing Ryan, using the brutal experience that I have gained in dealing with the loss of Dave.
But I might never get that chance. Emily might be gone too. It’s what the news reporters are telling me. It’s what all the comments under Emily’s last PhoGlo post are telling me. And it’s what almost every part of my body is telling me, except my head and my heart, which refuse to give up the hope that she somehow made it off that yacht before it shattered into a million pieces.
I can hear Margaret in my kitchen making me another cup of tea. The spoon is clattering around the insides of the cup as she stirs the milk and does her best to get it how I like it. Such a British thing, the cup of tea. As if there isn’t a problem in the world that a bit of hot water, milk and a teabag can’t solve. To be fair there usually isn’t. Everything seems better after a good chat over a ‘cuppa.’
But there are some problems that not even a soothing drink and a talk with an old friend can fix. As another television report plays on the television screen in front of me, I know this is one of those things. There is nothing in the world that can make up for losing my daughter. Unless somehow, some way, I find out that I haven’t lost her at all.
#Solitude
Michael Wright
As sunsets go, that one was pretty spectacular. Of course you should expect nothing less when you’re in the Caribbean, but regardless of where I am, it was still a pleasure to witness such a majestic sight as I stood outside the beach house and enjoyed another beer. But the loss of the sun has meant a sudden drop in temperature and so I’m happy to step back inside and turn my back on the frothing ocean at the foot of the beach behind me.
Closing the door, I notice the guitar still standing in the corner, untouched despite all the activity that has gone on in this home over the last few hours. It suddenly strikes me that with the homeowner gone, lying at the bottom of the ocean nearby, there is a chance that these guitar strings will never be plucked again. I don’t consider myself a musical man but even I find something a little sobering about that thought, so I walk over and pick up the instrument from its lonely spot in the corner.
I take a seat on one of the wicker chairs and look down at the interesting piece of equipment resting on my lap. There are six strings stretched across the length of it, starting in the large blue body and running all the way along the neck to the white-tipped dials at the end. I’ve never played a guitar before, but I’ve seen plenty of people try, and I imagine it can’t be too difficult.
I just run my fingers up and down the strings, right?
The thumb on my right hand awkwardly prods at the top string and a note chimes out into the otherwise silent room. Growing into it, I use the rest of the fingers on my right hand to brush the strings as my unskilled left hand has a go at the strings on the neck. It’s a mi
sh-mash of sounds and none of them are anywhere close to resembling an actual song but it’s mildly entertaining and is helping me to kill a few more minutes of the long, boring night I have ahead of me.
But then I feel the aching in the fingers of my right hand and remember that there’s a good reason why most people who play the guitar use a pick to brush across the strings. It takes the strain off your fingertips.
I stop ‘playing’ and look around the room for any sign of a guitar pick, but I can’t see one. If I can’t see it in here where the furniture is minimalist, then there’s a good chance there isn’t one at all. Perhaps the homeowner played without one. It must have been tough on his fingers but then I suppose he got used to it. It’s not as if he had much else to do out here on this little island all on his own.
I give up on the guitar and place it on the floor, resting the head of it against the wicker chair opposite me. That’s enough music for one night. I wonder if Emily heard it through the door of the locked room. Perhaps I woke her up. I doubt she was sleeping but there’s a chance she drifted off. She’s had quite an eventful twenty-four hours, so she must be exhausted. And it’s not as if there’s anything else to do in that room.
I decide that another beer is in order and stand up from the wicker chair, making my way towards the kitchen. I’m lucky that the poor guy who owned this place kept a healthy supply of alcohol on the premises, so there isn’t any danger of me running out before the morning. I’m not planning on overdoing it but I have to stay awake all night to keep checking on Emily and it won’t be much fun to do it sober.
I open the fridge and reach in for another cold bottle of beer but pause when I hear a noise in the house. I remain still as I listen out for it again. I’m not exactly sure where it came from and there’s a chance it might actually have come from outside. I imagine there are a number of different species of wildlife that visit or even live on the island alongside this home and so it makes sense for there to be noises, especially now the sun has gone down and the island is shrouded in darkness. Anything that was too afraid to come out and show itself during the day may now feel emboldened by the lack of light, and even though I’m not afraid of animals, I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for me to venture too far from the beach house now daylight is no longer on my side.
Another moment passes and I don’t hear any more noises, so I decide to get on with my evening. I remove the cold bottle from the shelf and close the fridge door, ignoring the packets of food inside because I’ve never been a big eater and often find a drink or two is enough to leave me feeling full.
I pop the cap on the bottle and take a long, refreshing gulp before wiping my mouth and figuring out what to do next. I quickly check my watch, which tells me that it is eleven hours until our visitor will arrive on the island and relieve me of my duties.
That means eleven more hours to kill.
With the guitar not providing me with much entertainment, and the lack of light outside ruling out a decent walk, I decide that I will take a seat at the kitchen table and while away the next part of the evening playing a little Solitaire. I always pack a deck of cards for nights like this.
I remove the pack from my jacket pocket and drop the cards out onto the table, quickly rearranging them into their correct positions. I love playing this game. When I found out that I had been assigned a partner to accompany me on this mission, I had thought about keeping the cards a secret, not wanting to be forced into playing some tawdry game designed for two people when the games I prefer are best played alone. But now my partner is swimming with the fishes alongside the owner of this little beach house and I am free to play whatever game I wish.
Solitaire it is.
As my hands move over the cards and the reserves in my bottle of beer begin to dwindle, I contemplate how living on this island in the middle of nowhere could actually provide quite a pleasant lifestyle. As long as you have access to a boat, then you’d have access to supplies, and you would have everything you could possibly need right here.
The lack of a television or a Wi-Fi connection meant no negative influences from the world could infiltrate your mind. There would be no need for false pleasantries when there was nobody else here to be pleasant towards. And there would be none of the hassles of modern life demanding your attention and distracting you from more important things.
No crowds. No car horns. No sirens. Just you, your thoughts and the occasional sounds from the wildlife somewhere not too far from your door.
The wildlife...
There was that noise again. But it wasn’t from outside the home.
It came from inside.
I stand up, leaving the card game unfinished and listen out for it one more time. Then I hear it. A scraping sound. Like something shuffling along.
Then I look down at my feet.
Something is moving beneath me.
I race out of the room, fumbling for the key in my back pocket as I reach the locked door leading to the room where Emily is contained. I don’t know what is causing the noises but if it’s her then she will be dealt with immediately.
I turn the key in the lock and fling open the door.
Immediately I see that two floorboards are up, leaving a long, thin hole in the centre of the room. The bed sits on the other side of this small chasm, empty but with a hole ripped into its surface, from which a bundle of fluff protrudes.
But there is nothing else in the room.
Emily is gone.
#GetMeOutOfHere
Emily Bennett
It’s a good job I’m not afraid of spiders because I imagine I’m surrounded by them. I just hope none of them are poisonous.
I’m somewhere underneath the beach house, crawling over the rough ground and looking for any sign of light that can guide me towards a way out. My biggest fear now that I have escaped the room is that I just end up trapped underneath here in a sealed tomb, but I have to hope that I will find some way out of here.
I tried to be as quiet as I could when I was prising the floorboards up, but it wasn’t exactly a job that could be done in silence and I have to presume Michael heard something. I just need to make it away from the house before he comes after me. Then he will lose the power he currently holds.
We will be evenly matched if I can see him, but he can’t see me.
I keep crawling but there’s nothing but darkness and a damp musty smell. This is nothing like the time I was underneath my parents’ house as a child. Back then I had the strong grip of my father on my ankles to reassure me that everything was going to be okay. But now I have no one to look after me. I am completely alone and there is a lot more to be wary of now than a spider or a telling off from mum.
I push on, the low level of the crawl space ceiling keeping me pinned on my stomach, forcing me to use my elbows to gain traction. I have no idea how far away I am from the room now but it’s not far enough. I won’t relax until I can see this house from a distance and even then I won’t be safe.
I might not be safe for a very long time.
I had started working on the floorboards as soon as I had located the small gap in the dark, but I had increased my efforts when I had heard Michael open the front floor to the house and step outside. I didn’t know what he was doing out there, but his little jaunt had provided me with slightly more margin for error when it came to making some noise. I hadn’t expected the sound of the waves to drown out my work with the floorboards, but it had given me a little more breathing space knowing that he wasn’t standing right outside the door listening in on my every move.
By the time I had heard the door close again, I already had one floorboard up and I was busy putting my weight on the edge of the second one, trying to expose the new weakness in the structure of the floor and make a hole large enough to disappear into.
Now I am in that hole but I am still underneath the house and still a long way from escaping. I push on faster, eager to get out of this dark pit and into the fresh air, with the power of my
vision restored and the sight of the ocean providing me with a sense of freedom, even if it will be just an illusion for the time being.
But in my haste to get out of here I lift myself too far from the ground and bang my head on the solid wooden beam above me.
My thoughts go fuzzy and I clench my teeth together as the pain throbs through my skull. But that isn’t the worst part of it.
I hear the sound of a scraping chair above me which tells me that Michael has heard me.
I instantly freeze, my body lying prone beneath the house, waiting to hear what happens above me.
Then I hear the footsteps. They are moving fast and moving away from me. Presumably, he is on his way to the room to check on me. He is going to unlock that room and see that I am gone. It will be clear where I am because I wasn’t able to put the damaged floorboards back into the gap and so it will only be a matter of time until he runs out of the house and drags me out of this crawl space.
The only way I can avoid that fate now is by getting out of here before he finds me.
I begin scrambling again, sacrificing silence for speed, well aware that my cover is probably already blown. The problem is that I still can’t see any sign of a way out of here. I waited for darkness to fall to make my move and while that will help me if I make it out into the open it isn’t helping me down here where it’s almost as dark as the room that I just left.
Then I see it. A grate with several small holes across it and the pale moonlight pouring through each of them, like little beams of hope in a scary, pitch-black world.
I crawl frantically towards them, moving like I imagine army recruits move when they are going through basic training. Except this is for real.
I’m crawling for my life.
I reach the grate and paw at the small holes, desperate to pull it away and bathe myself in more of the moonlight that is peaking through. But it doesn’t budge. I pull frantically but it won’t come away. It’s sealed shut. There’s no way. I’m trapped under here.
