The Lighthouse Witches

by C. J. Cooke

  I asked how Cassie’s mother felt about it and he told me she wasn’t around, and hadn’t been for a long time. It was rare for me to meet another single parent. I met a lot of people who co-parented, managing the difficult task of ferrying their kids from one home to another, dividing holidays and finances. It was a hard job, to be sure—but a single parent, an honest-to-God buck-stops-with-me single parent was a rare species. And yet, here was Finn, another of my small tribe. He knew the language. He knew the grind of it.

  A song came on the radio. “Waterloo.” Finn bent down and fiddled with the dial, finding another channel.

  I smiled. “I thought you liked ABBA.”

  He looked up, catching my meaning. “Ah. You mean the other night. You heard that, did you?”

  “I did.”

  “It was on the car radio and I got it stuck in my head. I’m not a fan. Promise.”

  “OK.”

  He flicked his hair back in a camp flourish. “I might do a wee bit of karaoke in my front room every now and then, with my feather boa and my sequined leg warmers, maybe my silver knee boots. Other than that, I’m against them.”

  I laughed. “My lips are sealed.”

  He wiggled his hips, and I laughed louder.

  “So, since we’re sharing,” he said as I was testing out the cherry picker. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What really brought you to Lòn Haven?”

  “The job, of course.”

  “You can’t tell me you came all this way to paint this god-forsaken lighthouse. Especially during a school term.”

  I was taken aback. “Well, I did . . .”

  “OK.”

  “Did you think I had an ulterior motive?”

  “No, no,” he said, bending to clean his trowel. He cleared his throat. “I just figured you were running from something, that’s all.”

  I tried to tell myself that he was joking, but his words had somehow peeled back the layer I’d worked so hard to create, digging at the truth beneath it. Out here, I’d almost succeeded in pushing away the reasons I’d dragged my daughters from their beds in the middle of the night and driven nonstop to the Highlands of Scotland.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to . . .”

  “Something wrong?”

  I didn’t finish my sentence. I pushed open the door of the lighthouse and ran out into the rain.

  LUNA, 2021

  I

  “Morning,” a voice says from the doorway of their room in the B&B. Ethan, followed by the smell of coffee. He peeks around the door of the bathroom. “Brought you breakfast.”

  “Thanks.”

  Luna washes her hands and gives a long yawn as she heads back into the bedroom. Ethan sets his haul on the bedside table: a croissant, a decaf coffee, and a tub of porridge with a small pot of honey and a plastic spoon.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  She shrugs, her mouth full of hot porridge. She rarely sleeps well when she’s pregnant.

  He sits down next to her. She can tell he’s been churning the Clover situation over in his mind. “She does look like your sister,” he says with resignation. “The girl in the hospital.”

  In her mind’s eye she sees him awake at dawn, scrolling through the Facebook page she set up for Clover. A page he’s seen a hundred times, but which he needs to check now to figure out what the deal is with this kid that Luna claims to be her sister.

  “Look, I don’t want this to come between us,” he says anxiously, moving closer. He rests his hand carefully, slowly, on hers. “If you say she’s Clover, then . . . fine, I believe you. OK?”

  She can tell he’s lying, but it’s out of kindness, or maybe an effort to worm his way back into her good graces. This is his compromise—a willingness to go along with her, even though he doesn’t understand. There is a long silence between them, and she knows he’s waiting for a response. When she looks at his hand on hers she feels her heart stirring. His warm, broad hands have always made her feel safe, comforted. And seen.

  So why did she say no? Why does she still shudder at the thought of marrying him, being bound to him, despite knowing she still loves him?

  They head to the hospital to see Clover. It feels like a dream, winding through the hospital corridors to find her sister. And then the moment Luna sees her again, sitting upright in the bed. Gianni the giraffe tucked in beside her and color returned to her cheeks. Still a child.

  Luna feels a rush of emotion at the sight of her. Stunning familiarity, and yet disappointment. She had hoped, stupidly, to find a woman there instead of a little girl.

  “Hi, Luna,” Clover says brightly.

  “Hello,” Luna replies, glancing self-consciously at Ethan.

  “Did you and your giraffe sleep well?” he asks.

  Clover looks up warily. Someone has washed her hair, and a tray of cleared bowls and plates nearby shows she’s just finished breakfast.

  “She perked up a fair bit after you left,” a nurse says, pouring her a cup of water from a jug. “Didn’t you?”

  Clover takes the cup of water, her eyes darting cautiously to Luna. Luna sits on the bed next to her, absorbing the sight of her again. Physically, the girl’s likeness to Clover is uncanny. But Luna is aware, painfully aware, of how desperate she is for this to be Clover. For the search to be over, for the two halves of her life to lace together into a perfect whole once and for all.

  “Morning,” a voice says, and Luna turns to see Eilidh approaching with a wide smile. Beside her is another woman, who isn’t smiling. She’s tall with short black hair and a hard face, a document folder tucked under one arm and her hands tightly clasped. She fixes Luna with an unyielding stare, until Luna looks away.

  “How are you today, sweetheart?” Eilidh asks Clover brightly. “You’re looking better already, now that your sister’s here.”

  Clover plucks Gianni from beneath the blanket and holds him tight. Eilidh turns to the woman beside her and says, “That’s the toy she remembered.” She nods at Luna. ‘The one you brought for her.”

  Luna nods, understanding now the point Eilidh is making—that the toy is proof.

  She turns to the woman with the hard face. “This is my colleague, Shannon Young. She wants to have a wee chat, if that’s OK. Just to sort things out before Clover’s discharged.”

  Luna follows Eilidh and Shannon as they look for “somewhere quiet to chat,” and her stomach is in knots. The presence of the other social worker doesn’t bode well.

  They find a small office in a side room and arrange three chairs in a tight triangle.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Eilidh says as they sit down. She glances at Shannon, then at Luna. “We just have to fill in some paperwork before we let Clover go. Obviously we’re glad you’ve been reunited, but we need to take some information from you.”

  Luna swallows. “Of course.”

  “Wonderful,” Eilidh says, beaming. “Now, if you have something with your name and address on it, I’ll get it photocopied.”

  Luna pulls out her wallet and finds her driver’s license. She hands it to Eilidh, who holds it toward Shannon. They both inspect it closely.

  “Coventry?” Shannon says. “You lived there long?”

  There’s a tone in Shannon’s voice that strikes Luna as suspicious. “I’ve lived there for nine years now.”

  “And what is it you do there?”

  “I work for a children’s mental health organization,” she says. “I specialize in arts therapies for adverse childhood experiences. I use art to help children from abusive homes develop coping strategies.”

  “And you live in Coventry with your partner?” Shannon says.

  “Yes.” Luna doesn’t think it worthwhile delving into the complexities of her relationship with Ethan.

  “Your p
artner’s full name?”

  “Ethan Singh.”

  “Can I ask about your mother?” Eilidh says gently. “When I first spoke with Clover, I asked her who usually takes care of her. So we could contact her family, you see. She told me her mummy looked after her, and her big sister, Luna. I couldn’t find your mum, Olivia, but luckily I was able to find you.”

  Luna draws a breath. “Our mother passed away.”

  Eilidh tuts in sympathy. “Poor thing.”

  ‘You were staying on Lòn Haven when Clover went missing?” Shannon asks, and Luna nods. “So who was last taking care of Clover?”

  Luna feels her cheeks flush and her throat tighten. How can she possibly tell them that twenty-two years have passed? They’ll decide Clover isn’t her sister and put her into care.

  “Actually, I have some questions of my own, if that’s all right,” Luna says. “Where was Clover all this time?”

  “You mean, where was she since Tuesday?” Shannon says. “Clover said she’d only just left the cottage the night before. She said she went looking for you, Luna. And then she was found wandering on the side of the road.”

  Eilidh clears her throat. “Her memory is still very hazy. The toxicology report shows no sign of any drugs in her system, though she had a mild head injury.”

  “Head injury?” Luna asks. “Did someone hit her?”

  “We don’t know.” Eilidh sighs. “A trauma can do funny things to a person. Especially to their memories. What we do know is that she had walked for miles through thick woodland in just her sandals and dress before being picked up by a farmer.”

  Miles from where? Luna thinks. Who has been looking after Clover? She had to have been fed and sheltered. Twenty-two years. She must be deeply traumatized.

  “What about the injury on her hip?” Luna asks. “The doctor thought a human did it.”

  Eilidh nods, frowning as she thinks of it. “The psychiatrist asked Clover about that, but she has no memory of receiving it. She insists she was with your mother one minute and the next she was walking along the roadside. Everything in between is still a blank. Poor wee thing.”

  “What I’m still having trouble with,” Shannon says, referring to a sheet from the document folder, “is Clover’s date of birth. It says here that she was born on the twenty-second of August, 1991. I’ve checked with the officer at Dingwall and he says that’s what he has in his report.” She glances up at Luna for explanation.

  “It must be a mistake,” Luna says. Even to her own ears her tone is unconvincing.

  “Yes, it must be,” Eilidh says. “Otherwise it would make Luna a grown woman!”

  Shannon purses her lips, turning the pages. “So you’re saying Clover’s date of birth is the twenty-second of August . . . ?”

  Luna does a quick sum in her head. “2014.”

  Shannon pulls a pen and notebook out of an inside pocket and scribbles down the date on a fresh page.

  “Clover said she was with you and her mother when she went missing,” Shannon says. “But you said your mother’s been dead awhile.”

  Luna’s heart is racing. She’s certain neither of them believe a word she’s saying. But just then, an answer comes rushing to the front of her mind. She turns to Eilidh. “Didn’t you say Clover had a concussion?”

  Eilidh nods. “Yes. That’s right.” She turns to Shannon. “I had a concussion once. Made me say all kinds of things. Thought my dad was the king of Spain!”

  Shannon purses her lips but says nothing more.

  Eilidh makes a photocopy of Luna’s driver’s license and takes down her mobile number and email. As they head silently back to the ward she can sense Shannon’s eyes on her, full of mistrust. Eilidh seems keen to send Clover home with Luna, but Shannon . . . Luna senses she’s Eilidh’s boss. Luna hasn’t answered all Shannon’s questions, and she’s not sure how much she can lie without some element of the truth tripping her up and unraveling everything. There’s a strong chance, she thinks, that they won’t allow Clover to go home with her.

  Not until the story adds up.

  II

  Back on the ward, Clover is playing with Gianni and her other teddy bears in the bed. Ethan is pacing the corridor, checking his phone. His face lights up when he sees her.

  “You OK?” he says, reaching for her hand. She gives him it and nods.

  He flicks his eyes at Clover. “She’s been asking all sorts of questions about you. She wanted to know where you’d gone. I think she was worried you’d left.”

  Luna turns and catches Clover’s gaze. Quickly Clover looks away before glancing back, shyly.

  “I’m still here,” she tells Clover softly as she takes the chair next to her. “Did you think I’d gone away?”

  Clover gives a small nod. “Thank you for finding Gianni,” she says.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Just then, Gianni topples to the floor. Luna stoops to pick it up and hand it back to Clover. As she does so, one of her fingers brushes against Clover’s. It’s just a momentary touch, and yet Luna feels a small spark, like static. A few seconds later, a pain in her head makes her gasp, and she gives a loud “Oh!” that draws the nurse’s attention.

  “Are you all right?” a nurse asks.

  “Yes,” Luna says, breathless, but when she opens her eyes, she finds she can’t see properly. There’s a ray of white lights around her vision, and everything looks as though it’s seen through the prism of a smashed mirror. Her fingers tingle, and a sharp tug in her groin makes her shout out.

  Someone brings a chair and insists she sits down. “At least you’re in the right place if you go into labor,” a nurse jokes. Luna tries to smile but finds she can’t. Another tug makes her groan, and she tries to breathe it away. It can’t be a contraction. She’s only twenty-six weeks.

  Far too early for the baby to come.

  SAPPHIRE, 1998

  I

  Saffy can’t sleep. She sits cross-legged in the small, rock-hard bed that some idiot thought to build into the tight loft, forcing its occupants to sleep with their head jammed against the cobwebby window. Right now the sound of the waves outside would wake the dead. It’s like they’re roaring out there, howling with anger at the rocks that prevent them from climbing up onto the island to wreak havoc. She squints at the sky and the lighthouse standing darkly on the right of the island, silhouetted against the moon. A lighthouse without a light is unbearably creepy, she decides. And then there are the shapes of the rocks, slick with rain, some of them like hooded figures . . . until one of them moves.

  She sits up, pressing her face against the window. The rain is lashing across the glass, and the wind picks up, lightning flashing across the sky. She’s not sure what she’s more afraid of—the weather, or the thing she’s sure she saw outside.

  Her heart is thrumming. She watches for a few minutes more in case something—or someone—emerges from the Longing. But they don’t. A flicker in the glass of the lantern room catches her eye and then it’s gone.

  She sits back, wondering what to do. She won’t risk telling Liv and being made to feel like a scared child for seeing shapes in the dark. Instead, she pulls out a notebook and starts to write a letter to Jack. By the time he reads it, the ax murderer currently surveying the midnight landscape from the lantern room of the Longing will probably have slit her and her family’s throats, and she mentions that, if this is indeed the case, he can have her CD collection. He’s been hankering after her Björk album for forever—because it’s signed—and she knows he’ll be thrilled with this offering. Enough, perhaps, to contemplate slitting her throat himself.

  She tells him how her mother dragged her and her sisters from their home in the middle of the night and drove like a madwoman to the Scottish Highlands, and now they’re marooned on an island for a month or something. She finishes the letter by telling him not to go off with Stephani
e Bennett, hahaha, then worries that she comes across as too needy. But on the other hand, the thought of Jack preferring someone else over her is genuinely terrifying. Maybe she should chuck the letter in the bin and start again.

  She glances at her mother’s Polaroid that she’s “borrowed” from the Longing and has left carelessly on the floor of her room. Then she takes off her top. Leaning close to the small lamp, she pulls a contemplative pose and points the lens of the camera at her face, making sure her bare shoulders are in the shot. In a moment the white rectangle slides out beneath the lens. She writes on the back.

  Thinking of you. Are you thinking of me? xxx

  II

  The GRIMOIRE of Patrick Roberts

  Despite our initial failure to integrate with the community of Lòn Haven, my father’s skills gained us favor with many of the townsfolk. Most of the year he worked at sea on a whaling ship, and when he was home he liked to work as a handyman, endowed with a knack for sniffing out both the problem and solution to virtually any constructional issue by merely setting eyes on it. He had no formal training, but hailed from a long line of similarly gifted and self-schooled laborers. Before coming to Lòn Haven we lived in the house that my great-grandfather had built with his own hands until it burned to the ground, leaving us homeless and riddled with fleas and rickets. My father couldn’t solve the problem of a house turned to ash by a blazing furnace, but he could repair rooftops and chimneys, resize doors and fashion new ones, render walls and right stonework. He was often called to neighboring villages to solve their problems, too. At night, he set about building our house as we were renting and my father didn’t believe in borrowing from anyone.

  On hindsight, I believe this is where the trouble started. Ironically, my father’s newfound success meant that he was away from home more often, and the vines that might have otherwise remained small buds snaked through our house, and the next, and the next, until they strangled us all.

  The man’s name was Duncan. He was a church elder and owned a lot of land. I probably played with his younger sons Gordon and Alasdair a couple of times on the fen, where all the kids tended to congregate after the summer solstice nights for games. He had brought milk, eggs, and occasionally meat from his farm to my mother when she was in mourning after losing my sister, but suddenly he was at our door every day, bringing her food or assisting her in her prayers. I believe she had told him that she didn’t need his help to pray—he said she needed to pray for repentance. Even a child as young as I knew my mother had no need to repent for losing my sister—the Angel of Death had simply decided her time was up. But Duncan was persistent. My mother began to hide in the kitchen and send my brother and me to answer the door when he called.