by Kate Rhodes
‘You could be right. I need to get dressed before we visit him.’
‘No, please, stay in the bikini.’
Her smile widens. ‘I can put it on again later; give me five minutes.’
She rests her head on my shoulder, then flits away. Now she’s running across the beach, leaving me to watch the sea’s spume trailing across the sand, like a bride’s veil.
Author’s Note
I always end my books by asking readers not to use them as guidebooks, and Pulpit Rock is no exception. It’s set on the beautiful island of St Mary’s, the biggest and most densely populated island in Scilly, but I have taken liberties with its geography to build an exciting story. There’s a heavy pinch of imagination sprinkled all over the island’s ancient terrain. Pulpit Rock does stand at the tip of Peninnis Head as I have described, but its scale has been exaggerated, which is just one example of dozens where I have stretched the truth. What matters to me is staying true to the spirit of the landscape, because I’ve loved St Mary’s for years. It’s a glorious place, and I would hate to upset the locals, in case they exclude me from their great pubs and hotels.
The idea for this book came from a walk I took last summer, from Hugh Town to the north of the island. A bride and groom were having their photo taken against the backdrop of Pulpit Rock. It was such a striking image, with the bride’s veil floating on the breeze, that I had to include it in my story. I hope this dark tale won’t put any couples off using the same setting for a photoshoot in the future.
I can heartily recommend St Mary’s to anyone who enjoys a rocky, unspoilt coastline, studded with quiet, sandy beaches. You’ll find archaeological sites galore, and the chance to ply back and forth between the islands on a network of tiny ferries. The place feels like the land that time forgot. Visitors trundle around on golf buggies and rented bicycles, instead of cars, and no one gets upset if there’s a long queue at the Co-op. I always keep a few pebbles from Porthcressa Beach on my desk, to remind myself of the island’s beauty while I work.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank everyone on St Mary’s for being so welcoming over the years. Particular thanks are due to my friends Linda Thomas at Porthcressa Library, talented YA author Rachel Greenlaw, Clive and Avril Mumford and Victoria Hitchens. I owe a big debt to Jeremy Brown and his multi-talented partner Kate, for inviting me to take part in the islands’ brilliant Creative Scilly Festival. Thank you also to St Mary’s Creative Writing Group for inviting me to join them in a workshop and giving me their lovely anthology, which proves just how many talented writers live in Scilly.
I am grateful to Five Islands School for letting me spend time with their boisterous and brilliant pupils, encouraging them to consider writing as a career. Thanks to the very helpful staff at the Star Castle Hotel, for allowing me to include the building in my book. The managers are nothing like those described in Pulpit Rock; the hotel is a special, luxurious place to stay.
Thanks to Teresa Chris, my agent, to whom this book is dedicated. She keeps me writing, even when gin and chocolate fail, and always leads me to the best garments when we go clothes shopping. Thank you so much to everyone at Simon and Schuster for your support, particularly my brilliant editor Bec Farrell and my kind and thoughtful publicist Jess Barratt.
My writer friends Penny Hancock, Mel McGrath, Louise Millar and everyone in Killer Women also deserve my gratitude. Thanks for picking me up whenever my confidence flags. My Twitter pals have also supported me beautifully over the years. Janet Fearnley, Peggy Breckin, Polly Dymock, Hazel Wright, Julie Boon, Jenny Blackwell, Louise Marley, Christine South, Angela Barnes, Rachel Medlock, Sarah LP and hundreds more – you are all brilliant. It’s your passion for my stories that carries me to my desk every morning, determined to write more.
Finally, thanks to my lovely sister Honor, and my long-suffering husband Dave for believing in me, right from the start.
More from the Author
Burnt Island
Ruin Beach
Hell Bay
Loved Pulpit Rock? Read on for an exclusive extract from the new thriller by Kate Rhodes, coming soon…
DEVIL’S TABLE
1
Sunday 19 December
The twins wait until the house falls silent. Outside their bedroom window the storm is gathering force, whirls of sea mist racing past.
‘Let’s go,’ Jade whispers. ‘We can’t be late.’
Ethan knows he should refuse. Their father’s punishments will be harsh if he discovers their actions, but his sister is already zipping up her windcheater. When Jade opens the window to jump onto the flat roof below, Ethan knows he must follow, even though he’d rather stay warm in bed.
The boy’s anxiety is soon replaced by excitement. Mist swirls around him as he chases ahead, but nothing can slow him down. He learned to walk on this path; each bump and tree root is imprinted on his memory. There’s a break in the fog when the twins pause beside a field of narcissi. The flowers’ odour is heady tonight, the blooms yielding their sweetness to the dark. St Martin’s is bathed in moonlight, turning the flower fields silver, until a new wave of fog rushes inland, blurring the horizon.
‘Race you to the beach,’ his sister yells.
‘Stay on the path, Jade. Dad’ll kill us for spoiling the flowers!’
She ignores his warning, never afraid of tomorrow’s punishments. Ethan watches her trample through knee-high blooms, with broken petals sticking to her jeans, before she disappears into the white air. Instinct tells him to go home, but he was born second, destined to play catch-up forever.
Ethan is halfway across the field when Jade gives a high-pitched scream. The noise is soon replaced by the dry sound of wind attacking the tamarisk hedges that surround the fields. There’s no reply when he calls Jade’s name. His sister loves spooking him, but Ethan is already afraid. Ghosts dance before his eyes when a fresh wave of mist rushes inland.
‘Where are you?’ he shouts. ‘Stop messing around.’
A hand settles on Ethan’s shoulder, the grip so harsh each finger leaves a bruise. Someone kicks the backs of his knees, dropping him to the ground, and it can’t be Jade: his sister isn’t that strong. Ethan yells for help, but his attacker grabs him from behind, tainting the air with booze and cigarettes. He hears Jade scream again, the sound weaker than before, but Ethan can only see a wall of fog that’s hiding the stars. He tries to shout to his sister, telling her to run, but his voice has stopped working. The arm locked around his waist is too powerful to fight, even when he lashes out. It’s only when he bites his attacker’s hand that its grip weakens.
The boy seizes his chance to escape. Fear makes him sprint home, tripping over the rutted ground. He tries to shout Jade’s name again, but no sound emerges. He can only hope that she’s found a safe place to hide. His eyes are wide with panic when he clambers back up the drainpipe. Ethan gazes down from the window, searching for his sister, but tendrils of fog have smothered the glass once more, hiding the fields from view.
2
Sunday 19 December
My grandfather valued beauty over safety. He could have built his home anywhere in Scilly, but he chose Hell Bay on Bryher’s western coast, at the mercy of every Atlantic squall. My girlfriend, Nina, seems oblivious to tonight’s storm, calmly writing Christmas cards at my kitchen table. The view from the window consists of rain pouring down the glass and breakers hammering the shore fifty metres away. My dog, Shadow, gambols at my feet, begging for a final walk.
‘No chance, mate. It’s pissing down out there.’
‘Don’t be mean, Ben,’ Nina tells me. ‘He deserves a run.’
When I open the front door the wind rocks me back on my feet, but Shadow is overjoyed. He streaks outside at top speed like he’s seeking the eye of the storm, leaving me shaking my head. Four months ago he was so badly injured, it took two operations to stem the internal bleeding, followed by weeks of pain as his wounds healed, yet he never came close to giv
ing up. The vet said that wolfdogs are a tough breed, and he must be right. The only difference in Shadow’s behaviour since his near-death experience is his tendency to stay close to my side, apart from occasional forays across the island. I can see him chasing the tideline, tail wagging, while he looks for something foul to drag home.
‘He’s better, but still not a hundred percent.’
‘PTSD,’ Nina replies. ‘He needs time to recover.’
‘Do dogs get depressed, like humans?’
‘They have emotions, that’s for sure: dogs cry when they’re upset, like us.’ A gust of wind rushes inside, blowing her envelopes from the table. ‘Shut the door, for God’s sake. My stuff’s going everywhere.’
I can tell she’s only pretending to be angry. She moved to Scilly in August, and it’s taken me four months to second-guess her moods. Nina’s serenity masks the sadness of losing her husband three years ago; her shield of mystery is still so impenetrable, I’d need an X-ray machine to discover what else lies beneath. She’s spent every weekend here for months, but values her own company too highly to compromise. I asked her to move in with me weeks ago, and I’m still waiting for an answer. Tomorrow she will return to St Martin’s, a thirty-minute boat ride away, where she’s house-sitting for a local couple who are spending the winter abroad. The arrangement suits her perfectly. She can study for her counselling diploma, do gardening duties, and keep me at arm’s length. Nina is busy collecting her cards into an orderly pile, giving me time to study her. I can’t explain why she’s stuck in my head like a tune I can’t stop humming. She never fusses over her appearance, apart from running a comb through her hair each morning; she’s dressed in old Levis and a plain blue T-shirt. Her chocolate brown hair hangs to her shoulders in a neat line, the olive skin she inherited from her Italian mother a shade darker than mine.
‘Don’t stare, Ben. It’s distracting me.’
‘Why are you writing cards at midnight? They won’t get there in time.’
‘It’s the thought that counts. Why aren’t you sending any?’
‘Christmas is a marketing conspiracy. When’s the last time anyone gave you something you actually need?’
‘What a narrow, bloke-ish thing to say.’ Nina rolls her eyes. ‘Stop bugging me and play the piano instead.’
‘Is my conversation that bad?’
‘I’d prefer music tonight.’
I haul myself upright with a show of reluctance. Nina handles her violin like it’s an extension of her body, while I make constant mistakes on the piano my dad inherited from the island’s pub. I taught myself to play out of boredom as a kid, copying songs I heard on the radio, because my parents refused to buy a TV. I can still pick out a few tunes, but conjuring one from memory is harder. I play the first notes of ‘Someone to Watch over Me’ in the wrong tempo, then muscle memory kicks in and life gets easier. Before long I’m following the storm’s music instead, echoing the wind’s high notes and the waves’ slow heartbeat.
When I finally stop, Nina is curled up on the settee, smiling. ‘Not bad, for a man who never practises.’
‘They offered me lessons at school, but rugby got in the way.’
‘You’re a natural then.’
‘Flatterer,’ I say, closing the lid of the piano. ‘You want a lift to St Martin’s tomorrow, don’t you?’
She shakes her head. ‘Ray’s cooking me breakfast, then we’re going in his speedboat.’
‘The old boy’s sweet on you. Don’t break his heart, will you?’
My uncle Ray is a hard man to impress; a lifelong bachelor, who returned to Bryher after years at sea, to build boats. He’s famous for enjoying his own company, yet Nina can spend hours pottering around his boatyard, without any complaint.
‘Are you jealous, Benesek Kitto?’ She only uses my full name to mock.
‘I’ve got a three stone weight advantage if he wants to fight it out.’
Nina stands up abruptly. ‘Stop boasting, will you? It’s time for bed.’
‘Is that your idea of seduction?’
‘It’s the best you’ll get.’
‘Maybe I should play the piano more often.’
I don’t put up a fight when she leads me to the bedroom. The sex between us is less frantic these days, but I still want her badly enough to grit my teeth while she peels off her clothes. My hefty, carthorse build embarrassed me as a kid, but the way she looks at me removes self-doubt. She takes her time undoing the buttons of my shirt, stripping away layers of fabric, until nothing separates us, except the overhead light that exposes every detail. I love watching her move, and the emotions flowing across her face. It takes effort to hold my shattered senses together, but when she finally lets go, it’s worth the wait.
Her eyes are still cloudy when we collapse back into the pillows, her amber gaze softer than before. ‘That’s clinched it,’ she murmurs.
‘About what?’
‘I choose you, not Ray.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘But it was a tough call.’
I stand up to turn off the light, her eyes closing when I slip back under the covers. Nina’s hunger for sleep still amazes me; she can remain unconscious for twelve hours at a stretch without moving a muscle. She shifts towards me, mumbling something under her breath.
‘Changes are coming, Ben. You have to be ready.’
‘How do you mean?’
I wait for a reply but hear only her slow breathing and the gale rattling roof tiles overhead. Her oval face is as calm as a statue in the moonlight that sifts through the curtains. I’m still digesting her words when Shadow scratches at the front door, the sound reminding me of the squealing car brakes that often woke me in London. His fur is soaked when I get him inside, so I rub him dry with an old towel, then he lies at my feet, warming himself by the embers of the fire. When I look around, Nina’s belongings are scattered around my living room. A copy of Persuasion lies on my coffee table, her red scarf hanging by the door, and the violin her husband gave her the year before he died is propped against the wall. She’s even begun leaving clothes in my wardrobe, which must signal progress. When I finally get to meet her parents I’ll know she means business.
Shadow doesn’t complain about being left alone for once, content to stay warm by the hearth. My girlfriend’s pronouncement is half-forgotten; things have already changed beyond recognition. I slept alone for five years, but now Nina’s here, and I’m not prepared to let her go. When I peer out of the window for a final time the storm is getting worse – fog is rushing inland, blindfolding my house with thick white air.
About the Author
© John Goddard
KATE RHODES is an acclaimed crime novelist, an awardwinning poet and a key member of the Killer Women crime-writing group. She lives in Cambridge with her husband, the writer and film-maker, Dave Pescod. She visited the Scilly Isles every year as a child which gave her the idea for this series.
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Also by Kate Rhodes
Hell Bay series
Hell Bay
Ruin Beach
Burnt Island
Alice Quentin series
Crossbone’s Yard
A Killing of Angels
The Winter Foundlings
River of Souls
Blood Symmetry
Fatal Harmony
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> First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
Copyright © Kate Rhodes, 2020
The right of Kate Rhodes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8986-9
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-8987-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-8988-3
Audio ISBN: 978-1-4711-8990-6
Design by Pip Watkins / S&S Art Dept.
Cover images © Alamy and Shutterstock
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.