‘I suppose it’s similar to shooting someone,’ she continued, ‘just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.’ Somehow, our conversations always seem to come back round to death.
‘You can’t. You haven’t got a gun.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I go through your stuff.’
She looked shocked for my benefit. I’m well aware of the fact that she audits my belongings as well. It’s a level of mistrust that keeps us on an even keel.
‘How very—’
‘Dare I? Because I’ve lost one parent to their secretive ways, I don’t intend to lose another. That would be careless, wouldn’t it? And if I’m not here, then who would be?’
‘“Secretive?” That’s certainly one word for your father.’ She watched me, carefully deciding whether she should be flattered that I’d shown a glimmer of concern for her or annoyed that I was going through her stuff.
‘And anyway, you can’t cook. I know you can’t.’
‘Really? Just look around you.’ She waved a casual hand across the vast cavern of our kitchen as if she was an estate agent in someone else’s house. It was so white and gleaming that it was like sitting inside a giant igloo. ‘Look at all the cookbooks.’
‘They can’t cook either. You just have them there to remind you it’s a kitchen.’
Mother colour-codes our freezer — brown food, grey food, beige food, green food, greige food. Ingredients are irrelevant. She never eats it so she doesn’t know it’s inedible. Mother doesn’t do food. Sometimes she heats things up, then Nutribullets them so they don’t resemble food anymore. She hasn’t Nutribulleted pizza yet, but that’s down to a lack of imagination.
Unlike so many people who survive a near-death experience, Mother hasn’t felt the need to reassess her life. She’s just continued in the same mediocre vein as before, warming up ready meals that she never eats. The only difference is that now she can fund her lifestyle by selling ludicrous stories to newspapers greedy for as much death as possible.
But as Mother so often says, you can’t live on the truth. And she’s right. The simple truth was that last year we stayed in a house and four people were murdered while we were there. Mother and I, along with my Aunt Charlotte and Mirabelle, lived to tell our tales of the Slaughter House. Bridget and her dog, Mr Bojangles, also made it out alive and it really was a miracle that no one murdered them. The house was actually called Ambergris Towers but that didn’t sound quite as salacious to the press. And that’s all there is to it, really. An everyday story of death. Some people find it shocking, others just look the other way when they see us in the street, as if we might in some way be dangerous or bad luck. Perhaps we are.
Those of us who survived have had to find a new way of living. When you emerge from a life-threatening event, be it a train crash or a serial killer, it’s like bursting from a chrysalis. You are changed irreparably. But then, who wants to be the same person all their life? I’m many people. Ursula Smart, survivor of the Slaughter House, is just one of them. I go by many names. All I can tell you is that we were a book club who went on an ill-conceived weekend away, where people died in a variety of gruesome ways. Book club stopped after that, but then most book clubs have a shelf-life. Perhaps ours ended in a more dramatic fashion than most but you’d be surprised the tales people now tell me about their book clubs.
You might think that I have now experienced my full quotient of dramatic horror. My dad died thirteen years ago and then there was the whole business of the Slaughter House last year. But people who live through a disaster somehow seem to attract even more tragedy, as if fate has found a new lightning rod. Calamity and chaos seem to gravitate towards certain individuals. I decided we should be ready for it next time.
And that is why I signed us up for a survival course.
CHAPTER 3: TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BEFORE THE SHIPWRECK
I woke in the night to the sound of my own screaming. I was in a strange place I didn’t recognize. That’s never good for me.
It was bone cold and the damp soaked through me. The blankets were mildewed and worn thin with the rub of too many strangers. When I opened my eyes, it had no effect at all. It was still a dead black. This was not a living world. This was a world for ghosts.
‘I know this place,’ my thoughts whispered.
‘You know this place,’ I answered out loud.
I was back in the Slaughter House with its rusty smell of blood, an old sour taint that would never leave my memories. It hung in the back cabinet of my mind, like a meat locker, waiting for me to open the door and look inside again. The ghosts wandered around the dark corridors in my head waiting for me to fall asleep, only to wake up with the bodies all around me, frantically trying to find a way out.
‘I know this place,’ I shouted.
A thud. The fast scurry of rat-like feet on bare boards. In an instant, I was blinded by the acid-yellow light.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ursula! I agreed to share a room with you on the basis that you wouldn’t be doing the whole “I see dead people” routine again.’ Mother was standing by the door, cross in cashmere — a signature look. Her finger hovered over the light switch as though she was about to ask if I had any last words.
‘I was back there at Ambergris Towers. You remember, Mother, the Slaughter House where your friend proved what I’d always said about her? She was not a good friend,’ I whispered.
‘Ursula!’
‘Christ, you can’t still be protecting her. Don’t “Ursula” me!’
‘She’s dead, Ursula!’
‘Good.’
Mother gasped as if she thought she should sound shocked. Mother is never shocked.
‘All I’ve done is have a few nightmares.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mother sighed, as if sympathy might burn her tongue. ‘Just a few nightmares.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bob’s filled me in on all that business.’ She sat down reluctantly on the end of my bed but kept her distance. She tried to soften her voice. ‘I was there too, remember. But let’s also remember that I warned you against coming on this trip this time. It was never going to quieten the demons, dragging us out here to a godforsaken motel in this Tartan Horror Story, was it dear?’
‘Tartan Horror Story? You mean like the coat you bought me for Christmas?’
‘Oh my God, that was Burberry!’
I shrugged, which is always unwise with Mother.
‘Just look at the place! Even the décor is channelling The Exorcist. I’ve not seen this much brown furniture since we went to your Aunt Charlotte’s filthy burrow.’
‘We haven’t been to Aunt Charlotte’s since I was three!’
‘She never changes the furniture.’
We paused for a moment to look across the faded room. Mother and I spend a lot of time like this, trying to make moments look meaningful.
‘Well, at least Aunt Charlotte might like it here then.’
Mother shook her head. ‘I doubt it. She’s sharing with Mirabelle. I should imagine they’ll be seeing who loses the will to live first.’ She made a sound like laughter. As with all dictators, Mother doesn’t like her friends and relatives to get on too well. It makes her feel redundant.
‘I’m going to make some cocoa,’ I said wearily.
‘Good God, what century are you from? No one’s said, “I’m going to make some cocoa” for fifty years!’ she scoffed. ‘Down the corridor on the right, there’s a kitchenette next to the lavatory. Be careful, the rooms look interchangeable. I’ve brought some of my first-blush Darjeeling—’
‘Flush, Mother. It’s not embarrassed tea.’
She stared at me. ‘Never, ever use the word “flush” in my presence again. Do you understand? I’ve spoken to Bob about it and he just thinks I’m sensitive to room temperature. I’m still very young! Now let me sleep. You can use the out-of-date chamomile and goji berry.’
‘Generous.’
‘Drink it there and don’t put the light on when you come back.’
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‘How will I—’
‘Use your mobile phone like everyone else from the twenty-first century.’ She flicked off the light and I could have sworn the line of her white teeth lingered just a second longer in the darkness, like the Cheshire Cat.
The kitchenette was a mean little space, all defiant sparseness and, Mother was right, with its algae-green tiles, it did look very similar to the bathroom next door. A kettle, powdered milk and one mug had been lined up on the side. The single light bulb gave off a dingy, jaundiced light as if I really had stepped into a 1970s horror film.
Mother’s luxury hamper sat incongruously on the peeling Formica. I flipped it open. Nothing really bore any resemblance to the kit list we had been provided with. Certainly, Sir Nigel Havers’s vodka-soaked plums were not something anyone had specified — although it’s hard to imagine a place where they would be a requirement. As with all the expensive foodstuffs Mother purchases, none of it had any nutritional value whatsoever. Mother’s reaction to the kit list had been the same as everything else prior to the trip. ‘I don’t want to see it because I’m not going.’
* * *
I’d finally got her to look at it by telling her the new John Lewis Christmas ad was streaming on my laptop. When we saw the kit list though, I think it would be fair to say we were both quite surprised.
Sleeping bag (I didn’t admit to Mother that this was the first moment I’d realized it was a camping trip, but I did begin to wonder what else I might have overlooked when I’d booked it so impulsively. I decided not to share my misgivings with Mother.)
Sleeping mat (It definitely did look like we were camping.)
Bivvy bag (A bivouac bag, which, when I googled this, seemed to bear more than a passing resemblance to a body bag.)
Basha (I googled What is a basha? and we watched a YouTube video showing an army guardsman stringing a piece of material between two trees with the constant sound of gunfire in the background. This did not calm Mother down about the forthcoming trip.)
Waterproof clothing (Mother refuses to wear anything that looks flammable. I assume this is out of a fear that someone might try to set her on fire. I’ve told her a thousand times that I’m sorry and the incident with the Christmas pudding was an accident, but she doesn’t believe me.)
Torch (Mother said her phone light would be perfectly adequate. I didn’t tell her there wouldn’t be any electricity on the island to charge it. She hated the trip enough already.)
Toothbrush (They recommended that we ‘put the toothpaste on at home and wrap it in cling film’. Given the amount of money Mother’s spent on cosmetic dentistry, comments like this certainly would not encourage her so I scrolled through them at speed.)
Toilet paper and a mess tin (Listing these items together was a bad idea and gave entirely the wrong impression to Mother. We learned very quickly that outdoorsy people do seem to be fascinated with all things toilet-based. This extended to the next item.)
Toilet trowel (I said it was a typo and should have been towel. Mother has the John Lewis, or ‘Mothership’, as she calls it, app on her phone for emergencies, so she clicked it immediately and ordered three luxury cotton John Lewis bath sheets in white. Later on, I made sure I got her a little Cath Kidston gardening set with mini spade, rake, gloves and seeds. She didn’t question why we’d be gardening on a survival trip.)
Small penknife (Given that on our last retreat there were a lot of murders, Mother did express a little concern that we were embarking on an expedition where everyone would be armed.)
No alcohol (Mother edited this with the simple word ‘bollox’, which she spelled with an ‘x’ in the same manner as Botox. To be fair, I do still carry my dad’s old hollowed-out Bible everywhere with its flask of brandy in it, so I shouldn’t judge.)
Personal items (Mother hasn’t needed these for years.)
At the bottom of this list of requirements in bold letters was the excruciating statement:
AND THE WILL TO SURVIVE!
Play It Simple & Survive
Survivalists and outdoors people seem to like nothing better than an acronym.
All of this carefully bought and packed equipment would be at the bottom of the sea within twenty-four hours of our arrival.
The list neglected to mention a few other things that I always try to take with me on a trip with Mother — patience, self-belief, forgiveness and sustenance that isn’t just bottle-shaped.
I downloaded the brochure and there were lots of pictures of people looking dirty and depressed. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that this literature had only been disclosed after payment.
‘I’m not going.’ Mother was in defiant mode.
I’d thought it would be a good idea to show her the brochure. Which reminded me not to have good ideas around Mother.
I don’t think it helped that the brochure began with the words:
THE BROWN WATCH
TAKE IT TO THE LIMIT . . .
ONE MORE TIME
It did admittedly seem ill-advised that they’d named themselves The Brown Watch given the focus on toilet matters in their kit list but, as I explained to Mother, it all had something to do with Scotland and being courageous.
‘I’m not going.’
‘Mother, how hard can it be?’ I gave her my most appealing face. ‘It says it’s a family survival course.’
‘A course in how to survive your family? I should be bloody running it—’
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Mother.’ Though I’ll be honest, Mother is rarely anything she can’t spell. ‘It’s for the family. Look, it says we’ll learn about human nature and basic survival.’
‘I think we’ve learned enough about that, don’t you?’
I sighed. ‘But we didn’t, that’s just it. Back at the Slaughter House, we were a shambles. We need to be better at this.’
‘At what?’
‘Staying alive! Knowing what to do in the worst of times.’ I put my hand on her arm. She stared at it until I removed it, then brushed down the sleeve. ‘I’ve already lost one parent and you’ve lost a . . . a friend. The point is, we need to be tougher than this. We need to be ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ She shook her head. ‘You make it sound like we’re at war.’
‘That’s how it feels sometimes, Mother.’ She paused and I assumed she was thinking, although you never can tell. She’s refined the art of making distraction look like thought.
‘Ursula.’ She tilted her head and pointed to the laptop screen. ‘This is all a pile of horse shit.’
‘I’ve booked it.’
‘What?’
‘And paid for it. You’ve got to go now.’
Her face seemed to deflate. Her mouth hung slack like an old puppet. No voice came out.
‘I’ve booked all three of us on it.’
‘Three?’
‘Me, you and Aunt Charlotte. It says it’s a family survival course. She’s the only surviving family we’ve got now.’
‘And what about Aunt Mirabelle?’ Mother widened her eyes as far as she could.
‘What about her? She’s not family. She’s not my real aunt. That’s it. No more. No discussion.’ I realized I sounded churlish but Mirabelle had to be involved in everything and was in some way meant to be my godmother. God had nothing to do with her. Mother had attempted to draw her into our lives even more after we all survived the Slaughter House together, which had cast our survival in a more bittersweet light. Mother somehow seemed to have this idea of us playing happy families just because we weren’t dead.
‘How can you say that about Mirabelle after all we went through together?’
‘Avoiding being murdered is no reason to band together. “We’re Not Dead” is not a good name for a club.’
Mother tried to purse her lips. ‘Well, I’m not bloody going. Unless Mirabelle does.’
‘Really?’
She issued The Look.
‘I just thought we could . . .’ I watched her unmoving face.
It was pointless trying to sway Mother when her mind was made up. I sighed dramatically. ‘All right, she can come.’
A smile lifted her lips. ‘What’s that, dear?’
‘She can come. She can come. She can come. Bloody buggering Mirabelle can come on our bloody holiday again.’
‘What a lovely idea, darling. And stop calling it a holiday. It’s hateful.’
* * *
So here I was on the first night of our survival course, standing in the green tinged kitchenette, freezing cold and staring at Mother’s basket and Sir Nigel Havers’s plums. I had no idea that Mirabelle would never thank me again for letting her come on one of our trips, or that most of our group would die. But I was already beginning to think Mother may have had a point. I should stop calling it a holiday.
CHAPTER 4: LANDING IN ANOTHER WORLD
I should have known from that first moment that it wasn’t a holiday. The journey here had been far from the voyage of discovery I’d been hoping for.
I’d imagined my eyes opening to the isolated beauty of it all, finding myself as a woman in the wilderness. But from the outset it had looked a lot more like Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.
When we arrived on the Isle of Harris, we decided to get some food in Stornoway airport, which is not something I’ll repeat.
Aunt Charlotte and Mirabelle had flown out with us. Our little group seemed to fill the small airport, particularly Aunt Charlotte, who was dressed entirely in Harris tweed. She had the distinct look of Agatha Christie about to embark on an expedition, and that was before we even discovered anyone was dead.
‘Excellent!’ Aunt Charlotte announced staring into a plate of liquid egg and burnt toast. ‘Stornoway black pudding too.’ She held up what looked like a tarmacked hamster and inspected it. ‘How the devil are you, dear?’ It was hard to tell if she was talking to me or the black pudding. ‘Pandora, you look like you need to eat.’
BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2) Page 2