“My parents used to tell me that when they were young, their parents threatened them with a visitation from child-eating monsters if they didn't eat their vegetables.”
She heard Greg chuckle under his breath.
“Yeah, frankly I think they were full of shit. Nobody's actually said that to a kid since the middle ages. But their point was that they didn't think it was right to lie to children. They believed in the truth. They taught me about healthy portions and vitamins. There was a pyramid at one point, then it was gone. I always wondered what happened to that pyramid. They told me that kids who live on sugar and junk food get diabetes. They told me that you could always spot someone who was raised right because they had healthy eating habits all on their own. They told me there was something called gut flora that told you what was good for you. If you had the right stuff inside you, a piece of broccoli would taste better than ice cream. That last part probably didn't fit with their claim of not lying to children, but I got the gist.”
“Did it work?”
“Well, it didn’t make me like vegetables any better. But I did start pretending that I liked mustard greens, because my mother made them all the time and she never stopped reminding us how good they were for us. I would eat it as fast as I could and ask for seconds, because I didn't want anyone to think I had the wrong kind of gut flora or that I had diabetes. I was still a little fuzzy on what exactly that was. But mostly I didn't want anyone to see me not liking mustard greens and think 'that girl's no good. She wasn't raised right. Maybe she doesn't have parents that love her after all.' I was so scared of being misunderstood, which makes no sense because there was nobody to misunderstand me. No one could see what I didn't like to eat but my parents.”
“They meant well.”
“Don’t get me wrong, there were still chicken nuggets from time to time. And I don't look over my shoulder every time I have a cheat day. It’s not like they gave me a complex or anything. But later it dawned on me that there's no sense in wasting time worrying about the bogeyman. There's nothing he can do to us. Nothing like what we do to ourselves.
“I told you I don't believe in the Devil, but the fact is I don't care. If he's out there waiting for me, let him wait. I have no time for him. And neither do you, Mr. Browne.”
“We've got nothing but time. You'll find that out soon enough if you stay on this island. There's something wrong with this place. And everyone on the outside, people like you, they don't see it.”
“The island does have a certain… broodiness to it. My husband called it a beach resort for goths.”
“For what?”
“Goths? It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not the gloom, Constable. How many people where you come from know we exist?”
“Not many. Most of them didn’t believe it was a real place even after I told them.”
“That's because they've forgotten about us again.”
“Again? Is that something that happens often?”
“People have been forgetting about this place for ages.” His hand drifted down to where a hymnal might have once rested in a pocket on the pew in front of him. “The first time the island was forgotten, it went by Nouvelle Rochelle. I read about it in the library in Perth. That’s the name Baudin gave to it. But the British decided it was South Alderney and settled sheep farmers here to prove it. Then they forgot about it too, until the whalers came. When there were no more whales they brought in debtors and orphans to live in the hulks and resupply the ships to Australia. The steamships came along and forgot why they needed to stop here in the first place. The Australians came for the fisheries and left to go be independent. And then there was no one left to remember South Alderney but us.”
He looked down as if noticing his fingers running along the empty wooden pocket and pulled his hands in.
“When we die out, they’ll have to discover it all over again and give it a new name. Maybe that’s what Baudin did. Maybe there was someone here before us that we’ve all forgotten about.”
“Mr. Browne. Gregory. I'm not going to forget about anyone I'm tasked with protecting.” Emma suppressed the realization that she had already forgotten how many people even lived on the island. “I don't believe you committed a crime, let alone that you're possessed by the Devil. There is something going on here that is logical and reasonable. Right now I feel stupid for not putting the pieces together, but whatever is going on I will figure it out, and I will keep you safe. I promise you.”
Greg looked her in the eye. Through an enormous force of will Emma didn't look away. He stood up.
“I think I need to go home now. The wife will be worried.”
The walk back to The Rock was uncanny. Dawn and dusk were the only moments when the air stood still. In the unnatural quiet, sound could be heard that was normally drowned out. She could hear a generator humming two back gardens away, and a woman somewhere was chasing geese. Everyone’s activities were revealed. People walked quickly, like insects scurrying away from the kitchen light.
Emma knew better than to expect anyone to show their true nature when there was nowhere to hide. When it’s quiet people whisper. It would help if she knew what she was listening for.
On the street in front of her, a seagull perched on an upturned cobble and preened. She could clearly see the white feathers underneath and the almost blue-gray speckles along the back.
Emma stopped short.
“Do they all look like that?”
She walked on, squinting sideways at every bird she passed.
That night Emma and David sat on the hotel bed with the island's finest takeaway between them. David rummaged through paper bags with his hands, though he could have identified their contents by looking straight through them.
“These are your chips, I think.”
“Are they... weeping?”
“Can't blame them, really. They've led a hard life.”
Emma bargained for a way out. “What's under there?”
“That's what the girl referred to as ‘cod.’ No doubt some antipodal shorthand for whatever creature they found evolving its way onto dry land today.”
“We're sure it's dead, right?”
“Greased to death, the poor thing.”
She picked it up with a piece of transparent wax paper. “What do you think they're up to back home?”
“Something old, something new. Mostly the former if precedent is any guide.”
“Sometimes I forget that time doesn't stand still while we’re here. Our friends in London are getting on with their lives. The last time I talked to him, Dad went on and on about his plans for the garden. He says he finally has a spot for hydrangeas, because you can't grow them in full sun over there, apparently.”
“Goodness. I hope they at least wait until we can visit to have the viewing party!”
“Alright, so it's not a high stakes dilemma. It still bothers me. Nothing ever bothers you.”
“How utterly dare you. That’s not true at all. I wondered yesterday when we would get our next proper pint by the river.”
“You didn't say anything to me.”
“I didn't want you to blame yourself for dragging us out here to this waterlogged shanty town.”
“Oh yes, thank goodness you didn't guilt me. My hero. Give me something else. Is that a saveloy or a sea cucumber?”
“I think it’s best we don’t find out what antediluvian horror could pass for both. Actually, I’m not sure how that got in there. I certainly didn’t ask for it.”
“What’s that at the bottom of the bag?”
“Not sure, it was complimentary. The girl called it a fritter, then one of the customers insisted it was a potato cake. Things got a bit heated, but I couldn’t tell you who won.”
“It doesn’t look too bad.” Emma reached for it.
“Wait! Let me test it first.” David grabbed it and nibbled the edge. He looked at the hole his teeth made in the flat brown oval for a moment, then moved it far away from the rest of the food
without saying a word.
Emma pinched off a piece of the battered fish in front of her. It had a lovely flake, but pulled away in spurts, as if internal structures were tearing. She began peeling back the batter to see what was underneath, then thought better of it.
David laughed at her hesitation. “At least it's not another Korean pizza.”
“Oh my God, the one with corn and mayonnaise? I've never in my life seen someone send back a pizza.”
“Well what choice did I have, with you making a face like a sad bulldog? I had to do something.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.” She made an effort to put the slimy piece of meat in her mouth. “Mind you, we can never Google what this is. Ever. But it's not bad.”
They ate for a few moments in silence. Emma's mind raced, running through theories about Evan's death. David saw the wheels turning and offered a guess.
“Could it be blackmail?”
“Blackmail wouldn't explain memory loss. That distress on Steve’s face last night was real. We don’t have hard evidence that he was there when Ned tried to kill himself, so he could have played it cool and no one would have ever thought he was involved. But he seems to think he did something wrong.”
“It's not alcohol. Steve barely drinks, and Ned never did.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gossip. Seriously, why are you always surprised that I talk to people?”
“Then you’ve noticed people here have secrets.”
“By definition, interesting people have secrets. It doesn’t make them criminals.”
“I have a theory.” Emma shook a spongy wedge of potato in the air as she spoke.
“Shoot.”
“Hypnosis. We have two violent events, each involving two people. Those that survive have no memory of it. What if they're also the victims?”
“Victims of what?”
“Someone is using a technique to make people kill themselves. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Either way nobody remembers. But what's the motivation?”
“Does there need to be one?”
“A motive for murder? Yes, David, I should hope so.”
“Maybe, maybe not. People do crazy things out of boredom. My Nan used to say when you're alone the Devil is with you. No one's more alone than a person trapped on South Alderney.”
“But there has to be some reason. Something.”
“There doesn't, and you know it. Besides, you're forgetting the main flaw in your hypnotism theory.”
“What's that?”
David lifted his nose in the air. “You can't make someone do something under hypnosis that they really don't want to do. If someone thinks murder is wrong, you can't hypnotize them into killing people. Hypnosis couldn't make someone kill themselves if they truly wanted to live. Everyone knows that.”
“It's hardly a stretch that people might be suicidal in a place like this.”
“Ha. I'm rubbing off on you. People on this island are suffering, but you're wasting your time if you're chasing evil-doers to blame it on.”
“It's not evil.” Emma searched her lap for the words she needed. “I'm not looking for some vague quality to blame for people doing bad things. No one blames a breakdown on ‘car badness.’ It's something more specific that goes wrong. Some small part of an otherwise perfectly operational human that shifts out of place. It's easy to miss. Even easier to hide.”
“Well then, if the solution to this problem is to get some NHS counselors to serve the population, that's a medical crisis not a crime wave. No bogeyman required.”
“It's pronounced ‘boogyman.’ Eat your fries.” This was a standard tactic when Emma lost an argument, and it signaled full retreat. It wouldn't be the worst thing if there was no mad mesmerist rampaging across the island. A systematic mental health crisis was at least more comforting than a crime without a reason. It was infuriating when David was right, but she knew that without him she would be checking under sheep for serial killers.
Something about the situation still bothered her. There was an order to things. Emma knew that there were precisely two kinds of people in the world: those who turned left at the fork, and those who turned right. Most people did good things, and some did bad.
A lot of people found this difficult to swallow. This was usually because they had taken a glance at the complexity of the human psyche and thrown their arms in the air, declaring the mind to be unknowable. In reality, when things went wrong there was always someone to be found loitering on the wrong side of the fork in the road. People didn’t turn up dead or dying for no reason. Anyone who insisted that sometimes there was no one to blame wasn't looking hard enough. That was how it was supposed to work, anyway.
The more she thought about it, the worse it seemed. All the people on the island watched, unmoved, someone who was on the brink of death. No one knew how he felt, or no one cared. Something about that was terrifying, but she couldn't explain why. She took another bite and found it went down easier than the first. “At least it's better than that black pudding in Leicester.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Remember the time we visited your friend in Leicester? Two years ago, maybe?”
David gave his usual good-natured smile. “Ah. Yes. Of course.”
“No, you don't. Where was it in Leicester?”
“Well, of course I don't remember the exact location.”
Emma tilted her head back and took in a deep breath.
“Em, it's OK.” His smile widened. “Maybe I'll remember it. You just have to help me. Give me some details.”
“We were visiting your friend Jeremy, and he insisted that we go to his… what was it, his grandmother’s house?” She stopped. Searching her own memory was like picking fragments of something broken off the ground. Putting those memories into words shone a light on all the rough edges of the pieces as they failed to fit together quite as they were. She was more uncertain after dissecting the event in her mind. Was Leicester all in her head? Who was to say it wasn’t, anymore?
“Go on. I know Jeremy, obviously, and his Nan.”
“It’s OK. It wasn’t important.”
David sighed but did not protest.
Emma made a note to write names, dates, and places on all the photos in David’s shoe box when they got back to England. She didn’t mention it out loud, because she knew that if she did, he would want to talk about it. And she would not be OK.
She wanted to share as much with him as she could before it was gone. But she was too weak to bear it. That was the word for it. Weakness.
They spent the rest of the evening isolated in their own thoughts. Without saying a word, they went to bed early.
Emma woke up to a dark room. She looked at the window to confirm it was still the middle of the night. When she sat up the bed shifted like a car teetering on the edge of a cliff. But it felt wrong. There was no counterweight pulling the mattress on the other side. A grope in the dark found nothing but rippled sheets on the other side of the bed. Quiet. No sound of footsteps, no sound from the bathroom but the dripping from the next room over. She waited for her eyes to adjust enough to detect individual shadows. None of them moved. Nobody here.
She listened for sound from the street, from the hallway, anything but the tap next door, but there was nothing. It occurred to her that if she couldn’t hear anyone else, no one could hear her, as if she were locked in a thick pine chest. Her breath roared in her ears.
Her eyes had adjusted to the point that in the thin sheet of light eking between the curtains she could make out the desk, a lamp, and a general outline of everything in the room. The profile of a woman sitting up in the bed faced her from the mirror on the opposite wall. She stared at her reflection and listened to her own breathing until she felt her hands shake.
She pulled back the covers and tried to throw on her clothes from that afternoon. While pulling the black wool coat over her arms she tried to listen against the door. There were voices, no telling
how far given that you could hear a houseplant die from three rooms over through The Rock’s thin walls.
She reached for the doorknob. For a moment there was no door at all, only walls in a room with no way out. Her knuckles smacked into the door frame. It took some seconds of groping to find metal. The room shrank around her ears until she found the knob and turned.
She cracked the door enough to get a better impression of the sound. It was two voices, one of them David's, coming from downstairs.
Dim lights in the hallway made more shadows than illumination. A brighter light shone up from the stairs leading down to the pub. Emma listened as she sneaked down the creaking steps.
At the landing of the floor below, she noticed the doorway at the end of the hall. It was of newer construction than the rest of the building, though this was not a high bar to clear, made when the rooms of this floor were consolidated into a single office and residence for the Governor General.
Emma approached it and put her ear against the wood. Nothing.
The doorknob was clean. As far as she could see in the darkness there was no dust anywhere. Fresh footprints lead away in the freshly cleaned carpet. Again, this was hardly unusual. Why would it be surprising her that a hotel would maintain its rooms? Did she expect cobwebs and bats?
She mustered enough self control to not test the doorknob.
Fresh murmurs downstairs brought her back to the task at hand. She crept halfway down the last flight of stairs. The pub had the same yellow wallpaper that every room in the building seemed to have. To Emma it seemed strangely unfamiliar, but she decided it was the darkness playing tricks on her eyes. She turned toward the voices and listened.
The room was empty except for David and Jessie, who were hunched forward in deep conspiracy. She could see that Jessie had her usual look of being right on the cusp of letting out a good panic. David faced the other way, but Emma could read his body language. He wasn't toying with her. This wasn't the posture he used when he was luring someone into a rhetorical trap for his own amusement. She listened to Jessie whisper the second half of what must have been a long story.
“...and then she didn't bring it back for three weeks. I had to go and get it. So she opens the door, and just stands there, looking like a rabbit about to bolt. Staring at me with her finger in her mouth. Oh, you won't know about Zoe's little ticks, but she bites her nails. It's not important. Anyway, she doesn't even invite me inside. Can you believe it? No wonder she got along with that other one at the station. Is everyone like that in England?” A shift in David's position betrayed that he had tried to answer, not guessing it was a rhetorical question. Jessie continued. “We had someone from New Zealand once. Very queer.”
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