He smiled. ‘Yes. When we’re not dominated by those elements of our psyche, we can truly give into creativity.’
‘I get it. When I’m really into writing, everything around me disappears.’
‘It goes beyond that. It’s hard to explain until you’ve experienced it. But when you do, the work you produce will be the best you ever have.’
I thought about it. That was certainly a tempting prospect considering how utterly useless I’d been at writing lately. It amazed me sometimes, how I could get lost in my writing, hours passing without me realising. And yet Idris was saying it was possible to go even deeper than that. Maybe that was just what my writing needed?
We grew silent, watching as Maggie smoothed the petals of a pink flower, examining it for imperfections before placing it with the others.
‘So what’s this all about?’ I said after a while, gesturing to the group. ‘Why are all these people here? It can’t be just about getting into the current, as you call it,’ I said, making quotation marks with my fingers.
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Everything we do here is about getting into the current. It’s our sole aim. Individually and as a group. Specifically to reach the point of being in the current together for as long as possible. Then great things will happen.’
‘Like what?’
He smiled, his face lighting up. ‘That’s all to discover. But for you? Maybe you’ll write your second novel.’
I had to admit it was appealing, even if it did sound a bit woo-woo. I peered at my wine. Clearly I’d drunk too much.
‘You’ve achieved a lot in less than two weeks,’ I said.
‘Anyone can, when they put their mind to it.’
‘Minus the prefrontal cortex.’
He laughed. ‘Want to see inside?’ he asked, gesturing towards the cave.
‘Why not?’
We walked towards the cave. It was long and narrow, stretching back for what I’d imagine was over a hundred metres. Paintings dotted the entrance: blue fish; white birds, wings spread wide; starfish and shells.
‘You did these?’ I asked Idris.
He nodded.
‘Is that what you did, before you came here?’
‘I’ve always painted,’ he replied, not really answering my question.
We stepped into the cave. At the front were two barbecues, three cooler boxes, plus two small white cupboards that appeared to have been ripped from a kitchen. Just beyond it was a long, narrow table made of thick driftwood with several mismatched chairs around it.
‘Julien made that table,’ Idris said.
‘Nice.’ And it really was nice, the kind of table I might have looked at with Mike, desperate to buy but way above our budget. The place was surprising me, making me feel strangely at home.
We stepped further into the cave and the atmosphere suddenly changed, my senses overwhelmed by the sound of the sea, as if I was holding a shell up to my ear. It felt intimate in there, like I was cut right off from it all, our own private little world apart from the rush of the sea outside.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Idris asked. ‘The feeling you get?’
I nodded, overwhelmed as I looked around me. I’d visited the cave before Idris had appeared in town, of course, but it felt different at night. The walls were a mixture of black rock, white chalk and green moss. Ledges lined the cave like small shelves, and large chalk boulders were littered here and there, painted an assortment of colours.
Dotted around the cave were sleeping bags, some chairs, and small side tables made from crates. Spread across the back of the cave wall were paintings – the top half of each person residing in the cave staring out at me, doing whatever it was they loved: Maggie at an urn, Oceane curled up writing in a notepad, Donna cooking, Caden with a guitar and a pen, Julien building a table.
I walked over, putting my hand out to touch them, and I was surprised when I realised the paintings weren’t flat. Idris had somehow carved everyone’s features into the chalk then painted them with pigment.
‘I paint anyone who joins the group,’ Idris explained.
I imagined a painting of myself up there, writing my second novel.
I shook my head. How ridiculous! I stepped away, wet sand gliding across my bare toes. It felt like snow, cold to the touch. Lining the bottom of the walls was driftwood, carried in by high tides.
‘Doesn’t it get damp?’ I asked, touching the mossy wet walls.
‘It does. But we don’t mind.’
‘What about the sea? Does it get in during high tide?’
‘It hasn’t while we’ve been here.’
I peered up. There was vegetation growing from the walls, green leaves dotted here and there. I turned back around, looking out of the mouth of the cave towards the sea. It felt as though I was looking at a projection film of the sea.
‘It doesn’t feel real, does it?’ Idris said, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. ‘It’s as though this cave is all that exists and everything outside is fiction.’ He smiled. ‘Perfect for writing, don’t you think?’
I smiled back. ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’
‘Can you blame me? I’d love you to join us here.’ He held my gaze and I felt my breath quicken.
‘I see we have a new member,’ a voice boomed out.
We looked over to see Maggie standing at the mouth of the cave, her long grey hair turned white by the moonlight. She strode in, putting a dusty hand out to me. ‘I’m Maggie.’
‘I’m Selma and I’m not a new member – just a curious visitor.’
Maggie smiled as though she didn’t believe me. It irritated me. ‘Oceane mentioned you,’ she said, ‘you’re the writer. I loved your novel.’
The irritation trickled away. ‘Your flowers are beautiful,’ I said.
Maggie plucked a purple flower from her pocket and tucked it behind my ear. ‘And now you’re even more beautiful. More wine? I’m gasping for some.’
Over the next couple of hours, the group discussed their art and the importance of getting into the current, and I was surprised to find myself in a heady space of self-contentment despite my cynicism about the place. I was, quite simply, a writer here. Not in the way people like my colleague Monica perceived me, with the faraway glitzy title of ‘author’. But in the real, earthy way that only those who created could understand. Nothing to do with my publishing contract, sales, literary world domination. It was just about the craft.
After a while, we all fell into a strange dreamy silence prompted by Idris. He simply stopped talking, stopped responding to questions. Just fell silent and still. Anita followed his lead, crossing her legs and closing her eyes and the others quickly did the same. Even Donna’s son grew quiet.
I felt awkward, looking at all these people with their eyes closed. I took the chance to really take Idris in, the flames flickering on his face. His skin seemed to shine in the moonlight, as it had the night he saved Monica’s boy. My eyes trailed down to his bare shoulders and chest. He was still shirtless, despite the creeping cold of night. I noticed his nipples harden as the breeze stirred around him and I felt a stirring inside me too. It surprised me. I hadn’t felt any kind of stirrings for such a long time.
He opened his eyes, catching me watching him. Then he closed them again without saying anything.
God, what was I doing there, staring at a man’s naked chest and talking about getting into the bloody current?
I jumped up and walked to the sea’s edge. After a while, Idris joined me, so close I could feel the bristles on my arms buzzing from his proximity. He turned to me, green eyes taking in mine.
‘I think you’ll come to live here.’ It wasn’t a question. More a statement.
I laughed, shaking my head. ‘You’re asking me to come live in a cave with eight strangers.’
‘Donna’s not a stranger.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Why not?’
‘My daughter for a start!’
‘She’ll come to
o! We have Tom living happily here already. It’s warm, sheltered, with plenty of food. That’s all a child needs, isn’t it?’
I shook my head, laughing. ‘It’s ridiculous to even consider it. Utterly, utterly preposterous.’
‘Preposterous to think it’s possible to have a novel published. But you did it.’
‘That’s different!’
He cocked his head. ‘Is it? You followed your heart, wrote what was in your heart, sent it off, despite everything we read telling us the chances of getting published are minimal. And yet you find it hard to believe living in a cave with eight strangers might be the best thing you could do right now?’
He held my gaze. I wanted to turn away but the look on his face was so intense, so sure, I found I couldn’t.
‘How’s your next book coming along?’ he asked, his eyes all-knowing.
‘Fine.’ I peered towards town. ‘I have to go home.’
‘What if this is home?’
‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’
He smiled slightly. ‘I like you. I like the way you talk.’ He sighed. ‘Okay, fine, go. But at least let me walk you back to the main path. It’s very dark on the beach. And on the way, I can show you one more thing …’
‘You’re not going to slaughter a goat and make me drink the blood, are you?’
He laughed, touching my arm. ‘You really are funny. Come.’
So I did, too curious not to. We walked along the dark beach together, the waves of the sea crashing next to us. I looked in the direction of my house, my stomach sinking. For a moment, I imagined stepping into the waves rather than going back there to Mike.
Would Idris walk on water to save me?
I rolled my eyes. I was officially going insane.
Idris paused at the small cave closest to his one and crouched down, stepping inside.
He blinked out at me from the darkness. ‘Come in!’ I hesitated and Idris laughed. ‘Don’t look so worried, there are no goats in here! You have nothing to fear, Selma. I promise. You need to trust me.’
Did I trust him? No, I barely knew him. But nonetheless, I desperately wanted to take the hand he had extended to me, and accept the thrill of stepping into the unknown. So I took his hand, then crouched down and entered the cave’s tiny opening. At first, I was shrouded in complete darkness and panic set in. But then Idris’s soothing deep voice reached me.
‘It’s okay, I’ll lead you. We don’t need light.’
He gently guided me down a stony tunnel and I allowed my free hand to glide along the damp bumpy walls as I bent over to stop myself from bumping my head. A buzz ran through me. How strange, to be here in this cave with a stranger as my family sat a few minutes’ walk away. Strange but exciting too.
‘You can stand properly now,’ Idris said just as I felt a gust of air reach me, the wall disappearing from my touch.
I did as he asked, my eyes adjusting to a new quality of darkness. The tunnel had opened right up, dim light filtering down from above to reveal a huge area with trickling water in front of me.
‘I didn’t even know this was here,’ I said, open-mouthed as I looked around me.
‘Not many do,’ Idris said in the semi-darkness, his hair a silver veil down his neck. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing upwards.
I followed his gaze towards the ceiling of the cave to see something hanging across it.
‘Stalactites,’ I whispered.
‘No,’ Idris said, shaking his head. ‘Look closer. Here, I’ll show you how.’ He took my hand again and led me towards some large boulders, stepping up onto them. I did the same, peering upwards again when I got to the top.
The hanging objects were just a couple of metres away now, a dozen or so in different shapes and sizes, all made of stone. I frowned. The object directly above me looked like a bird. And there, was that a bat? Frozen mid-flight and somehow entangled in a long line of something.
‘Are they real?’ I asked Idris.
‘Yes, they’ve been petrified. There would have been a time when this cave would have suddenly filled with sea water, rising high enough to cover the entire area. Over time, it gained an unusually high mineral content, causing these items to become petrified.’ He smiled. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it? Some of these may have been formed centuries ago.’
I looked at the small bird, its mouth open mid-squawk, the fine details of its wings beautiful in the semi-darkness. ‘I ought to be appalled. But there’s a beauty to them.’
Idris nodded. ‘Yes, I like that. A beauty. But the fact is, they’re trapped in time, aren’t they? Not sure there’s much beauty to that. Easily done though,’ he added, turning his gaze to me. ‘Getting trapped, turning to stone. It’s too late for them, sadly.’
‘I know what you’re doing,’ I said, crossing my arms. ‘Talking in metaphors. Trying to shine a light on what you think is my life.’
He tilted his head. ‘So what if I am? Are you telling me it’s not true? Why are you struggling so much with your next novel? I can tell you are, you know.’
I thought of how I’d felt lately. Trapped. Confined. Was I turning to stone like those animals above me?
‘I feel like I’m in a philosophy lecture, to be honest,’ I said, dismissing the thought.
Idris smiled. ‘Sorry, I have a tendency to do that. You’re not an easy student, you know.’
‘I never have been.’
‘But you could be. I could be too.’
‘You could be?’
‘I feel I can learn from you just as much as you could learn from me,’ he said, his handsome face very serious.
I looked at him, trying to organise the thoughts swirling around my mind: the strange allure of him, of the cave, of this place too. Then the fear too, every part of my sensible mind – my prefrontal cortex – telling me to get the hell out before I started falling down the rabbit hole of possibility.
I stepped off the rock, the fear winning. ‘My learning days are over.’
He frowned slightly.
‘Thanks though,’ I said. ‘It’s been … different.’
Idris was silent as we made our way out of the cave. When we got out, a cloud had passed over the moon, turning the beach pitch black, the only light from the fire outside the main cave.
‘I hope you’ll be back,’ Idris said. ‘I think you will be.’
I dragged my eyes away from the cave. ‘Stop saying that. I have a child, Idris. I can’t run away to live in a cave.’
As I walked into the darkness, leaving the light from the fire and distant voices behind me, I realised I was telling myself that more than Idris. The fact was, there was something about that cave that was drawing me to it.
Chapter Nine
Becky
Kent, UK
11 June 2018
Becky’s mum’s funeral is held in a small church not far from the cave where she passed away, sitting atop a cliff with vast views of the sea. The sound of waves whistles through the church’s heavy doors, propped open to provide some solace from the intense heat of the day. There are scores of people there, all of them strangers to Becky … maybe to her mum too. She was a successful writer, a bestseller. People like that attracted temporary acquaintances, hangers-on. There were articles about her death in various newspapers after all.
There are people who care deeply for her mum though. Becky can see it in their faces, especially in the two nervous-looking women who stand up to do poetry readings during the simple service: ‘Remember’ by Christina Rossetti and ‘You’re’ by Sylvia Plath. And that hurts Becky, how distant she was from her mum’s life that she doesn’t know who her closest friends were, and how they don’t seem to know who she is either.
She sighs. She needs to stop dwelling on the ‘what if’s. It was just the way it was between her and her mum and she needs to accept it, just as she needs to accept the lies her mum told – the biggest one of all uttered just before she died: that Becky had a sister. Her dad had been shocked into silence on the ph
one when she’d told him her mum had passed away. She understood the strange clash of emotions he must have felt: grief for the woman he once loved combined with the hurt from her leaving him, even after all these years.
‘She said something strange before she died,’ Becky had said after breaking the news.
‘Oh yes?’
‘She said she had another daughter … with Idris.’
A pause. ‘No,’ her dad had said eventually. ‘I’d have known.’
‘Exactly.’ She’d taken a deep breath, glad that her dad could reaffirm her own thoughts. ‘The funeral’s a week on Monday.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Her solicitor sorted it all. She gave him instructions. He also confirmed that no other person had been named in the will apart from me. Surely Mum would have left something to another child if I had a sister?’
‘It’s nonsense, Becky. I told you. You know how your mum was.’
‘Yes.’ But something niggled inside.
‘But I’m pleased she left something to you in her will.’
More than ‘something’. Becky had been surprised when the solicitor had told her it would all be left to her. Silly really, as she was her mum’s only living relation after all. It meant she got the whole estate – this house, the London flat, all the items within, and her mum’s savings too. Plus there were the ongoing royalties for her mum’s books. She hadn’t quite figured out what to do with it all yet. She loved her job so couldn’t possibly think of leaving, even though she might be able to afford to now.
‘I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around it,’ Becky had said to her dad. ‘I’ve taken the week off after the funeral to go through all her belongings.’
‘Good. At least you got something out of the relationship.’ He must have regretted saying that as he sighed. ‘She was a good mum, before everything.’
‘Will you come to the funeral then?’
Another pause, another sigh. ‘I can’t, Becky. Cynthia and I have booked a holiday to see her parents in Spain, and you know how ill her father is.’
Becky had tried to hide her disappointment. ‘Okay. I understand.’
Becky pulls at her starchy black dress now and follows everyone outside as the service ends, aware of the flood of bright colours around her. She clearly hadn’t got the memo. She watches as people exchange kisses on cheeks. Dramatic sighs and the slow shaking of heads. Dabbing at tears with silk handkerchiefs.
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