“Have you seen anybody?” I yelled to Rafe.
“No!” he bellowed. “He must still be inside.”
I ran back in through the front door. “Call the police!” I shouted. “The killer is still on the island!”
Up the stairs I sprinted, opening every cupboard and looking behind every curtain as I darted from room to room.
“Where are you, you jackbag?” I yelled.
Dozens of minutes must have passed, with me tearing at furniture, scrambling under beds, even looking in drawers. There was no sign of anybody besides the writers, and I knew none of them had murdered Biff because I’d been with them when it happened.
Eventually, I felt a pair of strong, long arms around me. “Dee, stop.” It was Rafe. There was genuine emotion in his eyes, rather than his usual, smug facade. He was concerned about me.
“But the killer must be here somewhere!”
“We’ve looked in all the obvious places.”
“Then he or she must be somewhere unobvious! A place like this is probably littered with secret hidey-holes and tunnels! What if the killer left through a tunnel?”
“This isn’t the Famous Five, Dee.”
“This is mining country. There could be dozens of tunnels.”
“Come and sit down,” said Rafe.
“Have they called the police yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, they must. They have to call the police!”
I broke free of his grip and made a dash for the living room, where I knew there would be a phone.
Montgomery stepped into my path, like a giant granite brick wall.
“What are you doing? I need to call the police.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Do you?”
“What are you talking about? Of course we have to call them. Somebody has murdered ...” I felt myself choking up. I could hardly get the words out. “Somebody has murdered Biff.”
“Exactly,” said Dawn, rising, to stand beside Montgomery, like a bouncy castle inflating.
“So call the police!” I told them.
“Think about it, Dee. We’re alone on an island, and the handyman gets killed. Who do you think the police will blame?” said Montgomery, grimly.
“Well, we’re obviously not alone, are we?” I protested.
“But we’ve looked everywhere.”
“We can’t have done.”
“Dee, we can’t call the police. They’ll arrest all of us.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not, Dee. What is stupid is a bunch of suspects turning themselves into the police.”
“But we didn’t do anything!” I pleaded.
“Dee’s right,” said Rafe. “We didn’t do anything.”
“We didn’t do anything,” echoed Annabel, walking in behind him and grabbing hold of his arm in a territorial fashion. Why didn’t she just wee on him and have done with it?
“We’re on an island. The only way on and off the island is by boat or through the water. There were no boats at sea and Rafe didn’t catch anybody swimming. What are the police going to think?” asked Dawn.
“I agree with Dawn. We can’t call the police,” said Montgomery, stretching his braces.
“I’ve already booked my tickets to Spain ...” whined Dawn.
“Who knows what liberties we could be robbed of if we called the police!” mused Montgomery, sucking in gallons of air as he pulled a frustrated face.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I demanded.
“I vote we hide the body!” commanded Montgomery.
“Now wait a minute ...” objected Rafe.
“What else can we do?” yelled Dawn. There was that uvula again; it made me want to shrink, just so that I could climb in there and swing a few punches.
“Be honest!” I cried. “Let’s see where that gets us.”
“We have all got alibis,” said Danger. “We have all got each other.” Where did he come from, and how did he always manage to join conversations without me noticing him come in?
“Exactly,” I said. “If we stick together, they’ll have to believe us.”
“If we all have alibis, then they’ll suspect us all!” reasoned Montgomery.
“They won’t think that all six of us are killers!” I cried.
“I’m not so sure,” stuttered Annabel.
I turned to her and looked at her giant brown eyes, covered in a glassy film. “Don’t tell me you agree with them?” I demanded.
She shrugged.
“Rafe!” I cried, “Tell her! Tell her this is stupid.”
“Hiding the body is a foolhardy plan,” he admitted.
“Statistically speaking,” began Danger, “Montgomery is right.”
“What?”
“No matter how slim the chance that six people would be accessories to the same murder, it’s still more likely than a murder being committed by a killer who doesn’t exist.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” I shouted, and stormed out of the room.
“Where are you going?” demanded Dawn. “Where is she going? Somebody go and find out where she’s going.”
I stormed upstairs. If they wouldn’t let me use the phone in the living room, I’d use my mobile. There was no way that I was going to allow them to stand between me and the call I knew I needed to make.
I rummaged through my things, throwing t-shirts, pens and my bike lights onto the bed. Where was my phone?
Eventually, I found it. That’s odd. It was off. I knew that we’d been told to turn our phones off, but I hadn’t done it. Hang on, something else wasn’t right. It was far too light. The battery was gone!
Somebody had nobbled my phone!
My heart boomed in my chest like a cannon. I didn’t know what I was going to do in the long run, but one thing I knew for sure was that I had to get off the island, and I had to get off it now.
* * *
Throwing my things into my case and running as fast as I could was not the way that I had expected to leave Pompomberry Island. Nevertheless, with a phone battery thief, a tyre vandal and a killer in our midst, I felt I had no other choice. And don’t get me started on Dawn and Montgomery with their ludicrous plan. I’d always known Annabel was stupid, but I hadn’t known she was dense enough to think that covering up a murder was a good idea.
I thought about going back for Rafe, the only person who could see how ridiculous it was to conceal a murder. However, he was a grown man — a very well-grown man — capable of looking after himself. I could afford to waste no more time.
On reaching the mainland, I would walk to Strawberry Meadow and ask to use somebody’s phone. Then I’d call the police and send them straight to Pompomberry Island. We might not be able to find the killer, but a team of sniffer dogs might. At the very least, Biff’s body would get a proper burial. God only knows what Dawn had in mind for him.
I dragged my turquoise, polka-dot case down the windy path and onto the sand. My laptop rucksack strained my shoulders. If I hadn’t packed it myself, I would have sworn it was loaded with lead.
The waves were more turbulent than when we arrived, but nothing I couldn’t handle. After all, the causeway was only fifteen metres long.
“That’s odd,” I muttered. The dinghy was half way across the crossing. It sat, empty, tossing in the waves. Earlier on, it had been tied up at the Pompomberry end.
I hurried over to grab the wire. To my horror, it had been padlocked to the mooring. Somebody wanted us to stay on the island. Somebody was determined that nobody should leave. “Why?” I wondered, aloud. So that he or she could kill us all?
That was absurd. Why would anybody want to kill a bunch of indie writers? I mean, sure, we averaged more typos than traditionally published writers, but the Guardian writers were a more obvious target for a grammar Nazi.
What was going on in my head? This was life and death, not apostrophes and semicolons. Besides which, Biff wasn’t even a writer. Why would anybod
y want to kill Biff? It was only then that I realised that I knew virtually nothing about him.
Still, this wasn’t the time for working out why, it was a time for fleeing. But, with the boat inaccessible, what could I do?
I thought about going back to the house. Perhaps Rafe would help me. No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face going back inside, having another blazing row with the rest of them and risking coming face-to-face with a killer. How could they think that self-preservation meant covering up the murder, when clearly the safest thing to do was escape this godforsaken place, and call the police?
Before I’d really decided what I was going to do, I began tearing off my shoes and socks. Then, lifting my suitcase above my head, I edged tentatively towards the sea.
When the water hit my toes, they stung so much that I looked down, supposing that the waves had hurled stones at them. No, it really was just the cold. Could I get across safely if the water was this icy?
As I took a further step, I felt as though my feet were in a vice, being gradually tightened.
However, the next step was not as bad. My shins didn’t seem to mind the cold as much as my feet did. Bravely, I took another step. The water soaked into my jeans, making them heavy and saggy. Brr!
The causeway was gently shelving, and I walked almost half way, without any fear of drenching my laptop. Then, suddenly, the path dipped. Smeg! I tapped the bottom of the rucksack. It seemed to be dry. However, I couldn’t take any chances. I took a few steps back, slipped off the straps and balanced the rucksack on top of the case above my head.
Now my luggage was far too heavy to carry above my head. I held it awkwardly, obscuring my vision.
I veered off the causeway. The water rose above my crotch. I shivered and yelped. I knew I had to keep going. Even if I dropped my case and my laptop. I still had to get off the island.
Unexpectedly, I heard a cry. “Hey! Who’s there? Monty! There’s someone there.” I recognised Dawn’s penetrating voice.
“Dee? Dawn, it’s Dee,” replied Montgomery’s orotund voice.
“Dee? Where are you going? Dee, don’t be stupid. There are currents around the island!”
“Dee! Come back! It’s not safe!”
Nothing in the world could incite me back. I wobbled and stumbled. A wave wafted ice-cold water over my chest. I felt sure that the bottom of my case was wet.
“Dee! The owner warned me about the currents! Come back.”
It was no good, my arms could no longer support the weight of the case and the rucksack. Fark! The rucksack slipped and slid. I resigned myself to the fact that my laptop was going to feed the fishes, but congratulated myself for being somebody who regularly backs up their work. At least my memory card was safely tucked inside my suitcase.
I felt a deep sadness as I heard the bag hit the sea. It felt not dissimilar to having my right arm sawn off. Nevertheless, this was about survival. Essential items only. My laptop or my freedom — it was an easy call.
Thankfully, with another step, the water got considerably shallower. I was almost there.
“Dee! What are you doing?”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Dee, she’s wading to the mainland.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
My legs felt light as I climbed out of the water, but not as light as my spirits. The relief momentarily blotted out the memory that Biff was dead. I’d made it; I was off the island! As I heard Annabel call out my name, I felt bad for leaving them all there, alone with the killer. However, I reminded myself that I planned to call the police as soon as possible, and that helped to ease my conscience.
I tried to run, but my legs protested, punishing me for what I’d put them through. The sharp stones punctured my feet. I ended up stumbling and I fell forward. I practically had to crawl to the steps.
“I’ll get help!” I called, trying to shout, but only managing a croak. “I’m going to get help.”
* * *
Even though I couldn’t drive my car thanks to its deflated tyres, I could at least put my case in the boot so that I didn’t have to carry it to Strawberry Meadow. It was a little damp around the edges, but that was nothing compared with my poor, drowned laptop. I took a moment to mourn its loss. We’d had some good times together, Delly and I.
Someone had died; there was no time for sentimentality. I put the case down on the grit car park and flung it open. I’d better grab valuables such as my wallet and memory card.
I reached inside the inner pocket, and pulled out my wallet. I continued rooting around. Where was my memory card? Regrettably, I felt I already knew the answer. My memory card must be happily sitting down to a cup of coffee with my stolen phone battery.
I was angry. Three days’ worth of work was on that card, including the entire first draft of my short story. What could anybody possibly want with that? Perhaps they thought there might be other things on the card — I blushed when I remembered that there were!
As a kneejerk reaction to ending my marriage, I’d attempted to take a portrait photograph of myself for online dating. Ninety-three photos later, I concluded that I was six pounds too heavy to start online dating. Why hadn’t I wiped the card there and then? I remembered lying on the floor, looking up at the camera ‘seductively’. I cringed. Still, the thief was quite possibly also the killer. Looking a twerp in front of the camera was pretty minor compared with murder.
There was no money missing from my wallet, and my credit cards were still there, despite having been next to the memory card all along. Wow! The thief wants my work!
I took a few moments to enjoy the momentary inflated self-esteem. Somebody wanted my word documents more than a credit card, twenty-three pounds of cash, and a Caffè Nero card with nine stamps. You know you’ve made it when somebody steals your work.
Soon I’d be able to call the police, and they’d answer the really important questions such as, “Who admires Dee Whittaker enough to steal her work?” and “Who murdered Biff?”
The wind blew, reminding me that my clothes were sodden. I grabbed a change of clothes from my case. The fresh jeans were a little damp in patches, but a vast improvement on the ones that had been submerged in water. I grabbed my favourite red beret, to match my t-shirt, then pulled on a purple sweater. I put on my damp boots.
I slung my case into the boot, grabbed my wallet, and began the laborious task of finding my way to Strawberry Meadow.
* * *
Where the heck was Strawberry Meadow? I’d been walking for at least an hour and there was no sign of civilisation. In damp clothes without a coat, and still recovering from my dice with the sea, I was frozen.
I probably wouldn’t be able to find my way back to the island now, even if I wanted to — which I didn’t. Even so, I couldn’t wander the country lanes forever. My feet were sore, my head hurt, and unpleasant thoughts whirled through my mind like typhoons of terror.
Where is Strawberry Meadow? I found that the road suddenly veered upward, as if taking me to a castle in the sky. Had the road on the way to Pompomberry plunged like a demon drop? I didn’t remember such sharp gradients, but this road was fit for a rollercoaster. This didn’t feel like the correct road.
Were the hedges familiar? Granite walls covered in lichen and moss wore hats of heather with the occasional daffodil embellishment. I hadn’t noticed daffodils on the way down, but then, I had been concentrating on the road. I shuddered when I remembered the gull. At least then I’d been protected by my car.
Finally, I saw a building in the distance. It wasn’t a cluster of buildings like Strawberry Meadow, but one isolated farmhouse. It looked over two miles away, but a house in the hand is worth two in the bush. I had to take this chance.
And so I trudged on, wondering if my feet were still feet, or had become one with my boots. One big amalgamation of cow leather and Dee Whittaker flesh.
As I walked, I was suddenly tormented by a bitter longing for Gareth. He was good
at seeing the sunny side of things. Even faced with a murder, several thefts, deflated tyres and half-a-dozen lunatics, he’d find the silver lining. I wanted to call him, but even if I had my phone, I knew I couldn’t. I’d kicked him out for a good reason, and I needed to remember that.
I did this! It was bad enough that my marriage had fallen apart, but the hardest part was knowing that this was what I had chosen. I had told him to leave. I sent him away. If I was missing him now, I only had myself to blame.
Had I done the right thing? Were his laziness and immaturity really reasons to kick my husband out? However, then I remembered that we were not talking about minor degrees of fault. Gareth was the emperor of indolence, and the captain of immaturity. If there was a world convention for sloth, Gareth would be sitting on the sofa that I paid for, with his feet on the coffee table I was still paying for, ignoring his calling to lead it.
The Scooby-Doo costume was the final straw. Yes, I’d supported Gareth’s decision to leave his teaching job but had I known how intimate he’d become with our couch, I might have given different advice. Watching him use my meagre earnings to buy beer and weed was annoying, but the Scooby-Doo costume really took the biscuit.
I worked hard, nine until five. Being self-employed, I didn’t have to, but I liked the discipline. I liked being in sync with the office world, to facilitate communication with editors and people such as those that I interviewed for my ‘scintillating’ magazine articles on lifestyle. If only selling Kindle books paid the mortgage.
While I worked hard, Gareth would sit in the living room, with the curtains shut, failing to apply for a new teaching job, neglecting to consider other career options, and stacking up piles of sticky beer glasses. Then, once he’d worked through all of the glassware, he’d begin on the mugs, then the eggcups, never once thinking to wash a dish.
Not so long ago, on a Friday evening, I had finished submitting a particularly riveting article about a swishing party, and then turned off my computer, ready to enjoy the weekend. Gareth usually went out with friends on Friday nights, but that particular weekend we had decided to go out for an Italian meal.
I was surprised to find that he’d been out that afternoon — it was rare for him to leave the house while his mates were at work. I wondered if he’d been buying a new tie to wear to dinner.
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