The Glass Tower

by Gregg Dunnett

  Moreover, she had gradually lost faith in the now-colourless liquid she carried in the shampoo bottle in her jacket pocket. The rat poison had at least come with a health warning. It looked dangerous, yet it hadn’t even proved capable of dealing with a dog! Her new poison was made from apples – how poisonous could that be? She couldn't think of a way to test it either, though she was sorely tempted to do so on one of the sheep that were dotted around the island. But every time she tried to get near they bleated and ran away.

  So, as Julia hid and spied and waited, her plan evolved again. She stopped looking for an opportunity to sneak inside the lodge and slip poison into the drinks of its unsuspected inhabitants, and came again to believe that a more direct approach was the only way that would work. She found herself remembering – perhaps hallucinating is a closer description – how she had stood in the little kitchen with a knife in her hands. How, along with the fear of being discovered, she had also felt powerful. Had Becky entered that kitchen Julia now believed there would have been no mistakes. She would have plunged the knife into her, and after that there would be no route back.

  And this now formed the core of her plan. She knew that the kitchen was unlocked, with its drawers of knives, and she knew that Becky and Rob’s bedroom, just next door, was unlocked too. It wasn’t a nice thought, what she would have to do. But it would get the job done.

  Tonight, finally, she would do it.

  It wasn't perfect. She had waited, hoping for a night when the lodge had no guests staying, but that didn’t seem to happen. But tonight there was just one visitor – an elderly man, and he was frail enough that she believed she would be able to deal with him as well, if that proved necessary. But he seemed to have struck up a friendship with the island regulars in the Hunsey Tavern, and so far had spent every evening there. Becky and Rob on the other hand, seemed to believe in the old adage of early to bed, early to rise. It wasn't perfect, but she was fast running out of time. Who knew when Becky might finish her book and send it off? And just as importantly, she was fast running out of Dramadol again, or whatever it was she had got from Kevin.

  For hours she had remained in her position, observing the lighthouse. Fixed in place by a complex mixture of fear and patience, and something else. Something new, a sort of excitement too. The thrill of the hunt. She stayed so long she sank into an almost Zen-like state. And when she finally moved she felt no fear. She felt nothing at all. Whatever was going to happen would happen. But it had to happen now.

  She stood up from behind the wall, feeling her legs scream in protest at having been still so long. Automatically, she stretched them out and measured the distance between her and the public toilets outside the entrance to the small museum. Then she put her head down and walked towards it, trusting to her bird-watching disguise if anyone was watching.

  Once inside she dropped to her knees to check that all the cubicles were empty, then locked herself into the one furthest from the door. She unzipped her backpack and placed it on the seat of the toilet. She removed her leather gloves, and slipped a new, silicon pair on instead, being careful not to touch anything as she did so. She pulled the leather gloves back over the top. Similarly she removed her hat, put a hairnet over her head, tucking in every loose strand of hair, then put her woolly hat back on top. Then she pulled on a pair of dark blue overalls. She had meant to buy the type you saw on the television programmes – the ones that the police forensic people wore – but she had no idea where to buy them, and these, which were meant for car mechanics, at least looked a bit less distinctive. She replaced the walking shoes she had been using. She had purposely bought them in a man's style, and two sizes too big.

  She repacked her bag, unlocked the door and ventured out of the cubicle. She observed her appearance in the mirror, checking everything was in place. She didn’t think how strange she looked. She didn’t think how strange it was what she was preparing to do. Those thoughts were gone.

  It would be harder to pass as a normal birdwatcher now, she knew. But outside it was already getting dark. The museum closed an hour ago. The few walkers who had been hiking around the island were all long gone. There was no one around to see her. No one except Becky and Rob.

  Julia checked her watch. It was five minutes to six.

  She left the toilets, and ran the hundred yards to the lodge.

  As she did so, finally, she felt exposed and nervous, and she slammed hard against the wall of the building, grateful for the shelter it offered. Then, with her back against the stonework, Julia edged towards the corner of the building and its front facade, where the entrance was. It was a dangerous place to be. From her vantage point high up in the lighthouse Lantern Room, Becky would have a commanding view over this area, and if she happened to look down she would see Julia entering the building. And Julia was too low to be able to watch Becky's movements and find the right time to advance.

  At that moment, Julia realised she was standing by a door she hadn't noticed before. It was set a little into the wall. She tried it, in case it offered an alternative way inside. But although the door opened, it disappointed her. It was a kind of outside storage area. It was almost empty, but it did contain a few pieces of gardening equipment, most of which looked brand new. Julia was about to leave when something caught her eye. Her plan up to that point – although in truth it was a stretch to call it a plan – involved finding the largest and sharpest knife she could, but suddenly here was something far better. In front of her was a shiny new gardening fork, with a long steel and wooden shaft and four shiny steel tines, each the length of a kitchen knife, and just as sharp. Julia picked it up. It had a nice weight to it. She gripped the handle tightly and considered whether this or a knife would be easier for what she intended. There was no contest. The gardening fork felt secure and powerful. At once she adjusted her plan yet again, re-visualising what she would do, now armed with the large fork. Like the poison the kitchen knife was forgotten, as if it had never existed.

  She left her bag in the storage room, then carrying her fork in front of her, she took her chances and walked towards the door of the lodge.

  Fifty-Two

  Up in the lantern room, Becky’s frustrations were getting the better of her. It was all very well for Rob to tell her to have a break now and then, but it had become all he was doing. He'd come to the island full of good intentions about how he was going to build a portfolio of wildlife photographs, and how he was going to send that to contacts he would find at the BBC and at National Geographic, but what he was actually doing more and more was going surfing and enjoying himself. A couple of times at Rob’s behest, Becky had joined him, paddling out from the little beach on the west of the island when the waves were smaller, but it wasn't a very good beach for beginners and she'd been frustrated, cold and not a little scared. It wasn't much fun just sitting on the rocks and watching Rob either, so she'd returned, anxiously, to her manuscript.

  She went right back to the beginning. Reading and improving the text as she went along. In part this was a profitable exercise. She fell at once back into the spell she had been in while writing the early part of the story. The words seemed perfectly chosen, the sentences clear and pure like the water around her on a still day. It lifted her heart, to read those words, and she knew once again that she really had something here. It wasn't just her hope, it really was good.

  But as she came towards the later parts of the story, she felt herself beginning to lose it once again. Her hope was she would somehow gain momentum from starting at the beginning, so that it would carry her past the difficult part. But if that was going to happen, it hadn’t yet. Still, the later direction of the book felt wrong, and when she ran out of words to revise and was confronted once again with the lack of an actual ending, she was entirely stumped as to how to finish the story off.

  She tried, again and again. Taking new ideas and trying to write her way out of trouble. But each time her story felt alien. Wrong. As if she had created a beautiful painting o
f a giraffe but not included its neck and head, and now she was trying to graft the head of an elephant onto its body. And try as she might she simply could not picture how its head should look.

  Becky stopped staring at her screen and instead looked glumly out of the window. The light was going now, which meant Rob would be back soon. She glanced around and down at the coastal path, to see if she might spot him. It was unlikely, since the little bay where he surfed was hidden from view by the overhang of the cliffs. But sure enough there he was, walking back to the lodge, the light glinting off the white of his surfboard. With a sigh she realised that whatever tiny amount of work she had done for the day, it was finished now. With a touch of irony she hit 'save' then closed the lid of her laptop. Then she yawned. An early night would be good. She would try again tomorrow when she was refreshed.

  Fifty-Three

  The front door of the lodge was open – it had been left that way during Julia's stay, and she had never observed Becky or Rob locking it. Inside looked empty, and the lights were off. Julia pushed her way inside. Here she paused and listened. There was no sound apart from the soft tick of the clock on the wall.

  Inside the lodge Julia felt less exposed, and with this came a strange feeling of calm. A most powerful calm, bolstered by the heavy garden fork that she carried with both hands. It was still true that Becky or Rob – or the elderly man – could walk in and discover her at any moment, but it was unlikely. Julia knew where they were. She knew their movements. So instead of moving on with her plan at once, she delayed. She slipped behind the little desk with the computer which served as the reception area, and on a whim she pushed the button to turn it on, leaning her fork against the edge of the desk. A few moments later the screen came to life, showing a dramatic picture of some seabirds taking off from a cliff edge. In the centre of the screen a box blinked at her requesting a password. The sight of that threatened to puncture her sense of calm power – she had no idea what the password could be. For a minute or so she typed possible options – Becky and Rob's names, the name of the lighthouse – but nothing worked, and soon Julia gave up. It didn't matter anyway.

  She pulled open the drawer beneath the desk, trying to recapture her earlier sense of confidence and rummaged carelessly around at the few items within. A stapler and hole punch. Some tide tables. An OS map of the island. The same as the one she had in her bag, although by now she had memorised all the routes in and out.

  She closed the drawer, and realised she was being complacent. Complacency was what cost her last time. She drew herself up tall and picked up the fork again. Then she left the desk and put her hand on the door to Becky and Rob's private space in the lodge. Julia hadn't been in here yet, and wasn't sure what she would find. The door was unlocked, and it opened softly under her hand.

  Inside was a bedroom, smaller than the guest accommodation she had stayed in herself, but somehow more homely. A table served as a small desk, presumably either for Rob to use, or for when guests were using the lantern room and Becky had to work elsewhere. Julia looked at it carefully, but it was no good, offering little or no shelter. She looked at the bed next. She had assumed she would be able to conceal herself below it, but that was out of the question. Clearly Rob and Becky had used the space to store their bags. If Julia moved them out of the way, she would need to put them somewhere else, and storage was obviously an issue in the little room. Beginning to fret now, she poked her head into the bathroom – again, tiny. There was a shower, but rather than be concealed by a shower curtain, there was just an obscured glass shower screen. Also no good.

  But then she noticed the wardrobe. It sat on the back wall of the room, facing the foot of the bed, and was a large, oak affair. It looked like it might have dated from the same era as the lighthouse itself; clearly it had been saved during the restoration. Julia opened one of the double doors and considered. Most of the hanging space had been taken by Becky, with Rob using the shelves above, but the space was deceptively large, perhaps built to fit lighthouse keepers’ heavy jackets, for winter storms. Whatever, when Julia pushed the hanging clothes to one side she saw there was plenty of room behind. And so, awkwardly, she put one foot inside the wardrobe, testing the strength of the base. It creaked, but felt secure, so she pulled herself forward until she was completely inside, Becky's clothes draping themselves on her face and shoulders. She had to crouch, and the smell was overpowering and musty (despite the flowery undertones from Becky's clothes). But she fitted inside. Julia reached out and closed the door, shutting off what light there was left in the room. She rocked back on her heels. It was okay. She felt sure she could wait here, and if Becky or Rob did open the wardrobe, she felt confident she would remain hidden behind the clothes. And if not, well. What was she here for anyway? Grimly she adjusted the position of the garden fork and settled down to wait.

  Fifty-Four

  The day after his trip to London, Geoffrey was still feeling unsettled. There was no reply to any of his messages to Julia, and when he made a detour on his morning trip to the supermarket to pick up his croissant, there was no sign of life outside Julia's cottage. It meant he was unable to enjoy his morning coffee, but at least the caffeine helped him make a decision. Instead of worrying about it he would go and get himself some fresh air. In time Julia would reply, and no doubt there would be some crazy ‘Julia’ explanation for everything that had been going on. Perhaps it really was related to whatever she was writing next?

  He packed his bag and loaded his walking boots into the back of the Land Rover. As he drove down to the coast he remembered how it was when Julia was writing her book, before she was famous. In a way it had been better then. Even though they had no way of knowing if it would ever be successful, or if she would even find a publisher. Back then it had just been the two of them who really believed. Julia writing these incredible chapters and sending them to him, and Geoffrey reading them and cheering her on.

  He smiled to himself as he pulled into the quarry car park in the hill above the causeway to Hunsey, remembering how he and Julia had parked here not that long ago, to walk the ridge that curved around and above the island. And then he noticed a VW Beetle, the new style, that was exactly the same colour as Julia's new car. He stopped in the entrance to the little parking area, and then drove in and past the car. He couldn't remember the number plate on her new car – he still tended to think of her driving the old Morris – but it certainly looked like her car. He parked, then got out and walked back for a closer look. Now he wasn't so sure. Whoever owned this car was extremely messy. The passenger seat was wound back almost flat, and there was a sleeping bag trampled and stuffed into the foot well. The dashboard was littered with empty tins of food, and a half-eaten loaf of sliced bread. Geoffrey looked around, feeling as if he was spying on the intimate space of a stranger, who might catch him at any moment. Then he saw the notebook.

  It was a dark blue, spiral-bound notebook – the sort that Julia had filled in their dozens when she was writing The Glass Tower. Geoffrey had seen enough of them to recognise it as Julia’s. Which meant… Which meant it must be Julia's car. He looked around again, as if she might be lurking behind one of the other cars, or perhaps up the small craggy walls of the old quarry. But there was no one around. Geoffrey walked around the car, looking in all the windows. It seemed almost like... Geoffrey shook the thought away, it was ridiculous. But it came back, because the evidence supported it. It seemed like Julia had been living in the car, in the quarry.

  Why was Julia camping in the old quarry above Hunsey Island? Geoffrey thought hard but could not come up with a single plausible reason for it. He tried the car's door. It was locked. He puffed out his cheeks. Now all thoughts of going for a long walk to clear his head had disappeared. Instead he returned to the Land Rover and adjusted his seat so that he could see both Julia's car, and the entrance to the quarry. He settled down to wait.

  Fifty-Five

  Becky opened the door to the lodge and flicked on the light. The table
s were set for breakfast and looked neat and tidy, but she had the sudden feeling that something wasn't right. She looked around to see what it might be, but everything looked normal. She couldn't place what it was. She heard a noise coming from her room – Rob, presumably. But she was in no hurry to speak to him. Instead she decided to check whether any new guests were due to arrive in the next few days.

  They were informed of new arrivals by emails on the computer kept on their little reception desk, and Becky slipped behind it now. Again, she had a strange feeling that something wasn't quite right. And when she flicked on the screen this was heightened. The password to unlock the computer had already been typed in, but instead of the five characters there should be, the box was filled with lots of stars – as if someone had tried to get in using a much longer password. Becky frowned at it for a moment, then looked up again. She got the shock of her life.

  "Sorry, love! Did I make you jump?" The man had arrived so quietly he must have sneaked down the stairs. Becky put her hand to her chest to calm herself, and she smiled in relief. It was only the man from room five.

  "No, it's fine. I just didn't hear you come down."

  "I was just going out to the pub," the man went on. Colin was his name. He sounded jolly, but Becky wasn't entirely convinced. The man had chatted to her before about how his wife had passed away a year earlier. It wasn't a surprise, he said, they were both in their seventies, but Becky could see how difficult it was. There certainly wasn't anything scary about him.

  "A quick one can’t hurt." Colin smiled.

  "One?"