Skein Island

by Aliya Whiteley

  The hearses came to a stop as men spilled out onto the street. Some threw themselves onto the bonnets of the cars, hammering with their hands and feet. David heard breaking glass and screams, coming from further down the road. Someone stumbled into him, blocking his view, grabbing at his shirt. He pulled back into the protection of the doorway and shoved, hard, until the man fell back. Another took his place, with fists raised. David’s instincts told him to duck, then aim for the gut. He connected with the white T-shirt ahead of him, felt the flesh and fat underneath give. But he was in the swell of the crowd now, moving away from the doorway. Bodies were all around him, pressing, pushing, jostling, falling into fights, the street overtaken with battles, and in the distance, police sirens, pressing closer.

  Then he saw her.

  She was standing by the fifth hearse, holding the door handle on the driver’s side, with her baton in her other hand, held up over her head like an exclamation mark. She was trying to reach two men on the roof of the car; more were attempting to climb up from the other side. The aloneness of her was starkly visible. Her black and white uniform stood out, even though she was so small, in a sea of men. It terrified him to see her that way, as a target. He called out her name, couldn’t even hear his own voice over the noise of the crowd, and started to push towards her, not taking his eyes from her in case she disappeared under the weight of the uniform.

  The crush of bodies grew stronger. He felt the pressure of them, elbows digging, hands reaching, and he shoved back, not caring how he connected as long as they fell back. He heard a woman screaming and started to throw people aside with the same kind of strength that had infused him on the island. His own power amazed him. Within moments he stood at the fifth hearse, and put his body between Sam and the crowd.

  She was breathing hard, her hat missing, her hair mussed, with a dusky swelling below her left eye that promised to be a beauty of a bruise. The screams had not been hers, but she was holding her left hand at a strange angle, cradling it in her right. He reached for it.

  ‘No!’ she shouted over the din, snatching it back. ‘It’s bad.’

  Someone jostled David from behind, and he turned around and punched, randomly. He felt his fist connect, and then there was a groan of pain.

  ‘Reinforcements,’ she shouted. ‘On the way.’

  He looked over her head, around the scene. It looked like chaos, a kind of hell, men fighting, men crying, men trampling over each other. He realised something down the street was on fire; the smell of burning rubber was growing stronger. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ he shouted.

  ‘Where?’

  He needed time to think, and a better field of vision. He swung himself up onto the bonnet of the hearse, and kicked the legs of the men on the roof until they crumpled and fell into the street. Then he pulled Sam up beside him, hauling her by her shoulders, and helped her up to the roof.

  The first two hearses in the cortege had been overturned, and one was alight. The police were forming a line across the street at The Cornerhouse end, and had linked arms to start a march forward, but the men were not moving back, not obeying the shouted commands. Some of them had armed themselves with stones and bits of wood, and pulled the hoods of their jackets up over their faces. This is an organised attack, he thought, and a surge of adrenaline ripped through him. The seconds slowed to a crawl as he took in the pattern of the crowd, and the twenty or so men who had formed a group were working their way down the hearses, destroying each one in turn.

  Behind him, at the other end of the street that led in the direction of the library, there was no organisation, just random destruction, men running, shouting, smashing with contorted faces, fighting each other in the madness of the moment. It was too dangerous – he couldn’t see a way through. But the small alley that led to the library car park, that looked clear, although it was in shadow and so impossible to tell who might be lurking inside.

  David made his decision. It was his best chance to get Sam to safety.

  There was no time to explain. He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and jumped down from the roof. As his feet impacted on the ground, time began to move forward at an extraordinary rate, as if a fast-forward button had been pressed. He ran for the alley, weaving and dodging, hugging Sam’s legs against his chest. She was so light, so easy to carry. He could have run with her for miles.

  He reached the alley, edged inside, ran through the semi-darkness, and burst out into the car park. It was full, the cars in perfect order, each one parked between the white painted lines, as they should be. How ridiculous they looked, after such chaos.

  There was nobody in sight.

  ‘Can you walk?’ he asked her, then realised she could hardly reply from that position, so put her down. She looked red-faced, in pain, holding her arm against her breasts. ‘Sorry about that. Did I shake it about?’

  ‘I should be back there.’

  ‘No. You need to see a doctor.’

  ‘Listen, I’m glad you were there, but I don’t need—This isn’t about wanting anything from you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’

  But it wasn’t. The sensation of being watched pricked at his senses. He scanned the car park again, more carefully, looking for something out of place, anything.

  The feeling of malevolence, directed solely at him, was so strong that his body reacted. His muscles clenched, his feet shifted apart to a fighting stance; it was intuitive.

  ‘What is it?’ said Sam.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The feeling intensified. ‘Get behind me.’

  She moved back, and he was grateful that she had the sense not to argue. There was danger here. Someone was calculating, planning to hurt them. It came to David that perhaps photographs were being taken.

  ‘Come out,’ he called, at the gaps between the cars, the dense part of the hedges, the corner of the library building.

  Nothing.

  The feeling passed as quickly as it had arrived. Suddenly it was just him and Sam, alone in the car park, and as he turned to face her he realised she was no longer flushed, but pale, almost grey, and her eyes had lost their focus.

  He caught her as she fainted. He swung her up so he could cradle her against his chest and started a jog away from the fighting, the noise, keeping to the back streets that led to the local surgery, letting the pall of smoke and the sound of men shouting fade into the distance.

  * * *

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, yet again, as David put a cup of sugary tea on the bedside cabinet. She was still fully dressed, lying on the bed, having refused to get into her nightdress. ‘Really. You can go home now.’

  It saddened him that she was so uncomfortable. He felt no such awkwardness; the familiarity of the purple duvet, the matching curtains, the string of bells along the staircase, was soothing, calming. And they had shared such an intense experience that afternoon. He had held her, saved her.

  ‘I’ll go in a bit,’ he said. ‘Once you’re asleep.’

  He didn’t want to get home, sink into the armchair, and end up watching the news, with running commentary on what had gone wrong and whether the gangs had been dispersed from the high street. He only wanted to stay by Sam, his soporific, and care for her broken wrist. He couldn’t help remembering an ancient custom he had once heard of – saving the life of somebody meant they belonged to you. It seemed obvious that Sam belonged to him, in a way that Marianne never had.

  ‘I can’t sleep with you here. Not after… Where’s your wife, anyway? Shouldn’t you tell her you’re okay?’

  ‘We’ve split up.’ Was that the truth? Yes, he supposed it was. They had both accepted that they couldn’t be together any more. Still, the words sounded wrong, and it must have shown on his face, because Sam said, ‘I’m sorry, really,’ before falling back into silence. ‘At least let me make you some dinner,’ he offered. The late afternoon sunlight was waning, hovering on the
brink of collapse into another long night. Swindon hospital had taken up hours – crowded, frenetic, with ambulances arriving and subdued, beaten men slumped into the orange plastic chairs scattered through A&E.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ He was ravenous; how could she not be? Didn’t they feel the same things? He was certain that their thoughts and emotions were linked in some way. ‘I’ll make something anyway, and you can throw it away if you like.’

  She shrugged, and winced.

  ‘Is it still very painful? You can have another painkiller if you like.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t have!’ She struggled to a more upright position, leaning back against the pillows. ‘You are such a hypocrite, standing there, pretending to look after me, to care, when you—’

  ‘I do care.’

  ‘You went after Marianne! You chased her to that island.’

  ‘You said I should.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’ She started to cry, and it burned that he couldn’t help. He suspected she would never allow him to touch her again. All he could do was stand there and watch her pain.

  When she finally caught her breath and subsided into sobs, he risked sitting next to her on the bed. She didn’t scream at him to get out, at least.

  ‘This is all wrong,’ he said, keeping his voice low, comforting. ‘I know it; you don’t need to tell me. All I can say is that something has happened to me. I’m not the person that I was before I left for the island. I’m not the man you knew, but I’m also not Marianne’s husband any more, not in any way that counts. I’m not anything normal. Being this new person, it’s got… responsibilities. That I can’t explain. But I think you’re one of those responsibilities. I feel that I want to look after you.’

  Marianne would have hated such a sentiment, but Sam nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Okay. I can see how you feel that. I can’t pretend that doesn’t make me happy. So you can look after me, if you like. Just as long as you don’t, don’t just… As long as it doesn’t just tail off into nothing, is what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘I don’t think it can. It feels really… permanent.’

  She gave him her hand again, the unbroken one. It wasn’t love, not in the sense that he knew it. But there was rightness in it.

  ‘I want to hug you but I can’t,’ she said, so he moved around to sit behind her, squeezing between her back and the pillows so she could recline against his chest. He put his arms around her, breathed in time, and felt a deep peace penetrate him. The smell of her, her dried sweat and fear and the last gasp of whatever deodorant she had applied that morning, made him want her. He kissed her neck.

  ‘I left home at sixteen,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand it. Every day was the same as the one before, and I wanted… I wanted my life to mean something. It’s not that my parents were bad people. It was me. I couldn’t bear to be like them. It felt as if they were already dead. I never went back. I’ve always been moving towards a more exciting life. Sometimes it was so difficult, working for it, searching for it. Now it’s here. With you. I feel alive for the first time. Is that a cliché?’

  For the first time it occurred to him that she was still very young. ‘I think we’re meant to be together,’ he said. He thought of Sam’s clean walls, without photographs, deliberately wiped clean of memories. And then he thought of Marianne, alone on her island, and of the last promise he had made to her. ‘I have things I have to do, though.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The man who attacked Marianne. I promised her I would find him and stop him. I think he was at the library car park today, watching us.’

  ‘Why would he come back there? He’s not stupid.’ She slid her fingers along his wrist, and he felt himself grow hard for her. He could bury himself inside her, take away all of their bad memories from today.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s become a contest. He knows who I am. He’s laughing at me. Men who do these things, they have to be stopped.’

  ‘Yes. We can stop him, together. If you need to catch this man, I’m going to help you. I need it too. I was out every night, checking that car park, waiting for him…’ She shivered, and he tightened his hold on her. ‘Let me help you. If he’s in competition with you, then he’ll want me. I can draw him out for you.’

  ‘No! That’s not—’

  ‘I’m not scared. I told you. We belong together now.’ She sighed, a deep, long sound of satisfaction, and relaxed against him. A few moments later, while he was still thinking of some way to dissuade her, he realised she had won the argument by simply falling asleep.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rebecca steps off the boat with her arms held out to the sides, as if performing a balancing act. She’s wearing very high heels. They are black and glossy and utterly unsuited to the rough planks of the landing platform or the shingle of the beach; she had to know this, having been here before. But she’s obviously chosen to forget it. Or maybe her need to be dressed impressively outweighed her desire to be able to walk without wobbling.

  When she sees me coming towards her, she nearly falls over, but I sprint the last few feet and catch her hands, steady her, and take her bag from the amused fisherman standing on the dock.

  ‘Thanks, Barney,’ I say, and he nods, and returns to his boat, casting off once more.

  ‘I never thought you’d be opening it up again,’ says Rebecca.

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugs. It’s one of those February days with a permanent icy fog, the kind that can penetrate your clothes in seconds. I feel it through my parka. But at least Rebecca has on a proper winter coat too: long, woollen, black to match her shoes. Her hair is glorious henna red in contrast, straight out of the bottle. I wonder what shade of grey she is underneath by now.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s walk up to the house. If your leg is fine with that.’

  In response she sets off at a fast pace. Within moments she has to slow again, as she reaches the boggy fields and her high heels squelch into the mud.

  ‘So the house is all finished, then?’ she says, her breathing coming faster.

  ‘Nearly. Turns out builders work a lot faster when you give a bonus for meeting deadlines.’

  ‘Lucky you, with all that money. I would have thought you’d have moved to the Bahamas by now.’

  ‘There’s no place like this, I’ve discovered.’

  ‘A great location to have a break from reality,’ she snaps. She’s so very angry with me, for some reason. But still, she walks on, and shows no sign of attempting to turn around, to signal to the fisherman to take her back.

  When we reach the gravel path she stops, catches her breath, and attempts to scrape some of the mud from her heels onto tufts of wild grass. Her movements fling yet more mud up onto her coat, and I try not to smile as I wait, with my walking boots and thick socks and spattered trousers in place.

  She takes one look at my expression and scowls. ‘I’ve brought more sensible shoes in my bag, okay?’

  ‘Well, good.’

  ‘I just—This is armour, okay? I knew it was ridiculous, but I needed armour. Besides, isn’t this a job interview? If it’s a real job.’

  ‘It’s a real job,’ I tell her.

  She doesn’t respond. The house is in view now, as close to the original as I could get it. Work is nearly done on a conical extension, rising up from the centre of the house, a kind of tower that will act as a library for the new declarations. It will be a light, airy construction, with plenty of windows to catch the sun, and shine out like a lighthouse.

  ‘Are you sure your leg’s okay?’ I ask her.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘And how’s Hamish?’

  ‘I’ve left him.’

  ‘Seriously?’ This astounds me. ‘Why?’

  She ignores the question. ‘Have you left David, then?’

  ‘Not exactly. We agreed that we had to be apart.’

&
nbsp; ‘How very mature you are.’

  In silence, we come up to the house, enter the hallway. It has been reconstructed in the familiar black and white tiles. I walk through into the dining room, and we take off our coats and sit on either side of the table. Rebecca shakes her head at me. ‘It looks exactly the same.’

  ‘I wanted to capture the original feel of it. Lots of things are different; some of the artefacts were damaged, and I donated others to museums.’

  ‘If I was your therapist I’d suggest to you that this is not going to help you to move on.’

  ‘It’s a good thing you’re not, then.’ I don’t want to argue with her, but she’s making it impossible to avoid. In desperation, to break through to something real, I say, ‘But the job of Resident Therapist is yours, if you want it.’

  ‘What?’ She glances around the room, as if expecting to spot hidden cameras. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘I’m not interviewing anyone else. As I said in my letter, I’m reopening the island, and I think you’re perfect for it.’

  She bursts into tears, then clamps her hands over her face and takes shuddering breaths. I don’t know what to do. Eventually I get up, go out to the kitchen and pour her a glass of water. When I come back to the dining room she is composed, mascara clotting around the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes the water and sips it. ‘But I don’t know if I can accept.’ Her face quirks into despair, then straightens once more.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I believe this island should help women to establish real answers to their very real problems, and I want to be a part of that. I’m not sure what you believe. I think it has something to do with statues that come to life and suck up words. I couldn’t encourage you in this fantasy. Let me be clear about this.’

  Her morally superior tone of voice reminds me of how irritating she can be, but I’m determined to have her here to be my voice of reason. Nobody will work harder to restore this island to what it should be – the way that she pictures it, as a haven. Besides, she links me to the roots of this island – why I came, what I expected to find.