After twenty minutes Kane saw a sign: COMFORTLESS COVE.
Black teeth of rock encircled a pristine beach. This was the sheltered side of the island, and the sea was comparatively calm. Only the rocks preserved a moment of violence, and you could see where the lava had plunged into the water. The sea spray looked like steam. The spiky black spines contrasted vividly with the white sand, like a dream and a nightmare refusing to blend. Kane walked across the sand. When it became soft underfoot, he took his shoes off and felt the warm seawater ooze between his toes. He continued until it lapped at his ankles; then he turned around and looked for the cables.
The original nineteenth-century landing point remained only in occasional stumps of cable markers rusted to blankness. But they gave him a start. This was where they’d been dragged ashore. From here, you could see they’d followed the winding path of the ash beds between the impermeable basalt slabs, eventually connecting with the telegraph company office in Georgetown. The fiber-optic project to come had even fewer traces: a sign announcing planned commencement, some preparatory clearance of rocks. But soon this would once again be the gateway for two continents’ worth of voices. It was a patch of ground that occupied the dreams of men and women many miles away, but they would never set foot here. Rory had set foot here. Kane saw him in a long line of imperial servants sweating amid the hallucinatory landscape, feeling their connection to civilization stretched to breaking point.
The fiber-optic cables would come ashore and run along the rocks to a new landing station in Georgetown. But a top-secret offshoot would intercept them a mile offshore and run beneath the seabed, surfacing in a GCHQ processing center due to be built near the US base.
Kane followed the predicted route with his eyes. His attention was caught by a manmade arrangement at the back of the beach: a clearing within the jagged rocks that contained a handful of chalky white headstones. As Kane got closer, he saw it was a cemetery, the stones small and narrow like steles. The names on them had mostly worn away, with only a few still sharp enough to read. Henry Garland Harrison, Assistant Surgeon, HMS Viper . . . Kane wondered what Henry Garland Harrison must have thought as he lay dying here. Then he heard a car approaching.
It appeared slowly, a white Buick Enclave, tinted windows. He was in clear view; there was no point in hiding. He stood among the graves waiting as the gleaming SUV stopped above the beach.
All four doors opened at once. A man stepped out, then a woman, then two kids. One of them was Connor.
The boy pointed at Kane.
“That’s him.”
The man waved.
“Hey.”
A girl of five or six moved from Connor to her father and took his hand. The man had reflector shades on a cord around his neck, silvering hair tied back in a ponytail. The mother was taller and slightly younger.
Kane walked up to the road. Connor had shades on but you could see butterfly stitches where his face had been cut. His foot had been rebandaged by someone who knew what they were doing. He wore sandals but still balanced on one foot with a hand on the car door.
“You’re the guy who helped Connor last night,” the man said.
“That’s right. Is he okay?”
“Thanks to you. I’m Thomas,” the father said. The man shook Kane’s hand vigorously. The woman smiled before also shaking his hand.
“Anne.”
“I’m Edward. Pleased to meet you.”
Both wore vests and shorts that showed lean, suntanned bodies. The man could have been anything up to sixty, the woman in her late forties.
“We owe you some thanks,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“I think we do.”
Kane sensed a mixture of emotions behind the family’s stares—not just gratitude but residual anger, a measure of fear, a degree of understandable curiosity. Kane imagined the story of the previous night as it might have been recounted.
“This little monster’s Carina.” Thomas ruffled the girl’s hair. “And Connor you’ve met.”
Carina squinted up at Kane; she looked like her mother, even with the same toughness in her stare. The boy looked like none of them. Dressed in a black T-shirt and cutoff jeans, with the shades on—a shadow in the sunlight of the smiling family.
“Connor wanted to say something too.”
“I really appreciate it,” Connor said.
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“How’s the knee?”
“Fine.”
“Told you it wasn’t broken.”
Connor smiled. But he was wary. Kane connected to a humiliating episode, and the boy could have done without being here to relive it. The girl didn’t take her eyes off Kane. She had a wistful expression, something slightly haunted that came from neither parent. From the island, perhaps. From a childhood staring at volcanic fallout.
“I’m Carina,” she said.
“Pleased to meet you, Carina.”
The parents smiled. The mother took her daughter’s hand and led her down to the sea’s edge. The boy eased himself back into the car.
“How did you know I was here?” Kane asked the father.
“Someone told us you’d come this way.”
“Really?”
“Linda. She helped you with your accommodation. You came in on yesterday’s flight?” Thomas said.
“Yes. Not quite the introduction to the island I was expecting. Who were they?”
“Thugs.”
“Any idea what it was about?”
“All sorts of ideas. None of which you need to worry yourself about. They’ll get their comeuppance. One way or another.”
“I hope so. Think I should worry about myself?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. I hope not.”
The man’s underlying fury showed in his jaw and hands. His American accent was underlaid with something German or Scandi, which fit the pale blue eyes and maybe the sense of a gentleness at odds with his current rage.
“You’ll have us on your side, whatever happens. I mean it. What brings you to Ascension?”
“I study British colonial history. Thought I should see it up close.”
“It’s quite a trip to make.”
“That’s part of the point. I’m writing about the people who ended up here back in the day, what took them on such a journey, what it did to them. All that kind of thing.”
“Interesting.”
“I hope so.”
“You saw these?” The father gestured to the graves. “Yellow fever. This was quarantine. Ships came in loaded with sick men, and the men had to stay here, dig their graves, and sleep in them. If they didn’t wake up, they were ready for burial. The British Marines on the island would come and drop food off for them, but about a mile away.” He waved in the direction of Georgetown. “They’d fire a gun, beat a hasty retreat.”
“What a place to die.”
“Isn’t it just? Like dying on an alien planet. And these aren’t half of them. There’s several hundred unmarked graves around the place. A lot of the ships were anti-slavery patrols, coming from West Africa. It was a good cause, and it always pains me thinking this was the last place they saw.”
He looked again at the graves, then shielded his eyes against the rising sun to better study Kane.
“You’re living up on the base?” Kane said.
“That’s right. Anne’s in the military. I’m the plus-one. I do conservation work on the island.”
“I thought you might be connected to the Historical Society.”
He laughed.
“Not that kind of conservation. Trying to keep what’s here, not worry about what’s already gone. But you spend enough time on this rock, you start to get curious.”
Connor was sitting in the car, his bandaged foot sticking out. With the shades on you couldn’t tell where he was looking or if he was looking at all.
“Is he really okay?” Kane asked.
“He’ll live.�
�� Thomas shook his head. “He’s a lot better than he would have been if you hadn’t come along. He said there were three of them.”
“Yes. Pretty sure one was British military. A couple looked like contractors. It was dark.”
“Right. We’re pursuing it, of course. Don’t worry about that.” Alongside his anger, there was a sense of impotence, a helplessness in proportion to the rage, which seemed odd.
“I spoke to Connor about going to the police,” Kane said.
“Yeah, I know. Things aren’t straightforward here right now. There’s complications.”
“Really?”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“All sorts. But, seriously, don’t spoil your trip on our account.”
“Okay. But I’m concerned those guys are going to pick on some other kid. Or that they’ve done it before.”
“Maybe they have. I don’t know. My advice is really not to get yourself too involved.”
“Can I ask something else? A slightly weird question?”
“Anything you want. Fire away.”
“You seem to know the place.”
“Much as anyone does. Why?”
“I turned up last night and the hotel was closed. So someone let me stay in a house in Georgetown where the family’s just left. I get the feeling they left in a hurry. Any idea what happened?”
The man’s eyes flicked to Kane with renewed interest. There was a wariness there, a sadness and caution.
“Connor told me where you were staying.”
“Where’s the family gone?”
“Heard anything about the last couple of weeks here?”
“No.”
“A girl went missing. A fifteen-year-old. I’m sorry to tell you that.”
“Missing?”
“Disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Her family moved off the island a few days ago. They were . . . broken. It looks like you’re in their old home.”
Carina squealed. She was out of the sea, having her feet toweled by her mother. The reality of Petra Wade’s disappearance hit Kane hard. He imagined having a daughter on the island, how it must feel if you thought the man responsible was still out there.
“What do you think happened?” Kane asked.
“No one knows. Could have been swept away, could have fallen somewhere. There’s a few potential explanations, but no sign of her and it’s possible no one ever finds out for sure. How long are you on here?”
“Just the month. Until the next flight.”
“A month is long enough. Listen, if I were you I’d enjoy my time on Ascension, get some good research, explore a few extraordinary geological formations, and not worry too much about the other humans or anything else.”
“Okay. I hope the other humans allow me to do that.”
“I’m sure they will. I mean the thanks. You might have saved his life. If there’s anything we can do for you just let us know.”
“Actually, there is one favor. I need to pick up a car. I was told I needed to get to One Boat.”
“Old Terry.”
“That’s right.”
“Sure, we can drive you. Carina’s already late for a dance class, and she’s the boss around here, but I can drop you off. It’s the least we can do.”
10
Kane got the front seat, with the mum and kids squeezed in the back. The car was crowded with boxes of leaflets and equipment labeled ASCENSION ISLAND CONSERVATION CENTRE: clipboards, torches, welcome packs. The clipboards held surveys: Seabird Survey: Pillar Bay and Coconut Bay. The packs were titled Beach Cleaning for Green Turtles and Landcrab Monitoring. Alongside the papers was equipment for a boat: life jackets, safety lines, a navigation light. They set off into the island’s interior, past mounds of purple scoria.
“Where are we going?” the girl asked.
“Just need to drop Edward at One Boat, then we’ll get you to the class,” Thomas said. “Don’t worry, pumpkin.”
“We’re late.”
“We’re not late.”
“Do you sail?” Kane asked.
“Part of the work. Got a little motorboat. We can take you out sometime.”
“What does that involve?”
“The island’s just got itself a marine conservation area. Means a two-hundred-mile exclusion zone around the island, prohibiting any commercial fishing vessels from entering. Which means the only fishing that takes place is by local rod and line. So, I’m going to be keeping an eye on that and how it affects things in the water. See the rocks there?”
Thomas pointed at the nearby scenery where lava-flows like calcified rivers swelled toward the sea.
“That’s one of the newer formations. The colors tell you the age. You can see successive eruptions. The older rocks have all weathered and oxidized; they’re the orangey, rust-colored ones. The latest flows are still black. You can see they’ve spread more slowly, right?”
“Right. Kind of beautiful.”
“That’s not beautiful,” Carina said.
“Who says what’s beautiful, honey?” her mother asked.
“It’s ugly.”
“To you maybe.”
“Is the island always this hot?” Kane asked.
“This is particularly hot, even for Ascension. But it’s always dry. A couple of times a year, if you’re lucky, you might see some rain evaporating before it hits the ground. The rocks make it feel hotter. Rocks and the lack of shade.”
Twice on the drive they passed what looked like traps for an animal. It happened half a mile apart: leghold traps chained to an upturned white bucket on which someone had written Poison. Registering Kane’s curiosity, Thomas smiled.
“Cat hunting.”
“Cats?”
“This place has got a wild cat problem,” Thomas said. “They eat the birds and the birds are too precious. This is one of the main breeding places in the Atlantic. So, the cats have to go.”
“Why the bucket?”
“Stop the crabs stealing the bait,” Thomas said. “It’s poisoned, you see, but the crabs have got a taste for it.”
“That’s why we don’t eat the local crabs,” Anne said. They both laughed.
“What happens if you eat the crabs?” Carina asked.
“Nothing, honey. We’re joking.”
“I’ve seen dogs around though,” Kane said. “No problem with the dogs?”
“Problem with the dogs is the owners. No one’s here for more than a few years, so the dogs get left behind. Mostly they get passed on. People inherit them. Not always, though. The dogs get used to being passed around.”
“Like a lot of things on this island,” Anne said. “A lot easier to share and pool your resources than to haul things to and fro.”
“You said I could have a dog,” Carina said.
“We said maybe. Can you remember what the problem was?”
“The base doesn’t want it.”
“That’s right.”
“Why can’t we live somewhere else? Jenny has a dog.”
It was another few minutes before they arrived at One Boat. Thomas stopped beside the structure from which the junction took its name: half an old rowing boat stood on its end. As Kane looked closer, he saw that it had become a strange kind of cupboard, filled with old trophies.
“It’s just near here. I’ll stop and you can take a look at some of the island’s curiosities.”
Kane got out of the car and went over to the boat. The pile of sports trophies glittered like unwanted treasure—cheap cups and statuettes, a tangle of medals, even a silver plate. Thomas followed him. The rest of the family stayed in the car.
“People leave them there when they go.”
“Why?”
“Maybe their suitcases are full. I don’t know. What are you going to say back home—‘I was the best darts player on a volcanic rock thousands of miles away from all other human life’? At least they mean something here. Have you seen the Lizard?”
“No.”
“It’s over here.�
��
A little farther along the road was a garish paint-splashed stone, waist height. The entire rock and the ground around it were covered in colored paint. The smell of paint hung in the hot air.
“Meet the Lizard,” Thomas said. “Superstition has it you should paint it before leaving. Some people think the shape looks like a lizard. Never quite seen it myself.”
“What happens if you don’t paint it?”
“You return.” Thomas grinned. “You end up back here. Look, we really mean it: Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
“Pumping station’s straight that way.” He pointed confidently across a wasteland that looked like the surface of Mars. “Think you’ll make it from here?”
“Hope so. I appreciate the lift.”
When the SUV had disappeared, Kane walked over to the Lizard and touched it. His fingers came away sticky. Do people paint it when they kill themselves? That’s what he should have asked. He had collected various death rituals on his travels, curious about the superstitions they reflected. The idea that you might not die successfully was common enough, that you might fail to cross over. He’d never come across anything equivalent for successfully escaping a place. But they were the same thing, he reasoned. Not being able to leave.
No sign of the pumping station or golf course. The ground was pocked with what looked like craters from bomb tests. The temperature was thirty-two degrees in the direct sun now, the black rock giving back a suffocating heat. Something among the craters shifted and Kane realized he was looking at animals. It took him some time to recognize them as sheep: their wool was gray with ash, hanging in tatters where it had torn on rocks and cacti. Presumably these were descendants of one of the failed attempts he’d read about to farm the island. What an existence. Did they know where the last cats were hiding? He imagined being stranded here alone, castaway, and having to face slaughtering them for your dinner. Necessity would ease qualms—then it would just be a question of technique. The real challenge was hydration. It was Victorian times before the Royal Marines dug their way to a reliable water source. The abandoned Dutch sailor had found himself on a thirty-five-square-mile desert, searching the place for anything to drink with increasing desperation. I kept constantly walking about the island, that being all my hopes. It was a line from his diary that had got under Kane’s skin. The sailor began drinking his urine, then the blood of seabirds. In one of the last entries he described slicing the head off a turtle and drinking the blood from its throat. Kane wished he hadn’t read it. The landscape hadn’t changed in the intervening centuries and it felt like this search for a petrol pump was the first touches of his own insanity.
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