The Last Resort(48)
Brenda sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. If the snakebite is going to kill her, she might as well float off on a high.
Amelia
Amelia is glad to have some time alone. She’s not a person who gets stressed very often, but the collective tension of the group is starting to get to her, and those last few, horrific minutes there with Lucy in that hellish burned-out cottage had been too intense. She taps her tracker, willing it to tell her where to go next, and hoping that wherever it leads will give her a chance to pull herself together. What happened with Lucy had pushed her to the brink, and she’s glad that Lucy has run off on her own. It was all from Lucy’s own memory, but the shock had been clear on her face. Amelia would need time to come to terms with what had just been shared, and Lucy would need to do the same. Just like Tiggy, Amelia can’t quite believe that Lucy is a monster. There had to be a reason why she set fire to someone’s house – a house where there was at least one person inside. She doesn’t even want to think about the kid’s bedroom. But something drove Lucy to do what she did, and until she knows what it is, she will reserve judgement.
She heads down into a dip along the coastal path, a narrow, winding track lined with parched bracken and occasional thorny fronds of wild brambles. It doesn’t appear that any of the others have gone this way. The sandy path is damp in parts, but there are no footprints.
She pauses for a moment to take in the view. To her right, the vast ocean is dark and impenetrable, nothing visible for miles. The water is calm for now, the waves undulating gently. The path becomes steeper again as she climbs out from the dip, and she feels the burn in her calves as she presses on. There’s barely a sound, except for the high-pitched screech of a kittiwake nearby, circling and swooping – letting her know that there’s a nest and to keep her distance.
Just as she’s feeling she must be getting close to the headland, she rounds a sharp bend and the remains of a lighthouse come into view. Previously hidden from her due to the angle of the path and the undulating terrain, she stops to take it in. The walls are still painted white in places, but most of it has flaked off. They’re broken and crumbled, but there is still a light on top – presumably it doesn’t work. She walks closer and then the path disappears completely and she’s walking over dense brush that has not seen other footsteps in a long while.
The sea breeze makes her shiver, and she hugs her arms around herself. Am I supposed to be here?
It’s not safe, that’s for sure. But nothing has been cordoned off. There’s nothing to stop her exploring.
She’s glad to have found her own place of quiet.
She skirts around the lighthouse and takes a few steps closer to the edge, keeping her weight on her heels, leaning back towards the safety and shelter of the building as she peers down at the sharp drop below. She’d thought it strange at first that the lighthouse would be hidden from view from the rest of the island, not perched on the highest point but in the dip behind. But seeing these rocks, it makes sense. Huge Jurassic boulders are piled precariously together, the erosion of the sea creating sharp, rugged lines further below. A boat hitting these rocks would stand no chance at all.
As she steps even closer to the edge, a strange feeling flits over her. Déjà vu – although she knows she hasn’t been here before. She would remember it, she’s sure. And yet there is something familiar about it.
She hunkers down to peer at the rocks, and through the gaps she can see the waves crashing, their white foam spraying high. And further out, past this cacophony and the quieter sea beyond, she can see something else.
Another headland, off in the distance. A mirror of this – the hill, and the drop down onto the rocks, huge breakers smashing against them.
Another island.
A chill runs through her, despite the ever-present heat of the sun. Something about the island in the distance. The hill, the rocks, but in between the two, a rocky ledge jutting out.
The kittiwake shrieks and swoops towards her, and she stumbles back.
She knows this place. Not where she is now, but the tip of the island across the water.
She was there. A long time ago.
She turns towards the lighthouse. Touches the cold, wet stone. Remembers a voice, cross and childlike: ‘Of course we can’t go over there. That island is private. No one lives there now. No one has even been there for years and years.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s a bad place. An evil place . . . Father says no one should go back there. Not ever.’
Amelia
She runs until her lungs start to ache and she has to stop to catch her breath, to cough, to suck in great mouthfuls of air. She slumps forward, hands on her knees, waiting for her heart rate to slow and her breathing to ease, then she unhooks the straps of her backpack and throws it onto the ground. She grapples with the zip, eventually pulls out her water bottle and takes a long, slow gulp. She drops to the ground, cross-legged, and frowns.
This so-called game. It had to be about her, didn’t it?
Why couldn’t it have been about one of the others – Lucy or Tiggy, or even Brenda. They’ve all done shitty, horrible things in their time – and what has she done? Other than devote her whole life to helping others.
It’s all she’s ever wanted to do. Ever since she read that news story about the refugee who had died trying to climb onto an island in the South of England. He’d managed to get all the way across the Channel on a small boat that was meant for picnicking on ponds, not escaping across the sea, risking life and limb. Losing life, in the end. How awful must your existence be if you think that’s a good idea? Obviously it’s worth the risk, because so many try it – and many succeed.