Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

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.

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.’

‘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.’