Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

‘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.

‘I don’t need you to believe what I believe. I just need you to be yourself.’

‘That’s easy.’

‘Only you could say that, Rebecca.’ I tell her of my vision of the island. How it will differ from what it was, and how we’ll try to make it work.

She listens hard, nodding, frowning, then puts down the cup of water, and runs her fingers through her hair. I sense she’s decided to accept my offer; it’s in the way she looks around the room, this time with the fresh perspective, evaluating it as a home.

‘So what happens now?’ she says.

‘You can start whenever you’re ready.’

‘I’m ready now.’

‘What about your stuff?’

‘All in the bag.’

It occurs to me that there’s something more going on here than I had bargained for. ‘Rebecca, what’s going on?’

‘I told you – I’ve left Hamish. I really don’t want to go back and see him. It wasn’t amicable. He became…’ She bites her lip. ‘Listen, I can’t go into this. You’ll feed it into your fantasy and make it part of your reality, and… God, this is ridiculous! I can’t do this.’

‘What did Hamish become?’

‘I… Look, he set up a network of internet friends to monitor and report back on paedophiles. People they thought might be paedophiles. There was a man living on our street and Hamish thought he was… Well, he had been convicted of something, and Hamish got really concerned over it, and so did some others. And then he set up an online group and it just grew. It went from a few friends to thousands of them. All over the country. He said he was doing it to keep everyone safe, to keep our grandkids safe. When I pointed out we didn’t have grandkids he wasn’t even listening. And he always listens. We communicate. That’s who we’ve always been, as a couple. We communicate.’

She stops talking. I don’t try to break the silence that surrounds us. Eventually, she says, ‘See? I can feel you thinking it.’

‘I’m only concerned for you,’ I tell her, but I’m a terrible liar, and she shrugs it off.

‘You’re right, though, it’s all men. His group, all men. Doing vigilante things. Organised packs, on the streets. He said I needed to be protected, that all women and children have to be kept safe in these times. What kind of a person says things like that? That’s not Hamish. But I can’t fight him, I can’t stay and watch him…’ She shakes her head. Her grief and pain are waves that emanate from the core of her. I can feel it washing over me, dragging me down too. ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong with the world. It’s the media, perhaps. The pressure of the news, the tabloids. It’s not what you’re thinking, Marianne.’

I try to focus, to not let my feelings for David get caught up in this. ‘But you don’t want to be out there any more, whatever it is. You want to be here. Where it’s safe. I can understand that.’

She clears her throat. ‘Oddly enough, I do feel safe here. Safe alone with the only certifiable loony I know. Sorry, I shouldn’t use such terms, should I? Very unlike a counsellor.’

‘Well, you’re not alone. Inger is here too. She’s very efficient. With her help we’re going to be back in business in no time.’

‘That’s great. Listen, I didn’t mean it, the loony thing. It’s just the stress.’

‘You did mean it. But it’s okay. I actually kind of like being called a loony. It makes me feel less boring.’

Rebecca straightens her skirt with the palms of her hands. ‘Marianne, no matter what you do, nobody could ever call you boring.’

The idea of this – that I am beyond the conventional in every way – appeals to me. ‘Thanks.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a compliment.’

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, then Inger knocks on the open door and shoots me a look that I translate as concern. Do I look in need of help? I don’t feel it. ‘Inger, come on in. Do you remember Rebecca?’

‘We never met properly.’ They shake hands, a very businesslike gesture.

‘So you’re on board?’ says Inger. She’s so very direct. I hope Rebecca will respond in kind.

‘Yes, all right, consider me signed up.’ Rebecca lets out a long breath. ‘So where do we begin?’

I wait for them both to sit down again, so we are all gathered around the table. Inger has brought along a pen and paper, and looks ready to take notes. This has officially become a business. ‘We’re going to start by getting Moira back.’

‘The statue,’ says Rebecca.

‘Yes.’

‘The statue that got destroyed in the basement.’

Inger and Rebecca exchange looks. Well, let them both think I’m mad, as long as it unites them. They have to learn to work together.

‘It didn’t get destroyed. It’s in Crete.’

Rebecca gives me her best maternal, disapproving look, as if she’s just walked into the kitchen to find me smearing jam on the walls. ‘What would it be doing in Crete?’

‘You have to trust me on this.’ Or perhaps I’m asking too much. ‘No, okay, you don’t even have to do that. You just have to get this place up and running while I go to the cave in Crete, find her and bring her back here where she belongs.’

‘The cave in Amelia Worthington’s story?’ says Rebecca. ‘Seriously? Why would Moira – the statue – be back there, anyway?’

‘Because women go round in circles.’

Inger and Rebecca stare at me, and then we all burst out laughing.

‘It’s not safe to be travelling alone,’ says Rebecca, finally, and the atmosphere in the room changes, thickens, into a sense of uncomfortable possibility. I really am going to Mount Ida.

‘You sound like Hamish,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m not asking you to condone my decision. I’m asking you to run this place. That’s what you’ll be good at. The two of you, together – the unstoppable administrators.’

‘I don’t think much of that as a super-power, do you?’ she says to Inger.

Inger leans forward and takes my hand across the table. It’s such an unexpected gesture that I feel my cheeks flush and tears prick my eyes. For all Rebecca’s objections, it’s Inger’s compassion that could undo me. I could ask them to go with me, to risk walking into that cave.

And then I force myself to remember what Moira did to the last people who entered the cave in Mount Ida, and I know I have to go alone. I stand up and pull my hand free. ‘Listen, it’s going to be fine. Inger, can you show Rebecca to the staff accommodation? I’ve got to organise my flight.’