Алия Уайтли - Skein Island

Susan wrote her declaration, then came back to this town to discover she had been set free from it. She could move on and create a new story. There was more to her.

I sit at my kitchen table, before my open laptop that displays Skein Island’s official website, and I make a phone call to their administrative office before I can change my mind.

The woman on the other end of the line is polite but regretful. No, they can’t accommodate me just because I’ve discovered the burning need to write a declaration right now. No, I can’t get a place without filling in an application form, and no, it won’t make any difference if I just turn up at the dock to see if anyone else drops out at the last minute. Sorry.

So I pour myself a glass of wine and fill out the online application, and all the writing I’ve been doing makes it easier to reach into myself and find some strange new twist of truth in the Other Information That May Influence Your Application box:

The ghost of an old man visits my bedroom at dawn each day. He sits on the edge of the bed and smokes a vile cigar. He chuckles to himself. I want to go to a place where he can’t reach me because I have no idea who am I without him, and I’m scared that I no longer want to find out .

Everyone knows men aren’t allowed on Skein Island. Can the same be said of ghosts? Will my ghost obey your rules?

An open-plan kitchen and living room. A sofa and an armchair, a microwave and a fridge. Behind a thin partition wall I find a bedroom with two single beds positioned as far away from each other as possible, which isn’t far. There’s the same amount of space as I’d have in my flat. Do I feel at home?

But it’s the view outside the window that matters. A ragged expanse of green grass and weeds, wild and tufted, leads my eyes to a cliff edge, and the blue sea beyond. Late summer on an island. It’s the feeling of being held in position as the giant world turns and the tide sweeps in and out according to its own rules.

I waited four months for this, and got lucky with a cancellation. I’m not sure whether it’s serendipity or not. I’m still attempting to believe in that concept.

I choose the bed nearest the window and put my case on it. I find my thick socks within and slide them over the socks I’m already wearing. The floorboards are cold, and there’s a strong draft at ankle-level; the main door has a thick gap at the bottom through which I can see daylight. This place is not well-built, it seems. It’s a flimsy shelter with its makeshift walls and breeze-admitting gaps. How is it meant to keep out a ghost?

The light at the bottom of the door is blocked. Then the door swings back with a creak.

For a moment I expect my ghost, made flesh.

‘You all right?’

No. No, it’s a woman. Of course it’s a woman.

‘There’s a draft,’ I say. ‘Hi. I’m Min.’

‘I suppose we’re sharing this cabin. I’m Katie. Is this my bed, then?’

‘I’ve put my case on this one,’ I say. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

‘It’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine?’ She shakes her head and frowns as she shrugs off her small rucksack and places it on the other bed. I don’t know whether she’s annoyed or not. Her dark hair is cut very short, threaded with white, and she’s dressed entirely in red of varying shades of stridency. I’d guess she’s at least twenty years older than me but wearing it very well. She looks complete, comfortable, finished. I still feel like a work in progress.

‘A single bed,’ she muses. ‘I haven’t slept in one of those for a long time. I’ve got a king-size all to myself at home. I’m difficult to live with at the best of times so I should probably apologise up front. I’m sorry you got me as your companion for the week, Min.’

‘Why are you so difficult to live with?’ I ask.

‘I can see right through everyone’s bullshit,’ she says, and gives me a hard stare. I feel my innards shrinking away from her.

‘I’m just messing with you,’ she says. ‘Sorry. I’m not good with people. It’s also probably why I became an estate agent. Dicking people around on the topic of the most expensive purchase they’ll ever make appealed to me. Again, just messing.’ She sits on her bed and removes her leather boots, pushing down the long zips from her knees to her ankles so they slide from her feet to land on the floor. She’s wearing scarlet socks, too. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m in administration.’

‘Well.’ She looks out of the window, then says, ‘Someone has to be. I thought all the cabins were for four people? How come we’ve ended up in a two-person outfit? There must be something special about us. What do you think it is?’

At what point do you tell an acquaintance that you’re followed around by a ghost? I start to speak but she holds up a finger and says, ‘No, no, I’ll find out for myself.’

‘All right. It’s your funeral.’

I have no idea why those particular words came to mind. Those are obviously not the right words for this situation; I can tell that from the way she’s choosing to ignore them.

‘I’m not good with people,’ she says. ‘I came here to learn if I wanted to be. Good with them. If I’m missing something.’

‘What do you think you’re missing?’

‘I already suspect the answer to that question is nothing.’ She hums as she unpacks.

She probably thinks I’m an idiot. But that’s okay because I think she’s an overconfident bully who’s attempting to verbally dominate me. At least we have one thing in common: We’ll both find out what’s going on for ourselves. We are women together for a whole week.

I’ve got a feeling it’s going to pass slowly.

What makes a boy?

When I first began to understand that I was not a boy, I began to look around me and categorise others as I was being categorised in turn. I couldn’t have been more than six years old; I remember many things feeling new to me, including school. I hadn’t settled into familiarity with the routine or the others of my age who now surrounded me on a daily basis. There were so many of us, all in orbit around the larger bodies of teachers. I understood I was a kid, but not that I was a girl. That came later. I don’t really understand it now, except if I define it as not a boy .

I don’t believe girls exist, really, except as a disguise. And I’m still not certain that boys grow into men. Perhaps a man is a disguise too. An acceptance of certain rules. No different to firing a gun in the playground and demanding that the other fella lies down dead.

Having had these thoughts during a long and sleepless night, I’m in no way surprised when my ghost turns up with the first creeping rays of dawn. He sits on the end of my bed, and I wonder why I thought the rules of Skein Island might ever apply to him. If he wasn’t really a man when he was a man, then why would he be one as a spirit?

I wish I could talk to him.

I feel the pressure of him, by my legs. He’s not large. He’s creating only the smallest of dents in the mattress. He shifts his weight every now and again, and I can imagine him muttering to himself – bloody sciatic nerve, won’t leave me in peace even for a nice sit-down – but if he is talking I can’t hear it. I thought the countryside was meant to be quiet but the birds outside the thin window are rhythmically raucous. I’ve never heard these throaty calls before; I think it must be the sound of seagulls en masse. I lie there and listen.

My ghost gets up and breathes out his smoke, long and freely, into the room. I think he likes the extra space to fill. I watch the smoke stream forth from an empty space, then form a thin fog above my bed. A pause. Then he does the same over Katie’s bed, and he laughs.