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.
But many don’t.
She read about that man one summer, after she’d spent a week on an island with her grandparents, bored to tears with none of her friends around her – not that she’d ever had many. That was another reason she got into humanitarian aid – because she’d never be short of people who wanted to spend time with her.
She’s tried to block out what happened that summer on the island, but she knows it’s close to the surface now. Ending up at that lighthouse was no coincidence.
She drinks a bit more of the water and feels a little calmer. Scott is convinced that the water is drugged, and she’s not entirely sure he’s wrong – and right now, she’s not entirely sure that she minds if it is. She’s never taken drugs, other than paracetamol for a headache, and maybe some antacids now and again. She’s not even much of a drinker, although she enjoyed the cocktails at the tiki hut. Brought back some happy memories of someone she met while working on a project in Ghana. Someone she’ll probably never see again, and that’s fine too. She’s used to being on her own. The more her parents had pushed her to ‘be like the other girls’, the more she had pulled away from them. But it’s not been in vain. She’s been responsible for a lot of good things, and earned recognition for them – magazine profiles, interviews on the major news channels – sufficient to raise awareness that has in turn led to more funding for bigger projects. Tiggy might be a celebrity within her own circle, but Amelia is well known by much higher profile people, for much bigger things. All those celebrities who make tearful vlogs of their time spent helping starving children and digging wells need to have someone in the background to talk them through it all, don’t they? She might not be famous in the traditional sense, but she has made a name for herself in a way that truly matters. That hasn’t been the point, certainly, but it’s something she reminds herself of when she’s on her own – as she nearly always seems to be – in some dire, bleak situation or another, and finds herself questioning just what kind of life she’s chosen to lead.
Not that this qualifies as one of those times. True, it’s been a little dire – certainly has been for Giles – but it’s far too scenic to be bleak. Though now that the sun has dipped, it’s starting to get a bit chilly, and they haven’t made it to the house yet. The thought of a party makes her stomach flip, but then again, she would like some food. When did she – or any of the others – last eat? Although, she’s not actually hungry. Maybe the drugged water is an appetite suppressant too?
She heads down the hill, through an overgrown trail that may or may not be the right way to go. No one else seems to have arrived at the lighthouse, so it’s clearly not meant to be found – and yet, she found it. Knowing that she’s come around the headland, with the sea to her right again, and the other island just across the stretch of water in the near distance, she figures that the house can’t be far, based on the map. Of course, she could ask her tracker again, but she’s sick of being told what to do.
Surprisingly, she hasn’t come across Lucy. Not that she’s been looking for her. She’d expected her to come back to the ruins, but when she didn’t appear after a few minutes, Amelia had set off on her own. Did Lucy go back the way they came? That would make no sense, but then Lucy was in shock and who knows what she might have done. Hopefully the others have made it further. Maybe they’re already at the house.
The path dips steeply into a marshy area that seems too overgrown to pass through, but she knows if she just keeps going she’ll get out. Unless there’s some hidden danger to deal with in the undergrowth. Landmines or snakes, or quicksand, even. One of those phenomena that used to scare kids but rarely exist in any real place.
‘Don’t worry, it’s safe to cross.’
James’s voice comes from her right and she whirls round, but she can’t see him.
‘In here,’ he says, his smile evident in his voice.
She walks in the direction of his voice and sees his hand waving from under a green tarpaulin. He’s in some sort of makeshift shelter propped up with poles, leaving a space just high enough to stand.
‘Am I glad to find you!’ She pushes through the marsh grass, ignoring the scratches on her bare legs. As she gets closer, a distinct, comforting aroma hits her nostrils and her mouth waters. ‘Oh my God – are you brewing coffee?’
‘Ethiopian Arabica,’ he says. ‘I’m assuming you’d like a cup?’
He lifts the edge of the tarpaulin and she bends her head slightly as she walks into the shelter. In the middle, James is on one knee, tending to a small stove with a metal coffee pot on top, and the whole floor area is covered in blankets and cushions. ‘Wow. What is this place?’
He pours coffee into a tin mug and hands it to her. ‘It’s my comfort den. I asked for it. Said if I had to be on my own, I wanted to be somewhere I felt safe.’ He takes a sip from his mug and looks away from her.
‘You didn’t feel safe earlier?’ She lifts her mug to her lips and inhales the scent. ‘With us?’