DEVOUT ATHEIST
DEVOUT ATHEIST
C olumbo wanders off toward the cemetery at the back of the church, and I follow like the obedient owner that I am. The corner shop doesn’t open for a few more minutes so we have some time to kill. My tired mind is now preoccupied with my missing wife and the woman I just met. I feel as though I’ve been unfaithful for finding someone else attractive. I never cheated on my wife, but I sometimes worry that she didn’t love me like she used to, that maybe I disappointed her in some way.
There were a lot of conspiracy theories at the time after Abby disappeared. Her colleagues at the newspaper were sure that it was something to do with her work because of the antique doll that was found in her abandoned car; they thought that she was investigating the wrong person and was silenced. I didn’t agree with them at the time. I thought it sounded too far-fetched. But the newspaper article someone slipped under the cabin door must mean something . I need to talk to Cora and find out what she knows, if anything, but I don’t know what to say to the woman. Abby was the one who always knew what questions to ask. People are a tricky landscape to navigate.
The cemetery is large for a place with such a small population. Some of the ancient headstones are too weathered to be able to read the names once engraved on them, while other old stone slabs covered in moss are leaning at precarious angles or have completely fallen down. There is a section of more recent-looking graves toward the back of the cemetery, and I wander over to take a look. I am not religious—more of a devout atheist—but I sometimes wish that I had faith. I believe that when we’re gone, we’re gone, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect other people’s beliefs. Whenever I wander through an old graveyard like this, I read all the headstones and make up stories for the people buried beneath them.
I don’t have to make up a story for the next one I see. It stands out from all the others as it is bigger and made from black stone, and I instantly recognize the name. Charles Whittaker’s headstone is impressive, though the epitaph isn’t what I would have expected.
CHARLES WHITTAKER
“Go away. I’m still writing.”
Loved by all.
Known by none.
Alone at last.
Close by I spot a mound of freshly dug earth and see an empty grave. The hole is dark, and dank, and so deep I struggle to see the bottom. I stumble backward, afraid of falling in—being buried alive is one of my all-time biggest fears. Maybe someone died recently and the islanders are getting ready for a funeral. That would explain why they were ringing the “death bell” and why only twenty-four of the twenty-five candles were lit in the church. My tiredness is catching up with me, but I walk a little farther and notice that there are a lot of children’s graves. There are twelve that are almost identical, made in the same style and size. The only thing that is different about them are the names carved into the white marble. They all have the exact same date just over thirty years ago engraved on them, and I wonder if the children got sick with the same thing. Something which they might have survived had there been a doctor on the island.
“The Children of the Mist,” says a voice behind me.
I turn so fast I’m surprised I don’t have whiplash. An elderly woman carrying a walking stick is standing there. She has long gray hair that has been woven into a neat plait resting on her shoulder, and she’s tall, so tall that she stoops a little, as though embarrassed by her own height. She’s dressed head to toe in tweed, wearing a stylish coat with a matching tartan hat, and I wonder if she might be Sandy’s mother.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”
“You should go . Leave while you still can. Before it’s too late,” she whispers, staring intently at me before looking over my shoulder. I turn to see what she is looking at but there is nobody there, and when I turn back she is gone.
“Hello?” I call, wandering through some of the headstones, but there is no sign of her.
I start to wonder if I imagined her. Like I imagined seeing Abby. Then I wonder if I am losing my mind.
I think maybe I just very badly need to sleep.
Columbo and I hurry out of the cemetery and back toward the village green; the shop should be open by now. It’s impossible not to notice how picturesque and quaint this little corner of Amberly is. Walking around it feels like stepping back in time. The pretty little gardens in front of the thatched cottages are neatly kept, hiding behind dainty white picket fencing. Immaculate window boxes explode with perfect blooms of colorful flowers. Everything is freshly painted and tidy, no sign of any litter or graffiti, unlike in London. Up close, I can see that the thatched cottages all have quirky names above their different colored front doors: Whit’s End, Middle of Nowhere, and The Last Straw.
Someone on the island has a sense of humor.
It continues with the old-fashioned street signs: At one junction, a wooden crossroad sign points in three directions: ONE STREET. ANOTHER STREET. LANE WITH NO NAME .
There is a small row of shops, including a butcher’s, a bakery, and what looks like a gift shop selling mainly candles, and everything looks perfect. A little too perfect, perhaps, until a large Highland cow walks down the lane and comes to stand in the middle of the green. I’ve never seen one before. Her distinctive horns look almost prehistoric, and her woolly coat is gray, with wavy strands that look silver in this light. Columbo barks, but the cow just stands and stares in our direction, one eye peeking out from her shaggy mane. Watching me. She turns and walks away, her tail swishing, and I cross the road and head toward Christie’s Corner Shop.
“Back so soon?” Cora asks before I’ve even stepped inside. I guess the little bell above the door lets her know when someone comes in, but it’s as though she knew it was me before she saw me. “Don’t mind Daisy, our Highland cow. She’s the island’s unofficial mascot, a real sweetheart and ever so friendly, despite the horns.”
“Good to know,” I say, taking in today’s all-green outfit. “I forgot to get coffee yesterday.”
“If it’s real coffee you’re after, I can help. If it’s those strange pods some people like for their machines, I’ll need to order them from the mainland for you.”
“Real coffee would be just fine.” There was a cafetière in the cabin. Cora points me in the right direction and there is a surprisingly good selection.
“How’s the book coming along?” she asks when I pay.
“You sound like my agent,” I tell her.
The bell tinkles again and the door opens just enough to reveal a middle-aged woman. She is dressed as though there is a blizzard outside, even though it’s pretty mild for the time of year, and is pushing a vintage-looking buggy, which she struggles to get inside the shop. I rush to help.
“No thank you,” she says curtly, with a determined shake of her head. She heaves the buggy backward up the step, then pushes it past me. I suppose some mothers are very protective of their children. But when I look inside the stroller, there’s no baby, just a pug dog wearing baby clothes. It stares back at me and growls.
Cora raises one of her barely there eyebrows. “And don’t worry about our Ada,” she whispers when the woman—and her buggy—have disappeared down an aisle. “She’s a funny one. Comes in every day. Sometimes she steals a chocolate bar and hides it beneath the baby blankets. I pretend not to notice.”
“Does she have a baby?” I whisper back, wondering if I imagined seeing a dressed-up dog.
Cora shakes her head, leans closer, whispers again, “No. She did have a child, but she lost it. Lost the plot too, when it happened. Ada is harmless, just a bit broken is all.”
I know the feeling.
I need to find out what, if anything, Cora knows about my wife. And whether Cora Christie used to be Coraline Thatcher from the newspaper article. Looking at her now it seems like a bit of a stretch.
“Have you always lived on the island?” I ask, and the smile vanishes from her face.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Curiosity doesn’t only kill cats,” she says. “Amberly is the only place I’ve ever thought of as home.”
If Cora is Coraline, if she killed a man who raped her daughter and went to prison for it, then I need to be sensitive about what I ask.
“Maybe I’ll take a newspaper,” I say, picking up a copy of yesterday’s Times . “Have you ever been interviewed by a journalist?”
Cora laughs. “Why would a journalist want to speak to me?”
“I don’t know... something you might have done in your past?”
Cora’s face looks very serious all of a sudden. “Well now, let me see. I did do a terrific job of pricing up all the tinned food that was close to expiration date last week. I’m surprised that there wasn’t a gang of press on my doorstep, desperate to get an exclusive interview and ask me all about it!” She laughs again. I don’t.
“Do you have a daughter?” I ask, and the smile vanishes from her face.
“Are you okay, Grady? You’re looking a little tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
I do mind. Patience comes with an expiration date too.
“I don’t blame you,” she continues. “I’d have trouble sleeping in an old haunted cabin in the woods, perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff, wondering if I’d ever wake up or whether I’d die in my sleep when the place fell into the sea. Which it will, it’s only a matter of time. You do know Charles Whittaker died in that cabin?” Cora hands me my bag of shopping but doesn’t let go when I try to take it. She has a surprisingly strong grip.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say.
“Do you believe in tea?” she asks, still holding the bag. “Bog myrtle tea is wonderful for insomnia.”
“I didn’t say that I had—”
“The tea is made here on the island and it’s very popular with visitors.” She reaches beneath the counter and puts a small floral cardboard box inside my bag. “Try it. On the house. You can’t write a bestseller if you’re dead tired.”