MINOR MIRACLE
MINOR MIRACLE
I have never liked sheep: I find them creepy, and these ones have horns. I call Columbo’s name again but he doesn’t come back. I think I’m dangerously close to the cliff edge and if something has happened to him, if he has disappeared from my life like Abby, I’ll never forgive myself. Everyone I have ever loved leaves me; I can’t lose him too.
Columbo barks. I call him and he runs through the dissipating mist toward me. I’m so relieved to see his face I could cry. The sheep scatter and I grab hold of him, then I take the belt from my jeans to fashion a lead, looping one end through his collar. I hold the other end tight in my hand. The worst thing about this situation is that it is all my own fault. The sign said danger and I carried on anyway. He’s safe now, but my heart is still thudding in my chest and my hands are still shaking. Guilt is such a sticky emotion; you can’t wash the damn thing off.
My mood spirals downward as the path leads us down the mountain. My head full of self-pity and self-loathing. I’ve never learned how to play the game when it comes to real life. I didn’t have anyone to teach me. I was raised by my nana, who loved me, but let me live inside a world that wasn’t real, reading books and dreaming of writing my own. My parents concluded that having a child didn’t suit their lifestyle when I was nine years old. They dumped me on my nana—literally dropped me outside her flat in East London one day with a suitcase and a note. It’s not something I talk about—I do my best not to think about it at all these days—but I don’t know if it is possible to recover from that level of abandonment. It hurt me badly at the time—no child should be made to feel that unloved and unwanted by their own parents—but in hindsight, I’m glad things turned out the way they did. Nana was a librarian and her home always smelled of toast, Oil of Olay, and Marlboro Lights. She was a bookworm who smoked like a chimney. I used to steal cigarettes and books from her handbag and she used to pretend not to notice. I always put the books back. My nana died before I became a published author and it’s one of my biggest regrets. I wish she could have seen my name in print, she would have been so proud. She took care of me when nobody else did and I still miss her every day. I wasn’t an orphan, I just wished that I was.
I don’t think she would be very proud of me now.
If she knew I had taken another writer’s manuscript, stolen their story, and that I was going to pretend it was my own, she would be so disappointed. I thought that what I was doing with the book wasn’t doing anyone any harm—Charles is dead after all—but now I’m not so sure. I just keep making mistakes and unfortunately I’m not the only one who gets hurt when I do. Like today, ignoring the danger sign. But Columbo is okay and that’s all that matters, because I don’t have anyone else in the world left to love.
It feels like a minor miracle when we arrive at the car park, having somehow safely made our way back down the mountain in the mist. We clamber into the Land Rover and I lock the doors without really knowing why. This island just gets stranger and stranger. I want to leave but I can’t, not until my agent tells me the book is good. Not until I know she can sell it and I can find a place to live. I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t. The mist has disappeared just as quickly as it arrived but I still feel unsettled. Unsafe. When my heart rate has slowed and I’ve caught my breath, I start the engine and head back toward the cabin.
The door is wide open when I get there, and there is something on the desk.
Something that wasn’t there before.
It’s another newspaper article, and the red harmonica that went missing weeks ago is sitting on top of it like a paperweight.
18 th March 2021 The Times Page 10
WOMEN HAVE HAD ENOUGH
By Abby Goldman
T he recent demonstrations in London started as a peaceful vigil for a woman raped and murdered while walking home. It isn’t the first time that women have taken to the streets in the hope of being heard, but something does feel different this time.
One group of women were dressed as suffragettes, and carried banners with the words “Same Shit, Different Century.” A sentiment shared by many.
Although it might feel like we have been here before, there is a definite change of tone. Women aren’t just scared anymore, they’re angry.
Since the #MeToo movement there has been a global determination to change things.
The prime minister, along with the minister for domestic violence (who, despite several interview requests, refused to comment), are meeting with heads of women’s charities this week, but a spokesperson said it was too little, too late.
“Women have had enough,” was the headline of a joint statement issued by those charities today. They gave several examples of women who have been let down by a system they say is broken.
One was a victim of domestic abuse who called the police for help when she was badly beaten by her husband. In a recorded call she was told by a senior officer (who has since been suspended as a result of this article) that the police were too busy to deal with “silly rows” between husbands and wives. She called a second time later that night and explained in a calm and coherent voice that she thought her husband was going to kill her. The woman was told all the shelters were full and offered a tent in the middle of winter. Listening to the recording of that call, to a vulnerable woman begging for help and in fear of her life, is even more harrowing when you see photos of what happened next.
That night, her husband beat her unconscious. He broke her arm in two places and she lost several teeth. Her head injuries were so severe, doctors put her in an induced coma and she was in the hospital for six weeks. She has since relocated to the ( continued page 11 )
I read the article twice. I don’t know who the woman Abby wrote about was, but I do know that my wife often campaigned for victims of domestic abuse. As we all should. I don’t understand any man who could hit a woman, but then most acts of violence baffle and appall me. This is the third article that someone has left for me to find inside the cabin. I have a rule about the number three, one that cannot be ignored. Something happened to Abby. She had a habit of upsetting the wrong kind of people. She put herself in danger and I can’t help thinking I might be in danger now too.