LEAD BALLOON
LEAD BALLOON
I try to leave my past where it belongs and focus on the future. Things are going to be different with this book. Things are going to be great. That’s what I keep telling myself because that’s what I need to believe or I won’t be able to go through with it. I park outside Christie’s Corner Shop then head inside before I can change my mind.
“What’s this then?” Cora asks, as I meander over to the cash register.
“A parcel I’d like to send to London.”
“Right you are,” she says, and I can tell the nosy old bat is desperate to know what it is.
“It’s my new book,” I say to save her asking, and she beams at me. “Do you have a copy of the ferry timetable?” Her face falls, she looks away and shakes her head.
“No.”
“Who does?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure someone else in the village must have one, but I haven’t left the island for years. Sorry, can’t help. But I can get this sent off for you. How about a KitKat to celebrate?” she asks while I search inside my wallet for something to pay with. “I’ve popped it in this paper bag along with a little something else,” she says when I look up. “My treat.”
I feel good when I step back out onto the street. Optimistic. Happy even. It feels strange. Cora said the parcel should leave on the mail boat today, which means that Kitty could, in theory, have the new book on her desk in London as soon as tomorrow. I’m excited and I want to celebrate with someone, and with more than a chocolate bar, but I can’t use my phone to call anyone and, even if I could, I can’t think of anyone I would call. The pub catches my eye. It’s been a long time since I had a decent pint and I could really do with one.
I let Columbo out of the Land Rover and we amble over to The Stumble Inn. My heart starts to sink when I read the sign: OPEN THURSDAY TO SUNDAY . I’ve been working so hard that I still don’t know what day of the week it is. The days tend to bend and blur into one another when I am writing. There is a sign above the door too, stating the landlords’ names. It used to be a legal requirement, but I haven’t seen one for a while, and I’ve never seen one quite like this. It’s a brass plate with black letters:
SIDNEY AND ARABELLA KING
Licensed to serve intoxicating liquor, wine, and beer. With the intention of getting you horribly drunk.
I try the pub door and find myself overwhelmed with joy when it opens.
The pub is rather lovely inside. A traditional old inn with low ceilings, wooden beams, and a surprisingly large selection of beer on tap. There is an eclectic collection of tables as well as wooden booths on one side of the pub. There is also a row of rickety-looking stools in front of the ancient bar. Everything is cozy and low lit, the kind of place you want to spend time with people. Except that, just like on all the other occasions when I have visited the village, there is no one here. Nobody. Not a single person. I’m considering helping myself to a drink when a woman I’m guessing must be Arabella walks out behind the bar. She’s in her thirties, and is wearing a pretty dress and a friendly smile.
“What can I get you?” she asks in a London accent.
“A pint please. Is there something on tap you can recommend?”
She smiles and I see a shiny gold tooth. “I’m rather partial to Dark Island myself.”
“Sounds... perfect.” I notice a big old scar on her arm as she starts to pull me a pint. “Interesting sign outside, and in here too,” I say, nodding toward the chalkboard behind the bar. It says drinks are half price during “sad hour.”
“Thank you. It started as a bit of fun, swapping happy hour for sad hour, but then I thought it made more sense. Not everyone likes to drown their sorrows, some people like to swim in them.”
“Though not today it seems,” I say, looking around the empty pub.
“It’s always like this when the tourist season ends. We open up the island for visitors for a few months each summer, and we make most of our money then. Same with almost all of the businesses on the island—the Highland Cow Candles sell all year long, but most places rely on the tourists once a year to get by. I’m glad of all the money the visitors generate, but I’m even more glad when they all leave! I prefer it when things are quiet.”
“Me too. You don’t happen to have a timetable for the ferry, do you?” I ask and she shakes her head. “Not to worry. Do you do food?”
She puts the pint glass down in front of me and shakes her head again. “Only the variety that comes in packets.”
“Then I’ll have some cheese and onion crisps.”
“Right you are, my love. Is that all for now?” she asks, nodding toward my drink. It’s the color of honey and my mouth waters just looking at it. She clasps her hands together and I notice the silver thistle ring on her finger.
“Your ring. I think I’ve seen a few people on the island wearing the same one—”
“Yes, we’re all part of a cult,” she says, and when I don’t respond she laughs. “Just pulling your leg. It means we’re part of the Isle of Amberly Trust, that’s all. Part of a group who care passionately about this island and will do anything to protect it. The thistle is a symbol of resilience, strength, and protection.”
I think it sounds a bit like a cult but keep my thoughts to myself.
A short while later I am sipping my pint in a cozy corner of the pub, and Columbo has a bowl of water and a dog biscuit. Life is good for the first time in a long time. There are little vases of fresh flowers on each table and they remind me of something. It takes me a moment to figure out what, but they look exactly like the ones that were in the cabin when I first arrived.
“How are you finding island life?” Arabella asks from behind the bar.
“Okay so far,” I lie. “These vases of flowers...”
“Pretty aren’t they? The vases are from Beautiful Ugly.” I frown. “The pottery on the island,” she explains. “The flowers are from Meera at Highland Cow Candles. Meera uses the wildflowers native to Amberly to make her scented candles, which are sold next door. Her slogan is ‘Nature Knows Best,’ and we like to reuse things here. There’s a bit of a make do and mend mentality. Meera used to be a chemist but she was the victim of a violent armed robbery—two bastards in ski masks—and she wanted a quieter life after that. She found one here, making luxury candles. She makes these little bouquets from anything left over. The bog myrtle is good for keeping the midges away and other things. She even blends her own teas! The corner shop sells one of them made from bog myrtle. I like the taste, but it’s a hallucinogenic; it can make you see things that aren’t there.”
Her words shock me but I do my best not to overreact or mention how much of the stuff I’ve been drinking. Maybe that’s why Sandy wouldn’t touch the cup of tea I made her.
“Right, well, I’ll try to remember that. This is a great pub by the way.”
“Thank you, we do our best. The place was in need of some TLC when we took over, but I think all the hard work was worth it.”
“You’re not from here originally?”
“What gave it away?” she asks in her thick London accent. “Sid and I are from London originally, but we’ve been living here for four years now. I haven’t set foot off the island since.”
“You haven’t left Amberly for four years?”
She shakes her head, smiles as though I’ve asked a silly question. “Not once.”
“Not even to visit friends or family, the people you left behind?”
“I left everything I left behind for a reason. Sid is the only person I couldn’t live without. If you stay long enough, you’ll soon discover that everybody on this island has a story. All of them. Some of them might come in handy for one of your books.” So she does know who I am. “This is a place for people who have spent their lives living in the margins, never feeling like they really belonged anywhere. They come here to find that sense of community they’ve been craving, a surrogate family made up from people who were once strangers, a place they can finally call home. Then they never leave.”
“I plan to leave,” I say, taking another sip of my pint.
“Do you not like old Charlie’s writing cabin?” she asks.
“I like it fine. There are things I miss, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” I struggle to think of anything at first. It’s been so long since I lived anything resembling a normal life I’ve forgotten what one looks like. “I miss going to the theater, or an art gallery, or going to the cinema to see a movie. I miss walking around London. People watching. Going out for a nice meal.”
“We serve food here in the evenings and at weekends!” she says. “Charlie used to come here every Sunday for a roast beef dinner and a pint. Creature of habit, that one. Sat there in the corner every weekend with his dog.”
“Charles Whittaker had a dog?”
“Always. The last one, Dickens, was very old but Charlie didn’t go anywhere without him. Sandy used to join them here most Sundays too. I can still picture the three of them now, the dog sleeping under the table...”
“I didn’t know Charles and Sandy were such good friends.”
I wonder why Sandy never mentioned it.
“Oh yes, thick as thieves those two. Charlie didn’t really engage with anyone else on Amberly. Only Sandy. He kept himself to himself, didn’t get involved in community matters, but I think maybe he was just shy. Charlie didn’t behave that way with Sandy. They went walking together, fishing together, drinking together. But they had a big falling-out before he died. The news of his death went down like a lead balloon, everyone was devastated. We didn’t see Charles in his final months, nobody did. He locked himself away in that cabin, stopped coming to the pub, rarely came to the village at all. It was hard on Sandy. I don’t know what they fell out about, but before then Charles—who struck me as a man who didn’t trust anyone—trusted Sandy. So much so, she was his first reader. Read all of Charles’s books before he even let his agent read them, apparently. Including first drafts.”
I put my beer back down on the table. My hands are shaking too much to hold it without spilling.
“Really?” I say, and my voice sounds strange. Strangled.
“Oh yes. Sandy read all of Charlie’s early drafts, she was the only person who did. I think he shared all of his stories with Sandy, even the ones he never published, before they stopped speaking that is. Sandy was heartbroken when Charlie killed himself.”
What?
“Charles Whittaker committed suicide?” The words stammer out of me.
“Yes,” she says. “Sorry, I presumed you knew. I think that’s why the place was empty for so long. He did it in the cabin where you are staying, hung himself from one of the wooden beams in the ceiling, and it was a while before they found him because, like I said, he preferred to keep himself to himself. Sorry, I’m such a blabbermouth. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
My head is spinning. My chest hurts. I feel sick.
“And Sandy read all of Charlie’s first drafts?” I ask.
“Every single one. Are you all right, my love? You’re looking a bit peaky.”
“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I’ve just remembered that I need to be somewhere,” I tell her, standing up so fast I accidentally knock the table.
“What about your pint? You haven’t finished it—”
“Another time. Sorry.”
“Well, we look forward to seeing you again sometime soon,” she says.
I’m out the door and across the road in less than a minute, Columbo trotting beside me as though he thinks this is a game. It’s not. I am sweating and it has nothing to do with how fast I am running. Why did nobody tell me that Charles Whittaker killed himself? Stealing his last novel, which despite the changes I’ve made is exactly what I’ve done, now seems so much worse than before. And if Sandy read the first draft she’ll know what I did, then everyone will know. There won’t be a new book deal, or a new home, or a new anything. Kitty will dump me as a client, my career will be over, and I’ll be finished.
I have to get the manuscript back.
The sign says CLOSED and the door to the corner shop is locked but I knock on it anyway. When nobody answers I knock a little louder until I can see Cora through the glass coming toward me. She opens the door, but only wide enough to stick her head through the gap.
“We’re closed for the rest of the day, out of respect. Did you forget something?” she asks.
“The parcel, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to send it.”
“You’re too late. It was collected just after you left the shop. It’ll be on the mail boat by now.” I feel sick and I’m shaking. “Are you always like this when you send a new book to your agent?” Cora asks, looking mildly concerned.
“Yes,” I say, because it is the truth and I am.
But I’ve never been this worried before. Because, despite all the editing, I know that the book I have just sent to Kitty isn’t really mine.
But what if Sandy didn’t read Charles Whittaker’s first draft of this book?
Then nobody would know what I’ve done and everything might still be okay.
I need to find her.