GUILTY PLEASURE
GUILTY PLEASURE
C olumbo is overjoyed to see me when I climb back into the Land Rover. I feel drunk with tiredness but I’m grateful for the affection. A thick mist has now settled over the island, and I close all the windows to stop any more of it getting inside. My hands are trembling and I don’t know whether it’s a result of extreme exhaustion or because of something else.
I haven’t eaten at all today except for the crisps I had at the pub, and I suspect my blood sugar must be low. I’m not sure I should be driving given the state I am in, and although I don’t care much about myself in this moment I do care about my dog. I remember the KitKat in the paper bag that Cora gave me in the corner shop—chocolate has always been one of my guilty pleasures—and despite having no appetite now, one bite might help boost my energy level. Enough to get us safely back to the cabin at least. I open the bag and see something unexpected inside. I remember Cora saying it now, though it didn’t make sense at the time. I’ve popped it in the bag along with a little something else . If she had mentioned it was a letter from the mainland I would have read it straightaway. I recognize Kitty’s handwriting and tear open the envelope. According to the postmark it was sent a week ago.
Dear Grady,
I’m sorry not to be telling you this in person, I’ve tried calling but your phone just goes to voicemail. I hired a private investigator when Abby disappeared. I never told you about it then because there was nothing to tell. But now they’ve uncovered something rather unpleasant. I think it best not to go into detail in a letter, but I fear not everyone on the island is who they say they are. Please call me as soon as you can.
Kitty
xx
I can’t call her. I can’t call anyone.
The uncomfortable feeling I’ve had since I arrived on Amberly now feels a bit too real. Why couldn’t she share whatever the private investigator discovered? Am I in danger? From who? I already wanted to leave but now I have to find a way to get off this island to speak to Kitty and find out what she knows.
The engine rumbles to life and I try to turn on the car radio. After listening to Sandy’s story, even I think I can hear children crying on the wind now. I’m desperate to drown out the sound, but the radio signal is patchy. I suppose it is to be expected given where I am and the strange weather conditions. I pull away with the radio barely working, preferring to listen to the crackle of poor reception than the sound of ghosts.
I drive very slowly along the cliff road even though I’ve never been in more of a hurry. Thick fog is everywhere I look and visibility is almost zero. It probably isn’t safe to drive but I have to get out of here for so many reasons. I just want to get back to the cabin, pack up my things, and find a way to leave. If the ferry isn’t an option there must still be a way off the island. I’m sure I’ve seen a rowboat attached to a wooden jetty on one of the southern beaches. Perhaps I could borrow it. We’re only ten miles from the mainland, maybe I could row that far. I’ll drive around the entire coastline if I have to until I find a way to get out of here, that’s what I’ll do.
I’m so tired and my thoughts are too loud and the radio keeps going berserk. Occasionally I hear old-fashioned music I don’t recognize, but most of the time all I can hear is static or interference, despite constantly twisting the dial. When I hear what sounds like children whispering I get goose bumps and reach down to turn the damn thing off.
That’s when it happens.
There is a loud bang and a blur of color in front of the windshield.
I hit the brakes and instinctively put my left arm out to protect the dog as the Land Rover screeches to a halt.
I took my eyes away from the road for only a second, but I think I’ve hit something.
Or someone.
I don’t move. I peer out through the windscreen into the fog, but I can’t see anything. I’m already spooked by Kitty’s letter and everything that happened in the cave, and I try to tell myself that I imagined whatever my brain thinks I just saw. But then a patch of mist right ahead clears enough for me to see it. The shape of a person lying in the road. A woman.
I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu, which makes no sense because I didn’t see someone lying in the road the night my wife went missing. She did.
Instinct tells me not to get out of the car. Guilt makes me do it anyway.
I should call someone, get help, but I can’t without a phone.
It looks like the woman was riding an old-fashioned bike. I can see it, twisted on its side a short distance from her. Why would anyone ride a bike on a cliff road that has no crash barriers in thick fog? It’s such a dangerous thing to do. I can understand if she didn’t see me, but surely she must have heard me. The ancient Land Rover is so loud it sounds like a tank. I still haven’t moved and neither has she, whoever she is.
The person lying there has their back to me.
I take a step toward her.
I can’t see her face, but I can see she is wearing a red coat.
The coat makes me think of Abby again. A year feels like a lifetime when you lose someone you love, but now, in this moment, it feels like it could have been yesterday. I know it isn’t her. I’ve thought that I’ve seen her so many times now that I’ve learned not to trust my own eyes. I gave up hoping she would come back to me a long time ago. But there is no denying that the red coat this woman is wearing looks a lot like the one Abby was wearing that night. I remind myself that it was from a high street shop; there must be hundreds just like it, maybe thousands. Besides, the police found Abby’s coat soon after she disappeared.
The woman in the road remains perfectly still.
“Hello?” I call.
There’s no reply. No movement. Nothing.
I take another small step closer, afraid of something I still can’t see.
“Are you hurt?” I ask when I am only a few steps away, but she still doesn’t move.
The mist starts to clear and then, just as fast as it arrived, it is almost completely gone.
When I see her face I start to tremble. I can’t move, can’t speak, it feels like I can’t breathe, because this time there is no denying it.
I’m not seeing things.
I’m not imagining it.
The woman lying in the road is my missing wife.