Chapter Two
Iris
I wake naked in an unfamiliar room.
The sheets are clean, the décor, tasteful. Neither of those things tempers the panic that rises and threatens to pull me under much like the current that I remember all too vividly tugging me away from the shore.
Fuck! I’d been drowning. I was sure I was going to die. I guess if someone pulled me out, that explains the lack of clothing. You don’t typically put people to bed dripping wet, but if I was found, why am I not in a hospital? Or at home?
I shiver at the thought of that place. A refuge I can rely on no more.
Cautiously, moving as slowly as I can so as not to make the bed creak and alert whoever lives here to my consciousness, I push myself upright against the pillows so I can get a better look at my surroundings.
It’s not a lived-in room. Feels like an upmarket B&B rather than someone’s spare bed. There’s a lack of personal artefacts, and everything is very pristine. Wallpaper, at a guess, is Laura Ashley, and there’s not so much as a scuff mark on the skirtings.
I can see the door from here. There’s a piece of paper taped to the back of it.
Taking the duvet with me, I cross to it and peel it free.
Hey, we saw this on the internet and thought you might appreciate it.
Don’t panic. You’re safe.
That does the precise opposite and spikes my anxiety enough that it becomes an effort to focus. It’s okay being told not to panic, but that doesn’t quell the rising tide of what the fuck do I do now that’s simmering inside me, not helped by my dyslexia making the words see-saw and swirl.
Your clothes were wet, they’re in the washer, but there’s a set of clean things in the drawers. Sorry if they’re a bit big. It’s what we have.
If you need to use the bathroom, it’s along the hall. First on the left. We don’t have a spare toothbrush, but Max says you can have his. It’s the blue one.
If you just want to leave, that’s fine, but the tide might not be in your favour. Based on experience, it’s always out when you want it to be in, and vice versa.
BTW you’re on Liddell Island, if you know where that is.
We found you on the beach.
Okay, Reid found you on the beach. Pedantic bugger.
I read down the page, backtracking after each sentence to read it again, to make sure I’m interpreting it right.
Liddell Island. It makes sense. The privately owned island is right across the bay.
It’s said a reclusive billionaire lives there, but it’s also home to a posh restaurant, and allegedly, a recording studio.
A causeway links it to the mainland at low tide, and at least one of the beaches has public access, which means I can cross without drawing attention to get home again.
Assuming I want to go home again.
I sit heavily on the foot of the bed and gnaw on my broken thumbnail.
It’s not safe to go back there, but I’m without the resources to go anywhere else. If I go there, he’ll be waiting for me.
If you had a purse, you’ve obviously lost it, so there’s some money in the drawer with the clothes. It’s not much. We had a whip round. Who uses cash anymore?
I can almost sense the shrug that accompanies that line.
I wrench open the drawer and find a couple of notes and a handful of change, maybe thirty quid in total.
It might get me to the next town over on the bus, but it won’t get me a bed for the night.
The clothing consists of a T-shirt, a pair of men’s low waist skinny jeans, a pair of navy boxer briefs, and socks for someone with enormous feet.
I pull them and the shorts on as I continue to read.
If you’d like some breakfast, kitchen is downstairs, then do a 180. Help yourself if we’re not about.
If you want to say hello, and we’re not downstairs, we’ll be across the way in the studio. Go outside, and it’s the barn-like structure on the left. Don’t worry about disturbing us.
You won’t be disturbing us.
Please disturb us.
Just not in a disturbing way. You’ve already given us a big enough fright.
Your not at all scary rescuers,
Wynter, Reid, & Max
Wait what? I yelp and drop the paper, only to pick it up and read the last line again with my mouth hanging open.
Wynter, Reid, and Max.
I read it again, and again… and again. It doesn’t seem possible. Someone’s obviously having a joke at my expense. I have not been pulled out of the ocean by the members of my favourite band. That’s ridiculous.
This must be Harrison’s idea of a joke. Sick bastard.
Doesn’t explain where I am, though.
Maybe his mate’s place. What’s he called? Lewis. I think his gran owns a B&B. Never would have thought it was as high end as this mind.
I’m being a fool. There’s a window. All I need to do is look outside.
I scramble over the bed to do just that. Woodland and a steep bank. The property is detached, though. No immediate neighbours. Maybe I am where the letter claims? Maybe I’m not about to find Harrison on the other side of that door and won’t have to endure his sick insinuations and threats.
My stomach rumbles as I pull the rest of the clothing on. It smells freshly laundered, but a faint lingering scent of something masculine clings to the fibres.
I hope my high-tops made it to the washing machine too, and I’m not trapped here barefoot. Socks are no substitute for shoes.
The moment I venture out onto the landing, it’s apparent I am on Liddell Island.
This is clearly a barn conversion, all exposed wooden beams and glass frontage through which I can see down to the pebbled shore, and way, way out across the bay, the town I’ve come from.
I’m standing on a balcony overlooking the main living space, which is currently unoccupied, and the whole place smells of wood and sea air.
There’s a laptop and the remains of someone’s breakfast on the coffee table.
A dogeared notebook, lying open, face down on the rug, as if someone hurled it towards the fire but missed.
I pick it up. It’s full of scribbled poetry and elaborate doodles.
Flicking through it makes my throat turn dry.
I’m not sure if I feel more like Snow White in the seven dwarves’ cottage or Goldilocks about to be scared witless by the three bears.
I find both porridge and apples in the kitchen. The world is fucking with me.
There’s plenty of food, and the washing machine is still partway through the cycle.
If I want to reclaim my clothes, I’m going to need to stick around.
Thankfully, my footwear is in there too.
Might as well at least have a drink. I click the kettle on and search through the nearby cupboard.
It yields the required mug and an array of teas, plus coffee bags. I’d have been content with instant.
“Hey. You’re up.”
I jump. Astonished I’ve been so easily crept up on. Liquid goes everywhere. “Shitting hell!” Somehow, I manage to avoid scalding myself or soaking the borrowed shirt.
I turn to find a hulking brute of a man five inches from me, wielding a tea towel that he attempts to dry me with, while I attempt to back up.
I raise my hands in the universal sign of surrender.