29

  NEIL

  ‘There’s no way for you to get here.’ Neil’s voice was croaky, his hopes diminishing. ‘The last ferry is in an hour.’

  ‘Neil, I can get to the quayside in less than twenty minutes. Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m on my way.’ Kate’s voice was like being immersed in a warm bath.

  ‘But what about Chrissie? Things are already tricky between you. You can’t—’

  ‘You’re my brother. You need my help. That’s all there is to it. Stay where you are. I’m on my way.’

  ‘Hang on!’ He was gasping, finding it hard to get enough air into his lungs. ‘I’m going back out to look for her. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Nobody is going to break in. If you get here and I’m not at the cottage, call me on my mobile.’ He didn’t give Kate any time to reply or to protest, cutting in before she could say anything in return. She had their address, would be able to find them without any problem on Winters End, the tiny, sinister place they now called home. The tiny, menacing island that was slowly turning their lives into a living nightmare. He wasn’t entirely certain about his assurances that nobody would enter their unlocked cottage after tonight. He wasn’t certain about anything any more. Not here on Winters End, where all the usual rules and protocols didn’t apply. ‘And I’ll contact the police again while I’m out.’ He ended the call before Kate could reply. Before she could try to persuade him to change his mind and stay put until she arrived. There was no way he was going to sit and do nothing for the next hour. Time was precious. The day was ebbing away, almost gone completely. Every minute counted.

  Once again, he rang Fiona, his hand trembling as he held his mobile to his ear, unsurprised but also bitterly disappointed to discover her phone was still turned off. His head swam. She wasn’t on the mainland. She was still here somewhere on the island. Thoughts of the sea sprang into his mind. The sea and the cliff path. Everything always came back to the sea and that stupid fucking cliff path.

  Fucking hell!

  He headed back out to his car, torch in hand, and all but threw himself into the seat, his weepiness now replaced by a growing anger at how almost everyone around him had turned their backs, refusing to help him. What was wrong with these people? With this island? How had he not seen it before now? Was he so wrapped up in his own life that, unlike Fiona, he had been blind to how selfish and strange these people were? She had known it from the very beginning and he hadn’t been able to see it. If he was being truthful, it was because he hadn’t wanted to see it. There were signs there but he had ignored them. Blocked them out. He had been lazy and selfish.

  His foot pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine revving wildly while he thought about what to do next. Driving around in the dark would solve nothing. He needed a plan, somewhere to go. Something more concrete than simply scanning nearby bushes and thickets in the hope of finding her. He thought about what the police would do and decided to retrace Fiona’s route to the last place he knew for sure she had visited. Once more he would go and see Honnie. He would comb the entire area, searching every hedgerow, every piece of woodland. He would call out Fiona’s name, and while he was doing that, he would ring the police again, insist they send somebody out to the island tonight. Not in forty-eight hours. Not tomorrow, but tonight. And only after he had done all of that would he allow himself to think about the unthinkable. Only after he had exhausted every other avenue would he turn to look at the sea, the one place that meant his hopes of her survival in that icy cold ferocious place were almost non-existent. If somebody had taken her, if she had fallen and was lying somewhere waiting for help, then there was a chance of getting her back home. A fall into the sea was final, the thought of Fiona thrashing about before sinking beneath the cold, dark waves making him weak with despair and chilling his blood. He dismissed that image, those macabre thoughts, and concentrated on what he was going to do next, the thought of Kate arriving within the next hour or so fortifying him, giving him enough impetus and energy to keep going. Two heads had to be better than one. Kate didn’t know Winters End but then neither did he. Not really. Her fresh eyes, however, might just see things he had missed.

  Pushing his foot to the floor, not caring that the heavy growl of the engine would alarm neighbours in the lane, he set off, aware that he was wasting time, his mind raking over unimportant stuff, things that could wait.

  The journey to Honnie’s house took just a couple of minutes, his breakneck speed halving the time it would usually have taken. He stepped out of his vehicle. First, he would speak again to this woman, then when he was sure she didn’t have anything else to tell him, he would search the whole area. It’s what the police would do. They would re-enact Fiona’s last known movements and her visit to Honnie was exactly that.

  ‘Told you earlier. She left ‘ere. Not seen ‘er since.’ The old woman’s face was scrunched up, deep lines and grooves stretched across her skin, resembling an old, faded newspaper, discarded and damaged by the elements and the passing of time, thought Neil as he watched her from the darkness of the doorstep.

  ‘Did she say where she was going? Any clues at all as to what she was going to do next?’ There was a pleading quality to his tone, a desperation that this old lady was impervious to, her hardened countenance showing no signs of cracking or softening. Could she not see how upset and desperate he was? How much he needed her help? What was wrong with everyone on Winters End? Why were they all so fucking reluctant to get involved?

  Honnie shook her head and attempted to shut the door. Neil moved forward, placing his palm on the door frame, pushing his foot over the threshold.

  ‘Where is she then, Honora?’ He hoped the use of her full name would shock her into action, make her realise how serious this was, that he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. ‘If she left your house hours ago, why hasn’t she arrived back home?’

  ‘She’s your wife, in’t she? You should know the answer to that question, not me.’ A shrug of her shoulders accompanied by a move back into the shadows of her hallway.

  Neil felt a rage rising within him, travelling up his abdomen, combusting into a white-hot furnace that burned at his innards, flickering flames licking at his stomach and throat with such intensity that he had to stop himself from lunging at Honnie and placing his fingers around her windpipe until she begged for him to stop.

  Shame bloomed in his chest. He took a shaky breath, turned his head to the breeze to allow the air to cool his red-hot face. She was an old lady living here alone and none of this was her fault. This was insane. The whole scenario was insane, nothing making any sense.

  ‘Honnie, please! Please help me?’ He was begging and it wasn’t pleasant, sitting uncomfortably with him, but it was better than the hatred and desperation he had felt just a few seconds ago. Those emotions were useless, sapping his energy, hindering his search for Fiona.

  ‘Look, get yerself ‘ome. There’s nowt I can do. Your wife going missing hasn’t got anythin’ to do wi’ me or mine.’

  ‘What about the others?’ The words spilled out of him. He hadn’t meant to ask but the words had been said now and he couldn’t unsay them.

  Her eyes narrowed, a suspicious glint in them. ‘What others? What you on about? I’m busy, stuff to be getting’ on with so if yer don’t mind…’

  It was out of character, what he did next, so far removed from his usual behaviour that he felt sure he had been possessed, his movements directed by somebody other than him. ‘The other women on the island who got injured or died or just went missing. What about them? What happened to them?’ He pushed Honnie against the wall as he rushed forward and stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him and turning the key, slipping it into his pocket in case she got any ideas about trying to escape. He wanted answers. He wanted some assistance, a way out of this godawful mess. She wasn’t hurt. In fact, she looked like the type of woman who could hold her own, not some feeble, incapacitated old lady who was unable to look after herself. A small amount of guilt nudged its way into his brain but he ignored it. This was something he needed to do. It was about time he started being more forceful. His wife was missing, possibly even dead, and as far as he knew, this old woman was the last person to see her. It was her duty as a citizen of this island to start answering some questions, to come to his aid. What sort of person would turf another out on to the street when such a terrible thing was taking place? She was purportedly Fiona’s friend but was acting like a complete stranger.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder, ignoring her initial resistance, and pushed her along, guiding her into the tiny living room before sitting opposite her and staring deep into her eyes.

  ‘What do you think has happened to Fiona, Honnie? Where the fuck is my wife?’

  30

  BEFORE

  She knew after the first one, firing questions at him all evening. Where had he been when it happened? Had he seen anything untoward while he was out? He couldn’t hide anything from her. She just knew. He tried to lie, to tell her he’d been too far out at sea to notice anything taking place and even though he prided himself on being able to keep secrets, he couldn’t hide it from her because no matter how adept he was at being deceitful, she was better. They had both spent a lifetime living dishonestly, showing one face to the outside world and wearing another behind closed doors. They were more alike than either of them cared to admit. And so he had told her, staring down at his hands as he recalled the incident, how the swimmer had got tangled up in his nets and how he had tried to free her. He couldn’t tell her the real story, how the thrill of it had aroused him, made him want more, but it didn’t matter because she didn’t believe him anyway. She knew him better than he knew himself, shouting at him that he was a liar and how he should have died at birth and was never wanted anyway. It didn’t bother him that much. He’d heard it all before. Water off a duck’s back was what it was. She was probably right. He wasn’t like other people, his brain wired up differently from everybody else, but so what? Everyone got their kicks in different ways. Some people on the island killed themselves off slowly with the drink, living a boring existence, spending every day in the pub until their liver became so diseased, they could hardly get out of bed. The only difference between him and them was that he killed other people, not himself.

  She had shut him in the cellar, the one that had been locked up since his dad’s death all those years ago. He should have fought back, told her no, that he was bigger and stronger than she was, but there was something about her, the way she wielded power over him. It made him capitulate, weepy with resentment and worry. He needed her. He’d never be able to live anywhere else although there was that one special place that he still visited when things became too much for him, that wonderful secret place he called his own. Forgotten and neglected by everyone else, it was the epicentre of his world.

  She told him the following morning what she had done, how she had taken his boat out and rammed it into the rocks. Even the most experienced of fishermen struggle in those waters, she had said, everyone knew it. She had had to do it, she had told him, to stop any blame from coming to her door. She was a proud woman and had a reputation to maintain. She wasn’t about to let him ruin what she had worked hard to construct.

  He did it even more after that, not only to satisfy his urges, to inject some sparkle into his life, but also to get back at her, to make her realise she couldn’t control everything about him. They didn’t speak about it. Ever. It was as if none of it had ever happened. He stayed hidden away but knew the island like the back of his hand, was adept at getting about and remaining concealed and unseen. Except for that one time. The one time when he was spotted by an unsuspecting passer-by. Their eyes had met and that was when he knew that it didn’t matter anyway, being seen like that, because his mam wouldn’t have been able to take his boat out on her own and wreck it – she had needed somebody to help her, somebody who would keep her secret and take it with him to his grave. They had both turned their backs that day, scuttling away like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just seen one another, their gazes locking even though he was supposed to be dead.

  Days he waited for the gossip about his appearance to begin. Those days turned into weeks, the weeks turning into months. No whispers. Nothing was said. Everything remained as it was. If Davey Fairhurst had told anybody, then they too had kept it secret. The best-kept secret on Winters End. He knew then that his guesses about Davey helping his mam were true. Nobody would ever get to know about his secret life, his hidden existence. He was a dead man walking. A ghost in their midst. Free to do whatever he pleased, whenever he wanted to do it. And nobody could do anything about it because how do you blame somebody and make them stop when they’re already dead?

  31

  The door was heavy but not impossible to shift. It gave way with a screeching groan and I wondered how nobody had heard or seen anything untoward going on in this place until I peered out and surveyed the nearby area. Much like our new back garden, it was set in a patch of wasteland surrounded by waist-high weeds and yards and yards of gnarled hedgerows. Nothing around, nobody nearby to see us. Nobody close by to hear me scream. I couldn’t believe that on such a small island, this place actually existed. It was dark, but even amidst the gloom I could see that there were no houses around, no flickering lights or people milling about their living rooms, half-hidden by closed blinds or curtains. I had no idea where we were but knew that, much like the cliff path, it was a deserted, lonely area, nobody nearby to help me. Whatever I managed to do in the next few desperate moments, I would have to do it unaided. My thoughts flew back to Myra; how I had left her alone, escaping on my own. I couldn’t help it. Time had been against me, adrenaline flowing, marring my thinking. I was fuelled by fear, acting on impulse, no time to plan things logically and with no emergency services on the island, I wasn’t sure what would now happen, how I would get any help. Whether I would get far enough to reach somebody. I hoped he was still lying on the floor, writhing in agony. I hoped I had kicked him hard enough to make sure he couldn’t get back up for as long as it would take me to reach the nearest house and scream for somebody to do something. But I couldn’t be sure. It would probably take more than a couple of kicks to his testicles to fell a man of his stature.

  I scrambled out, falling onto my hands and knees when I attempted to fight my way through the tangle of bushes and shrubbery that was growing around the perimeter of the doorway, and quickly righted myself. I wanted to glance back, to see if he was there, but there wasn’t any time to hang around. For all the power I put into that kick, and it was powerful, I knew that he would soon be up on his feet, fury driving him on, travelling from his head to his fists at lightning speed. I may have temporarily injured him but he wouldn’t stay on the ground for long. He was an immense, ungainly creature, a mountain of a man with hands the size of large rocks. The thought of him pinning me to the floor, raining blows down on me with his fists, made me weak with terror and dread. I had to get up, to keep moving, not stop until I was absolutely certain that I was safe.

  My feet were leaden as I broke into a sprint, gravity suddenly intensifying, the force of it pulling me downwards. My breathing was erratic, my chest tight when I tried to speed up my movements. It felt nightmarish, like trying to wade through treacle. He would be after me soon. Any second now, I would hear him, the heavy, unmistakable clump of his footsteps causing the ground to shift, his thunderous movements spelling out my demise if I didn’t get to a place of safety. I got lucky last time. I was certain it wouldn’t happen again. I now needed energy and a certain amount of skill to get home in one piece and would have to dig deep into my reserves to find it.