If the seals are there on the point, lazing in the sun, it makes me remember the last time Faith and I came to the island. I miss her, even her annoying habit of collecting disgusting bits of bone and dead things, the way she used to hang around in my room, touching stuff, fiddling with my jewellery. I think about her hair, its ridiculous texture, soft and floppy against her scalp; I ache for the feel of it under my fingers, for the sight of her skinny limbs, knobbled at the knee and elbow, and her skin that mottles blue in cold weather like the veins in Dad’s cheese.

  I dressed Faith up as a goth once. We spent a Saturday afternoon transforming her with dark lipstick and black eyeliner. She sat on the edge of my bed with her hands clasped in her lap, tipping her head back and closing her eyes obediently. I backcombed her hair until it stood up in a white halo, the texture sticky with hairspray and thick as candyfloss. She laughed at herself in the mirror, tipping her head from side to side to see the tower of hair wobble. But dressed in one of my long black skirts with necklaces piled on, she really looked the part. I was startled. ‘You’re so lucky. Your skin and hair are perfect,’ I told her. ‘You look like a vampire. A beautiful one,’ I added quickly, feeling a quick twist of envy. I would never look like that.

  The island has a spirit. I felt it when Faith and I came over for our brief visits; but now I know it’s true. The sound of wind in the gorse bushes and the movement of waves on the shore are like a creature shifting and breathing beneath me. The concrete huts and the pagodas are a malignant growth on its back. The hard surfaces and sharp corners, decaying remnants of atomic experiments, are things to be endured until time destroys them. The island is waiting. Eventually the buildings will crumble and fall, turning to dust. Grass and weeds will push up through the concrete road, breaking it into slabs, bindweed crawling along barbed wire, choking the rusting rolls. It’s already happening.

  There is a sense of being watched. Not just by Billy. He’s right: something is watching us both. I feel it as a darkness lingering just out of sight, in the shadows of empty buildings, behind broken glass.

  We keep away from the side of the island that faces the mainland. There are too many yachts coming out of the mouth of the river, and a chance that someone on board will see us. On the other side of the island there is nothing to see but a fathomless distance of light and air and water. When ocean liners creep along the horizon they could be space ships coming from a foreign planet. Occasionally a boat will appear offshore when we’re on the beach, and Billy pulls me down flat on the stones, lying over me, crushing me, until they’ve gone. More fishermen came at night. Billy heard them before I did. He tied me up, stuffed a gag in my mouth so that I struggled for air. He padlocked the door, crouching by it with his knife in his hand, muttering that if he had a rifle he’d soon get rid of them. He seems anxious. I catch him looking at me with a strange expression and my heart jumps.

  The days are hot and long. But the summer won’t last for ever. I am afraid of the autumn. I don’t know how we’ll survive when it gets cold. There will be less food for scavenging too. We’ll starve to death. I have to get away. I have to go home.

  ‘Billy, can I have some water?’ I ask quietly. ‘I mean clean water, to wash in?’

  We are sitting by the fire on the beach after another meal of cod. My fingers stink of fish all the time. Fragments of fish skin are caught deep under my nails, embedded in dirt.

  It is dark. The sea draws slow breaths, raking pebbles across the shoreline. The moon glows mustard, low in the sky. Hunched over, Billy doesn’t respond. I stare into bright embers. My tongue pokes at the bits of food trapped between my teeth. ‘Please,’ I let myself beg, ‘I’m so dirty. I can’t bear it. My skin has sores. They’re not healing.’ I know I’m pushing him; but I feel desperate enough to risk making him angry. The fire spits. Sparks flare and die. I catch a glimpse of movement above my head and look up to see a shooting star, its disintegrating tail of silver light.

  He scratches his head vigorously, nails making scraping sounds. I wonder if he has head lice.

  ‘Fresh water’s too valuable to waste on washing,’ he tells me gruffly.

  ‘I can’t go on like this,’ my voice breaks. ‘I need a proper wash. I’ll get ill if I don’t. I won’t drink so much.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Please.’

  He sighs. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I’ll think about it. Maybe tomorrow.’

  He puts me in the pit the next morning. When he comes back he’s filled the big plastic water containers and acquired a thin bar of yellow soap.

  ‘You can have one bucket of water,’ he says, ‘and that’s it. No more.’

  He sets me up behind the gorse bushes. I have the bucket, soap in my hand and a scratchy towel. The anticipation of feeling the slip of fresh water makes me grin, my lips cracking as they stretch. Billy is sitting on the pebbles about ten feet off, his back to me. He’ll be listening out for sounds on the shingle. I can’t move without alerting him. The stones give me away.

  I kneel and scoop water into my hands, a clear cold puddle leaking between my fingers. Leaning over the bucket, I splash my face, gasping, rubbing all over and then lather up, bubbles blooming. I taste the sourness of soap, getting the sting of it in my eyes. It feels good.

  I glance at Billy to check that he’s still got his back to me and peel off my shirt and bra. I soap and rinse around my neck, under my arms. Trickles of water run down my skin, itching me. I can see the paler tracks they make through the grime.

  My nipples harden under my hands. I remember how Marco’s fingers brushed against my breasts, his intake of breath as he felt the form of them. One night, after coming out of the club, on our way to Lucy’s house, our ears ringing from the thunder of bass, he paused to kiss me outside the Odeon. His tongue began to push harder, deeper. My heart contracted like a fist, warmth swelling between my legs so that I tilted my pelvis, pushing my groin into him. Our mouths were wet and wide, opened into each other. But Marco broke away with an exclamation.

  Robert smirked from the shadows. There had been a grinning pack of boys outside the kebab shop. They called out, whistling and shouting obscenities. Marco’s mouth tightened. He walked away fast and I had to run to keep up.

  ‘Twats,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t wait to get away from this bloody place.’

  I was silent, scurrying after him, hurt that he wanted to leave me and ashamed that I knew them. I had to stop myself clinging to his hand.

  A week later I heard a moped behind me. Robert pulled over, his flaming face leering out of his visor. ‘What you going out with a poof for?’

  I glared at him, silent.

  ‘He is though, in’t he? Wears make-up like a girl.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ I retorted. ‘He’s a musician. An artist. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘They’re all words for pansy. Bet he hasn’t fucked you, has he?’

  I walked on, my face a mask.

  I heard him laugh. ‘You need a real man,’ he called. ‘And you know where you can find me.’

  ‘In your dreams!’ I shouted after him, gripping my hands into fists. I wanted to smash his slimy face in. His moped revved with a scream, moving away quickly down the road towards the village green. Light bounced off his helmet. If I could have thrown straight, I would have hurled a stone at it.

  I remember the longing for a weapon to throw; wanting to hear the impact it would have made, to see Robert’s body hitting the tarmac, the wheels of his moped spinning uselessly as the machine slid across the road in the dust.

  Trembling, I strip off the rest of my clothes and wash harder, pushing the soap between my legs, scrubbing. I leave red marks, my skin stinging. I have to get clean. There are only a few inches of scummy water left in the bottom of the bucket. I hold it over my head and tip, letting the remains of the water wash over me, dripping around my face and through my hair.

  Wrapped in the threadbare towel, I look up. Billy is watching me, mouth drooping inside his beard. He seems as shocked as me. I don’t know how long he’s been there. We make eye contact for a moment and his face closes, becomes furtive. He drops his gaze.

  I am furious and afraid. ‘You said you wouldn’t look.’

  He reddens under his hair, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  I stand, wet and shivering in the wind. An unspoken promise dangles between us, broken. I feel vulnerable and tired. I can’t face putting my dirty clothes on. Slowly, I reach for my trousers, balancing on one foot, tugging them on. Billy has turned his back again. His shoulders are hunched.

  ‘Tell me when you’re dressed,’ he says in a subdued voice. ‘I’ve been thinking. You can have a wash every week. It’s only fair.’

  The triumph of this falls flat. I close my eyes; I can’t let myself imagine the weeks stretching ahead, the fumbling washes in a bucket, eking out the soap. I swallow and force myself to acknowledge him.

  ‘Thanks.’ I hear the sound of myself, thin and empty.

  14

  Sandra’s gold earrings clash with her lemon-yellow fringe. From the back seat of the car I see into the rough, thick texture of her hair, dark roots pushing up underneath. We’re driving into Ipswich in their green estate car with the radio blaring, Joe and I sliding about on the wide back seat, concertinaing into each other at every corner. Sandra’s bony fingers tap out a beat on the steering wheel. Fred has to hold the aerial out of the window to get any reception. Sometimes the music squawks into static crackles and a fuzzy noise crashes against our ears and then Sandra yells, ‘Hold it higher, Fred.’

  Mum wanted to meet Sandra before she let me go with them. I was worried about what she’d say when she saw the untidy caravan. But she accepted a cup of tea and stood with Carol in her arms, cooing. Penny was there, playing with dolls on the floor. At five years old, she was too young to come with us. Her hair was pulled into tight pigtails. I looked at the stretch of scalp at her parting, wondering if it was painful. I fidgeted, twiddling the buttons on my cardigan, shuffling my feet in and out of my slingback sandals. I was afraid that Mum wouldn’t like Sandra, would stop me from going to see the film. I was certain that she would disapprove of Sandra’s lime-green ripped sweatshirt and black mini-skirt. I began to breathe when they laughed together. Sandra threw back her head, opening her mouth wide, showing fillings and a glint of gold at the back. Mum said how kind it was to take me with them. She pressed some coins into Sandra’s hand. ‘For the ticket,’ she said. ‘And ice-creams for everyone.’

  We sit in the front row. When the interval comes on, the ice-cream lady stands in the aisle with her tray round her neck, and Fred and I queue for tubs of strawberry and chocolate, Mum’s money in my fist. I imagine Granny tut-tutting, telling me it’s immoral to be in a dark cinema while the sun blazes outside. The film makes me think about what it is to be brave, to keep going on a quest, never giving up.

  Walking into the afternoon, the sunlight is like a slap. There are cars on the road, engines purring, and the sound of a siren in the distance. Shoppers pass us with bags dangling from their hands. The world seems too big and noisy. Thinking of Indiana eating chilled monkey brains brings a funny, watery taste into my mouth, especially after chocolate ice-cream. The mad priests and their human sacrifices make me afraid for Eva, of what might be happening to her. Fred and Joe run along the dusty pavement, leaping onto low walls and pretending to lasso each other. An old man with a lumpy face like porridge shakes his walking stick at them.

  I have a brilliant idea. The boys can help me move the boat into the water. I bounce on my toes, eager to ask them. Sandra shouts at Fred and Joe to shut up and come and walk properly, but I can tell that she doesn’t really mean it. The boys ignore her. ‘Boys,’ she twitches with a spasm of laughter, ‘rascals aren’t they? You should come to tea soon.’ She stretches her sinewy arm towards me. ‘Come in the next couple of days. We’re off home soon. Shame, but Les has got to get back to work.’

  Her fingers are papery on my skin, long nails red as a letterbox. My heart beats faster. Fred hadn’t said anything about leaving.

  As I wave goodbye to Sandra and the boys, watching their car driving away, I think of a letterbox: the place for posting messages. I wish I knew how to get a message to my sister, to tell her that I am coming. Black smoke spurts from the hanging exhaust pipe as the car disappears around the bend.

  Inside the hall, I know that something is wrong. The air is tight and sharp. And then I hear their voices. Mum and Dad, arguing again.

  ‘You’re wrong… we need to think of Faith, what she needs.’ Dad’s voice comes from the kitchen. ‘She doesn’t want to grow up in a place where everyone knows that her sister drowned. People gossiping. She needs a fresh start. And she can’t swim, Clara. Think about it.’

  ‘Stop trying to make this about her.’ Mum’s voice is high-pitched. ‘This is about you. You want to move because you can’t stand seeing the sea anymore. It makes you feel guilty…’

  ‘God damn it, Clara, what do you think… that I don’t know that?’ Dad’s voice has dropped to a low growl. ‘You’re never going to forgive me, are you?’ Almost a whisper.

  Silence. I move towards the stairs as quietly as I can. My hand on the banister. Dad wants us to move out of Holt House? This is our home. We can’t ever move. We can’t leave Eva behind.

  One foot moves after another, trying to avoid the creaking joists. In my head ‘Over the Rainbow’ is turned up to full volume, filling the spaces between my ears with Judy Garland’s voice. I imagine Granny joining in. We’re all singing it now–the three of us, linking arms, skipping along a path lit up in rainbow shades. Judy Garland is smiling, gazing at me with spaniel eyes: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high. But I can’t stop myself from hearing the sounds that come from downstairs, words forcing themselves through the song.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mum says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop being angry. I really am. But, Max, we can’t sell the house. I just feel odd about it. As if we’re… deserting her or something. It’s only been months. What if they find her body?’

  ‘That’s not going to happen now.’

  ‘And what could we tell Faith? She really thinks her sister is going to come home. I don’t blame her. Sometimes the only way I can manage is to let myself believe that too… I let myself think that she’s away somewhere… that she’ll walk through the front door again, run up to her bedroom like she always did, shouting for the dog, putting some God-awful row on the radio…’

  There is a sob then. A muffled exclamation and the sounds that two bodies make when they come together, a slide of fabric, the whoosh of air as it escapes, compressed between skin and skin. I hold my breath, imagining the hug. Then a door slams and I hear Dad swearing, his feet on the kitchen floor. Mum must have left him there alone.

  My rainbow path has dissolved beneath my feet. Judy Garland and Granny slip away, their fingers trailing through mine. I reach the top of the stairs, shoulders tensed. Eva is dead to them. I don’t understand how they can let her go so easily. Dad could borrow a boat to sail across to the island. She’s there now. She needs us. As I turn onto the landing I almost collide with Sophie standing in the shadows.

  15

  London, 1963

  Clara rang from a pay phone on the landing of a terraced house somewhere in Birmingham. ‘Jim has just sacked me.’ She sounded almost jubilant. ‘I don’t blame him one bit. The run’s over. They can advertise for someone else.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Come home,’ he said, impulsively, without a plan in his head, just the longing to see her again. They’d written to each other several times a week. He’d travelled miles to see her perform at weekends, taken her out during the day, walking unknown streets, sitting in Birmingham’s coffee houses and restaurants, sheltering from the cold.

  A hesitation. The crackle of static on the line and he caught the blurred sound of a stranger’s voice in the distance. ‘But Max, the thing is… I don’t know where that is,’ Clara answered quietly.

  Her money was running out. The beeps started up: loud, insistent. ‘With me, of course,’ he shouted before the line went dead. ‘Come and stay with me… stay as long as you like.’

  He met her from the train. She only had two suitcases. ‘Is this crazy?’ she asked. ‘Are we completely mad?’ She was standing under the station clock with a painting of an exotic garden clutched under her arm. A rather mediocre watercolour, he thought, catching a glimpse of patchy colours and the uncertain outlines of trees, a blob of yellow to indicate a desert sun. But she explained that it was a picture of her childhood garden in Egypt, painted by her mother, and when they got home he hung it over the mantelpiece in the living room, taking down the framed reproduction Edward Hopper.

  One of the suitcases seemed to be filled with books. In the days that followed, she collected more books, bringing them back from second-hand shops and libraries, so that they sat in piles on the floor next to the bed and the sofa. She put her things in the spare room, but from the first night she’d been sleeping in his bed. ‘You’ve lured me into this,’ she said, ‘and now here we are, living in sin.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  She buried her face in his chest. ‘I’m happy. The happiest I’ve ever been.’

  She talked about re-training to be a secretary and went through the telephone directory underlining numbers. ‘I want to pay my way,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay rent–contribute to the mortgage.’ She’d inherited some money when she was twenty-one, she explained, but said she didn’t want to fritter it away on daily living. ‘It’s the last thing I have of my parents’. I want to buy something real with it.’