Page 17

BUSY DOING NOTHING

I stand outside again, straining to hear the harmonica, but I don’t hear anything except the wind in the trees and the sound of the ocean. Eventually, when I am so cold I can hear my teeth chattering, I go back inside. I don’t know whether I imagined everything that just happened, but I lock the doors behind me and drag a chair over to lodge beneath the main handle so nobody can get in. Then I pull all the curtains and blinds so nobody can see in either.

I lie down and close my eyes and somehow I sleep, and when I do I dream of drowning.

When I next wake it is still the middle of the night, and I am still exhausted, but I am too scared and confused—of and about everything—to even try to close my eyes again. There’s something very strange about this place. If I had anywhere else to go I would leave. Maybe I should leave anyway. But what if someone here does know something I don’t about my wife? I’ll never find out if I go now. I see the framed paper napkin on the desk again, the now familiar words scribbled on it in black Biro: The only way out is to write .

Whoever wrote it wasn’t wrong.

I make myself a cup of black coffee and start working on the book. I plan to transcribe the whole thing onto my laptop and then edit it. Make it my own. The basic plot and the characters are great. It’s about a writer trapped on a remote island, and it makes me wonder how happy Charles Whittaker really was living here if he came up with the idea. It’s a story about finally having everything you thought you wanted in life, only to discover that it makes you exhausted, lonely, and sad. I can relate to that. I don’t know how long it will take me to turn the idea into a Grady Green thriller, but I’m sure I can do it in three months. Possibly less time if I work really hard. And then, who knows? Maybe Kitty will find me a new publisher. Perhaps there will be an auction and I’ll get a big advance, pay my debts, find a new home, start again. I am always filled with hope when I start a new project. I think all authors must be, otherwise they wouldn’t spend days, weeks, months, sometimes years of their lives hiding away from the world desperately trying to write the perfect book. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that there is no such thing, but I’ll keep trying, even if it kills me. You can only rearrange the furniture of your life a number of times before things look the same as they did.

I have to concentrate on the book, focus on the writing, do the work.

Nothing else matters and I can’t afford to get distracted.

This might be my last chance.

I’ve managed to copy almost fifty pages by the time dawn arrives. My body feels stiff the way it always does when I sit at a desk for too long. I stretch and notice the wedding ring still on my left hand. It’s never felt right to take it off, even after all this time, but I know that at some point I do need to move on. Or at least try to.

I stand up, roll my aching shoulders, walk over to the sliding doors, and remove the chair that was wedged under the door handle. When I pull back the curtains a truly breathtaking view of the sunrise over the ocean greets me, and I feel grateful and lucky to be here despite all the strange things that have happened since I arrived. I open the doors and step out onto the splintered, faded decking to enjoy the moment fully, staring up at a pink-stained sky. Nobody else will ever see this exact view from this precise place at this time. This incredible sight is unique for me, and it makes life feel worth living again.

I find it increasingly difficult to concentrate when I return to my desk—even without the distractions of the internet and social media—so I go to make myself another coffee. To my dismay, I discover that I am out of pods. I can’t work without caffeine. I struggle to function at all without the right fuel. I should have bought coffee when I was at the shop yesterday; I can’t believe I forgot. The sooner I can rewrite the novel and send it to my agent, the sooner I can get off this island. But I can’t do that without coffee. And maybe a little chat with Cora Christie might help me understand the newspaper clipping that someone wanted me to read.

Once I am washed and dressed and horribly uncaffeinated, Columbo and I head out on what is starting to become a familiar walk. The trees seem to whisper when we wander beneath them and the whole place feels so alive . The stroll through the forest and along the coast feels magical in the daytime, whereas last night I couldn’t wait to get inside the cabin and lock the doors. We amble along the twisting main road, slowly heading down into the valley. Rugged hills the color of rust rise up out of dark blue rivers, and there are grass fields speckled with sheep in the distance. The island—and the people who live here—might be a little strange, but nobody could fail to notice how beautiful it all is.

I can hear the sound of a bell ringing in the distance as we approach the village, but as soon as we turn in to the lane opposite the church, the sound abruptly stops. I see that the doors are wide open and my curiosity gets the better of me. I’m not religious but I have always liked visiting old churches. I find them calming. Saint Lucy’s has a wooden lych-gate outside the entrance, which draws me closer. I love these old sheltered gates, a place to take refuge, and designed to mark the division between holy and unholy land. I look up as I walk beneath it and see an inscription carved into the wood: MORS JANUA VITAE . Latin, I presume. The church itself is small. It looks old and charming with plenty of character. There are stained glass windows in the gray stone walls, and there is a wooden shingled spire. As I approach the open doors I think I can hear voices inside, but I must have been mistaken because when I step into the church nobody is there.

I see that the floor is made from ancient-looking tombstones, the engraved names on them almost completely worn away from years of being walked on. There are two neat little rows of old wooden pews, a small stone altar, and the place has that unmistakable church aroma. I can smell candles too, and I spot a small display of them just inside the entrance. There are five lines of five short, thin white candles and I see they are all lit. All except for one. Twenty-five candles for the twenty-five residents on the island perhaps? I spot a poster saying CHURCH ROOF REPAIR FUND next to a little wooden donations box and I have an idea. It might not be a bad one. It is time I moved on—or at least tried to—so before I can overthink it and change my mind, I remove my wedding ring and post it through the slot.

The church doors slam closed as though a gust of wind has blown them shut, which is strange because today’s weather is calm and still. The candles flicker, all twenty-four of them, and I spot movement in the corner of my eye. I spin around just in time to see someone leave the church through a small door at the back. Someone wearing a red coat.

“Can I help you?” says a female voice behind me.

I have never known how to behave around beautiful women. I tend to get tongue-tied and find it hard to look directly at them without squinting, like when staring at the sun. If I had to guess I’d say the woman was in her early fifties, a few years older than me. Her long, natural-looking blond hair forms perfect waves framing her pretty face, she has porcelain skin and big brown eyes. She’s almost too good-looking. So attractive that it could be considered rude. An aging supermodel dressed as a priest.

“I’m Grady,” I say, then realize she didn’t ask my name.

“Good to finally meet you, Grady,” she replies. Her words sound like a cat purring and she smiles at me, revealing perfect white teeth. “I’m Reverend Melody Bates. You can call me Melody. I’ve heard a lot about you, welcome to Saint Lucy’s—”

“Thank you,” I say, staring over her shoulder. “Sorry, but was there someone else here a moment ago?”

She follows my gaze to the door then shakes her head. “No. We’re quite alone.”

“You’re sure?”

The reverend raises a perfect eyebrow.

“I can swear on a Bible if you’d like?” she says, then picks up a copy. She places her hand on top and says, “Fuck.” Then she smiles. “I swore on a Bible, get it? And there’s no need to look so shocked. Swearing isn’t a sin.” I smile too—can’t help it—but I also can’t let it go. I take out my phone and scroll until I find a picture of Abby.

“Sorry, I believe you—of course—but have you ever seen this woman?”

She stares at the screen then shakes her head. “Who is she?”

My heavy heart sinks.

“Just someone I used to know. I thought I saw her on the island but I must have been mistaken.”

She nods in understanding and smiles kindly. “People come here for all sorts of reasons. Saint Lucy is the patron saint of writers and the island has always been a haven for creative souls. This old church has been visited by a lot of struggling artists over the years, seeking inspiration, comfort, a sense of direction and purpose perhaps. After all, creativity is a gift which can’t be given back. I like to think our Saint Lucy has helped to get writers who were lost back on the right path. Which was good for them. Good for us.”

It feels as though she is talking to me about me.

“I get the impression you know who I am,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I only know what you are, not who you are. News travels fast in a place where there’s rarely any news.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the new author, aren’t you?”

“It’s starting to feel as though everyone is talking about me.”

“They are, but don’t let it go to your head, you’ll be old news soon enough. This island, and the people who live here, have seen it all over the years. Take this old church, it’s beautiful, but it was built on the wrong side of history. They used to burn witches here,” she whispers, even though there is nobody around to overhear. “When the island decided they wanted to make a woman disappear, they called her a witch and with a puff of smoke—and a bonfire—she was gone. A murderous magic trick. First they got rid of all the birds, then they tried to get rid of the women.” I think I pull a face because she raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you want the Disney version?” She smiles again then, and I do too, as though it is contagious. “Are you religious?” she asks.

“God, no,” I say before realizing my mistake. “Sorry, Reverend.”

“Please call me Melody,” she says, touching my arm. “And there’s no need to apologize. It’s a very close but mixed community here on the island, and this is the only place of worship. People of all faiths—and those who haven’t found faith yet—are welcome at Saint Lucy’s. Everyone is welcome here. Even four-legged visitors,” she says, looking down at Columbo. As soon as she gives him attention, he wags his tail and looks up at her adoringly. I realize that I am doing the same. I can’t remember whether female priests are allowed to have relationships and I feel guilty just for wondering. I glance over at the donations box and my finger suddenly feels naked without my wedding ring.

“I heard the church bells a little earlier,” I blurt out, oddly desperate to keep the conversation going. “It was a strange sound. A single bell, ringing very slowly, but repeatedly and echoing all around the valley.”

Melody’s smile vanishes and her body language changes. “The tolling of the death bell. It rings once for every year a person lived.”

“Did someone die?”

She shrugs. “We’re all dying from the day we are born. It was just a rehearsal, nothing for you to worry about. But if you want to be helpful, the best thing you could do is leave.”

The stale air feels a little colder than it did a moment ago.

“Sorry?”

“The church,” she says, smiling. “So that I can lock up,” she adds, producing a giant set of keys.

“Right, of course,” I reply, already heading out of the door. “What does the inscription mean? The one above the gate?” I ask, seeing it again.

“Mors janua vitae? It’s Latin for ‘death is the gate of life.’ If you like that sort of thing you might want to visit the cemetery too before you go, it’s always very popular with visitors. Good to meet you, Grady. You take care now.”

The beautiful priest remembered my name.

She closes the large wooden door in my face before I can reply. Then I hear the jingle of keys and the unmistakable sound of heavy bolts sliding into place. Locking church doors seems like a strange thing to do on a tiny island that has no crime.

I do what I always do after meeting someone I like. I replay the conversation in my head, reliving all the moments I wish I could change, hoping I wasn’t quite as awkward as I fear I might have been, and thinking of all the things I should and could have said better. I start to walk away from the church but then hear what is becoming a familiar sound on the other side of the locked door—the crackle of a walkie-talkie.