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ILL HEALTH

I climb into the Land Rover next to Columbo and lock the doors. My hands are trembling and I can’t make them stop. I wonder if anyone knows I was with Sandy before she died? How could they? There was nobody else out by the cave; it’s on the other side of the island. The relief that now nobody will know that I stole Charles Whittaker’s book is far outweighed by the guilt, which is so heavy it is almost unbearable. Cora said she didn’t know how Sandy died, but I’m guessing she must have drowned. I could have prevented it. No one must ever know I was there.

I don’t understand how I didn’t hear about Sandy when I have a walkie-talkie now. I pick up the one I borrowed from the woman I thought was my wife and stare at it. I’m useless with anything remotely technical, always have been, so I tentatively twist a dial, hoping not to break the damn thing. To my surprise, it crackles to life and I hear voices straight away.

“He looked surprised when I told him about Sandy,” says one I recognize immediately. “All of the color completely drained from his face,” Cora adds.

“So are we sure he isn’t listening in since we changed the frequency?” asks a female voice I don’t recognize.

“Certain. We can say what we like again,” says Travers, the beautiful woman from The Croft. “I don’t think he’s a well man.”

“I thought that as soon as I read his books,” says someone else. “They were very disturbing.”

“Someone needs to do something about him soon. It’s not just a case of ill health anymore, I think he’s losing it,” Cora adds.

They’re talking about me .

The voices continue their conversation and once again I think I might be losing my mind. They clearly think I am too.

“Does he know?”

“No. He hasn’t got a clue.”

“Where is he now?” asks another female voice, this time a London accent. I think it’s the pub landlady.

“He’s sitting in his car parked outside the shop staring at The Stumble Inn,” Cora replies.

I am staring at the pub. There are no other cars. They really are talking about me.

That’s it. I’m driving to the ferry, maybe I can figure out how to sail it myself. I start the Land Rover and it splutters to life, but after a few seconds it stutters and stops.

No, no, no.

There is a red warning light on the dashboard suggesting I am out of fuel.

I don’t understand it. I could have sworn the tank was still over half full on the way here. I rest my head on the steering wheel and swear under my breath. I don’t remember seeing a petrol station anywhere on the island, but there must be one. I climb out of the car, then see Cora Christie standing outside her shop and looking in my direction. Her head is tilted to one side and she’s holding a walkie-talkie in her bony little hand.

“Car trouble?” she asks.

“I seem to have run out of petrol.”

“Oh dear.”

“I don’t suppose there is somewhere nearby where I can get some?”

She shakes her head. “There are no petrol stations on Amberly. Living on an island like this isn’t like living anywhere else; you have to plan ahead. Be prepared. You have to do what is best for the community. It’s the only way to survive.”

The strangest thing about her odd little speech, the thing that unsettles me the most, is that she is smiling the whole time. As though she already knew I had run out of petrol and is extremely happy about it.