Page 6

PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE

I wander through the woods and start to question what I am doing here. Perhaps my decision to pack up, leave London, and drive to a remote Scottish island I’ve never heard of was a little hasty. There is nothing resembling an actual path through the trees, but I follow the compass and try not to trip over the bumpy network of exposed roots covered in moss. The forest feels magical. If I wasn’t so tired, and if my hands weren’t full of bags, I’d stop to take it all in. Try to capture this moment. The start of my new life, the one I am determined to live.

Dappled light occasionally illuminates places to pass between the trunks and branches, and when I look up I can see glimmers of blue sky. Spiders’ webs decorated with tiny raindrops sparkle in the redwoods, which are even more impressive and intimidating up close, their sheer size reminding me of how small I am. Columbo, who normally runs ahead, comes to stand by my side. I stop too, worrying that we might be lost. The woodland scene looks the same in every direction, and the trees are all starting to look identical.

But then I see it. An old log cabin in the woods.

There is an expensive-looking slate sign protruding from the muddy earth. When I read the words THE EDGE , I feel an overwhelming sense of relief to have found what I was looking for. I don’t know a huge amount about the author who used to live here. I’m not sure anyone does. Charles Whittaker rarely gave interviews or attended events. He didn’t have any social media accounts—other than those run by his publishers—and was once quoted as saying that authors should be “read and not heard.” By all accounts, he was a man who liked to be left alone. Kitty said he was always like that, even at the start of his career before he was a big deal. She said he wasn’t rude, just private. I’m not so sure. He refused to attend book festivals, never accepted an award in person, and once failed to turn up for his own book launch. The man took the writing recluse stereotype to the extreme.

The cabin looks old and rustic, but it has a certain charm about it. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. A door separates two windows, making the front of the cabin look like a face. The roof is covered in turf and moss with a scattering of wildflowers growing on top, and it has a black chimney sticking out of it. I also notice a neat stack of chopped firewood by the front door accompanied by a rusty axe. There is an old timber shed in the distance—almost as big as the cabin—and I wonder what can be inside, but first I want to check out The Edge. It’s a strange name for somewhere in the middle of a forest.

The wind has completely died down but the tall trees continue to sway and creak and groan. I hear something else too. It sounds like the sea but it can’t be; I’m surrounded by trees in every direction, their branches stretching high above and all around me. I follow the unexpected sound of crashing waves to the rear of the cabin and see that it is perched on a cliff. Almost on the edge. The name suddenly starts to make sense. There is a small decked area with a wooden bench, and the ocean view is spectacular but I daren’t get too near to the verge. Even from where I am standing I can see that it is a steep drop down to the rocks below, and there is no safety barrier to prevent a person from falling to their death.

“Stay close, Columbo,” I say.

The dog does what I tell him to do. He is the only living creature ever to do so.

The rear of the property is very different from the front of the cabin, which looks traditional and old. The back wall is almost entirely made of glass doors, presumably designed to showcase the sea view. Like at the front, all of the curtains and blinds are drawn, preventing me from seeing inside. This seems like the most idyllic spot, hidden away in a secluded corner of a forest and with spectacular sea views. But from the state of the crumbling cliff, I don’t think this place will be here forever.

And that’s okay because neither will I.

I search inside my satchel for the list of instructions Kitty sent me. Apparently the key is under the doormat so I head back to the front of the cabin, but when I look beneath the welcome mat there is nothing there. I try the handle and the door swings open with a spooky creak. It wasn’t even locked. Perhaps there is no need in a place like this; Sandy did say there was no crime on the island. What a comforting thought if it is true.

I feel a strange sense of apprehension as I peer inside. Not just because of where I am, and the fact that Sandy mentioned nobody has lived here since Charles died, but also because of what I came here to do. What if I can’t write another novel? I don’t know how to do anything else. My bank account is almost completely empty and I have nowhere else to go. Writing has saved me from myself more than once, and I hear Kitty’s words inside my head: It’s the not giving up that separates the winners from the losers.

And she’s right. I mustn’t give up.

Can’t waste this opportunity to get my life back on track.

I step into the cabin slowly. It’s too dark to see inside with all the curtains and blinds still drawn, and I’m unsure what I might find given that the place has been empty for several years. The floorboards creak and groan a half-hearted welcome and I dump the bags. Then I blink, trying to adjust to the gloom while my fingers feel for a light switch. When I find one, I am relieved that it works. Then I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see.

What looks like an old log cabin on the outside has been completely renovated and transformed into something beautiful and modern inside, but still retaining the original features. It’s one big open-plan space, with a small kitchen on the left-hand side, a large metal-framed bed on the right, and a comfy sofa in the middle facing the huge glass doors at the back. I open all the curtains and blinds, which reveal an incredible 180-degree view of the ocean. This place takes the notion of a room with a view to another level and, from here, it really does look as though we are on the edge of the world.

When Kitty first mentioned an abandoned writing cabin, I pictured something rustic filled with dust and cobwebs. This is nothing like that. Smart-looking bookcases line any spare wall space, their shelves neatly crammed full of books—paperbacks, mostly—and arranged according to color, which surprises me. The bare, sanded floorboards are hidden in places with a series of sheepskin rugs, and wooden beams run the length of the ceiling. It smells of scented candles and open fires and... coffee, I think to myself, spotting an expensive-looking machine on the kitchen counter. There are fresh flowers on the dresser, and the bed has been made. Everything is neat, tidy, and spotlessly clean. Not a cobweb in sight. The penny drops. Kitty must have paid someone to come in, clean the place, and prepare it for my arrival. That woman thinks of everything. I should send something to thank her. Ideally a new novel. I find my charger and plug in my mobile. Even if I can’t use it to make calls, I’d like to take some photos of the place.

There is something unfamiliar looking on one of the pillows on the bed, and I take a closer look. At first, I don’t recognize the round black object, but then I pick it up and see that it is a Magic 8 Ball. I had one when I was a child, it’s not something I can imagine someone like Charles Whittaker owning, but people are full of surprises. I try to think of a question to ask it.

“Will I ever write another book?”

I turn the ball so the window faces upward and read what it says.

ASK AGAIN LATER.

At least it didn’t say no.

Columbo is busy exploring our new surroundings and I do the same, heading straight for the old brass drinks trolley I spotted in the corner. I’ve had to downgrade my taste in alcohol since the money started running out, so I can’t help feeling a bit excited to discover what must have been Charles Whittaker’s whiskey collection. All the finest—and most expensive—bottles of scotch are here, and most are unopened. I tell myself it would be rude not to, then choose one of the crystal tumblers from the trolley and pour a small glass. When I taste it, I pour myself a large one. Then I open the sliding glass doors, sit on the sofa, take in the view, and enjoy the sound of nothing. Nothing except the sea. My wife would have hated it.

Abby thought I had a drinking problem. She demonstrated her disapproval with passive-aggressive silences and a series of tuts. It was one of the few things we always argued about, and we did disagree because it isn’t a problem. At least, not for me. I started drinking when I was a teenager and I never really stopped. My nana died when I was still at school, I didn’t have anyone else, and alcohol became a companion of sorts. Something to help me feel like me again when I couldn’t remember who that was. It didn’t make the overwhelming hurt go away, but it numbed my feelings of abandonment. I’ve been partial to a drink ever since and it was something Abby openly disapproved of. I confess that sometimes if she came home late—which she often did—I would be passed out on the sofa with a bottle and book beside me, but there are far worse things I could have been doing. She called me a cliché. I don’t remember what I called her because I was drunk, but I always apologized when I was sober. I dished out sorry s like sweets at Halloween and she gobbled them all up, even the ones she didn’t like the taste of.

Everyone is addicted to something because we all need a form of escapism, and alcohol is my drug of choice. I only drink in private—a happy consequence of having no family or friends—so nobody except the dog sees the state I sometimes get into. And it’s not like I sit around drinking all day, just a little something in the evenings. To take the edge off. To help me sleep. To stop me from thinking about her.

There is a retro wooden record player in the corner of the room, and I wonder if it still works. I glance through the impressive vinyl collection, select an old favorite, and can’t help smiling when the sound of Nina Simone fills the cabin. There’s something Abby would have loved. I miss the way she danced when she thought nobody was looking. I miss so many things about her.

I find myself drawn to Charles Whittaker’s writing desk. It’s quite small, more like a child’s desk, and the only things on it are a key, a red harmonica, a pretty box of matches with a robin on the front, and a square silver frame, which I pick up to take a closer look. I’ve never seen a framed paper napkin before. A message is scribbled on it in black Biro: The only way out is to write . It’s an odd thing to find on the desk of an author, but I think I understand what it means. There are small wooden drawers, and I can’t help wondering what is inside. It feels wrong to look in someone else’s desk, even if they are not around anymore, but I do it anyway. Dead people are the best at keeping secrets. The first drawer I open contains crisp, thick, white paper. The kind for writing important letters. The next drawer contains envelopes. The third contains pens. Perhaps that’s all a good writer needs; paper and pens. I check out the wall of books next; it’s like a library of the best novels ever written. They’re all here, and I select a classic I think I might like to reread.

I pour myself another drink, lie on the sofa, listen to the beautiful sound of sea infused with Nina Simone, and feel myself start to relax. The whiskey melts on my tongue, slides down my throat, and warms me from the inside out. I could get used to this: the views, the solitude, the whiskey collection. Three months isn’t long to write a novel, but if I can, perhaps I could stay longer. Maybe I could live on the island and never have to see or speak to anyone ever again, surrounded by books and writing my own. I think that might be an almost perfect life. Kitty is so clever; this place is exactly what I needed.

I close my eyes, savoring the moment, until Columbo ruins it by barking.

“Shh, Columbo,” I say, keeping my eyes closed.

He ignores me and barks twice as loud.

“What is it?” I ask, standing up to see him scratching furiously at one of the sheepskin rugs. “Stop that right now.” I lift the rug to prevent him from damaging it, but he just starts scratching at the wooden floorboards it was covering instead. “Stop,” I say again, and this time he lies down with his head between his front paws, staring at the same spot on the cabin floor. I look closer and see that the board he was pawing at is loose. There are no nails holding it in place and it comes up without much effort. There is something there, under the floorboards. It’s too dark to see clearly so I use the light on my phone. Then I take a step back.

It’s a collection of small bones resting on a red velvet cushion.

And the bones are in the shape of a hand.