Sunday, 30 October
The early morning walk was helping. It was dark and miserable, threatening rain, but it didn’t matter. Isla needed the space and fresh air more than anything right now – somewhere mentally freeing, to attempt to sort out her thoughts.
She’d parked up in the pretty nearby village of Willian, before heading into the countryside on the Greenway route, the wind blowing her hair into a tangled, unruly mess. She’d already taken a stunning photo of a late migrating swallow perched on a wooden sign.
‘Good luck on your journey, little chap,’ she’d said, watching the straggler take off. She didn’t know much about swallows, except that their flight to South Africa was hazardous. She admired how the tiny bird went on its journey, heading for its destination without fear.
Now Isla crouched to snap a photo of a Red Admiral butterfly, happy that the turmoil inside her head had lost its voice – for now. But the calm was cut short by the sound of footsteps. She rose and looked around her, her body stiffening. A gust of wind blew a shower of crispy red leaves across the path she’d taken, startling her. The field to her left spread for miles, meeting with low grey clouds that looked as though they might burst. The trees and bushes to her right were dense. She couldn’t be sure whether someone might be lurking there.
Twigs snapped under what sounded like more footfalls.
‘Isla.’
She swallowed painfully. Had someone called her name? No, it must have been the wind disturbing the bushes, or perhaps the wildlife. Still she shoved her camera in its holdall, pulled out her phone in case she needed it, and hurried away. Speed walking turned into a run, as she glanced over her shoulder every few seconds, but nobody appeared. It must have been an animal or a bird, she told herself, as she slowed to catch her breath. Or maybe she was losing it.
There was no doubting the thought of Carl Jeffery being freed was getting to her. Could they have let him out? Could he really be in England, stalking her, scaring her, waiting in the wings to finish what he’d started? She picked up speed again, her legs weak and jelly-like as she ran.
Five minutes away from her car, a heavy raindrop hit her cheek, and within moments rain hammered down. She shoved her camera holdall inside her hoodie, and kept on running. By the time she reached her car, her hair was plastered to her head, and her clothes were soaked through. She opened the door, dived inside, and grabbed some tissues from a box on the dashboard. As she dabbed her face, gasping for breath, a painful stitch in her side, she noticed a piece of paper under the windscreen wiper blades, saturated under the pressure of the thrashing rain.
She leapt from the car and grabbed it, her eyes scanning the pictures of Australian butterflies.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered, dropping it as though it had burnt her skin. She looked about the silent street, pulled out her phone, and thumbed the screen.
‘Jack,’ she yelled when he picked up.
‘Hey, Isla? You OK?’
‘I’m in Willian, and, oh God, Jack.’ She was shaking, her voice far too high-pitched, and breathless.
‘What’s happened?’
She took a deep breath, and looked down at the piece of paper floating in a puddle at her feet.
‘Isla?’
‘I’m OK,’ she said, realising it was a flyer for a nearby butterfly sanctuary. Her heartbeat slowed, as she stared at it, aware of the rain bouncing inches off the ground, and the sound of it hitting the car roof like marbles. ‘I’m being a numpty,’ she went on, trying for a calm even tone. ‘Just some wally on the road cut me up in the car, unnerved me a bit, that’s all,’ she lied.
‘Dick.’
‘I am not,’ she said, trying for a laugh, and he laughed too. ‘I’m OK. Just over-reacting. Ignore me.’ She dashed her sleeve across her cheek in an attempt to dry the rain.
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. I’ll be home soon. I’m looking forward to seeing Mum later. Probably wobbly from missing her, that’s all.’
‘OK, well I’ll see you soon, yeah?’
‘Yep, won’t be long,’ she said, ending the call.
She bent down to pick up the flyer, which disintegrated in her hands, and was now barely legible. She looked about her once more. There were no other flyers on the cars parked along the roadside, and a thought hit her.
The butterfly sanctuary had closed its doors two years ago.
***
Facebook: Yummy Sunday lunch at my parents’ – Sally Johnson and Gary Johnson’s house – with Jack Green, Millie Bailey, Abigail Bailey, Julian Bailey.
‘So when’s the big day?’ Mum asked, as they sat around the dining room table, a roast potato suspended on her fork. ‘Please put your dinosaurs away, Abigail – they’ll get covered in gravy.’
‘I need them here, Gran,’ Abigail said, straightening them into a line, in height order. One fell to the floor, and the puppy raced over to sniff it. ‘Not yours, Larry,’ she cried, diving down to pick it up, her dark hair falling about her face. Bobbing up quickly, she put it back in her neat row.
‘We haven’t set a date,’ Isla said, swallowing down a carrot, and glancing at Jack from the corner of her eye. He didn’t appear to be listening, his eyes fixed on his phone screen. She felt a surge of guilt. She’d changed the subject on the way home the night before, talking about Millie’s pending party and Abisko instead. They’d even chatted about the latest Marvel film – anything but what they should be addressing.
He finally glanced up. ‘Isla’s got one more trip soon, Sally,’ he said, looking at Isla’s mum, his voice giving away nothing. ‘I’m sure once the book’s complete, we’ll set a date.’ He moved his gaze to Isla, before resting his eyes back on his phone, and picking up his fork.
‘Put your phone down, Jack,’ Abigail said. ‘It’s rude to have it at the table.’
Jack smiled, and put it in his pocket. ‘Sorry, Abigail, you’re right. Where are my manners?’
‘You must have lost them, Jack,’ Abigail said, with a serious face.
‘Have you named your book yet, Isla?’ Sally said, crunching down on the crispy potato. ‘I know you couldn’t make up your mind.’
Isla nodded. ‘I’m calling it Isla’s Journey.’
‘Lovely. It’s an amazing achievement, darling. I’m so proud of you. You’ve done so well, after what happened.’ She bit down on her lip. ‘Imagine, I may have a famous daughter one day.’
‘Well it won’t be the first time she’s been famous, will it?’ Julian said, cutting into his turkey. He was forty-five, small and thin, with mousy-brown hair scooped back from his forehead with too much gel, and oval wire-rimmed glasses. Even though he’d been in her life for years, Isla still didn’t feel she knew him. The truth was she didn’t like him very much, and had made that obvious in her teens, but now she pretended everything was OK, for Millie.
A brief silence fell on the room, before Julian added, ‘Although, I suppose being splattered across the front pages of newspapers as an almost victim of a serial killer is hardly the same thing.’
Isla picked up the bottle of red wine, which she’d almost drunk alone, and drained it into her glass. She picked up the glass and peered around the table, looking at her family’s faces in turn, her skull prickling.
‘I told Julian you thought you saw someone, Isla,’ Millie said, chewing her lip, and glancing at her husband. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
Jack turned, meeting Isla’s eye. ‘Saw someone?’
‘Isla?’ her mum said. ‘What’s this about?’
‘She thought she saw someone staring up at your apartment window, Jack,’ Millie went on. ‘Didn’t you, Isla?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Jack’s eyes fixed on Isla, who took a gulp of wine, and glared at her sister. Why were they bringing it up? Isla’s fingers tensed around the stem of the glass. ‘It wasn’t Carl Jeffery,’ she blurted.
‘Whoever said it was, Isla?’ Julian chirped in, searching her face as though looking for cracks.
‘It was nobody,’ she said, her voice small. ‘I made a mistake, that’s all.’ There was a snap as the stem broke, cutting her hand. ‘Oh God,’ she said, gripping her hand, as the glass crashed onto the table, and wine splattered the tablecloth like blood at a crime scene.
‘Oh my goodness.’ Sally grabbed her daughter’s hand, and pressed a napkin against the cut, absorbing the blood.
‘I’m fine.’ Isla pulled away, and tucked the napkin round her hand. ‘It’s only a flesh wound.’
‘Larry’s thrown up in your slippers, Gran,’ Abigail said. She eyed the fluffy, pink mules, bending to inspect them. ‘I can see peas, and I don’t think he liked the nut-loaf I gave him.’ She sat up straight again, eyes on her plate, and with an outstretched finger she prodded the three slices of nut-loaf laid out parallel. ‘I’m not sure I do either, actually. Can I have some turkey please?’
‘But you’re a vegan now, Abigail,’ Millie said. ‘Remember?’
‘I don’t want to be a vegan.’
Sally jumped up, grabbed the slippers and the broken glass, and took them into the kitchen. The puppy trotted after her, wagging his tail. There was a clatter, as it sounded like it all ended up in the bin.
Abigail pushed her plate away, and began rearranging her dinosaurs across the table, avoiding the splashes of wine. ‘I like dinosaurs,’ she said.
Back in her chair, Sally took a deep breath and, seeming to metaphorically brush the last few minutes under the carpet and out of sight, said, ‘I’m guessing there’ll be lots to think about with the wedding.’
Isla nodded, still clutching the napkin. ‘Yes, these things take a lot of planning,’ she said, her voice quiet, as she tried to get her befuddled head in order. ‘Could be quite a while, so don’t go buying your hat yet.’ She looked at Jack, who didn’t catch her eye. ‘I’ve heard decent venues get booked up ages in advance, and then there’ll be a band or a disco or something, the flowers, the cake.’ She was rambling, overcompensating, the thought of a big wedding sending shockwaves through her body. ‘Or we could have a quiet ceremony, just a handful of guests, perhaps.’
‘Don’t you dare deprive me of a decent wedding,’ Sally said, and Isla glanced at Millie, who smiled and shrugged. Isla had only been thirteen at the time, but she knew her sister’s wedding had been rushed, done on the cheap.
‘I want all the family to be there,’ Sally went on. ‘And I want to put lots of fancy photographs on Facebook.’
Isla bit down the urge to say, But you don’t like Facebook. ‘We’ll need to give it some thought,’ she said instead, trying to catch Jack’s attention, but when he didn’t notice, her gaze drifted to her dad who smiled and winked at her.
‘I hope you won’t make me wear anything too fancy-pants,’ he said. He’d been brought up in the East End of London, and had never lost his cockney accent.
‘You’ll wear what you’re told to wear, Gary,’ Sally said, spooning far too much cranberry jelly over her turkey. ‘Isla will be in charge. And you, Jack, of course.’
‘Well as long as we can have superhero table centres, I’ll be happy,’ he said with the briefest hint of a smile.
‘What?’ Sally’s eyes widened.
‘He’s joking, Mum,’ Isla said.
‘Am I?’ Jack picked up one of Abigail’s dinosaurs and whizzed it through the air. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane?’
Abigail giggled. ‘No, Jack. It’s a triceratops.’ She reached across the table and took back the plastic model.
‘So, Isla, I hear you’re off to Sweden,’ Julian said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
He was the last person she wanted to talk to about it. She glanced at her sister, knowing she had to keep the peace. ‘Yes, I’ve booked a trip to Abisko.’
‘Yes, I saw your Facebook update. Although you put so many on there, it’s hard to keep up. It will be jolly freezing over there,’ he said, his shoulders hunching. ‘The cold will get into your bones. You’d better stock up on thermal underwear.’
Millie glared at him.
‘Are you going with her this time, Jack?’ Sally asked, hope in her voice. ‘Protect her from those wild Scandinavian bears?’
‘Jack’s not coming, Mum,’ Isla said. ‘And before you say anything, I was fine on my own in Canada. You must stop worrying about me.’ Isla’s urge to jump up and throw open the French doors, to let some fresh air in, was overwhelming.
‘You will be here for my party, won’t you, Isla?’ Millie asked, chewing as she spoke.
Julian rolled his eyes at her. ‘Swallow before you talk, Millie. You look like a camel.’ He gave a derisive snort.
‘You won’t make me wear a ruddy top hat and tails, will you, Isla?’ Her dad was talking through a mouth full of mashed swede, his eyes on Julian as though deliberately making a point, always fiercely protective of his daughters.
‘Christ’s sake, so many questions.’ Isla put down her knife and fork, her head and hand throbbing. But it wasn’t the questions. It was Carl Jeffery filling her head. His thick dark hair, the rugged good looks that belied who he really was, and the way he’d dressed that day: the green beanie hat, the scarf wrapped around his face, despite the scalding temperatures in Australia.
‘Eat up.’ Sally wiggled her knife at Isla’s half-eaten dinner. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘Carrots make your hair white and your teeth curly,’ Gary said, clearly trying to lighten the moment.
‘You can’t have curly teeth, Granddad,’ Abigail said. ‘That’s just silly.’
‘I will eat it, Mum. It’s lovely.’ Isla sighed. ‘And in answer to your questions: Yes, Millie, of course I’ll be at your party. It’s the Saturday before I leave.’ She picked up her cutlery once more, and jabbed a parsnip with her fork. ‘And you can wear what you like at the wedding, Dad,’ she added, pushing the parsnip into her mouth, and wondering how soon she could leave.
***
Jack was quiet. In fact, he hadn’t spoken since her parents waved them goodbye from their drive, Sally on tiptoe, hand stretched towards the sky, until they’d turned the corner at the end of their road.
‘You OK?’ Isla said, finally. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘I always enjoy your mum’s roasts,’ he said, his tone flat.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘Julian’s a dick.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, well we all know that. God knows how Millie puts up with him.’
‘Because she’s a saint?’
‘Or stupid.’ She stared across at Jack, but his eyes stayed fully focused on the road ahead. ‘Are you OK?’ she said again, when they were almost home.
‘I don’t know, Isla. I feel a bit numb to be honest.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t tell me you thought you saw someone.’
‘It was nothing, Jack. Honestly.’
‘And not only that, I could see how awkward you were over dinner talking about the wedding. I’m beginning to wonder why you said yes.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jack.’
‘But you didn’t talk about it last night either.’
‘Don’t do this, please.’
‘What?’
‘You’re pushing me, Jack. I said yes, didn’t I? Just give me time.’
He pulled up with a squeal of tyres, parking haphazardly outside their apartment block, and tugged on the handbrake. ‘Pushing you?’ He paused. ‘Jeez, Isla, I only asked you to fucking marry me. If you don’t want to, put me out of my misery, like an injured dog.’ A tear zigzagged down his cheek, and he dashed it away.
‘Jack, you know I love you,’ she said, taking his hand, but somehow it came across patronising.
‘Do you? Do you really?’ He didn’t sound convinced.
‘Yes. It’s just my head’s a mess at the moment. I can’t seem to think straight any more.’
‘Why not? What’s the problem, Isla? You seem preoccupied since you came back from Canada.’
‘It’s just the book.’ She bit down on her lip. ‘I just want to finish it, that’s all. I just need some time and space before we start making plans.’
‘You’ve just been to bloody Canada for a month. How much time and space do you need, for fuck’s sake?’
‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’ She squeezed his hand, and then added softly, ‘When I come back from Sweden, we’ll sort it all out.’
‘The wedding?’
‘Everything,’ she said, leaning over and kissing his cheek, but he pulled away