First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Egmont Books

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

Text copyright © 2020 Susanna Bailey

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

ISBN 978 1 4052 9496 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9495 9

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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For my own amazing ‘islanders’: my children, Ali, Joe, Josh, Emma-Marie and Oli.

With an ocean of love.

1  ONE

2  TWO

3  THREE

4  FOUR

5  FIVE

6  SIX

7  SEVEN

8  EIGHT

9  NINE

10  TEN

11  ELEVEN

12  TWELVE

13  THIRTEEN

14  FOURTEEN

15  FIFTEEN

16  SIXTEEN

17  SEVENTEEN

18  EIGHTEEN

19  NINETEEN

20  TWENTY

21  TWENTY-ONE

22  TWENTY-TWO

23  TWENTY-THREE

24  TWENTY-FOUR

25  TWENTY-FIVE

26  TWENTY-SIX

27  TWENTY-SEVEN

28  TWENTY-EIGHT

29  TWENTY-NINE

30  THIRTY

31  THIRTY-ONE

32  THIRTY-TWO

33  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When we came to the island it was summer, but summer stayed behind on the mainland.

There’s a chill in the air here. The sort of chill that runs through you when something is about to happen. Something bad. We have had blue skies – the kind of blue skies a little kid would paint, only without the yellow sun in the corner. If we see the sun at all, it’s pale and half-hearted. Like it doesn’t want to be here either.

I was kind of looking forward to all the ‘fresh air and outdoor stuff ’ Mum kept on about when she sold me this Scottish island holiday. When she said the house was a stone’s throw from the beach. I saw rolling waves; warm, golden sand. Kids that would be made up to have a boy from London come and liven up their boring island life. Well, true, the house is near the beach. It’s all by itself on the clifftop, overlooking the bay. But the sand here is malevolent, full of tiny sharp edges to cut your feet. And it’s more grey than golden. The sea stings your eyes and it’s too still. Like it’s holding its breath. Waiting.

As for the local kids, they’re not interested in making friends. They just nudge one another and look away when they see me coming. Or whisper behind their hands. Not the kind of whispering the girls back at school go in for – this is different. It’s like they know something.

Something I need to know, too.

But yesterday I did meet a girl with something to say.

She’s sitting on the patchy grass outside our fence, staring out to sea and flicking pebbles over the edge of the cliff.

I risk a ‘hello.’ She carries on throwing and staring. I stand there, scuffing at the grass with the toe of my trainer, wondering whether she heard me over the whine of the wind. Whether to try again.

Wondering why she’s here and whether she’s in need of company, too.

My throat feels dry. She’s probably just another unsociable islander. I could look pretty stupid here. I pick up a white pebble, weigh it in my palm; decide to give her the benefit of the doubt: I’ve had enough of one-way conversations with seabirds.

I sit down next to her and join in. Must be ten minutes and twenty pebbles before she speaks.

‘You’re him, then? At Cliff House?’ She screws up her eyes like there is bright sun only she can see.

I nod. Ten days on this island and I’m as tongue-tied as everyone else round here.

Another five pebbles worth of silence.

‘I’m Meghan. Meg.’ Her pale hair lifts in the breeze. She pulls a strand of it into her mouth, tilts her head to look at me from under her fringe; points to the left side of the beach below us. ‘That’s my house – down there.’

‘Where?’ I peer over her shoulder.

‘The boathouse.’

‘You live there? But it’s all boarded up . . .’

She looks at me again, a pebble poised in her hand.

‘Grandad said a boy was poking around yesterday.’

I think of the old man I saw down on the shore, bent and thin as driftwood; his hair bleached and dry like the grass among the dunes. I had noticed his eyes as I passed: still as the sea, and blue. Bright, vivid blue.

‘I wasn’t “poking around”,’ I say. ‘I was looking around. Looking for something interesting to do. Not that I found anything.’

Meg stands up. ‘I have to go,’ she says. She brushes sand and dead grass from her jeans. ‘Don’t come by our house again, OK?’

‘What exactly is your problem? You and everyone else in this place. Against the local religion to be friendly, is it?’

‘Just don’t come by,’ she says, and grabs my arm. ‘I’ll come for you, OK? I’ll come for you.’

‘What makes you think I want you to?’ I mutter, as she walks away.

‘You do!’ she calls without looking back.

I flick my last pebble over the cliff and watch it fall.

Today, I am ‘out of the house getting sea air in my lungs’. Apparently, this is just what I need. At nine in the morning. Apparently, it’s not what Mum needs. She hasn’t left the house in two weeks now, except to ‘nip to the shop’. The shop. The only shop. But she doesn’t even want to do that today. Still, at least that’s an hour of my day sorted, getting eggs and beans. Another ten to go before it’s dark enough to go to sleep. It gets dark early here. Even in summer.

The shop is some sort of converted chapel, with arched windows. One of them has a crack from top to bottom; its yellowing glass is criss-crossed with tape. The other is jammed full of stuff. What you might call a no-effort window display. Tins of fruit that look like they’ve been there since the war, a stack of ‘Tom Piper’ tinned steak (tinned steak?), bottles of cod liver oil. There’s someone suspiciously like Captain Birdseye on the label – he has a pipe in his mouth, and he’s puffing a massive cloud of smoke, while looking smug about the ‘health-sustaining properties’ of cod liver oil.

There’s a pyramid stack of boxed ‘Humane Mousetraps’ in one corner. The whole thing’s covered in cobwebs. Either there are no mice here, or the islanders don’t go in for the ‘humane’ approach.

Inside the shop, ropes hang like coiled snakes from the walls and there are huge baskets of logs, buckets of coal, jet-black and glistening, sacks of green apples, and potatoes. (Most of them are green too.)

I find beans, a brand I recognise, thank God. I choose six speckled brown eggs from a blue bowl on the counter. A curled feather is stuck to one of them. I pull it off; blow it into the air; watch it drift from side to side, then disappear, lost among the apples. I wonder for the first time whether hens get upset when their eggs are taken away.

‘You buying those things, young man?’ A sharp voice from nowhere.

I almost drop the eggs, look round; see no one.

‘Yes. Sorry. Just these, please.’ I put my purchases on the counter, quickly followed by money.

The shopkeeper is younger than his voice, and, weirdly, dressed in a suit and tie. His hair is black, and too shiny, like it’s painted on. He holds out what my mum would call artistic hands – long fingers, shiny nails.

‘Thank you,’ he says. He disappears under the counter, reappears with a battered tin box; produces my change. No till, then. My mum’s brought me to some kind of Lost World.

‘Don’t suppose you know where I can get a decent phone signal?’ I ask from the doorway.

The shopkeeper looks up, pen in hand, looks down; continues writing.

‘That’ll be a no, then,’ I mutter.

Mum’s up and dressed when I get back. Which is great. She eats breakfast with me. Which is even better. She ‘hasn’t been hungry’ until dinner time since we arrived here. And even then, she pushes her food around her plate like it’s something suspicious; slides most of it into the bin if she can.

‘Leave the dishes for now,’ she says, ‘I’m going down to the beach. Thought I might try out my new camera. Come with me?’

‘OK,’ I say, wondering what I’ll find to do down there. ‘Great.’

The wind’s dropped when we get to the beach.

That stillness again. Like walking on to a film set.

‘Those old boats – see? Over there?’ Mum points to the edge of the dunes. Close to Meg’s boathouse. ‘I noticed them when we got here. Covered in barnacles. Great colours. Think I’ll start with those.’

I nod. Smile. ‘Brilliant,’ I say. ‘Take as long as you like, Mum.’

Maybe she was right. Maybe this break will be good for her; help get over Dad. Help with whatever made her sad when he was still around. Maybe.

A seagull lifts from one of the upturned hulls, gives a loud squawk of protest at our intrusion. For a moment it looks like he’s flying straight at us, but he swoops away, circles to the left and disappears.

I sit with Mum for a while, listen to the whir of her lenses, the click of the shutter: sounds I haven’t heard for months. There’s a leap of something light in my stomach.

I think of her bent over her laptop, engrossed in her images, hair glinting in the firelight, while Dad and I stick pieces of model aircraft to our fingers. Somehow, Dad always made the aircraft turn out OK. Even though there was always one piece missing. And he always got round Mum about the glue on the carpet. Always made her laugh.

That’s another sound I haven’t heard in a while.

We walk back to the cottage when we’re hungry, have sandwiches and hot chocolate for lunch. Mum asks if I mind another trip to the beach when we’re done, and I don’t, even though it’s boring down there. It’s no more boring than everywhere else on this island. And when Mum gets up to clear the table, she moves just a bit more like herself. I’ll take being bored, just to see that.

I help, put our leftovers in a bag for the birds. Not that I’ve seen any birds other than the seagulls, and I’m not sure about encouraging them.

On the walk back to the beach I ask when Dad’s coming to see me. Mum doesn’t know. He’s busy, she tells me. But he’ll come soon. He misses me.

‘Right,’ I say, wondering about the evidence for that. I push the wondering away. ‘There’s no phone signal on this stupid island,’ I shout. ‘Dad can’t even ring me.’ I kick at the rough grass under our feet. ‘Is that why you brought me here, to get back at him?’

I didn’t know I was going to say that.

‘Luke, we talked about this . . .’

‘You talked about it,’ I say.

Mum stops; looks right at me. Her cheeks are pale again.

‘Sorry,’ I say. I look away.

‘Me too,’ Mum says. She shakes her head slowly, sighs. Like she’s sorry about a whole lot of things.

It takes ages to get back to the boats. My feet keep sinking in the sand.

The seagull is there again, perched on one of the upturned hulls. It keeps its round black eyes on fixed on me; follows my every move.

Mum wanders up and down the sand for an hour, lifts and drops her camera. Gazes out to sea. She doesn’t take any more pictures in the end. She blames the light. Not enough of it now. Too many shadows.

We go back to the cottage and this evening she’s too tired to eat dinner.

When she goes to bed, I pick up her camera, look for the shots she took that morning. There’s nothing. She’s wiped them all.

My fault.

I punctured the day.

Next morning, Mum’s still in bed at eleven a.m. I take her tea, then coffee and toast, but she’s not hungry.

Back to square one. Good job, Luke.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says. ‘Go off and enjoy yourself.’

Tricky. On both counts.

‘I’ll give it a go,’ I say. I offer her the best fake smile I can find; hope she’ll notice it doesn’t reach my eyes and ask me why.

She doesn’t. She just smiles back, nods; shifts further down into her bed. I hover, wait for her to ask where I’m going, what time I’ll be home; whether I’ve got water and sunscreen and snacks. She doesn’t do that either.

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ I say. My voice sounds weird, sort of hollow.

‘Bye, love,’ she mutters.

‘Sure you don’t want me to stay?’

No reply.

I close the door. My insides are hollow too.

I head for the beach. The boats Mum was so excited about yesterday are partially obliterated by a layer of sand, scattered with strips of ugly black seaweed. I think about all the bits of Mum that got buried when Dad left: the bright, funny, loving bits. The bits that made her Mum. The Mum that would have given me the third degree before letting me leave today. My stomach twists. Does she even care about me any more?

I hate her; hate Dad more.

I miss them both.

I kick a shower of sand into the air. Another. I blink away hot tears; turn away from the spoiled boats and run in the other direction, towards the dunes. I fling myself down at the foot of the first one, lie on my back and stare into the stupid pretend summer sky. Wide grey stretches of nothing; vague splashes of watery blue, two thin clouds. A sky that doesn’t know how to feel either.

I sit up, search for something to distract me. A pink crab hurries past my foot, its silly sideways scuttle surprisingly speedy. A childhood memory surfaces. I reach out, scoop him up and go in search of more.

I’m at a key moment in a race to the sea – six rockpool crabs ready on the pebbled start line – when the girl, Meg, appears out of nowhere.

‘You seen my grandad?’

Her voice takes me by surprise. I make a stupid little noise that I hope she doesn’t hear.

‘Nope. Just me, a few crabs and one ugly seagull. The fun just keeps on coming on this island.’

‘I used to do that,’ Meg says, nodding towards my line of crabs, ‘when I was little.’

I get up. ‘Nothing better to do,’ I say. ‘How do you stand it here? I don’t get why anyone would want to live in this godforsaken dump.’

She looks hurt, just for a moment. I feel a flicker of guilt. I didn’t mean to be rude. On the other hand, I didn’t ask her to interrupt my game.

‘How long are you staying, then?’

I shrug. ‘School’s back in six weeks, but who knows? No one tells me anything.’

I grab my sweatshirt, shake the sand out. A crab falls from it, lands upside down, tiny legs and pincers flailing.

Meg bends down, picks it up and puts it on the back of her hand. It freezes.

‘Shore crab,’ she says.

‘No kidding.’

I’m not in the mood for nature lessons. I should be slicing up the pitch in the park with Sam, Luca and the rest of the footie gang. Or huddled in my room, jamming guitar with Jez, not a whiff of nature or fresh air anywhere near us.

She flicks hair from her eyes. Today, they’re green, not blue.

‘These mottled ones are the most common. They’re camouflaged, so they can hide from predators,’ she says. Her tone makes it clear that I’m one of those. ‘But one in twenty are bright green, and some of the really small ones are yellow.’

‘Wikipedia is a wonderful thing,’ I say.

That squint from under her fringe again.

‘My parents were marine biologists,’ she says. ‘That’s why they came to live in this “godforsaken dump”.’

‘Thought you lived with your grandad.’

‘I do. My parents – they – aren’t around any more.’

‘So, what? They just went off and left you here?’ I laugh and immediately regret it.

Meg doesn’t seem to have heard. She lifts her hand level with her eyes, peers at the small crab, still curled there.

‘These guys can shed their legs to escape an attacker,’ she says, ‘and still survive.’ She lowers the crab gently on to the sand, where it begins digging and quickly disappears.

‘Handy,’ I say. I pull my sweatshirt over my head.

‘The long-legged spider crabs,’ she says, ‘they’re the ones you want to watch out for. When the tide’s just out, there’s loads of them. They look like twiggy bits of seaweed. That’s how people miss them. Especially in the mist . . .’

‘Spider crabs. Yeah, right. I’m terrified.’

‘Google them, then. When you get home. A bit like a big black daddy-long-legs, they are. They bind themselves with seaweed, create a disguise. Sneaky little devils . . .’

‘Thanks, David Attenborough.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Meg says. She turns her head, as if something has startled her. Then she just runs off; disappears among the dunes.

‘The name’s Luke,’ I say into the air – suddenly sorry to see her go. ‘In case you’re interested.’

A gust of wind whips away my words. I spit sand from my tongue, pick up a large pebble and throw it, hard, into the sea.

I walk back along the beach, fitting my feet into the footsteps I left on my way out. That weird stillness is back again. The air is wet against my skin. And when I start to climb the rough cliff-side stairway to our cottage, the stone steps are slimy; slippery. Treacherous.

I look towards the sea. It has disappeared, erased by grey mist. But I can make out two figures on the sand below, one reed-thin: Meg and her grandfather. Meg is pulling at his arm. He shakes her off, stumbles a couple of steps towards the sea. She grabs him again; hugs him close.

The sound he makes silences the seagulls circling above.

Later, when I try to sleep, his piercing cry mixes with my dreams. I wake in a sweat; lie there till morning, listening to the moan of the wind around the cottage walls and wondering what made the old man feel so afraid.

I give up trying to sleep at six a.m., decide to try emailing Dad. There is actually a connection this time.

I type quickly, in case Mum comes in. Not likely, on the evidence of the last few days. But you never know.

Hi Dad,

How are things?

I wanted to ring you but no signal EVER on this island. Mum says you know where we are but how does she expect you to get in touch? It’s like the dark ages here.

Mum’s not taking masses of photos like she said she would. Most days, she isn’t even getting up. I don’t see why we have to stay.

I know you’re busy but can you come and get us? Me? Maybe I could stay with you for a bit?

Or even Gran’s would be better than this.

Honestly, I’m going stir-crazy, Dad. And school starts soon, anyway.

Be seeing you.

Love,

Luke

PS: What’s happening with Boro? Any new players?

I read it through, take out the bit about Mum not getting up again in case that makes him not want to come. I press send. Nothing happens.

Typical.

I kick my shoes across the floor. They clatter against the bedroom door.

Brilliant.

I sigh. Thump the send button. This time, it works. Miracle.

Mum appears a minute later, squinting like she’s emerged from hibernation.

‘It’s ten past six, Luke. You OK?’

‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘Never better.’

She sits down on my bed. There are pink pillow-marks across her cheek. Her dressing gown is on inside out. I want to be angry with her; about Dad, about this island, about everything. But she looks like a little girl woken from a nightmare, her eyes all round and worried.

‘I was just going for a wee,’ I say. ‘I tripped over my shoes. Sorry. Go back to bed, Mum.’

‘Luke,’ she says. ‘Sweetheart.’ She brushes my hair from my forehead like she used to when I was little. This time, I don’t move away. ‘I know it’s not great for you here, not where you want to be. But I think it will help me. I really do. And when we go back . . .’

‘When?’ I say. ‘When’s that?’

‘Well, you’re back in school the second week in September, so . . .’

‘We’re not staying until then! No way. Mum, this place is doing my head in. I can stay with Dad. I messaged him.’

‘You’ve heard from him?’

‘No, but it’ll be OK.’

Mum pulls at a thread on her dressing gown, twists it around her fingers; lets it unravel again. Her fingernails look like mine now: pale and bitten, ragged at the edges. Back home, her nails were always long, and painted an embarrassing bright red.

I wish she’d paint them again.

‘Luke, sweetheart, everything’s a bit – up in the air just now, you know. We’re still not sure what’s best . . .’

‘Best for who?’ I shout, standing now. ‘Is anyone actually going to ask me about any of this? I’m not some stupid little kid you can just cart around wherever you want.’

Mum is standing now too. I see that I’m as tall as she is. When did that happen? My fists are clenched tight. I sit down again.

‘Jenny’s baby,’ Mum says, her voice quiet now. ‘It’s due next week. It won’t be a good time at your dad’s. I’m sorry, love.’

That’s when I get it, this island thing. Mum’s put an entire sea between her and Dad and Jenny’s cosy new family event.

Suddenly, Dad’s is the last face I want to see any time soon.

‘Jenny’s cooking sucks, anyway,’ I say. ‘I pity that kid of hers.’

Mum makes us an early breakfast. Pancakes and maple syrup. My favourite. I eat four to please her, even though I’m not hungry.

While I eat, the light changes. Grey shadows slide across the kitchen, suck out its colours. Rain scatters at the windows. Warning shots of worse to come, I know.

I go up to my room to get my warm sweatshirt; try to work out what on earth I’m going to do in this weather. I open up my laptop, check for a reply from Dad. Nothing.

Then I see him. Meg’s grandad. Out on the cliff, way too near the edge. Hard to be sure, but from my window it looks like he’s wearing pyjamas.

As I watch, there’s a deafening crack of thunder. A flash of white light. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since I arrived on the island. The old guy just stands there. He’s going to get struck by lightning. Or fall to his death.

I grab the waterproofs I swore I would never wear, run downstairs; pull on my boots at the door. As I rush down the path towards the old man, laces flapping, the light comes again. Disappears. Comes again.

Not lightning, then.

The old man is signalling. A huge lamp swings from one of his skinny arms. I call out, and he turns, his face skeletal in the lamplight. He stares at me for a moment, drops the lamp, staggers towards me, arms outstretched. His fingers claw at the air, reaching for me. They are gnarled and as stiff as twigs.

I freeze, not sure what to do.

‘Stay still.’

Meg again. This time, I’m pleased to see her.

‘Come on, Grandad,’ she says. ‘We can go home now.’

The old man smiles at her. Creases and crevices open up across his face.

Meg puts her arm round his shoulders; tries to lead him forward. He grabs my arm. His hand is mottled; dry. Like discarded snakeskin.

‘David,’ he says. ‘David.’

‘David’s coming, Grandad,’ Meg says, guiding him away.

‘Who’s David?’ I say.

Meg looks back at me over her shoulder.

‘You are,’ she says. Her eyes burn blue.

I get to the boathouse before Meg and her grandfather. She must have taken him the long way round, avoiding the steep cliff path I took. Once I’d decided I was going to come. Anything’s better than sitting in our grey cottage waiting for an email that will probably never arrive. And I’m kind of intrigued by this ‘David’ thing: who he is, why the old guy got so worked up about him.

I’m not sure I want to go into the house, though. Judging by the outside, it’s going to be pretty rank.

I walk right round the building. The walls are made of strips of wood. Grubby white paint is peeling from them. The whole place looks like it’s wrapped in dirty old bandages. Creeping plants hang in shrivelled strands from the roof. When I reach for one, it crumbles to dust in my hand.

There are boards nailed over every single window.

It’s a house with no eyes.

I look back across the beach. No sign of Meg and her grandfather, so I wander towards the dunes behind, hoping for a sheltered place to wait. Or maybe somewhere I can be out of sight while I rethink this whole idea.

Then there’s this flapping sound.

Half expecting some mythical sea creature to rise up and snatch my head from my shoulders, I follow the noise, which is growing louder and more frantic by the second.

Brave of me, or a symptom of boredom, I guess. Probably the latter.

There are a couple of white twisted trees in my path, their branches locked together like the bones of battling dinosaurs. As I squeeze between them, the wind gets colder, lifts the hairs on my arms, bites at my ears.

There is no monster in the dunes.

I knew that.

But there is something.

A great bulk, covered in tarpaulin, nestles in the dip between two sandbanks. It’s criss-crossed with thick ropes, pinned down like Gulliver. A corner of the tarpaulin has come free and is lifting and falling in the wind.

I make my way down there, sliding in the dry sand, and peer in through the flap. A putrid stench of fish and mould hits me.

I can’t see too well at first; have to tug more of the covering free, let in more light. There’s a faint scuttling sound as I do. A crab drops from somewhere above my head, makes me jump.

It’s a sailing boat. It was a sailing boat.

The old hull is slung with spiders’ webs, thick and greying like layers of old rag. Barnacles cover the edges and sides of the boat as far as I can see. They’re cold and sharp under my hand. I think suddenly of a shell-covered box my nan had on her dressing table.

She found me playing with it once, and that’s the only time she ever shouted at me. After she died, when we were sorting all her stuff, I looked inside. There was a ring, and a scrap of hair, which Mum said had belonged to Nan’s father. It grossed me out. But Dad got all sentimental, going on about how you don’t really lose someone when they die because you always have your memories.

Ironic, really. He’s managed to get lost pretty effectively and he’s still alive.

I pick up a twig from the sand, jab it among the cobwebs; tear at them, as far as I can reach. They’re disgustingly tough. I clear enough to make out mast and rigging, folded down the length of the boat like the wings of a great bird that lay down here to die.

‘Hey! Leave that.’

Meg is shouting, screaming, really, from above. I jump, drop the tarpaulin.

What the hell’s the matter with her? I’ve had it with her making me feel like I’m in the wrong.

‘Don’t worry, I’m off,’ I call up to her. I wipe my hands on my jacket. ‘And I won’t be back.’

The old man’s face appears beside Meg’s. He beckons to me and says something I can’t hear.

‘No, look, sorry – just come up, OK? Please. Sorry,’ Meg says. ‘I’ll explain . . .’

It looks like she is reassuring her grandad, trying to stop him coming down to join me.

‘Don’t even know why I’m here in the first place,’ I shout. But I scramble up the slope to join them, anyway.

‘OK, OK, just, just come in, all right? It’s too cold for Grandad out here and I’ll never get him inside unless you come too. Not when he’s like this.’ Meg fiddles with the lock on their faded front door.

I’m not sure again and look at my watch. ‘Actually, I should get back. My mum, she’s – I said I’d do lunch.’

Meg ignores me. The door is open now, and she’s reaching inside. Yellow light pours out. There’s a warm smell, like someone’s been baking.

I go in. I don’t mean to, but I do. Curiosity wins, I guess.

The old man relaxes once we’re all indoors. Meg helps him out of his jacket and boots, settles him in an armchair; fills a kettle. I stand there, staring around me.

The boathouse is bigger than I expected; brighter. There’s a wood-burning stove like the one Mum wants, and a kind of kitchen along one wall. Pots and pans are crammed on to shelves and hang from hooks around a miniscule cooker. There’s a cracked white sink. Dad has one like it in his new garden, with orange flowers growing inside. For salads, he says.

He never even cut the grass at our place.

The rest of the room is a cross between a small museum and a carpenter’s workshop. One where there’s been a small explosion. Wood carvings: intricate boats, tiny birds, a plane, various half-finished creatures and chunks of wood litter every surface. The dining table is covered in dusty newspaper. Curled wood shavings are scattered across it. More drift around the floor. A glass case above the hearth holds some sort of eel, frozen in mid-swim among stones and seagrass. On the window seat there’s something horribly like a stuffed baby seal.

There are jars containing mysterious shapes suspended in cloudy liquid. The labels are old, unreadable. I’m glad. Really, I don’t want to know.

You can’t see the walls for photographs. Faded black-and-white shots, mainly: young soldiers; smiling girls with coiled hair; ships with guns; a toothless guy holding a massive fish over his head, a stiffly posed wedding photo. The bride has a horseshoe for luck. I bet she needed it.

The few colour prints are of schoolkids with gappy smiles and lopsided ties. One of them might be Meg.

‘We’ve only got tea.’ She’s beside me, holding out a mug and trying to make room for a plate of biscuits on a small shelf, next to the skeleton of a lizard. ‘Home-made,’ she says. ‘The biscuits, not the lizard.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, wondering if they’re edible. I take one anyway, because I’m starving, and dip it in my drink. A chunk falls off and sinks to the bottom. I pretend not to notice, eat the rest in one bite. It’s good. I scan the whole room again, still unsure about entering this weird world. But at least it’s interesting. Being here beats hanging about with crabs. Or worrying about absent parents.

‘This place is crazy!’ I say, swallowing quickly. ‘All this stuff . . . is it his?’ I nod at the old man, asleep now, in his chair.

Meg holds her finger to her lips. She picks up the plate of biscuits, balances her mug of tea on it.

‘Hang on a minute.’ She opens a door at the end of the room, flicks a switch, bathing the walls in a wavering blue light that makes them look like they’re underwater.

It’s her bedroom.

She beckons me over, flops into a chair by the bed; smiles at me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. She looks different. Which makes me more uncomfortable than I already am about being in the doorway of her bedroom.

I’m not exactly an expert on girls’ rooms, but Meg’s has to be unusual. It’s full of books, neatly stacked. The walls are bare except for a bunch of childish sketches: stick people with huge faces and big smiles; animals with lots of legs; some careful pencil sketches of round-eyed, whiskered animals leaping and diving on roughly torn paper. There’s a desk with an ancient PC, and, by the bed, a battered suitcase with a framed photo on top. That’s it. No clothes lying round, no boy band posters. No nail polish stains on the carpet like my mate Jez’s sister gets grounded for pretty much every week. No carpet.

‘Have the chair,’ Meg says, getting up, ‘if that makes you feel better.’

‘I’m all right,’ I say. I perch on the edge of the bed and work on looking cool. ‘So what is he, then, your grandad, some kind of collector?’

Meg flops back into her seat. ‘He’s lots of things. He’ll tell you when he wakes up.’

‘I don’t have much time.’ I glance at the old man. If he’s anything like my own grandad was, he’ll sleep the rest of the day. I’m not staying in weird-world that long. ‘Like I said, I’ve got to be back for lunch,’ I say. Which is true. ‘And I have to go to the shop first.’ Not true at all.

‘Next time you come, then. But the wooden things, Grandad makes those. The rest – the specimens and things, they’re mine.’

She actually looks proud.

‘That mangy seal is yours?’ I say, irritated at the way she assumes I’ll be back. Wondering whether I want to know this annoying girl at all. Even if she is the only one on the island who’s shown any interest in me. ‘And the Frankenstein’s lab stuff – those disgusting jars and dry bones?’

‘My parents’ work, mostly,’ she says. She sticks out her chin. ‘I told you, if you were even listening, they were marine biologists.’

Her parents. Both gone. She told me that too. She didn’t tell me why. Or where they are now.

I reach for another biscuit and bite into it, unsure whether to ask about them. The crunch is ridiculously loud, so I put the rest on my knee.

‘It’s the bonemeal that gives them their crunch,’ Meg says. ‘An old local recipe: puffin bones.’

I stare at her; feel as if I might throw up.

She laughs, forgetting to be quiet. The sound bounces round the room like a bubble.

I laugh too. First time in a while.

‘Hilarious,’ I say. I pick up a thick book from the pile nearest to me and flick it open. It’s full of shots of what look like shells, or stones with slimy underbellies. There are excited blocks of pink and yellow highlighter all over the text.

‘Offshore crustaceans,’ Meg says. ‘Fascinating.’

Not the word I would have used.

‘You’re seriously into this stuff, then?’

She nods. ‘It’s in my genes, Grandad says. My first word was “crab”, apparently.’ She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. One foot taps in the air. ‘What’s your thing, then? We know it’s not wildlife or the great outdoors.’

I shrug. ‘Football and music. Mainly music. Guitar.’

‘You any good? D’you have lessons?’

‘My dad plays,’ I say. I clear my throat. ‘He teaches – taught – me.’ I look away, in case the twist of loss in my stomach shows in my face.

Meg’s foot is still. The air is still. I shift in my seat, just to make something move.

‘What kind of stuff do you play?’ Meg leans forward, chin in hands.

‘This and that. I was starting up a band back home. With my mates . . .’

‘And?’

‘Now I’m not.’

‘Why?’

‘Things got complicated.’

‘What kind of complicated?’

‘Just complicated.’

She looks me straight in the eye. I lean round and pick up the framed photo – there’s a woman with hair like Meg’s wearing a long flowery dress, a man with a tiny girl on his shoulders. They look happy.

‘My birthday,’ Meg says. ‘I was three. We had a picnic on the beach: pink cake and everything. This massive seagull stole some out of my hand. Dad chased it for miles just to make me laugh, Grandad says.’ She nods at the photo in my hand. ‘I can just see my dad, hobbling back up the beach with his flip-flops in his hand and a silly grin on his face.’ She looks away, stares for a moment at the boarded window opposite.

I gulp at my tea, my last birthday suddenly in my head. I’d told Dad I didn’t want him there. Him, or his guilty wad of cash.

When I was three, Dad took me to Disneyworld. Just him and me because Mum had to rest. We ate ice-cream sundaes for breakfast and I was sick twice on the teacup ride. Dad bought me a Mickey Mouse that was bigger than I was. He keeps a snap of me with Mickey in his wallet.

Well, he did. He’s probably stuffed it in a drawer now, made space for a new memory. A new child.

‘I can’t really remember anything from when I was little,’ I say. I put Meg’s photograph back in its place.

Meg gets up, leans round me and pushes the photograph further back, turns it so that it faces into the room.

‘You could remember,’ she says, ‘if you wanted to.’

I flip through the crustacean book again and pretend to drink more tea, even though I’ve drained the mug. My head feels kind of hollow.

‘Where is your dad, then?’ Meg says. ‘Is he coming out to the island too?

‘Look, I didn’t come to – just tell me what you were on about with this “David” thing. I’ve got to go in a minute.’ My voice sounds weird. I cough and clear my throat, pretend the tea went down the wrong way.

‘We’re just having a conversation,’ Meg says. ‘You must’ve had one before. I talk, you talk. We get to know one another. Remember?’

She gets up and peers round the door at her grandad, sits down again.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Spill.’

She folds her arms and sits up tall in her seat, just as the blue light above her head fades, flickers and dies. For a second or two we’re in total darkness. Then the sea light recovers and washes over Meg’s face, like a wave.

‘Wind in the power lines,’ she says. ‘Grandad knew there was worse weather on the way. He’s always right.’

‘David,’ I say. This time I’m the one not looking away. Even if the elements are in on Meg’s avoidance tactics. Maybe there is something interesting here . . .

‘Look, it’s no big deal,’ she says quickly. Too quickly. ‘Grandad just gets a bit muddled at times. When he’s tired. He thought you were someone he knew. Old people do that all the time.’ She looks up at the light, like she’s hoping it might do something to get her off the hook.

It doesn’t.

‘Who?’ I say, remembering the urgent bony grip on my arm, the burn of the old man’s eyes back there on the clifftop. The seagull-silencing scream of the evening before. ‘Who did he mistake me for?’

Meg sighs. ‘Sometimes it’s just easier, you know, if I play along for a bit.’ The light flickers again. ‘Like today.’

‘But who’s David?’

Meg stands up. ‘My father,’ she says, her voice like a full stop.

She walks out of the room without looking back.

I follow her back to the living room. The old man is stirring, shifting a little in his chair.

‘I still don’t get it,’ I say, more confused than ever.

‘Grandad needs to eat.’ Meg’s reaching pans down from above her head, clattering them on to the stove. ‘I need to light the fire; in case the power goes off. You should get going. The wind’s getting serious now.’

She crosses to the door, opens it a little, and proves her point. Sand is lifting, spiralling into the air. There’s a threatening howl from the sea.

‘It’ll be dark when the storm really kicks in,’ she says. ‘Storms steal the light out here. Even in the middle of the day. You won’t be able to see a thing – best get going.’

She hands me my coat. I’m going to protest, get more answers, but she’s looking past me. Like one of us has already left.

Cold air slaps my face, and suddenly I’m worrying about Mum and that lunch I promised to make.

‘I’ll be back. Tomorrow,’ I say.

My words are barely out before the door closes and I’m alone, sand in my eyes and nose, wondering how on earth the old man mistook me for a guy three times my age.

And why there had been such desperation in his eyes.

Maybe it’s the meanderings of a tired old mind, like Meg says.

Or maybe those watchful, whispering island kids have a point. Maybe there is something about this island I need to know.

It takes ages to get back to the cottage. The wind does its best to push me back three steps for every two I manage to take.

Mum’s in the kitchen, peeling potatoes over the sink.

I hop on one foot, struggling to prise off my right boot. ‘I’m doing lunch,’ I say. ‘Sit down, Mum, OK?’ I blow on my fingers, try to get the circulation going.

Mum turns, puts down the peeler and reaches for a towel.

She’s been crying. I should have stayed home.

She lifts a smile on to her face, bends down to help with my second boot. When she gets up again, the smile has gone. Like it was too heavy for her to hold.

I’m not hungry any more.

‘We could just have beans on toast?’ I say. ‘And watch a film, maybe?’

‘I went to the shop,’ she says.

This is good. She hasn’t left the house since that trip to the beach. Hasn’t done much of anything.

‘They had a letter for us. For you.’ Her gaze shifts to the table. An envelope is popped up against a jug of artificial flowers. ‘From your dad.’

We both stare at the envelope, like at any minute it might spontaneously combust.

‘Dad doesn’t do letters.’

‘Did he reply to your email, Luke?’

‘Probably wouldn’t know if he had, would I? Like I said, the internet’s rubbish here.’

‘There you are, then.’ Mum picks up the envelope by one corner; holds it out to me. ‘See what he’s got to say.’

I take it, fold it in half. ‘I’ll read it later,’ I say. I shove it into my back pocket. ‘Beans OK, then?’

I can feel the letter all though dinner and a rerun of Liar, Liar – which I chose because it always makes Mum laugh. Tonight it doesn’t. It’s the letter. I know it is. Waiting in my pocket like a threat. Or a promise.

I’m scared of both.

When Mum decides to run a bath, I go to my room, get into bed and stick my headphones in my ears. Jimi Hendrix does his best to drown out the thrash of rain on the window, but he can’t stop Dad’s letter burning my brain from the pile of clothes on the floor.

I rip out the headphones; open it.

There’s only one sheet of paper.

One.

I scan it quickly. I read it again in case I missed something.

I didn’t.

My blood thumps in my ears like Hendrix is still playing.

Dad’s not coming.

He doesn’t care.

I crumple the letter and lob it across the room. It bounces off the strings of my guitar. Dad’s guitar. The red Stratocaster he loved but gave to me because he loved me more.

I told Mum not to bring it here.

I haven’t touched it. It’s just there, propped against the white wall like a scar.

I’m not sure why now, but I pick it up; run my hands over the dusty wood. The neck is thin, delicate. It would snap if I squeezed hard enough. I imagine the sharp, splintering satisfaction of that. I could do it right now if I wanted.

I run the back of one fingernail over the metal strings. They’re badly out of tune, but I start strumming – hard – faster and faster, loving the mess of ugly notes; not stopping when the upper ‘G’ snaps and waves in the air as I play. If you can call it playing. My fingers have softened up. I haven’t played since Dad dropped the baby bombshell and blew a hole through my hopes of him ever coming home. It hurts now: steel on new skin. But I keep on strumming. On and on. Until a second string spikes up and dies.

I’ve got red grooves across my fingertips. A pink scratch on my wrist where the strings fought back. The pain feels pretty good. Stops me thinking. I lie back on the bed, still holding the guitar. I’m drowsy, like I just ran for miles.

Without wanting to I’m remembering. How it used to be: me and the guitar. Drifting, getting lost; saying things I didn’t know I needed to say, with picks, flicks and chord combos.

Feeling things.

Feeling like me.

Dad knows about that. Dad’s been there.

But he’s taken it away from me.

I push the guitar off the bed and kick it, hard, across the floor. It skids against the wardrobe, gives two deep twangs: the last words of an argument. Then it’s staring back at me.

Still. Splintered. Silent.

It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

When Mum comes in to say goodnight, I pretend to be asleep, so she won’t know I’m upset.

She knows.

Her hand’s on mine. Dad’s letter is a damp ball under her fingers.

‘Luke? What does it say?’

I draw my knees up to my chest, wish I could disappear. Wish Mum would.

‘Sweetheart?’

‘It says Dad’s a loser, OK? Nothing new there.’

I move my hand from hers, pull my pillow over my head. ‘Go to bed, Mum,’ I say, although I don’t think she can hear me.

When I come up for air, the pillow is soaked, the room totally black. I can still smell Mum’s shampoo, but she’s not there any more.

I give up on sleep at the first signs that night is over.

There’s a watery light creeping through the curtains, and when I peer outside, the sun is hanging sort of pale and limp on the horizon. The sky looks washed out after last night’s storm. I know how it feels.

It’s still really cold, but I want to be out of the house before Mum gets up. I know I should stay – tell her I’m OK after last night. Make sure she’s all right, too. Like I always do since Dad walked out on that job.

I don’t.

I’m just like him.

I leave her a sandwich, and a note by the kettle saying not to worry; that I’ll see her this afternoon. Before I leave, I go back and add, ‘Love, Luke x’ at the bottom of the message.

I’ve got no idea where I’m going.

I end up on the cliff overlooking Meg’s place, even though I’ve no intention of calling by like I said I would. There’s no room in my head for her today. I don’t think she wants me around, anyway. Not really.

I sit down on the dew-damp grass. I pick at the cereal bar I grabbed for breakfast. It tastes of nothing. A big black-and-white bird swoops in from nowhere, red feet skidding in loose shale as he lands a few feet away from me. He begins a slow sideways approach, his narrow eyes on me, like I’ve stolen something that’s his. I throw him what’s left of the cereal bar. He’s welcome to it. I slide down the steep wet path to the beach.

When I get to the bottom I look up. The bird is balanced on the cliff edge, wings spread wide like a dark cape. It’s a show of strength. A warning.

Someone else that doesn’t want me around.

I walk away. Away from the bird and away from Meg’s house, down to the shoreline.

The sea looks as tired as the sky. Weak waves wander over crushed shells, bits of bone and slimy green weed: the spoils of last night’s battle. I stand there, try to think about nothing, let the water wind around my trainers. The blue trainers Dad bought me – the week before he left us. There’s a split in the right one somewhere, because my sock is getting wet and cold. Cheap gift, obviously.

The thinking about nothing doesn’t work.

All I can see in this empty space is Dad and his shiny new life. Dad with his shiny replacement wife. Dad with his shiny replacement child.

It’ll be a boy. I know it will.

I scoop up a handful of the debris on the sand and hurl it back at the sea.

A whole year since Dad left: over a month since he’s bothered to visit. And that was just a call-by. With my useless trainers. And another of his useless promises.

All agreed, he said. With work. With Jenny. A long weekend here on the island: the two of us, father and son. Like before, he said. And a chance for him to check on Mum.

Before the baby arrives.

How can he not be coming? He promised.

How can he leave me to look after Mum?

He’s an idiot. Who needs him?

I dig with the toe of my trainer, watch as the sand slides back into the holes I’ve made. In seconds it’s like they were never there at all.

I’m not sure how long it is before I turn back, but when I do, the door to Meg’s house is open. Her grandad is sitting outside, bent over something in his lap. I walk slowly, hoping to get back to the cliff path without being seen.

He knows I’m there.

‘Had breakfast, laddie?’ he says without looking up. ‘There’s herrings.’ His voice is different today, softer. There’s a smile in it.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, and keep walking. ‘No, thanks.’

Meg’s head appears round the boathouse door.

‘He caught them in the bay,’ she says, ‘while you were still snoring. Come on, city boy, bet you never had freshly caught fish in your life.’

She disappears back inside, and the old man signals me over. He brushes wood shavings from the rusted bench he’s sitting on, his eyes fixed on mine until I join him. Then he turns his attention to his work again, scraping with a tiny blade at what looks like the beginnings of a boat. His purple-brown hands are dusted white. I can see the small bones, like scaffolding under a sheet.

‘Herring boat,’ he says, holding up his work for me to see.

Meg brings a plate piled high with golden fried fish and buttered bread. She kneels in front of us, holds it out. ‘Still the best fisherman ever on the island, aren’t you, Grandad?’ she says.

There can’t be much competition, from what I’ve seen.

The fish smell good, but they’re still whole, with those filmy white eyes that follow you around from the fish counter in Sainsbury’s. The old man takes one, tips his head back, and eats it; reaches for another.

‘Better get in there quick,’ Meg says. She shoves the plate under my nose.

I pick up one small fish by the tail. It hangs there, shivering. I think of the silver sticklebacks Jez and I caught in other summers. How we threw them back because the water stank of old socks; argued all the way home about who caught the most, or the biggest.

I want to be there right now, pushing and shoving one another on the canal path; laughing about nothing. Being normal. Not stuck here with a bossy nature-mad girl and an old man who speaks in riddles.

I can’t eat this fish.

I notice that Meg isn’t touching the food. ‘Aren’t you having any?’ I say.

‘I’m vegetarian.’

‘Course you are.’ I shake my head, wonder if it’s too late to say the same.

The black bird is back. Great timing. He’s growing on me.

He dives low, flapping his wings; tries to separate us from the plate of herrings. This time, maybe we have got food that’s rightfully his.

‘He can have this one, anyway,’ I say, and throw down my fish.

He darts in, spears it with his thin beak, lifts back into the air.

‘Black guillemot,’ Meg says. ‘Cepphus grylle, to give it its proper name. There’re hundreds of them on the island. Over the far side – those cliffs edged in white? Kind of a bird city. And the white stuff, that’s bird poo. Centuries of it.’

‘Proper tourist attraction,’ I mumble.

‘The birds were here first,’ Meg’s grandad says.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Meg looks at me for agreement.

I give a half-hearted smile.

‘Feisty, though, especially in nesting season.’

‘Aye, lass.’ The old man nods his head. ‘Feisty, right enough. Folk say those white cliffs ran red back in the day.’

‘What? Why?’ I say. My bad feeling about this bird is getting stronger by the minute. I hope it’s not still hungry.

‘First settlers plundered their nests and put the young ’uns in their cooking pots. Birds would’nae stand for it. Picked ’em off, one by one, till they learned better than to come back.’

‘So the red . . .?’ I say, keeping a close eye on the bird. It looks like it might have some sort of inbuilt grudge going on.

‘Blood, laddie.’ The old man’s eyes are on me. ‘Birds won the day. New ones all born with those red feet.’ He scans the sky for our intruder. ‘So folk don’t forget.’

I look at Meg, who only raises her eyebrows in reply.

‘Do people go there now?’ I say. ‘To the bird city?’

‘Not since the herring fleet went,’ Meg says. ‘It’s just the birds and the occasional skinny seal over there now. Not much else.’

‘So the guillemots got their way?’ I say, thinking that the ones I’ve seen still don’t look too pleased. Seriously, is there anything to like about this island?

‘Not really.’ Meg shakes her head. ‘They struggled for years. Their main food supply was pretty decimated.’

‘Which was?’

‘Herrings.’

I glance at the now-cold fish platter.

‘Takers. It’s folk like that as started it all.’ Meg’s grandad leans towards me, whispering. ‘That’s why it comes, so they say.’

‘What started?’ I say. ‘What comes?’

‘The Otters’ Moon,’ he whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut. Like there’s something he can’t bear to see.

‘What’s he on about, Meg?’

She takes a piece of bread and butter and waves it dismissively in the air.

‘This place is big on stories. Island folklore. It’s what you get when you’re surrounded by sea.’ She pulls a faux-terrified grimace. ‘Monsters from the deep, ghost ships, selkies. We’ve got legends coming out of our ears.’

Her grandad turns, his eyes open again – but faded; older. And worried. Definitely worried.

‘Catherine,’ he says, peering at Meg.

‘Grandad, tell Luke about the selkies.’ Meg leans over and pats his arm encouragingly.

Catherine? I look from Meg to her grandfather. Both of them ignore me. Here we go again.

The old man is scanning the bay, one hand shading his eyes. He’s trembling. He turns to Meg. His mouth hangs open for a few seconds, like he’s waiting for his next words to arrive. Or afraid to form them. ‘David’s no’ taken the lassie out there today? No’ out tae Puffin Bay?’

No smile in his voice now.

Meg shoots me a glance. She looks like she’s struggling with what to say too. She gestures me out of the way, sits down next to her grandad; stills his hands between her own.

‘It’s OK, Grandad. We’re having breakfast. Herrings, remember? Telling Luke about the selkies?’ She nods her head in my direction, but the old man is looking the other way. He points towards the dunes.

A silver gull sails over them and swings towards us, screeching, as if we’re sitting on his personal landing strip.

This place breeds feathered psychopaths.

It lands a few feet away and drops what looks like a tiny chick under one foot. It squawks pointedly in our direction, then spears the lifeless chick with its long beak.

Seconds later, a puffin falls from the sky like a broken kite. It scuffles to its feet; freezes: a small statue on the sand, all funny face and bright party clothes.

A clown at a funeral.

The child snatcher doesn’t even look up from his meal.

‘Unusual birds, puffins,’ Meg says. ‘They pair up for life and share the rearing of their chicks till they’re ready to fledge. But they only lay one egg each year.’

I’m about to tell her to shut up when I see that she is crying.

‘She’ll forget,’ I say. ‘By the morning she won’t even remember she had a chick.’

Meg doesn’t reply. She walks over and kneels beside the mother bird, who doesn’t seem to notice that she is there.

The old man gets up and totters towards me.

‘Remember, laddie,’ he says, pointing a bony finger towards the sky. ‘Remember the Otters’ Moon.’ He turns and stumbles back inside the house, his back more bent than ever. But I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the duo on the sand. They sit there, heads bowed, for what feels like hours. It’s like they’re locked together. In something that can’t be disturbed.

My stomach starts to rumble. The hard bench I’m sitting on gets harder by the minute. I shift position slightly, and the puffin comes to life. She glances behind; looks up at Meg and heaves herself into the air with a bewilderment of wings and ruffled feathers.

Meg watches her go. After a minute or two, she leans forward, digs with her hands in the soft sand. She scoops up the remains of the chick and buries it. She reaches for some pebbles, presses them one by one around the edge of the small, sad mound she’s made. Then she turns and walks away, down towards the sea.

I stretch out my stiff legs, and head slowly back to the cottage. As I walk, I decide that Meg is as seriously weird as her grandad. But then I remember about her parents. And I think how, when Dad left for good, Mum cried for my nan as well as for him, even though it was six years since she’d died.

Maybe that’s the way it works when you lose people you love. Like when Mum sweeps the leaves off the lawn, and they just blow back in with every new cold wind.

My eyes sting. This time, neither the sand nor the salt air is to blame.

I’m at the cottage gate before I remember the old man’s warnings.

Where, I wonder, is ‘Puffin Bay’?

And what on earth is an ‘Otters’ Moon’?

Maybe they’re just creations of a muddled mind. But, thinking back, I get the definite impression that Meg didn’t want her grandad to talk about either of them.

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