Page 27 of Take Me Away

‘It was nice seeing you again,’ I offer, shrugging my shoulders.

He looks at me blankly, and then seems to shake himself together. ‘Right.’

‘Bye, Isla!’ Maisie waves enthusiastically. ‘Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow!’

‘Maybe.’ I smile, not looking at Kit.

I turn down my path, feeling their eyes on my back as I walk past roses that have seen better days. I don’t look back, though every fibre of my being wants to.

It’s only when I’m safely inside Salt Cottage, door locked behind me, that I allow myself to exhale fully into the dark silence.

I pull Maisie’s drawing from my pocket and smooth it carefully on the kitchen table. The fierce dragon-mermaid stares back at me, proud and defiant, while the little stick-figure me stands ready to fight.

If only real life were so simple, so clearly divided into heroes and monsters. If only I knew which one I was supposed to be.

I look around the dark cottage – Maggie’s spice rack still organised by colour, the leak still dripping into the saucepan above the back door. There is so much of Maggie here, like she’s still living in the air that I’m breathing. If I closed my eyes she could be in the kitchen making jam.

She left me this place for a reason, whether that was forgiveness that I let her down, or her way of telling me that she was still looking after me even after she’d gone.

Whatever it was, I’m here. Surrounded by her and memories of a different time. A time when innocence was real and I knew who I was.

So no, I’m not leaving. Not yet. Not until I know what I came here for.

Chapter Seven

ISLA

I’ve woken up hungover in a lot of places.

A five-star suite in Tokyo with a view that screams expensive and then charges you for looking at it. A château in the south of France where I couldn’t remember which of the fourteen identical doors led to the bathroom. Reid Usher’s Malibu beach house, where the hangover cure involved wheatgrass shots that tasted like lawn clippings and regret.

But this – waking up at Salt Cottage after one lousy pint of local cider – isn’t a hangover. It’s something heavier. Like my bones have been replaced with lead and my skin with sandpaper.

I stare at the bedroom ceiling, at a water stain that looks vaguely like Australia if you squint, and try to remember the last time I felt this … empty. Not even sad. Just vacant. A house with all the furniture removed.

Yesterday at the pub feels like a lifetime ago. Or maybe a nightmare I haven’t woken up from yet.

The most human interaction I had was with an eight-year-old girl who wears rain hats like fashion statements and thinks I’m cool because I once pretended to sword fight with Gary Oldman.

And her father – my ex, my first love, first heartbreak – could barely look at me. Barely spoke. Just ‘Welcome back,’ with all the warmth of a winter sea.

And yes, I’m thinking about Kit again. It’s the place, the crash of the sea, the squawk of the gulls – it’s all Kit Bloody Harding – the mountain of heartbreak and regret that he is. The way he looked at me last night – or didn’t look at me. That stiff welcome that felt more like ‘Why are you here?’ The way he steered Maisie away like I was contagious.

Welcome to rock bottom, with complimentary sea views.

I roll over, feeling that dull heaviness settle deeper. The cottage creaks around me, an old lady groaning with arthritis. I should get up. Make tea. Eat something that isn’t stale crackers or chocolate digestives. But my limbs refuse to cooperate, weighed down by something more persistent than gravity.

My phone sits on the nightstand, innocent-looking but deadly. I press the power button and wait to dive into the digital void.

The screen glows to life, the logo appearing with a mocking blink. Then after a blip of nothingness comes the tsunami.

Ping. Ping-ping-ping-ping-pingpingpingpingping.

Notifications cascade like a digital waterfall. Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts. Emails. Social media alerts. News alerts.

Social media is rabid at the best of times, but this? I’m drowning at the bottom of a cesspit.

I tap an app with a finger that isn’t quite steady. The first thing I see is a trending hashtag: #IslaTheAccuser.