Holy Island(12)
Even behind sunglasses, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the mid-morning sun. The shining water lapped on either side of the tarmacked road which had risen from the sea, as if by magic. The grey clouds of earlier had been swept away by the wind to leave sunny blue skies, but the air still held the deep chill of winter.
She hadn’t planned to be here, to be anywhere near Megan or the memories she would undoubtedly awaken, despite its being Christmas and the season of perpetual goodwill. She struggled to feel any kind of goodwill towards her sister. It had taken years to try to forgive and she had almost fooled herself that she had forgotten. Still, perhaps the serenity of the tiny island with its scattering of inhabitants could begin to soothe the ache. Tall reeds spread out and waved in the breeze to her right as she drove up the winding road towards the village. Sea gulls circled and swooped above the water, their call loud and comforting. As the first whitewashed cottages came into sight, she saw the trains of Christmas lights draped across the barren trees between the houses and knew they would be festive and cheerful come nightfall.
Anna drove through the village and recognised the Heritage Centre where she had spent every Saturday as a teenager, the gift shops and the tea rooms. Above all, she noticed the pub which sat in the centre, painted white with red trim and cheerfully named ‘The Jolly Anchor’. A six foot plastic Santa stood outside the entrance, waving its mechanical hand and welcoming patrons with a jarringly loud “Ho, Ho, Ho!”
Shaking her head, she swept through the village and was glad she hadn’t seen anyone she knew. In fact, the streets had been surprisingly empty of their usual crowd. Though the island was sparse of people, they usually gathered in the village. She supposed that was the nature of the community – a community she had once been part of.
The car meandered through the narrow streets towards Lindisfarne Castle, the scenic fort on the east of the island. At the foot of the mount was the coastguard’s base. No bright red jeep stood on the driveway but both rescue boats were moored, indicating there had been no emergency at sea that morning. The drama had all been on land.
She pulled up in front of an attractive fisherman’s cottage set in its own small garden. It held a faultless location; the fort stood to the east, the Priory to the west and Bamburgh Castle stood further down the coast to the south. The cottage held unspoilt views of all three and didn’t have to share them with immediate neighbours. That suited her just fine, she thought, as she yanked out a battered black suitcase and dragged it across the gravel towards the house. After feeling around for the key Mark had left under the door mat, she pushed open the door and memories washed over her. The walls had been re-painted, the floors freshly carpeted, but still she could remember the scent of her mother’s perfume in the hallway.
She could remember when her father had taken the perfume bottle and hurled it down the stairs, claiming that her mother had worn it for another man. She remembered the ugly argument which followed and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Her skin crawled, icy tentacles snaking up her back as the line between past and present blurred for a painful moment.
Then her vision cleared. All that stood before her was a comfortable cottage with neutral furnishings. It was her canvas to paint however she chose.
* * *
Ryan’s head throbbed painfully as the shiny red door to the Mathieson’s home closed quietly behind him. Informing the family was always the worst, the very worst, part of the job. No amount of training or experience prepared you to withstand the abject grief of a mother and father who had lost their child. It was always an affront but, in these circumstances - practically on their doorstep - it must be almost unbearable.
He walked slowly to the other end of the street, hands thrust in his pockets, as he replayed the conversation.
The mother, Helen, had been completely unaware of who he was. That made it worse somehow, the open welcome she had been prepared to give him when she answered the door.
“Can I help you?” She had still been in her terry cloth dressing gown, pale pink and a bit faded. Her eyes had been a bit cloudy from sleep but they were the same colour as her daughter’s.
“DCI Ryan, ma’am. Is your husband or another family member at home?” Those blue eyes had glazed in confusion when he told her he was from the police, flashed his ID. She had called out for Daniel, a tall, wiry man with long limbs and a slight stoop, who had answered her call with the same confused expression. She had asked Ryan inside, her voice trembling because underneath the social formality she had known why he was there. Instinct told her something was very wrong and she was drawing out the moment, denying the truth of it for as long as she could.