Page 11 of Beautiful Ugly
“Do you not have a compass?” she asks, as though it is something everyone should carry at all times.
“Didn’t know I’d need one.”
She shakes her head again. “It’s little wonder so many people feel lost these days. You can’t find your way if you don’t know where you’re supposed to be going.”
“There might be one on my phone,” I say, taking my mobile out of my pocket. I feel my cheeks burn when I see nothing but a black screen. “The battery is dead... I haven’t been able to charge it since—”
“Phones rarely work on the island anyway. There’s no mobile signal. No internet. Here, take this,” Sandy says, reaching for the glove compartment. She unfolds a small pamphlet revealing a map of Amberly, the same design as the one I saw when I got off the ferry. Then she speaks to me in a tone more suitable for an intellectually challenged child. “North, south, east, west,” she says, stabbing the map four times with her finger. “And here’s a compass you can borrow,” she adds, handing me a contraption I haven’t seen since I was a Boy Scout. “This island is only six miles long and five miles wide...” She looks me up and down. “Even for someone like you, it’s easy enough to walk from one end to the other in a few hours. Also easy enough to get lost, so I suggest keeping the map and the compass with you at all times. Stay away from The Orphans; those hills are steeper than you’d think. There’s no mountain rescue here, no police or ‘emergency services.’ Justme. And I’m already busier than midges on a nudist beach. I’ll pick you up for dinner at sevenP.M.tomorrow.”
“Thank you. What?”
“Dinner. You doeat, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. My sister is very fond of authors. She runs the island library. Me, I couldn’t care less. Writer, bus driver, same difference. But she’ll want to meet you, and I’ll never hear the end of it until she does, so best for all concerned to get it over and done with. Just don’t tell her I had a sausage sandwich for breakfast; she worries about my cholesterol.”
I realize I brought the dog’s food, but not my own—anything I had with me is still in the car back on the mainland, and it didn’t occur to me to grab a few supplies from the shop on the way here. Maybe dinner with some friendly locals isn’t such a terrible idea.
“Seven o’clock tomorrow night it is,” I say. “Looking forward to it already.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. The food will be shite. My sister can’t cook to save her life, but she does like to try, and the world loves a trier. Good to meet you, Grady Green,” Sandy says out of the truck window before driving away.
I fiddle with the compass and start heading north. The trees seem to shiver as I approach them as though trying to communicate. The leaves take it in turns to rustle and whisper, and when I look up the sun seems to sparkle through the gaps between them, offering tiny glimpses of blue sky. I experience a comforting and unfamiliar sensation and it takes me a while to identify the feeling.
It feels like coming home.
Which makes no sense.
Because I’ve never been here before.
PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE
Iwander 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 wordsTHE EDGE, I feel anoverwhelming 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. Itsoundslike 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 forestandwith 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 Ican’twrite 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.