Page 25 of Beautiful Ugly
“Oh yes,” Midge says with a nervous smile. “Fit as a fiddle, but with one or two broken strings. Our mother, Morag, used to run Amberly Tweed on the island before she retired, createdsome of the most beautiful handwoven fabrics you’ll ever see.” I think I might have seen some of them tonight, glancing around their tweed-clad home. “Sadly tweed isn’t as popular as it used to be and the business closed down. She needs constant care these days—there are no facilities for the elderly on the island—but I don’t mind looking after her,” Midge says, sounding as though she does mind. The banging from above resumes. This time it sounds more like someone trying to force down a locked door. “I’d better go and see to her. I’ll take her a wee glass of the good stuff, that normally settles her down.”
Sandy drives faster than seems sensible on the dark and twisty roads. Given the amount she has had to drink tonight, I’m not convinced she should be driving at all. I wish I’d never mentioned the bones beneath the floorboards. All I can think about is Charles Whittaker’s manuscript, which I left on the desk. Whatever happens, Sandy cannot see that. Nobody can. The letter I sent to Kitty was a proposal for a similar story. Averysimilar story. I’m obviously not going to copy it word for word—Charles had an extremely distinctive voice—so I need to edit the book. Make it my own. But for my plan to work, nobody can know about the original version.
We reach the forest clearing and it is a relief to get out of the truck. The night is still, silent, and cold. It’s too dark to see anything except the silhouettes of trees. Sandy turns on a torch and starts marching toward the cabin, so fast that Columbo and I practically have to run to keep up with her. The branches of the tall trees sway, and lean, and groan, and the leaves on the forest floor swirl around us, almost as though the place is coming to life as we walk through it. I hear what sounds like screaming in the distance, but Sandy doesn’t stop striding ahead.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Just nature. Haven’t you ever heard a fox before? They’re quite harmless.”
I’ve heard plenty of foxes, even when living in London, but they never sounded like that. Something flies too close to my face at high speed and I wave my arms in the air before stumbling into Sandy.
“I thought you said there were no birds here,” I say.
“That was a bat.”
“Abat? I suppose they’re harmless too?”
“There are two species on the island. One is, one isn’t.”
She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask.
We carry on walking and I hear the sound of twigs snapping somewhere close behind us. Columbo growls and I spin around but there is nobody there, only darkness. I wish I wasn’t scared—even admitting it to myself makes me feel like a wimp—but I am, so I walk a little faster to catch up with Sandy.
“This’ll be why the bats are out,” she says. I’ve been too busy looking over my shoulder to see what she is seeing, but when I look up there are hundreds of tiny lights all over the forest. They’re everywhere. In the trees and the air around me. I wonder if I might be dreaming.
“What are they?”
“Fireflies,” Sandy replies. “I bet you’ve never seenthemin London.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this anywhere before.” The glowing yellow lights seem to dance in front of me. It’s magical.
“One of the benefits of having no birds is having more bugs,” Sandy says. “We’ve got a lot of rare beetles, moths, and spiders as well as these special old trees to protect. The fireflies are a favorite of mine. These little fellas thrive here. Their bioluminescence is to attract a mate and to communicate with each other, but the light they produce also warns bats not to eat them.”
“Why? Are they poisonous to bats?”
“No, they just tastehorrible. Like Midge’s cooking.” She laughs at her own joke, then looks suddenly serious. “They light upwhen they’re in danger too. If they get caught in a web, for example. If they’re trapped and can’t get away.” Sandy stares at me with an expression on her face I don’t like or understand. Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step closer toward me. Too close. “Some fireflies can still light up the world around them after dying. Not forever, of course.” She smiles and looks more like herself again. “Nice to look at though, aren’t they?” she says, continuing to walk through the forest. Her mood swings are unsettling but I try not to overthink it. Most people are contradictions of themselves.
When we reach the cabin I unlock the door and it gives a theatrical creak when I push it open. I turn on the lights and am relieved to see that everything appears to be exactly as it was. Including the precious manuscript on the desk.
“Where are the bones?” Sandy asks as soon as we step inside.
“Just under here,” I tell her, pulling back the sheepskin rug. She bends down to take a closer look at the loose floorboards, then lifts them with her bare hands in no time while I attempt to casually walk over to the desk. Sandy shines her torch in the hole and I wonder if this means I won’t be able to stay in the cabin. I’m guessing it might be a crime scene now and I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut. I turn the first page of the manuscript over so it cannot be read. A bit like Sandy’s expression.
“Doyou think they are human bones?” I ask, coming to stand by her side.
She looks up at me. “There’s nothing here.”
“What?” I say, crouching down to see for myself. She’s right. There is nothing but wood and dirt. Even the red velvet cushion is gone. “I... don’t understand. The bones were right there.”
Sandy looks past me at the old brass drinks trolley in the corner of the room. Then she sighs, dusts off her hands on her jeans, starts to stand.
“You said your books had a hint of horror about them. I can see you’ve been working on something,” she says, nodding towardthe manuscript I was so desperate to hide. “Perhaps the tiredness from the journey, a little whiskey, being alone out here when you’re more used to city life... maybe your imagination got the better of you.”
“I didn’t imagine it. I...”
But I can’t explain it. Or understand how something I’m sure was there last night has vanished.
“Well, honestly, I’m relieved,” Sandy says. “The island is very proud to be crime-free and—apart from one dead body on the beach a year ago, which Midge should never have mentioned—a safe place for everyone who lives here. Don’t give it another thought. There’s nothing there, so let’s pretend it never happened.”