Page 42 of Beautiful Ugly
“Grady, are you there?”
An army of goose bumps line up on my skin.
I spin around, trying to identify which direction the voice came from, but I can’t see a thing. Then I hear the voice again, a little closer this time, and there is no doubt in my mind. It’s her. Abby. She’s here. I can hear her.
“Grady, why won’t you come and find me?”
“Where are you?” I shout into the mist, but there is no reply. Only the wind howls back.
I’m imagining it. I must be.
I can barely see my own hands when I hold them in front of my face, and I can’t see the dog at all. I curse myself for not putting him on the lead, I can’t lose him too. I spin around again but still can’t see a thing. I call Columbo’s name, then I start to run, tripping over on the path, bashing my knee on a rock and badly grazing the palms of my hands. I hear him bark in the distance and I’m up and running again. I don’t care about me, but I do care about the dog. He’s all I’ve got left. There were some steep drops on the way up to the viewpoint. Easy enough to spot and steer clear of when mist wasn’t covering the mountain, but now I don’t know if he’s daft enough to run right off the edge. The idea of Columbo falling or being injuredmakes me feel sick. I run but I can’t find him. The barking has stopped. Everything is silent.
“Columbo!”
I shout his name, over and over, but nothing.
I spin around but all I can see is a thick fog in every direction.
Then I see several sets of eyes in the mist, staring at me.
MINOR MIRACLE
Ihave never liked sheep: I find them creepy, and these ones have horns. I call Columbo’s name again but he doesn’t come back. I think I’m dangerously close to the cliff edge and if something has happened to him, if he has disappeared from my life like Abby, I’ll never forgive myself. Everyone I have ever loved leaves me; I can’t lose him too.
Columbo barks. I call him and he runs through the dissipating mist toward me. I’m so relieved to see his face I could cry. The sheep scatter and I grab hold of him, then I take the belt from my jeans to fashion a lead, looping one end through his collar. I hold the other end tight in my hand. The worst thing about this situation is that it is all my own fault. The sign said danger and I carried on anyway. He’s safe now, but my heart is still thudding in my chest and my hands are still shaking. Guilt is such a sticky emotion; you can’t wash the damn thing off.
My mood spirals downward as the path leads us down the mountain. My head full of self-pity and self-loathing. I’ve never learned how to play the game when it comes to real life. I didn’t have anyone to teach me. I was raised by my nana, who loved me, but let me live inside a world that wasn’t real, reading books anddreaming of writing my own. My parents concluded that having a child didn’t suit their lifestyle when I was nine years old. They dumped me on my nana—literally dropped me outside her flat in East London one day with a suitcase and a note. It’s not something I talk about—I do my best not to think about it at all these days—but I don’t know if it is possible to recover from that level of abandonment. It hurt me badly at the time—no child should be made to feel that unloved and unwanted by their own parents—but in hindsight, I’m glad things turned out the way they did. Nana was a librarian and her home always smelled of toast, Oil of Olay, and Marlboro Lights. She was a bookworm who smoked like a chimney. I used to steal cigarettes and books from her handbag and she used to pretend not to notice. I always put the books back. My nana died before I became a published author and it’s one of my biggest regrets. I wish she could have seen my name in print, she would have been so proud. She took care of me when nobody else did and I still miss her every day. I wasn’t an orphan, I just wished that I was.
I don’t think she would be very proud of me now.
If she knew I had taken another writer’s manuscript, stolen their story, and that I was going to pretend it was my own, she would be so disappointed. I thought that what I was doing with the book wasn’t doing anyone any harm—Charles is dead after all—but now I’m not so sure. I just keep making mistakes and unfortunately I’m not the only one who gets hurt when I do. Like today, ignoring the danger sign. But Columbo is okay and that’s all that matters, because I don’t have anyone else in the world left to love.
It feels like a minor miracle when we arrive at the car park, having somehow safely made our way back down the mountain in the mist. We clamber into the Land Rover and I lock the doors without really knowing why. This island just gets stranger and stranger. I want to leave but I can’t, not until my agent tells methe book is good. Not until I know she can sell it and I can find a place to live. I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t. The mist has disappeared just as quickly as it arrived but I still feel unsettled. Unsafe. When my heart rate has slowed and I’ve caught my breath, I start the engine and head back toward the cabin.
The door is wide open when I get there, and there is something on the desk.
Something that wasn’t there before.
It’s another newspaper article, and the red harmonica that went missing weeks ago is sitting on top of it like a paperweight.
18thMarch 2021The TimesPage 10
WOMEN HAVE HAD ENOUGH
By Abby Goldman
The recent demonstrations in London started as a peaceful vigil for a woman raped and murdered while walking home. It isn’t the first time that women have taken to the streets in the hope of being heard, but something does feel different this time.
One group of women were dressed as suffragettes, and carried banners with the words “Same Shit, Different Century.” A sentiment shared by many.
Although it might feel like we have been here before, there is a definite change of tone. Women aren’t just scared anymore, they’re angry.
Since the #MeToo movement there has been a global determination to change things.
The prime minister, along with the minister for domestic violence (who, despite several interview requests, refused to comment), are meeting with heads of women’s charities this week, but a spokesperson said it was too little, too late.
“Women have had enough,” was the headline of a joint statement issued by those charities today. They gave several examples of womenwho have been let down by a system they say is broken.