Page 67 of Beautiful Ugly

There is nothing but the sea.

The frustration I feel is overwhelming. I want to scream at someone but there is nobody to scream at. Then I remember the walkie-talkie, take it from my pocket, and scream into that. Nobody replies. The damn thing doesn’t even crackle. I turn back and start running in the direction we came from.

A lot of the journey is uphill but I don’t stop, even when the steeper parts steal my breath from me. The sun is starting to set and the views on the coast road are spectacular. There is an ever-changing display of pink clouds drifting across a patchy purplesky above the ocean. The first stars have started to appear at the edge of the sky, impatient for the sun to leave, but I don’t stop to enjoy the spectacle. I breathe the sea air, focus on the path, and keep running. Just before we reach the road that leads to the forest, I see a sign for the Standing Stones. I remember something Sandy said about it being the only place on the island where someone once had a mobile phone signal. Given the situation, I think it’s worth a try. We carry on, only stopping when I finally see them: the Standing Stones. The twelve giant stones look like a smaller version of Stonehenge, forming a circle on the top of a grassy hill. They are eerily lit by the setting sun casting long shadows on the ground beneath them. I stop to catch my breath, and read an information board while I do.

The Standing Stones of Amberly are over 5,000 years old. There is much mystery over how and why they are here. Some believe the standing stones are the result of dark magic, and are the remains of twelve witches who were turned to rock. Others insist that standing in the center of the circle can transport people to another time and place.

We invite you to uncover the mystery for yourself.

I would love to be transported to another time and place—ideally the mainland—but I’ve never believed in nonsense. I climb the hill and walk to the center of the circle anyway, just in case, then take out my mobile. I don’t have much battery left but Idohave a single bar of signal.

I call Kitty but it goes straight to voicemail.

I hang up and try again but the same thing happens. I start cursing myself for not charging the phone, but there has been no point in doing so for weeks. It’s getting dark, and it’s already very cold, and I’m about to give up when the phone starts to ring in my hand.

When I look at the display it isn’t Kitty calling.

It saysTHE WIFE.

I accept the call and hold the phone to my ear but I don’t hear Abby’s voice.

All I hear is the sound of the sea before my phone dies.

IMPOSSIBLE SOLUTION

It’s completely dark by the time we reach the forest, and as we hurry toward the cabin I keep thinking that I can hear footsteps behind us. Twigs snap in the distance beyond the trees, the unmistakable sound of something, or someone, moving over fallen leaves. There are no birds on the island but there are plenty of other creatures. I tell myself that’s all it is and carry on. Regardless of my mind’s feeble attempt at being rational, I still rush through the giant redwoods, trying not to trip on moss-covered roots, the sound of my own labored breaths drowning out the other things I think I can hear. Even the soundtrack of the ocean in the distance isn’t as comforting as it used to be; it sounds like the end of something.

It is a huge relief when I see the log cabin.

I no longer care what is going on or why. I have to plan. I need to get the Land Rover back, then I’ll sit in it down by the dock until a boat comes. Any boat. I hurry inside, lock the door behind me, and reach for the light switch. It doesn’t work. I try again, but the cabin remains in darkness. For some reason there’s no power. I find the matchbox with the robin on the front that was here when I arrived and light a couple of candles so I can see what I’mdoing. Then I open the curtains covering the huge windows at the back of the cabin, revealing a full moon that is bright enough to dampen the gloom. I spot low clouds on the horizon, like a slow-moving blanket starting to cover the sea, and I hurry. I grab a torch then go out to the shed where the Land Rover was kept, and for once, my memory is not playing tricks on me. Inside, among all the well-organized tools and cubby holes, I find exactly what I am looking for: a small red fuel can. I pick it up and am happy to hear it is full. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell myself there is no such thing as an impossible solution. I return to the cabin, pack up everything I can’t leave without. Then I do something that is very difficult for me.

“It will be quicker if you stay here,” I say to Columbo. He doesn’t look convinced. “I’m going to run to the village and then I’ll drive straight back to get you. I really won’t be long and then we’ll leave this place for good. Okay?”

I do run. Not just because I’m scared and want to get out of here but because I don’t want to leave my dog for any longer than I have to. I locked all the windows and doors in the cabin, and tell myself that if someone wanted to hurt Columbo they would have already. It’smethe people on this island seem to have a problem with. I’ll run to the village, I’ll top up the tank, drive back, load up the car and go. It’s a simple plan, a good plan, theonlyplan. What can possibly go wrong?

The temperature drops dramatically on the island as soon as the sun sets. The icy air slaps and pinches my skin, and my legs feel heavy as I try to propel myself forward. When I leave the forest to join the coast road, I see that what I thought was low cloud seems to have completely spread across the ocean. I can still hear and smell the waves crashing on the rocks below, but I can’t see them. Every time I look over my shoulder the mist seems closer. A few steps later I can’t see anything at all in any direction; the mist seems to have completely enveloped the island.

Then I hear the sound of children crying in the distance.

I wish Ididn’tremember the story Sandy told me about the Children of the Mist.

But I do, so I remind myself what my nana always told me when I was scared as a child: there’s no need to be afraid of the dead, it’s the living you have to watch out for.

I force my feet to run a little faster anyway.

My heart is racing by the time I reach the village. The petrol canister is heavy and difficult to run with, so I feel a surge of relief when I see the lights in the distance. All of the windows in the thatched cottages appear to be glowing, as are the ones in the other houses and buildings, including The Stumble Inn. It seems I’m the only one with a power cut. Lights are shining all over the village and I can smell open fires, and see wisps of smoke snaking out of chimneys. Itlooksso welcoming, even in the dark. Picture-postcard perfect. The mist is thinner here away from the coast, and nothing feels as sinister or as threatening as it did a moment ago. Almost as though I imagined it.

I’m not imagining that the Land Rover has gone.

I spin around but it isn’t parked where I left it or anywhere else.

As usual I can’t see any signs of life in the village, but I canhearsomething: the sound of raised voices coming from inside the church.

I have never been in the village at night before. In the dark. The stained glass windows are illuminated from the light within, and as I get closer, I can see that they are not as traditional as I had presumed. They do not display religious icons. Instead, each one is made from glass images of faceless children. And every window has one word carved into the stone above it.

WE. WILL. NEVER. FORGET. OR. FORGIVE.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice this in the daytime, I guess sometimes we only see what we expect to see. I hear raised voicesinside the church again. It’s a Friday night—not a typical time for a service—and there is a voice inside my head screaming at me to walk away. But everything about this island now feels slightly off-kilter, and I have to know what is happening.