Lazarus Island, Page 2

  He cleared his throat noisily. “It’s from the Prison Service,” he announced gruffly. “Addressed to the island council. ‘Dear community leaders, it is with some regret that we must inform you of our decision to allow Benjamin Garrett the day release he has requested. This decision has been made in accordance with Human Rights laws which permit such visits in cases of this nature. It is our understanding that Mr Garrett’s mother, Cynthia, is only days away from death and that if Mr Garrett is to visit her then that time must be sooner rather than later.

  “‘We have taken into full consideration the strong views expressed by yourselves on the council, and the island community of Scalasay as a whole, with regards to Mr Garrett’s return to the island, albeit for one day, and fully understand the feelings of all concerned. However, we must stress that Mr Garrett will be escorted to and from the island by prison van under armed guard. Under no circumstances will the community of Scalasay be at risk. We have made every provision possible to ensure that the day release of Mr Garrett passes without any unnecessary complications. We hope that this decision is acceptable.’”

  Sheldon lowered the letter abruptly and yanked off his glasses.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as a member of this council and the community it serves, I say that this decision is wholly unacceptable!”

  The crowd erupted in cries and jeers as Sheldon sat down, an expression of bitter resentment on his face.

  Ashworth held up his hands, pleading for calm. When the hall settled, he pointed to a man in the front row. Everyone sat down to allow him to talk.

  “How can they say they ‘fully understand our feelings’? If they did they wouldn’t allow that monster to set foot on this island for one second!”

  Impassioned cries of “Hear! Hear!” echoed around the four walls. The man sat down.

  “I agree,” Ashworth said gravely. “What Ben Garrett did ten years ago was appalling. It would be appalling in any part of the world, even the roughest slum or inner-city area, but here in our peaceful community its effects are bound to be magnified. The ghosts of Garrett’s actions cannot be easily laid to rest. We accept that. And in an ideal world we would rather not see Ben Garrett ever set foot here again—”

  Sheldon shot to his feet again, pounding the table with his fist. “It would be better for everyone if Ben Garrett just stayed in his prison cell until he rotted. Even that would be a mercy for him.”

  Rachel saw anger flash across Ashworth’s face at the interruption. He’d clearly been building up to a point, a diplomatic solution to the quandary they all faced. He raised his arm and beckoned for Sheldon to resume his seat.

  Reluctantly, the older man did.

  Ashworth exhaled heavily. “Nobody wants this,” he said, holding up the letter Sheldon had just read out. “Nobody wants Garrett back on the island. But the simple fact is: he’s coming. Today. My question is not whether or not he should, but what we can do to stop this.”

  Silence filled the hall. Ashworth’s eyes drifted over the faces of his community.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Not a thing. We can all go down to Port Farron this afternoon and stage a protest, maybe, but what good will that do?”

  Silence. Ted Sheldon shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I propose we let this pass, let Garrett have his day release, let him visit his dying mother one last time. Then we can all get on with our lives again. Fighting this any further is only going to make things worse.”

  Sheldon turned and looked at Ashworth with anger flashing in his eyes. “Let it pass?” he hissed. “You know full well my daughter died at that maniac’s hands, Richard! Holly had her future, a bright future, snatched away in a moment. How can I ever let that pass?”

  Sheldon stood up abruptly, sending his chair skidding across the raised stage. He stormed away from the table and disappeared through the side door, slamming it shut.

  Ashworth watched him go, a miserable, pained expression on his damp, round face. When he turned back to the assembled islanders they began shouting their agreement.

  Realising the meeting was lost, that there would be no real resolution, Rachel turned to walk out through the doors into the cool morning. But one voice broke through the noise of all the others.

  “I’m surprised you showed your face here this morning, Mrs Thorne.”

  Rachel stopped. The hall descended into silence as she turned slowly round to face them. There were so many faces staring at her that she didn’t know where to look. In the end, she sought out the owner of the voice who had called out to her.

  It was the third island councillor, Reggie Jones. He sat with his hands locked together on the table in front of him, a judgemental squint on his face.

  The silence was almost unbearable. Ever since Sam dragged her here, she’d never felt part of this community. Sam had always tried to reassure her that she was simply being paranoid, that the community of Scalasay welcomed newcomers. But that was all inconsequential in the face of this wall of hostility.

  Hesitantly, in a broken voice, she said: “If you’re talking about me nursing Cynthia Garrett—”

  “Of course we are,” Jones snapped. “How could you nurse the mother of a murderer?”

  Her embarrassment fell away instantly, consumed by a sudden swell of anger. “Cynthia Garrett has done nothing wrong.”

  “Apart from raising a monster!”

  “Someone has to look after her. As a nurse it’s my duty.”

  “Oh, really?” Jones said. “And what about ethics? What about your duty to this community? As a newcomer to this island . . .”

  This time it was Ashworth’s turn to interrupt. He raised his hand, silencing his colleague in mid-flow.

  “Reggie, please, I don’t think this is any way forward. Rachel Thorne is simply doing her job, nursing a very sick woman on her deathbed.”

  Sam had become fast friends with Ashworth when they first arrived on Scalasay, but Rachel had never liked him. She found him condescending, not just to her in particular, but to all women. A man with a trophy wife like Marina Ashworth was bound to hold a certain opinion of women that was not, in her mind, entirely healthy. But right now, she wanted to plant a kiss on his big ruddy cheeks. In this nest of vipers, he was her only defender.

  “So?” Reggie Jones went on. “There are plenty of people outside this community who could have done the job. If she was looking to be accepted into this community she should have left it to them, instead of—”

  “Reggie,” Ashworth said, his voice hard and full of warning. “That’s enough.”

  Rachel expected Jones to continue, but to her surprise he acquiesced, looking down at his hands with the air of a schoolboy who has just been reprimanded by the principal.

  Ashworth held Rachel’s gaze for a moment and in that moment she saw his unspoken apology. She offered a small nod of acknowledgement, then turned to leave. As she stepped towards the open doorway a dark figure blocked her way.

  It was Lawkins, Ashworth’s handyman and gardener.

  She stumbled back a step, unable to withhold a gasp at the man’s disfigured face. He was dressed in fisherman’s oilskins, his face ruddy and unshaven, and his right eye was missing. He stared at her with his one good eye, but she saw no kindness there.

  She stepped to the left and pushed past him, out into the welcome fresh air.

  Damn you, Sam, she thought. Why did you bring me to this god-forsaken place?

  5

  On that bright September morning, Ben Garrett sat in the back of a Securi-T prison van with his eyes closed, a set of black glass and silver rosary beads running though his thick, calloused fingers, lips trembling as he intoned the Hail Mary.

  He was a big man, and the heat in the steel-walled compartment was stifling, his face and neck glistening with sweat. The triumvirate of jagged scars which ran diagonally across the left side of his face throbbed incessantly, but he welcomed the pain. A fellow inmate named Dick ‘Bull’ Jaggers had given him those marks
in an attempt to blind him. He very nearly succeeded. Garrett felt that the scars were well deserved and long overdue. After all the things he had done in his miserable life, he was only disappointed that his eyes had not been permanently ruined in the attack.

  He felt the van rumble to a stop, and the engine died. He continued to recite his prayer, but his ears were fixed on the sound of footsteps crunching gravel outside the van. Moments later, the rear door was unlocked and yanked open. Warden Damien Knox stood in the blinding rectangle of light, chewing gum with open-mouthed arrogance.

  “All right, beautiful,” he said. “Last cigarette break before we reach the island.”

  Garrett refused to acknowledge this offer, instead closing his eyes and finishing the Our Father he had just begun.

  “Come on, Garrett,” Knox said. “You’ve got another twenty miles to say your prayers. Cigarette break now or I shut this door.”

  “. . .world without end, Amen,” Garrett finished. He slipped the rosary beads into the pocket of his tunic, then lifted the heavy leg and arm chains in both hands before shuffling sideways out of the compartment.

  “You're such a prick, Garrett,” Knox chided, stepping back to allow Garrett’s exit.

  Stepping out onto the gravel was a truly exhilarating feeling. The fresh highland wind rushed into his oxygen-starved lungs, so precious it actually tasted sweet to him. Like honey. He inhaled deeply and then looked around the Scottish countryside. They had parked on the gravel verge of a winding cliff road. The jagged hills of the coastline fell away below them, white foam crashing leisurely at the base. Garrett felt the finest spray of seawater on his face.

  Knox stepped up to his left shoulder, an open cigarette tin in his hand. Chains clinking, Garrett picked out one of his own perfectly manufactured rollups (a skill he’d learned in prison) and slipped it between his dry lips. When Knox put his flame to it, the sensation was like ecstasy. He inhaled deeply and then let out a long, steady breath.

  “What time will we get to the island?” he asked.

  Knox, who was drawing on his own filtered cigarette, glared at him for a moment. “We’re hoping to catch the two o’clock ferry. Why? Afraid your mother will pop her clogs before we get there?”

  The jibe was cruel enough for Garrett to tear his eyes away from the mesmerising scenery. He held Knox’s gaze, grappling with that inner beast, the one which had led him down this terrible road. He tried to tell himself that Knox was inexperienced, filled with all the arrogance and prejudices of youth. Men like Knox saw Ben Garrett and just saw KILLER. For young men like Knox the world was a much simpler place. They couldn’t accept that people could change, that murderers could turn their lives around. Or, perhaps, they didn’t want to accept it. For people like Knox, the world was better, simpler, in black and white.

  Knox held his gaze for as long as possible, but just as he faltered, his colleague Frank Hannon appeared at his side, stretching his aching limbs after the middle leg of a very long journey.

  “Give us one,” he said, pointing at the pack of Benson and Hedges in Knox’s hand.

  “What do you reckon, Frank?” Knox said, the cruel gleam returning to his eye. “D’you reckon he’ll make it to see his dear old mum before she shuffles off her mortal coil?”

  Lighting his own cigarette, Hannon let out a braying laugh. “Wouldn’t that just be poetic justice? ‘Sorry you came all this way, laddie, but your mother just snuffed it as you were coming up the garden path.’”

  The two men collapsed against each other, giggling like excitable schoolboys. Garrett stared at them through an emotionless mask. Eventually, he turned away, needing the soothing scenery of the Scottish coast to calm the smouldering fire in his chest.

  God would not let that happen, he told himself. God was good. And God welcomed the repentant sinner. Father Joseph had told him that countless times during their long talks in his cell. No one was beyond God’s forgiveness, the old priest had said. Murderers, rapists, pederasts: God could forgive the worst thing that a human being could do if the sinner was repentant enough, if they truly felt sorry for what they had done. For God’s justice was not done here on Earth, but in the life afterwards, as long as we made amends here and now, in this life. Seeing his mother, Garrett had decided, was his path to true repentance.

  “She won’t die,” he said. “God would not allow it.”

  Hannon and Knox exchanged a cynical look.

  “Before she leaves this world there is something very important I have to tell her.”

  Garrett looked at them sidelong, enjoying the puzzled looks on their faces for that briefest of moments.

  “What?” Knox said. “Tell her what?”

  But Garrett just turned back to the ocean and kept on smiling.

  6

  If he had believed in such things, Sam Thorne would have seen his first meeting with Kelly Burnett as a bad omen. But, in truth, the girl was just trouble, trouble which came into his life at exactly the wrong moment – or the right moment, depending on your point of view.

  His publishers had run a short story contest in the back of his second book, inviting aspiring writers to pen a tale ‘in the style of Samuel Thorne’. Ten lucky souls, whose work had been deemed good enough by the judges, would win a place on a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’, one-day workshop hosted by Samuel Thorne. In their wisdom, Hayden-Mills had appointed him a personal assistant for the day, a bright young woman with a bright career in publishing ahead of her: Kelly Burnett. He’d complained at the time at not being allowed to choose his own PA, which would have saved him an ocean of heartache later on. But that was just another fruitless voyage into the world of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘yeah-buts’. As it happened, Kelly Burnett was bloody good at her job.

  Sam had never really enjoyed workshops. The few he’d attended in his own early years had seemed dry and filled with awkward moments. But there was no getting out of this one. He was the host, and it was also part of the book contract. He didn’t really mind. It gave him a night in the Gleneagles Hotel, all paid, that was not to be sniffed at, and a healthy down payment for the use of his considerable literary expertise. As it turned out the workshop was a big success, which was all down to Kelly Burnett.

  During that first session in the hall of the Gleneagles, he had met the ten hopefuls, had spoken to them one-on-one, had engaged in ice-breaking activities with them, and yet, even now, he couldn’t remember a single face from those ten. The only thing he could remember was Kelly Burnett. From the first moment she stepped in the room, glossy curls of russet hair falling in waves over her shoulders, clothes and accessories from the leading London stylists, bright blue eyes flashing like fireworks on meeting each new face, she dominated the workshop with the force of her personality. She laughed, she told silly anecdotes, revealing moments in her life which ranged from the truly outrageous to the deeply affecting. But she was good. She led the workshop with textbook precision: keeping things bubbling along, filling in any embarrassing silences Sam might have left after one of his fumbling speeches, but most of all, making Sam Thorne look intelligent. For that alone he had been grateful to her.

  Much later, he recalled how she seemed to keep him in her line of sight, as if he might disappear in a puff of smoke if she dared take her eyes off him. But even with all of this going on, Sam never for one minute believed that she had any real sexual interest in him. And, conversely, he entertained no private fantasies about illicit rendezvous with excitable young women. Not on a short story workshop. That sort of thing happened to rock stars and footballers. Not to happily-married, Sunday Times best-selling authors.

  But that’s what did happen. And no one was more surprised that it happened than Sam Thorne.

  7

  “Please join me for a drink upstairs,” he’d told the group as they were packing away their things at the end of the day. He didn’t have to extend this invitation, he told himself later. He could have wished them all well with their respective stories/careers and slinked off to th
e luxury of his room, there to drown himself in whatever liquor he fancied for the night. But, no. The workshop had gone far better than he’d imagined, thanks to Kelly, and he wanted to continue the good feeling just that little bit further. He felt also that talking to these aspiring authors in a non-structured setting might be beneficial to him. Some part of him liked the fact that these kids wanted to be him. It was egotistical, he knew, but it was also interesting. He’d never imagined himself as someone to look up to, someone that people might aspire to be. And practically, he was having trouble coming up with a concept for the elusive Novel Number Four. Perhaps a few drinks in the company of these ‘Sam Thorne wannabes’ might ignite some creative fireworks under his muse. She’d given him nothing for a long time now, and he’d learnt that slapping the old girl did not make her any more responsive.

  As it turned out, half the students had trains to catch, which was understandable. But when he came back down half an hour later, after freshening up and putting on a new shirt, he was horrified to find only one person from the workshop sitting in the bar area. Kelly Burnett. He had only a moment on the stairs in which to take the coward’s way out, to retrace his steps to his room and tell the management that he was not taking any calls or visitors for the rest of the night. But that moment’s hesitation was his undoing. Her big dark eyes found him across the lounge and she beckoned him over with an ostentatious wave.

  Arranging his features into a gregarious grin he walked over, telling himself over and over: Half an hour, then make your excuses. Half an hour, no more.

  “Hi, Sam,” she said. “Is it all right if I call you Sam now?”

  “You’ve been calling me Sam for the past twelve hours, I don’t see why you should change now.”