The Stalker, Page 3

  ‘Looks like a nice beach over here,’ Liam says, pointing out a long stretch of sand marked on the northern side. Now that sounds much more enticing. Hopefully Liam will forget his idea of hunting for old graves and want to go there instead.

  ‘Maybe we can go there for a picnic one day?’ I suggest.

  He nods in agreement and keeps studying the map. I know he’s committing it to memory. He’s lucky. He has a photographic memory; he can remember names, faces, things he’s read or seen in minute detail. He can even recall whole conversations word for word, ones that we’ve had months before that I have no recollection of. It makes him a formidable detective and interrogator. Whilst he’s engrossed, I pick up another book from the coffee table; this one leather bound. ‘GUEST BOOK’ is embossed on the cover in gold leaf. I flick through the pages, all of them blank, and then stop, surprised.

  ‘He was wrong,’ I say.

  Liam looks up from the map.

  ‘The boatman,’ I explain, showing Liam the guest book. ‘He said we were the first guests.’ On the first page someone has written an entry in spidery, blue handwriting. ‘But this is dated from last Christmas Eve.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Liam says, taking the book from me and looking at the date. ‘Maybe they were the last visitors here, before the island was bought and the cottage was converted.’

  Liam reads the entry out loud: ‘Stay was cut short unfortunately, but it was wonderful until then. Tried looking for the burial site but couldn’t find it. I look forward to visiting in the future. A warning to guests: stay away from the cliffs. A fall could be fatal.’

  Liam closes the book and puts it back on the coffee table. ‘Fancy an explore?’ he asks, jumping to his feet.

  ‘Are we going looking for the barrow?’ I ask with a wry smile.

  He shakes his head. ‘We’ll do that tomorrow when we’ve got more time. Let’s go and check out the castle. That’ll be a bit easier to find, I suspect!’

  Chapter Four

  We leave by the back door and Liam locks it, despite the fact we’re alone on the island and it’s not as if anyone is going to break in and rob us. ‘Force of habit,’ he laughs, pocketing the key.

  There’s a stack of chopped wood piled almost five feet high against the side of the house, covered in a tarp. ‘Enough wood to see us through a whole winter,’ Liam comments, nodding in its direction. ‘And the summer too. Christ, it’s nippy. I’ll put a fire on when we get back.’ He grimaces a little, pulling his coat around him to keep out the chill, then takes my hand as we head into the forest. I’m equally grateful for my scarf and the warm coat I brought with me.

  The sunlight barely penetrates among the trees and the occasional beam that slips between the dark branches reminds me of light shining through the windows of a church, as does the hushed stillness. I take deep breaths, filling my lungs with fresh air, revelling in the sense of freedom that’s germinated in me, just by being here among nature. It’s as if I’ve left the past behind and I’m taking my first teetering steps on a new path. We follow a winding route through the forest; I’m not sure which direction we’re heading in exactly. It’s dank and mossy and there’s no real trail. Very quickly, I feel lost.

  ‘This way,’ Liam says, orienting us without a problem.

  After a few more minutes, we break into a clearing and I pull up abruptly, stumbling into Liam. Up ahead is the castle – but it looks nothing like it did in the photograph. It’s a ruin: fire has gutted it almost completely, and it lies before us like a blackened, half-eaten carcass.

  ‘Guess that’s why they didn’t mention it on the website,’ Liam laughs.

  I stare up at it and suppress a shudder. Though it’s only five o’clock in the afternoon and won’t be dark for ages, the broken timbers of the roof cast a long shadow and I remember the conversation back in the pub – all that talk of ghosts. Did someone die in the fire perhaps?

  ‘I wonder how it burned down,’ I say. ‘And if anyone got hurt.’ I think of the photograph of Nancy, Andrew and Elliot.

  We walk along the edge of the clearing, circumnavigating the castle at a distance. It’s four storeys tall, but the roof has collapsed in places and the rafters poke up like painfully splintered ribs. One wing of the castle has been totally destroyed, but the other side is still mainly intact – though many of the windows are smashed and probing tendrils of ivy have snaked their way inside.

  The ground floor windows look to be boarded up with plywood, though I can’t think why. Perhaps kids sometimes come over from the mainland, I muse, looking for some illicit fun. Or more likely it’s to stop animals from going inside and making it their own. It seems odd that it was never torn down, but perhaps it’s too expensive to bother, and maybe there’s no point. Eventually nature will claim it; it’s already starting to.

  The back of the castle is in an even worse state than the front. The walls have broken down entirely in places and it looks like a giant doll’s house that’s hinged wide open. I can even make out floral wallpaper, stained and faded, in an upstairs room, and a wooden rocking horse, sitting forlornly in what must once have been a nursery on the first floor. I wonder at all the memories a home can hold – whether they imprint on the bricks and mortar.

  ‘Shall we see if we can find that beach?’ Liam asks, nudging my elbow.

  I nod, wanting to get away from the place and its eerie presence; something about it makes me feel uneasy.

  We dive back into the forest, Liam navigating our way with ease between the trees, carving out a new pathway through the bracken and undergrowth. I wonder how long it’s been since anyone trod where my feet are landing. It’s easy to imagine we’re the only people in the world out here, or that we’ve stepped back in time to another era altogether.

  When we reach the beach – another ten-minute walk – I’m out of breath. It’s been so long since I got any real exercise, and I’m horribly aware of just how unfit I’ve become. It’s all the staying inside, lying in bed and moping. I used to run three times a week, and even managed a 10K a year ago to raise money for Cancer Research, but now I doubt I could run to the other side of the island if my life depended on it.

  The sand stretches almost half a mile and it’s the most beautiful place I think I’ve ever seen. The view across to the other side of the loch is extraordinary: mountains rise shadowy and indistinct in the distance. It reminds me of those Lord of the Rings films with all its majesty and otherworldliness. It makes me completely forget the sense of horror that overcame me back at the castle.

  We stroll up the beach hand in hand, walking into the wind, which feels like fists pummelling us. ‘What are you thinking about?’ Liam asks after a moment.

  I’ve been lost in thought, gazing out at the water. My thoughts had wandered to my mum, to tell the truth – my mind often slips back to her – but I don’t want to admit that because I know he’s worried about my depression and wants me to be happy, so instead I smile and say; ‘I was just thinking about the wedding.’

  ‘What about it?’ Liam asks.

  ‘Just how perfect it was,’ I say, leaning into him.

  ‘Even though it wasn’t the big wedding of your dreams?’ he asks me, looking unsure.

  He’s asked me this before, and I’ve told him a thousand times that the intimate wedding we had was all I wanted, but he still worries that I wanted a big blow-out wedding ceremony and reception and that I feel let down.

  ‘It was just what I wanted,’ I tell him again. ‘It couldn’t have been better.’

  He puts his arm around me. ‘I agree,’ he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head.

  My smile must have faltered though, probably because the memories of the wedding are so bittersweet, because Liam notices and frowns. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, trying to brush away the feeling. ‘I’m fine. I’m good.’

  I don’t want him to feel like I’m ruining the honeymoon by moping. I already ruined the first one; we d
idn’t get to experience any newlywed bliss because my mum died the day after our wedding. We were on the way to the airport when I got a call from her neighbour, telling me she was dead.

  ‘You know your mum wouldn’t want you to be sad,’ Liam says, intuiting my thoughts. ‘She’d want you to be happy.’

  It’s the same lecture I gave myself in the bath earlier and I nod, swallowing away the hard lump that’s risen up my throat. ‘I just don’t get why she had to die,’ I whisper, immediately wishing I hadn’t spoken the thought out loud.

  My mum had breast cancer. She’d fought it for four years, but she was responding well to the treatment and the doctors were hopeful she’d pull through. It’s so unfair. She was meant to grow old. She was meant to be a grandmother. She wasn’t meant to die so soon. I still can’t get over the injustice of it.

  ‘The best thing you can do is live your life,’ Liam says to me now. ‘And be happy, for her sake. It’s what she’d want.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, kissing Liam’s cheek. ‘Isis would love it here,’ I add, changing the subject. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t bring her.’

  ‘She’s fine, don’t worry,’ Liam says as we continue strolling up the beach. ‘The kennel’s more like a luxury dog spa. It’s costing the earth.’

  I laugh, though we did get a discount because I know the owners from my time working at the vet. Isis, our black lab mix, will be well looked after, but I still miss her. She’s my companion in the daytime when Liam’s out at work; she often lies with me, on top of my feet, when I find myself too tired and too sad to get out of bed. It feels strange to be without her now, as though I’m missing a limb. I keep scanning around for sticks to throw her.

  ‘You know this is our very first holiday together?’ Liam says. ‘Can you believe it?’

  I smile. Liam and I had something of a whirlwind romance; we were married after just six months. After Liam proposed, we decided we didn’t want to wait. We were impatient to actually be man and wife and the thought of spending a lot of money and planning for months didn’t make sense to either of us. On top of that, my mum being ill made us want to do it sooner rather than later. There was always the thought in my mind that time was precious, and you just never knew which way her health would go. Liam wanted something small and intimate. As he explained it; it was our special day, our promises and nothing and no one else mattered. And it was a beautiful day. The last beautiful day.

  It’s funny, I muse, how the best day of your life can turn into the worst.

  ‘Where else would you like to go?’ Liam asks. ‘What’s on your bucket list?’

  ‘Paris, Australia, Vietnam, Rome, Costa Rica …’ I say to Liam, rattling off some of the places on my very long list.

  ‘You’ve really thought about this,’ Liam jokes.

  I have, partly because I haven’t been to many places. We didn’t have much money when I was growing up and summer holidays were spent in caravans on the south coast, usually Broadstairs or Hastings. Once, after my dad died, my mum used some of the money from his life insurance payout to take us to the Canary Islands. We loved it, spent the week lying by the pool reading and playing cards. It was my first time on an aeroplane.

  I’ve also been to Spain once, with two friends I met on my veterinary assistant course. But it was a package tour, one designed for young people who liked to party, and it wasn’t really my thing. My friends just wanted to get drunk and go out clubbing and I was too shy and ended up staying in most nights and reading a book.

  ‘What would be your dream holiday if you had to pick one?’ Liam presses.

  ‘A safari in Africa,’ I say, without hesitation. It’s something I’ve long dreamed of, ever since I was a kid and became obsessed with David Attenborough’s nature documentaries. ‘But, honestly,’ I add quickly, gesturing at the view, ‘this is my dream holiday. It’s a perfect honeymoon.’

  ‘Better than Greece?’ he asks.

  ‘Better than Greece,’ I say, and I really mean it. ‘Here we’ve got a whole island all to ourselves. Over there we’d have to share.’

  Liam grins.

  ‘Thanks for booking it. I really appreciate it,’ I say to him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Liam says, looking pleased. ‘Come on, let’s get back.’

  Chapter Five

  I can feel Liam’s eyes on me as I kneel down in front of the fridge and pull out ingredients for dinner. I glance over my shoulder and find him watching me with a smile, one that makes me feel flustered and almost causes me to drop the food I’m holding. His expression is a mix of desire and pride. I smile at him. ‘What?’ I ask, my cheeks burning.

  ‘Nothing,’ he grins. ‘Can’t a man admire his wife?’

  I flush even redder. I’m still getting used to him calling me his wife. It feels so strange.

  ‘It’s just nice to hear you humming,’ he remarks.

  I hadn’t noticed that I was, and the realisation makes me startle and then smile as I put the garlic, scallops and prosciutto onto the counter.

  ‘What are you making?’ Liam asks, coming closer and wrapping his arms around my waist.

  ‘I thought I’d do fettucine with seared scallops and prosciutto,’ I tell him, unwrapping the scallops. ‘We need to eat these first, before they go off.’

  He nods, resting his chin on my shoulder. ‘Sounds wonderful. Can I do anything to help?’

  I shake my head. ‘All under control,’ I say as I extricate myself to fill a pan with water.

  Liam opens a bottle of red wine and pours himself a glass. He offers me a glass of white, but I turn it down. I’m not meant to mix alcohol with my medication. He sips his wine as he leans against the counter, watching me as I move around the kitchen. He likes watching me cook. He says it’s an education, because he can’t so much as boil an egg, and he finds it sexy.

  I’m not sure how sexy preparing scallops is, but I take the knife he offers me from the drawer and start cleaning the scallops and wrapping them in prosciutto slices. My stomach fights nausea as I do, and I have to grit my teeth against the swell of it rising up my throat. I still don’t feel hungry, despite the walk earlier and all the fresh air.

  I begin to peel the garlic, trying to remember the steps of the recipe because I can’t look it up on my phone. I never used to be a good cook; I’ve become one in the last few months, which is ironic given that during the same period I’ve lost my appetite. While I’ve been battling depression, I haven’t felt in the mood to read my normal romance and thriller novels, but I’ve been able to page through recipe books, and every day I make dinner for Liam for when he gets home from work. At least then I feel like I’ve achieved something with my day, and I know he appreciates the effort. Liam grew up with a single mother who worked all hours. He was a latchkey kid who lived on TV dinners, and as an adult, working erratic hours and moving around a lot for work, he says he’s lived on junk food and Pot Noodles.

  My mum would laugh to see how good I’ve become in the kitchen. I was spoiled as a girl because she would always make home-cooked meals every evening and even when I moved out, she’d still cook for me multiple nights a week. On the other nights I’d head back to my place and warm up a can of soup or a Marks & Spencer ready meal – knowing how to use the microwave was the extent of my culinary expertise. Now I’m capable of delivering three-course meals that would make a Michelin-starred chef envious – at least according to Liam.

  I bend down to search for the lemon squeezer in the drawer and Liam comes up behind me again, pulling me back towards him. ‘You’re so sexy,’ he says, burying his face in my hair and kissing my neck.

  My legs go weak as they always do when he touches me. I turn around to face him and he pushes me back against the counter and kisses me. Things quickly start to heat up, his hands stroking up my back, my breath becoming ragged, and it’s only when I hear the pan sizzling behind me that I leap out of his arms, laughing and catching the pan before the oil can splatter.

  ‘I’ll behave,’ Li
am laughs, moving away to refill his glass.

  I put the scallops in the pan and hear the satisfying crackle of the prosciutto as it starts to cook. I need to time things carefully, so the scallops don’t overcook, and the pasta is perfectly al dente. There’s nothing worse than undercooked pasta and overcooked fish.

  Twenty minutes later I set two plates down on the table, adding a squeeze of lemon with a flourish to the scallops. I sit down opposite Liam and watch him take a bite. He chews thoughtfully and then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Incredible,’ he says. ‘You should go on MasterChef.’

  I smile back, happy he likes it, and take a small bite of my own. I can’t taste it though and the slippery, almost fleshy texture of the scallop makes me queasy. I end up pushing the rest of my food around my plate.

  ‘Have you thought about going back to work?’ he asks, reaching for the salt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer, hesitantly. ‘I mean, I’d like to at some point.’ I quit my job at the vet just after my mum died and I was too depressed to go in. ‘I miss my job. Being around animals,’ I admit to Liam.

  ‘Maybe you can go back soon,’ he suggests. ‘I mean, if you think you’re up to it? No pressure though, of course.’

  I take a deep breath, then let it out. ‘I think I might need a few more months,’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ he answers. ‘Take your time. Are you done?’ He gestures to my plate.

  I look down and see I’ve eaten nothing more than that first bite, but I nod. ‘Do you want dessert?’ I ask, standing up to clear the table.

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  I put the plates in the sink and then cross to the fridge, but Liam catches me by the wrist and pulls me into his lap.

  ‘You don’t want dessert?’ I ask in a teasing tone.

  He grins. ‘I want you.’

  He kisses the spot on my neck that always makes me gasp. I close my eyes as a shiver runs up my spine. His touch is like fire and ice at the same time, almost painful, like the burn you get when you hold snow in your palm for too long. His hands slide up beneath my skirt and he groans.