Refuge Read online

  REFUGE

  KIRSTY FERRY

  www.rosethornpress.co.uk

  Refuge

  Copyright © Kirsty Ferry 2012

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  All characters depicted within this publication, other than the obvious, historical figures, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-147937646

  Prologue

  Present Day

  The wave crashed into the side of the rowing boat, rolling it almost onto its side. The moon was breaking through the clouds, a pale disc illuminating the ragged edges of the dark clouds against the night sky. He pulled on the oars, trying to control the boat and ducked as salt water splashed over the side and soaked him. He strained his eyes, tasting the sea on his lips and peering into the darkness. He could just about make it out – the ghostly, grey box, balanced on four spindly legs rising out of the water. The causeway was covered, invisible under the incessant waves breaking over the surface.

  ***

  A dark figure stood up on the shore of the Island next to the abandoned lime kilns. She looked down onto the beach below. The shale was covered with water now, the waves rushing into the openings in the front of the kilns, crashing and whirling into the caverns inside. She raised her head and saw the poles rising out of the water, leading towards the kilns. Despite the wind blowing in off the sea, she didn’t feel cold. She closed her eyes and felt it sweep around her, lifting her dark hair from her shoulders.

  She took a step forward. Then another step. Then she stepped neatly off the edge. The waves never broke as her body landed in the ocean and the waves closed over her head.

  Present Day

  Guy cradled his mug of coffee as he sat in the dining room of the Bed and Breakfast. The remains of a fried breakfast were pushed to one side of him and a newspaper lay open. Drowning at Lindisfarne ran the headline. Another body had been washed ashore, the third in as many months. The door to the refuge had been swinging open, slamming into the door frame. The water had reached the top of the steps at high tide: the coastguard thought that maybe the young lad - a backpacker - had opened the door to see how deep the water was. They presumed he’d slipped and fallen into the North Sea and been swept away by the tide.

  Guy sighed. He wasn’t convinced. The lad’s belongings had been left at the hotel. He had nothing with him, not even his mobile phone. Who went out without one of those things nowadays? It seemed to Guy that he had been intending to come back before the tide cut him off. He had plenty of opportunity; the tide tables were well advertised, there was no reason for him to miss the chance of a clear causeway. Suicide? Guy didn’t know. He hoped not.

  ‘What do you think about that?’ Guy looked up and saw the landlady standing next to him holding the coffee pot. ‘The third young lad to die up here recently. It’s making us sound like a hotspot for something.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know what their idea is. You’d think they’d learn from the ones that went before them.’ She shook her head. ‘More coffee?’ Guy nodded and passed his mug over. ‘Oh look. You’ve hardly touched it,’ she scolded. ‘You need to eat more. You’ll waste away.’

  Guy smiled. ‘I’m fine, really. They’re all tourists, aren’t they?’ he asked. ‘Nobody local.’

  ‘Yes, all visitors,’ sighed the landlady. There’s no reason for them to stray off the Island like that. There’s plenty of tide tables up. Perhaps they think they can make it back – the posts lead them towards the Island don’t they? To the old lime kilns; but they don’t reckon on the tides.’ She shook her head again. ‘Is it putting you off staying?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Guy. ‘I’m fully intending staying as long as I have to.’ He smiled again. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The landlady looked at the young man sitting before her. He had a nice face, she thought; honest and open. She could imagine lots of women melting at that nice smile; he had blue eyes and blonde hair as well. She smiled back at him. He reminded her of a lad she once knew; one of the summer visitors. ‘Well, as you said, you’ve got work to do here haven’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. A research project,’ said Guy. ‘Really, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You finished with that, then?’ asked the landlady, reaching for the newspaper. ‘I’ll get it out your way.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. Just leave it. Thanks,’ said Guy. ‘I’m still reading it.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said the lady and smiled at him. ‘Enjoy your day. Dinner’s at seven. If you leave the Island, you’ll need to be back around four, just to make sure you don’t get caught. Don’t want you headlining those papers, do we?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ***

  The mini-bus drove down the incline onto the causeway. The tide was out, but the road was still wet, the tarmac shiny from the waves which had opened it up to the traffic. Lucas tried to ignore the clamour from the back of the coach as his Uni friends threw screwed up paper napkins and takeaway coffee cups at each other. This was supposed to be a history field trip, and he’d already guessed that he’d be one of the only ones treating it that way. He felt the weight of his mobile in his pocket and was conscious of the fact that it was totally silent. Laura hadn’t called for weeks. It was a pretty safe assumption that it was definitely over then. He wouldn’t delete her number just yet though. Maybe in a week. Or a month. Or even two...

  ‘Hey, Lucas!’ shouted Drew, ‘if you’ve decided you need something to help you forget, there might be some nice Island girls here who’ll help you.’ There was a roar of laughter from the back of the coach. It was clear what they all had on their minds, and it definitely wasn’t history. They all seemed strangely excited at being marooned on this island for two nights.

  Lucas raised his hand in acknowledgement but didn’t turn around. There were more shouts of laughter then someone called out,

  ‘Cool! What’s that place for?’ The bus lurched as a few lads pushed their way over the other side of the coach to peer out of the window. Drew forced himself in front of Lucas and leaned over him, one hand on Lucas’ shoulder.

  ‘Get off me!’ snapped Lucas. Drew lifted his hand and replaced it on Lucas’ head. He ruffled the boy’s sandy coloured hair. Lucas smacked him away and Drew laughed.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ he said, putting both hands on the window and staring at the white box, which raised up out of the sand and balanced on long, giraffe-like legs. A kind of stepladder led up to the doorway which was firmly closed against the biting wind sweeping in off the sea and buffeting the mini-bus.

  ‘Dunno. I think it’s the refuge hut,’ said Lucas, following Drew’s gaze. ‘You’re supposed to sit in it when you get caught in the tides.’

  ‘Think they’ve got a vending machine in there?’ asked Drew. ‘DVD player? Electric fire? TV? Nah, bet they haven’t. Probably full of damp old tourist leaflets and sand.’

  ‘Isn’t that where that kid committed suicide?’ piped up Alex. ‘I saw it in the paper at that service station.’

  ‘Yes! That must be it!’ cried Drew. He stared at it in ghoulish fascination as the bus passed it and headed towards the Island. ‘Cool,’ he said again. He moved Lucas’ bag out of the way and dumped it on the floor. He sat down on the empty seat next to his mate. ‘Yes, we’ve got to get you some Island life,’ he said, nodding. ‘Don’t want you to be the fourth one, eh?’ he nudged Lucas sharply in the ribs.

  ‘Pack it in,’ muttered Lucas, shifting in his seat. He was regretting the confessions that had spilled out in the wake of several pints and being dumpe
d by Laura. Unfortunately, for once, Drew had been a bit more sober than him, and could remember most of the conversation. He’d had great fun tormenting him ever since. Drew was a mate, and solid one at that; but Lucas would hate to have him as an enemy, that was for sure.

  ‘We’re he-er...’ shouted someone, doing a bad impersonation of the Poltergeist film. Everyone laughed: everyone, that is, except Lucas. He so wasn’t in the mood for this.

  ‘Come on, let’s get the gear unpacked,’ said Drew, nudging him again. He sprang up from his seat and began hauling his baggage from the luggage shelf above their heads. The driver had given up asking them to stay seated and keep their seatbelts fastened, somewhere on the A1. He just made sure he pressed the brake pretty hard: the bus stopped quickly and the lads standing up wobbled a bit. There was an outraged shout as someone’s bag hit someone else on the head, and Lucas shrank back in his seat, deciding to wait until the group calmed down enough for him to stand up and get the rest of his luggage.

  ‘I’ll go and get our room sorted, mate,’ said Drew, bounding down the aisle on long legs. ‘That way I can bags the best bed.’ He jumped off the bus and Lucas saw him run into the B&B, knocking Alex sideways and laughing about it as Alex hurled abuse after him and gave chase. Lucas sighed. Whatever, he thought, and stood up. He checked his mobile automatically, hoping to see the envelope icon telling him he had a text message from her. The screen was blank and he shoved it back in his pocket. There didn’t even seem to be a signal. Brilliant.

  Lucas was last to leave the bus. He at least had the courtesy to thank the driver as he stepped onto the Island.

  ‘See you in a couple of days,’ said the driver. Lucas slammed the door for him, and the bus pulled away, honking as Lucas raised his hand to the driver. The driver was taking no chances – he obviously wanted to get off that island. He probably didn’t fancy being stuck there overnight with Lucas and his friends. Lucas didn’t even fancy it much, if he was honest.

  Lucas stared around him hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. It suddenly seemed very quiet. There was nothing but the drone of the wind and the shushing of the sea around him. He had the oddest feeling that someone was watching him. He turned quickly and saw a young girl, maybe eighteen, nineteen years old. She was sitting on a fence across the road, her red hair falling in waves to her shoulders. Lucas caught her glance and she smiled at him. One of the Island girls, he presumed, just waiting for a bus load of students to pull up. Her and Drew would get on famously.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Are you with the visitors?’

  She must be well used to strangers pitching up on the island; it was a small place. She’d know they weren’t locals. Well, it cost nothing for him to be polite, he supposed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘For two nights.’

  ‘Concise and to the point,’ smiled the girl. She hopped off the fence and came over to him. She was petite and skinny with it, but she moved gracefully, just like a dancer. ‘I’m Cass,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  Lucas hesitated for a moment, then took it. ‘Lucas,’ he said. The girl smiled at him again. Her eyes were a queer sort of azure blue. They made her pupils look enormously black and her lashes were thick and dark, and framed them perfectly. Most people of that colouring had pale, unremarkable eyelashes, but hers were different. He remembered Laura’s dressing table, full of little pots of magic this and special that. She’d go through tubes of mascara, he remembered, piling it on, opening her eyes wide in the mirror and building her lashes up. Her mouth would gape open while she did it, her whole demeanour so full of concentration that he’d laugh at her. He actually quite missed seeing her get ready. She was a welcome sight in the morning. This Cass, whoever she was, didn’t look like she’d ever been to a make-up counter in her life. Her skin was a flawless creamy colour, and her cheeks rosy pink, like her lips. She looked fresh and natural – even down to the eyelashes.

  ‘So, two nights?’ she asked. ‘That’s long enough, I guess.’

  ‘Long enough for what?’ asked Lucas.

  ‘Long enough for me to get to know you better,’ said Cass, tilting her head to one side. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She smiled and turned away from him, heading back to the field. ‘Oh,’ she threw back over her shoulder, ‘the lime kilns. I’d go there if I were you. If you’re interested in history, that is. We’ve got the castle and the Priory and the gardens and things, but nobody seems to give the lime kilns the time of day. You should go.’

  Lucas opened his mouth to reply, but she had already turned back and was climbing the fence into the field. He watched after her for a moment, then pushed the door to the B&B open. Cass. Interesting. Quickly, he slapped the thought away. That’s what had got him into trouble with Laura.

  1860

  Kester Lawson had watched his sister die. Her name had been Summer. It suited her – she was golden and bright, like a warm July day. Looking back, Kester was pleased his parents had made them sit for formal photographic portraits. The gentleman had come over from Bath with his new equipment; he would produce ambrotypes, he had told them. They were better than daguerreotypes: but much more expensive, especially if he had to go away and hand-tint them. Kester’s parents, always keen to practice the newest fads, and indeed, to be seen to be practising the newest fads, had demanded Kester and Summer’s presence for the portraits. There were the usual sets of stiff, family portraits: Kester and his sister standing behind his parents, one of his father standing with his hands on his mother’s shoulders, one of Kester and Summer together - his face was slightly blurred in that one – unfortunately, he had moved just at the wrong time.

  ‘It is so typical of you!’ Summer had laughed. ‘I despair of you. Can’t you do anything right?’

  The portrait of Summer had been his favourite, although at fourteen, he was loathe to tell her that. The gentleman from Bath had made a perfect job of capturing Summer’s peachy skin and long, barley-coloured hair. Sparkling, cornflower blue eyes complimented the rose tinted mouth and there she was, captured forever at sixteen years old. She was going to have a coming-out ball when she was seventeen, her parents declared. The picture would be pride of place in the ballroom, subtly located so the young men would have to pass it every time they walked towards the door.

  Summer never made it to seventeen. It had been the autumn of that year – ironic, really, when Kester thought about it. She had seemed a little more distracted than usual; desperate to ride out every day, yet coming home begging to go to the family house in Grosvenor Square, London – because life was more exciting in London and she now knew people from London.

  ‘May I ride out with you?’ Kester had asked one day. It was the beginning of September and the countryside was slipping into one of those long, warm Indian summer afternoons.

  His sister had glared at him. ‘Why ever would I want you to come with me?’ she had snapped. ‘Do I need a chaperone? And a fourteen year old boy at that? I think not.’ She had stormed out of the drawing room and slammed several doors behind her.

  Kester stared open mouthed, then found his voice. ‘Who mentioned I had to chaperone you?’ he shouted at the closed door. ‘What have you got to hide?’ He had made it his mission at that point to discover what she was, indeed, hiding.

  ***

  The next day, Kester slipped out of the house and hid in the stables, waiting for Summer to walk around and take her horse out. Peeping out from behind a hay bale, he saw her enter the building. Summer’s long skirts swept the slate floors and an elaborate, feathered hat was balanced on her head. She walked up to her usual roan mare and fondled its mane. Kester narrowed his eyes. She didn’t usually get that dressed up for riding. He waited until she had mounted the horse and watched her disappear out of the stables, head held high, perched on the horse side-saddle. Kester heard the clip clop of the horse’s hooves ring out over the cobbles in the courtyard, the mare speeding up as his sister reached the archway which led into the garden. Giving her a few minutes to get ahead,
Kester mounted his horse and kicked it in the flanks. The horse started and trotted out into the courtyard. Kester urged the horse on a little faster and followed Summer through the archway. He could just see her on the horizon, a small, black dot threading through the outskirts of the woods. Summer would have a chaperone that day, whether she liked it or not.

  Kester kept his eyes on her, following her at a safe distance until she was swallowed up by the trees. He kicked the horse again and began to gallop after her. There was nowhere to go through the woods, except to an old, disused flour mill. It was a picturesque spot; they had often ridden there with the governess on the pretext of a ‘nature lesson’. Kester reined the horse in and wondered if that was the way he should go. It was to the right, just over a little stone bridge. He made up his mind to casually ride by the mill, when a scream rang out from over the bridge. He recognised it at once.

  ‘Summer!’ he shouted. The scream started up again and there was a sound of pounding hooves coming closer and closer to him. They rattled over the bridge and Kester saw his sister hurtling straight towards him on the horse. She wasn’t wearing her hat, he noticed, and her hair was flying loose behind her. The roan mare bore down on him and he pulled his horse into the undergrowth, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Kester! Dear God, what are you doing here? Please, you have to go. Now! Hurry!’ she cried. ‘Don’t let him find you!’

  She sped past him and he called after her. ‘Summer! Who is it? I’ll fight him for you!’ The bravado of a fourteen year old held no sway.

  ‘Just leave!’ Summer cried. She turned around, perhaps to shout something more, and that was when it happened. A tree branch cracked Summer across the head, and she was lifted out of her seat. Her long skirts and many petticoats somehow hooked around the horns of the saddle, and Kester watched helplessly as she smacked off the ground and bounced along in the wake of the horse.