She cannot be entirely certain who is coming for her, or from which direction they will arrive, but Viola knows that when they reach her, it will not be good. She strokes Dot, almost violently, for reassurance, the dog’s eyes stretching wide with this backward force. Then she decides to pray – proper hands-together, eyes-closed, chin-to-the-sky praying.

Dear God, if you haven’t given up on me completely, please make Michael Signal come around that corner and…

She needs a friend. Desperately. She needs Michael’s intrusive, encyclopaedic knowledge. She needs his help to find a way out.

She squeezes her eyes tighter still, imagining the boy into being, scuffing along the smooth path of the gardens in his heavy grey duffel coat, satchel banging against his hip.

She pictures herself making room for him on the bench, their fingernails digging around a shell each as they talk, believing they can pop one of those stuck-fast periwinkles free.

Who is coming to question Viola about the body at the stones?

What should Viola say when they find her?

Michael always has an answer, to everything.

‘So, if we’re expecting the boss of the island,’ Viola would say, kicking things off, ‘that’ll be Mr Crane, right? It’s a no-brainer.’

‘Officially, that would be the Earl,’ Michael would reply, not able to resist an opportunity to contradict her. ‘The Earl is the official “boss of the island” as you like to put it.’

‘So, the Earl’s coming?’

‘Goodness, no! The Earl’s a recluse. What kind of recluse nips out of the house to handle a murder enquiry?’

She would be the grown-up, not retaliate.

‘Then, who’s next?’

‘In line for the Earldom? His young wife, the Countess, but she left Lark years ago and took their kids with her so –’

‘I mean, who’s next in charge!’

That she cannot even have a make-believe conversation with Michael without squabbling comes as no surprise.

‘Then you’re back to Mr Crane.’

‘But it won’t be him, will it? Saul wouldn’t do that, would he?’

‘He’ll have to. He’ll have to inform the Council. All of them.’ Michael would count them off, teacher-like, on his fingers. ‘Dr Bishy, Father Daniel, Abe Powell, Jed Springer, Robert Signal and… I was going to say Peter Cedars.’

They would both wince. Poor Peter Cedars.

‘What do I say to them, Michael?’ she’d ask, in all earnestness, in true anguish, once their bickering and one-upmanship was done. ‘What on earth do I say?’

Viola keeps her eyes tight shut for a last burst of prayer, as the island wakes up around her, a sluggish beast rearing its head. From the harbour below there is the crank and clatter of hands on deck, the gentle putter of an outboard motor.

Please God, make him appear… Now!

She opens her eyes, expecting magic, believing she is capable of it.

But Michael is not there.

November 2017

NOVEMBER 2017