This story was written in response to the Coronavirus lockdown of 2020. It appears in the second volume of the first issue of UNTITLED: Voices. Read it below or on pages 16 - 18 of the published version in PDF format.
IT felt like flying. That's the best description she could think of. Or maybe it was more akin to an out-of-body experience. Standing on the very edge of the cliff she looked down. How many feet below her were those churning waves that looked like frothing beer from where she stood? And what about the sound? Perhaps best described as the hissing of witches embroiled in a violent argument. The rising wind brought with it the iodine scent of seaweed. She brushed the hair from her face, unconsciously licking her lips. She imagined the taste of Laphroaig on them, its hint of iodine never failing to remind her of her one trip to Islay, many years ago, to visit the distillery where it is made.
She shifted her weight. Just one tiny movement, less than half a step forward and she would be groundless – literally – flyyy...ing, falling, falling, falling. Would she crash into the waves and stand a minute chance of surviving – if survive is what she wanted to do? Or would the wind intercept her descent and send her smashing into the side of the cliffs, pulping her face, breaking every bone in her body? She imagined the wreck that she'd be: tumbling, rolling, bumping down the rocks. Eventually there would be a splash. Its sound echoing uncannily, like a suppressed scream, against the rocks as her body hit the water. In her mind's eye she saw the momentary displacement of the waves, before they melded again, swallowing her in their icy depths, then rising once more to join bigger waves and thunder, with renewed force, into the rocks as the wind stirred them up into a ferocious frenzy.
She had come to the island to escape. What exactly? The hysteria, the conflicting messages put out by the Government and other authorities, the fake news. Yes, that was it, she thought. She was totally aware of how serious and horrible this health crisis was, but she felt overwhelmed by it all. The constant doom-mongering, the never-ending stream of news that never reported on anything else, but the pandemic; the number of deaths that rose daily. It was too much to bear. Her thoughts were full of those sick, frightened, dying people, struggling desperately to breathe, to live. Thankfully a lot did make it to the other side and get well again, but so so many more did not. She grieved for them even though she didn't know them personally. She felt deeply for the families who had lost loved ones.
On the brink of insanity. That's how she had felt – three days ago now. She had no problem about the lockdown, only being allowed to go out for essential shopping and exercise. She walked to the shops and so got her exercise at the same time as she stocked up on supplies. As a writer she had lived a pretty reclusive sort of life for the best part of a quarter of a century. That was her excuse, if an excuse it was. She was hopeless in social situations. Book tours and signings were a torment. She would be so nervous that she'd be unable to speak. Words got stuck in her throat and all that came out of her mouth were strange croaking sounds. Oh, the embarrassment! The humiliation! The expressions of shock on the faces of the audience. Some would even gasp aloud. Eventually publishers had stopped inviting her. Acknowledging that she was a talented writer, but that she was a liability at public appearances, they accepted that they had to do their best to promote her books without involving her. What a relief that had been. To know she would never have to stand up in front of an expectant crowd again. Never again to open her mouth and sound like a frog in pain.
But desperation can make one do unexpected things. She had been writing, turned on the radio for the lunchtime news. The daily statistics washed over her, enveloped her, submerged her into a despondency of gothic proportions. She felt a burning behind her eyes. A second later hot tears were coursing down her cheeks, plopping onto her hands as they rested on her desk as she listened. A howl of grief escaped her. In her mind she saw the clinical white walls of hospital wards, rows of stripped empty beds, dead bodies covered in white shrouds being wheeled down long gloomy corridors by faceless porters on their way to the morgue. These images played themselves over and over in her head on a constant loop – a never-ending stream of horrific visions.
Looking back later she couldn't remember doing it, but she must have done. She imagined how she would have saved her document, gone online and typed something like “uninhabited island” into a search engine. She must have found some details, someone to contact. She must have slapped together a hasty email and sent it. Had it been even remotely coherent? She didn't know, couldn't remember what she wrote.
Anyway, the next thing she could recall was leaving her flat. Quietly locking her front door, pulling the straps of her backpack over her shoulders, she padded down the stairs. She opened the door to the street, let it click shut as softly as she could. It was still very early and she didn't want to wake her neighbours. The narrow streets of her small town were silent, empty. Ancient, yet clean, unsullied by the debris of ordinary days. The air felt fresh, like newly-washed laundry. It was early April and as she began to walk to the train station she felt a sense of renewal all around her. In the gardens she passed white, yellow and pale lilac crocuses raised their tiny faces to the golden hue of the morning sun. She stopped a moment to take a deep breath. She couldn't remember the last time she had been outside and been able to pause, breathe and take stock without being in someone's way, without the frenzied atmosphere of a normal weekday.
The hurrying crowds. The noise: revving car engines, slamming doors, the booming of muzak from passing boy racers or the inane chatter from radio stations that delivery vans tend to tune into. The screams of fractious children, the scolding voices of parents, the barking of dogs. Today there were none of these sounds. Listening carefully she could hear the twitter of birdsong from the trees in the graveyard behind the squat-towered Norman church.
She resumed her walk, crossed the empty market square. The station was deserted. A sharp whistle signalled the train's arrival was just moments away. Any second now it would come into view as it rounded the bend in the track before pulling up alongside the platform. At first she thought she was the only one in the carriage, but as she slipped into her seat she heard a sniff, followed by a yawn. Someone at the other end had just woken up. A lazy-sounding exchange of words in quiet voices. She thought she heard the words “hospital”, “hectic” “worried”. They must be medical staff of some kind on their way to work. Or maybe they were going home after a long and exhausting night shift. She sank down lower in her seat, hoping she wouldn't be seen.
Just this morning, as she had packed her laptop and thrown some clothes and essentials into her backpack and got ready to leave, she had switched on the radio to hear some government official plead with listeners to stay at home and forbidding all non-essential travel. This, apparently, came after a weekend when countless campervans and mobile homes had been seen on the country's motorways, all travelling north in the belief that they would be able to hole up in some caravan park in the Scottish Highlands for a few months until the threat of the Virus had passed. Was she doing that too? Thinking she could escape the danger of infection? No, not really. Her reason was purely mental self-preservation. To keep herself from going mad. When she reached the island, which would require a change of trains and two separate ferry journeys to get to, she wouldn't be a burden to anyone. Without access to television, phone and only an unstable wi-fi connection, she would write and hopefully even finish her current work-in-progress. Once, well over a century ago, there had been a lighthouse on the island. Automation and advances in IT had made this particular one redundant. The current owner had built a couple of holiday cottages hoping to attract writers, artists or city folk who wanted to escape the rat race for a while. But, even in ordinary circumstances, he rarely found people who wanted to spend time on a remote island with a history that told of ghouls, ghosts and witches, nor had it the convenience of reliable connectivity.
When she had contacted him, Mr. Duncan had been moments away from removing the advertisement from the website she had found it on. He needed to adhere to the rules the Government had introduced, he told her. As already mentioned, she couldn't really remember, but apparently she had been very persuasive about needing to come to the island in order to get away from all the anxiety surrounding the pandemic. Eventually he had relented and had telephoned her to confirm the booking.
When she had contacted him, Mr. Duncan had been moments away from removing the advertisement from the website she had found it on. He needed to adhere to the rules the Government had introduced, he told her. As already mentioned, she couldn't really remember, but apparently she had been very persuasive about needing to come to the island in order to get away from all the anxiety surrounding the pandemic. Eventually he had relented and had telephoned her to confirm the booking.
“As long as you get here within the next forty eight hours”, he'd said. “You need to be prepared to stay for as long as restrictions are in place. You'll not be able to change your mind.”
“I won't”, she'd told him gratefully. “You have no idea what a relief it is to be allowed to come.”
“Right you are.” He said it gruffly, but she thought there was a smile in his voice.
Almost as an afterthought, he told her, “I'll arrange for the boat to bring you fortnightly supplies from the mainland. D'you think you'll manage with that?”
“Absolutely, no problem at all”, she had assured him.
And so, two days after that conversation she found herself the sole inhabitant of a small island, standing on the rugged cliffs above its northern shoreline. She could still see the foundations where once the lighthouse had stood. If you had asked her Was she sad? She would answer, No. Was she happy? She would tell you she was elated. Was she scared? A little .... maybe. Was she going to step off those cliffs? Absolutely not, she'd say. She had a novel to finish and the peaceful environment to do it in.
Breathing in the vital sea air and relishing the feel of the wind in her long brown hair, she scrambled back off that ridge of rock above the crashing waves of the North Sea. Standing a safe distance away from the edge she paused a moment longer. She liked to imagine that, on a clear day, you could see nearly all the way to Canada. Then she continued her exploration of the island while her mind began writing the next chapter of her novel, uninterrupted by thoughts of a pandemic threatening a world that felt like a different universe from the one she was walking in.
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