One Night on the Island(5)

I don’t know what I expected; I haven’t looked at any photos online and Barney didn’t send through any specifics. For me, Otter Lodge is a place to eat, sleep and work. Somewhere to get my head together. But as I swing the door wide and step inside, I find myself pleasantly surprised. It’s one of those all-in-one-room-type places – kitchenette in one corner, a deep sofa in front of an open slate fireplace taking up most of the space. There’s an old brass bed frame at the back, the fur throws and plaid blankets lending it a homey touch.

I shuck out of my wet jacket and duck through the only interior door to find a small but decent bathroom – no shower, but a deep copper tub with my name on it. First, though, something to eat. Susie always liked to say I’m a man who needs a plan in order to function. There’s probably some truth behind her wry assessment of my character, and my plan right now is food, bath, early bed. Maybe a beer in there somewhere, I think, rolling my aching shoulders as I head out of the bathroom. The back door swings on its hinges, reminding me to grab my stuff from the porch and batten down the hatches for the stormy night ahead.

There’s a loud scream and I stand still, rendered momentarily stupid by surprise. There’s a woman in my lodge.

‘Sorry, you made me jump,’ the woman says, her hand over her heart. Then, when I don’t manage to form any words, ‘Umm … hi.’

‘Where did you come from?’ Because I’ve seen this woman before.

She pulls off her damp, red wool hat and stares at me. ‘London.’

‘No, I mean …’

‘Wait,’ she says, cutting across me as she narrows her eyes. ‘Weren’t you on the boat earlier? If you’re gonna hurl, aim over the side?’

She switches from her own accent to a terrible, fake American one.

‘Ah. And you’re the sweet girl who offered to throw up in my face.’ I fake a smile.

She sighs. ‘I’m not in the mood to be patronized by –’ she waves her hand towards my headlamp, a sharp slash of air – ‘a cyclops.’

And I’m not in the mood for company, I think, pulling the elastic from around my skull. Why is she even here? Is she lost?

She looks at me for a few moments and then unzips her unsuitably thin jacket. ‘Look, I’m grateful for you coming to check on things, but I’m all set. I’ve dragged my own suitcase over the mountain, I’m perfectly capable of lighting a fire and I can find my way around the electrics. I don’t need the welcome tour.’

‘You think I’m your bellhop?’

She smiles determinedly, clearly stuck between trying to be polite and wanting to tell me to fuck off. ‘Caretaker? Friend of Brianne?’

‘Lady, I was on the same boat as you. Ask me where I’ve come from.’

‘I don’t need to know.’

Jeez, she’s obtuse. ‘Boston.’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Well, now you know anyway, which means we both know I’ve travelled much farther than you to be here, and you’ll be relieved to hear I don’t need the welcome tour either.’ I watch understanding begin to seep into the edges of her exasperation.

We stare at each other across the room, silent aside from the rain pelting the window, and then her stance softens. ‘This is Otter Lodge.’

I nod. ‘I know that.’

‘And I’ve rented it from today.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

She rubs the heel of her palm up and down on her forehead, hard and fast, as if she’s massaging my words to make them mean something she likes the sound of better.

‘You can’t have.’

‘I absolutely promise you I did.’

She bends down and opens her bag, rifling around until she produces a handful of neatly folded paperwork.

‘Here. It’s right here in black and white.’ She smooths the sheets out on the end of the wooden kitchen counter, running her finger down the page as she picks out salient details. ‘Otter Lodge, reserved from 2 October. Paid. From Brianne, the property manager. And, also, I have the key.’

There’s a triumphant glint in her eye as she dangles a key from her fingertips.

‘I don’t need a piece of paper,’ I say. ‘This is my lodge. And here is my key.’ I dangle mine right back at her.

‘Your lodge,’ she says, deadpan. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

I swallow. ‘My cousin’s place, to be exact.’ Even that’s a stretch; Barney is my second cousin twice removed, or something like that. We’ve never even met in person. The lodge belonged to his aunt, my mom’s cousin, and is now jointly owned by Barney and his sister who lives in Canada. He did mention something about renting it out sometimes, but I have no idea who Brianne is. ‘I have emails, but the battery on my phone died.’

‘Well, isn’t that convenient.’

I’m not sure how to play this. It’s after five in the afternoon, already dark, and it’s obvious neither of us know the geography of Salvation Island at all. It isn’t safe to head out, especially in this weather. The store is the next nearest building to here, no doubt long closed, and beyond that the only proper habitation on the island is up in the north. Otter Lodge sits some distance away on Salvation’s most southerly edge.