‘Yes,’ Casey said. ‘But whose?’
‘And how did it get there?’ Sheila said. She shivered.
Johnson and Farrant appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘There’s no one up here,’ Johnson said. ‘The place is deserted.’ They came down and joined the others at the foot of the stairs.
‘And the phones are out,’ Farrant added.
‘Okay,’ Bennett said. ‘Let’s not panic. There’s probably a logical explanation.’
‘Who’s panicking?’ Johnson said. ‘I’m going to get a drink. Anyone care to join me?’ He walked through to the small bar area to the left of the dining room. There were a few easy chairs, a couple of coffee tables and the bar itself, well stocked with spirits and bottled beer. He helped himself to a triple vodka, grabbed a bottle of tonic water from the shelf behind the bar and went to sit down in one of the easy chairs. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his sweatpants he lit one and sat back to enjoy the nicotine rush.
‘What about your cell?’ Bennett said to Farrant as the younger man pushed past him on his way to the bar.
‘No signal. Haven’t had one since we arrived. Hardly surprising really. This is the back of beyond, after all.’
One by one the others helped themselves to drinks, except Bennett who never touched alcohol these days, not since he’d ended his love affair with the bottle four years previously.
Casey Faraday took a glass of white wine across to the window that looked out over the flagstoned patio. She took one sip of the pinot grigio, then dropped the glass to the floor and screamed. By the time the others reached her Casey was crying hysterically, pointing out through the window.
Sheila grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Casey, calm down. What’s wrong?’
Andrew Johnson followed the line of Casey’s pointing finger. ‘Holy shit!’ he said.
Eddie Farrant joined him, mouth open in astonishment, face rapidly draining of color. ‘Oh my God!’
They stared through the window at the patio. Tables and chairs had been overturned and umbrellas lay on their side, rocking gently back and forth in the afternoon breeze. In the center of the patio was Guy Lomax, but only his head, shoulders and right arm was visible; it was as if the rest of him had been swallowed by the patio, as if he had sunk into the flagstones.
‘I’m sorry,’ Michael Bennett said, ‘but that’s impossible. I’m going to take a closer look.’
‘Don’t go out there!’ Casey grabbed his arm.
Bennett yanked it away. ‘Don’t be stupid. We can’t just leave him there. Anyone else coming?’
‘You’re on your own, mate,’ Johnson said. He’d resumed his seat, but he no longer looked so self-assured. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was scared.
‘Eddie?’ Bennett turned to Farrant, hoping he wouldn’t have to go outside on his own.
‘No way.’ Farrant swallowed his drink and moved to the bar for another.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Jo said.
Bennett stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Let’s just do it.’ She walked to the door. Bennett stared at the other two men with barely concealed contempt, then spun round and followed Jo out of the bar.
‘Wanker!’ Andrew Johnson said as Bennett disappeared from view.
‘Just shut up, Andrew,’ Sheila said. ‘At least he’s got the guts to actually do something.’
Johnson looked at Eddie Farrant and raised his eyebrows. Farrant looked away.
‘It’s impossible,’ Bennett said again.
‘So you said. But obviously it’s not.’ Jo Madley was crouching down, staring at Lomax.
‘Is he dead?’ Bennett was worried about getting too close.
‘Yes, I think so.’ Jo studied Lomax’s face. The skin was white and pasty, eyes closed, lips clamped together in a thin line. His head was slumped forward, almost touching the flagstones. Tentatively she reached out and touched the stone. ‘It’s solid,’ she said. She inched her fingers forward until they reached the point where flesh and stone merged. There was no gap, not even a millimeter. The join was seamless. ‘This is too weird,’ she said, and then threw herself backwards as Lomax opened his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’
The thin line of his mouth split and opened wide. The scream that emerged was deafening and harrowing. And as the scream ended Lomax sunk another six inches into the ground so that only the top half of his head and one hand was visible. Seconds later he disappeared altogether, the flagstones rippling slightly before becoming solid once more.
Jo looked up at Bennett. ‘Mike, this isn’t right. We’ve got to get out of here,’ she said, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks.
Michael Bennett’s face was a pale, frightened mask. He nodded his head in a jerky, marionette-like movement, and helped Jo to her feet.
‘Okay,’ Andrew Johnson said. ‘We need a plan.’
They had gathered together in the bar once more. Both he and Eddie were nursing large vodkas. Jo was sitting in the corner, hands clasped around a brandy snifter containing a large measure of the spirit. She halfheartedly put the glass to her lips but the sickly smell of the brandy made her gag and she lowered it and stood up quickly. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said and ran from the room.
‘I’ve checked all the phones in the place,’ Johnson said, ignoring the interruption. ‘None of them work. The same goes for my cell. As Eddie said, no network.’
‘So we’ve got no way of contacting the mainland?’ Sheila asked.
‘Not unless you’ve got a radio transmitter stashed in your hand luggage. No, we’re stuffed. So, any ideas?’ He looked from face to face. They all stared back blankly at him. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Just great!’
Jo Madley wiped her mouth on a paper towel, cupped her hand under the faucet, filled her palm with cold water and splashed it over her face. It helped, a little. She felt hollow inside, as if her guts had been reamed out. She couldn’t rid herself of the image of Lomax, screaming as he sank beneath the patio. She knew the sound of that scream would come to her in the nights ahead, invading her dreams, waking her; and in her dreams she would again see Lomax’s face, contorted in unimaginable agony, his hand flopping uselessly from side to side until it too was swallowed by the ground.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Are you okay, Jo?’
Sheila’s voice jerked her back to reality. ‘Yeah, fine. Just puked, that’s all.’
‘If you need anything…’
‘I’ll call you if I do.’
Actually, being alone in the bathroom was something of a relief. She was wondering now why she’d volunteered for this course. Being holed up on a remote island with a bunch of people she didn’t really care for was not her idea of Heaven. Bennett was all right in a wimpy kind of way, pleasant but harmless. But Andrew Johnson was an asshole, and Eddie Farrant wasn’t much better, content to hang on to Johnson’s coattails and bask in his reflected glory. Of the other two women she preferred Sheila. There was a kind of no-nonsense aura around her that commanded respect. Casey, on the other hand, was a fairly weak character with no hard, firm opinions of her own, and the possessor of a tabloid mentality who got her kicks from reading about the bedroom exploits of the rich and slightly famous. Jo had nothing in common with her, which made conversation all but impossible.
And then there was her, Jo Madley. Twenty-six, single, fairly pretty, if she looked at herself objectively, but unable to sustain relationships with the opposite sex for little more than a few days. Her problem was that she really didn’t like people very much, and trusted them even less. And that applied especially to men. She knew the fault was with her, and blamed her father who had run off with his secretary when she was just eight years old, leaving her mother to bring up Jo and her two brothers alone. To her credit her mother did a fine job. David, her eldest brother, was now a solicitor, whilst Ian, who was two years younger than her, was a professional pianist, earning his living providing mood music for the diners aboard various luxury ocean liners. If anything it was she who was the underachiever, flitting from one job to another, unable to settle into anything that could vaguely be called a career.