Backwards Into Hell

Part Two: The LFG

Abigail's Diary

Tuesday 26th October

There was a cold sunshine caking the Island as Sam drove me in his truck to Borve—a small village just ten minutes from Castlebay. His wife had left us at the airport, muttering something about visiting her sisters as we collected our bags and I stole grateful gasps of Island air.

The plane had landed on a beach—can you believe that? I thought we were crashing into the sea until Sam explained it was normal. The sand was the runway here.

As Sam turned into a tight road, thickly lined with bushes, I wondered what on earth I was doing on there, alone with a man I barely knew. Maybe it was naive, but I felt safe with him, and some type of inner good seemed to leak out of him.

We came upon the house—more a bungalow—and I almost pinched myself. It was beautiful. All alone along the coast, with shiny white walls and big clear windows. Modern architecture. I loved how clean it looked, how safe and organised. But from Sam's raggedy appearance, it wasn't the house I'd been expecting.

He took my bags and showed me to my room, a guest bedroom with large french doors that led out to the sea.

'I know it's a little small,' he said, placing my suitcase on the floor.

I gaze at the blue. 'It's perfect.'

There was a short silence, and Sam shuffled away.

'I'll let you get settled.'

'Thank you,' I said again, and once he was gone, I fell onto the bed, feeling the soft white covers. What kind of screwed-up luck was this?

After that, I promptly unpacked, dumping most of my clothes in the bottom of the wardrobe, and left for The Lodge. I wanted to say goodbye but Sam was nowhere to be found, so I left him a scrawled note on the marble kitchen counter.

Gone to The Lodge. Be back tonight. A.

It was an hour's walk along a long, windy coastal road with no pavement and twenty minutes in, as my feet began to throb in my tight shoes, I came upon a bus stop.

The thirty-two would take me straight to Castlebay. After a confusing half-argument with the bus driver where I found you could only pay in cash, the bus travelled around the Island and the famous Castlebay came into view, and there, on an outcropping still attached to the mainland, was The Lodge.

It was an dated wooden building that appeared slightly out of place on an Island full of stone houses. It rose to three stories, each with a large central window and around The Lodge was a small crowd: reporters, curious members of the public, and—as I'd heard online—family members. I had to find them.

Drawing upon the crowd, I felt the urge to hide my face. It was stupid—none of them knew who I was—but something about the flashing cameras and blaring mics broadcasting to the entire planet made me self-conscious.

A couple of cars rested on the lawn. Some were big news vans, but there was a green Mini, a blue Volvo, and a red Beetle stationed in front of a ring of tents. Intrigued, my legs brought me closer, arms elbowing through the crowd and onto the lawn.

How were they allowed to stay here?

The tents sat outside the thick, yellow police tape strewn over The Lodge, but they were barely fifty metres from the front door. The tents came in a plethora of shapes and sizes—green, black, or even pink—and were arranged in a haphazard circle around an unlit fire. Around ten or so people were sitting at tent doors or huddled in the centre, talking and eating.

On the edge of the circle, nearest The Lodge and staring up at the bright sky, a man with tussled-black hair wearing an old knit jumper sat alone. He seemed less impenetrable than the rest of them.

'You alright?' I asked.

He glanced up quick. Maybe I shocked him.

'Fine.'

His face was stubbled, and he drew his knees to his chest. He didn't want to chat, but after ten years of working in Social Care, I knew how to get even the most stubborn teenagers to talk. Taking a breath, I slid next to him, feeling the crispy grass in my fingers.

'Who are all these people?'

'You don't know?'

I shook my head.

'We're the families.' He didn't take his eyes off the sky. 'People who've flown out here to wait.'

'To see if they come back?'

He didn't respond. It was an obvious question.

I leaned back, letting the dirt cushion my head. 'Why camp here?'

'Hotels are full with journalists.' To my surprise, he joined me and lay down. 'We didn't have a choice.'

'Oh,' I said, feeling guilty for having my own room, but glad they'd had the same idea as me. It was better to be here, wasn't it? Than to watch what came next on the TV. 'Abigail, by the way.' I didn't hold out a hand.

He turned his head to scan my face. 'John. Look, if you're a reporter, I haven't got anything for you.'

I took a moment to look out over the soft skyline.

'I'm looking for my son.'

John sat up. 'A kid's missing too?'

I nodded slowly, not taking my eyes off the son.

'Jesus... sorry.'

We sat in intense silence.

'You know,' he began if only for the chance to talk about something else, 'people are saying it was the cook.'

'Yeah, I heard that.'

'It's stupid.' He was so blunt it was almost funny. 'More likely one of the guests.'

David flickered into my head, but it couldn't have been him, and even if it was he wouldn't dare hurt Caleb.

'Who do you reckon it was?' he asked.

'Me? Ooh—' I sucked in air through my teeth— 'Aliens, probably.'

Finally, he laughed. 'Now that really is stupid.'