Green pillars of stone marking the entrance flashed past the window, hidden until the last moment by overhanging and overgrown bushes. My head swung round and I pressed the brake pedal. I rounded the bend and turned and came back and parked, wheels half on the narrow strip of grass and half on the road edge.
“Almost missed it.”
A thick padlock fastened the rusted iron gate spanning between the stone pillars. A low-height fence of rotting timber posts and two sagging lengths of wire ran either side. I threw a leg over the fence, pushing aside the bushes. The land fell away on a gentle slope down from the road to a sudden and steep vertical drop to the ocean below.
Martindale Holiday Park lies abandoned and decaying. A long concrete building sits parallel to the road, the concrete mottled with light and dark patches after years of neglect. Beyond is an empty concrete pool, bright coloured graffiti adorning the inside faces. Assorted flat foundation slabs cut horizontally into the sloping ground and lay bare and exposed. Whatever buildings they once supported are long gone. A smaller building sits off to the side like a lone cabin set amongst browning grass under a late summer sun in a landscape painting.
“We want the site condemned. We need to show it is unsafe and a danger to the public.” Derek Yallop had said this to me when he briefed me on the project. I’d been the only one to respond to the office wide email asking for volunteers to travel to The Isle for an inspection of the site. Procedure dictated two should go in case of an accident, the old buddy system at work, but it was only me who volunteered. I regretted my eagerness when it meant going alone, but then I had taken the job in the city, in part at least, for new experiences. And now my big city firm was sending me across the strait to somewhere I never would have otherwise thought to go.
I checked my phone. No service. I was under instruction to text the office every hour so they could get wind if something happened. I last texted at the airport before I picked up the hire car, a compact vehicle presumably excellent on mileage, and that was going on an hour ago. I’d try again down near the abandoned buildings.
I donned my yellow vest. I had expected there would be more to see. The black and white photos I found online showed an array of buildings and white tents when the site was still in full use, but now little remained.
It was just past noon. I’d be done in a couple of hours tops and then I could knock off early and find a local bar in time for happy hour. I scheduled the inspection for a Friday to give me the weekend for sightseeing before flying back Sunday night.
I tackled the long concrete building first. I walked the perimeter noting patches of spalling concrete and timber window frames relieved of the glass they once held. Exposed timber rafters jutted out beyond the walls and formed an eave of rotting wood. Inside was bright, beams of sunlight coming in through jagged holes in the roof. Graffiti covered the interior walls and shattered glass and empty beer cans littered the floor. Concrete walls partitioned the building into a smaller rooms. It must have once been a toilet block or changing room. The structure was in bad shape and it would be foolish to try and hang from the roof beams, but otherwise it didn’t pose any immediate danger.
The swimming pool, which had looked empty from the road, in fact bore dirty water up to about shin depth. Beer bottles, various bits of vegetation and lengths of discarded timber floated in the brown sludge. Someone had painted a bright blue dragon on one side and I thought it a decent bit of artwork. The concrete lining was dirty but intact. A pressure clean and some new tiles and it could be a nice enough pool again. Perched close to the cliff edge, it had a stunning view of the ocean. In its day it would have been a great spot to spend a summer’s afternoon.
The smaller building was next. I climbed back up the slope to get there and found a squat concrete structure with a single opening where a door once had been. Inside was dark, the concrete roof still intact. An old rusted water heater stood propped up on four steel legs. The concrete soffit had spalled in parts leaving the steel reinforcement exposed. The building was set into a mound and by scaling it I climbed onto the roof. I kicked at the frayed, black waterproofing. I ventured out onto the roof and it held my weight without problem.
From my spot on the roof of the utilities building I surveyed the site. The buildings were derelict and unusable, but there was no immediate concern of collapse, save the rotting roof on the toilet block. It would be a difficult argument to condemn the place. The empty beer cans and bottles and the graffiti suggested teenagers came down here. That could be fixed with a better fence.
I jumped down and took some photos and scribbled some notes. I tried my phone again. Still no service. I wondered if they had been trying to reach me, afraid I had fallen or worse because I hadn’t messaged. I walked out towards the cliff edge with my phone held in the air trying to get a signal, but it was no use. I’d have to text when I made it back to town.
Now close to the edge I ventured a little further. I stuck one steel-capped boot onto solid earth about a pace back from the rounded crest and leaned over. Below the waves beat onto black rocks, sending sprays of white foam into the air. I tried to guess the height. I had once jumped off the high platform at the indoor pool and this was much higher. “You wouldn’t survive it,” I said.
I stepped back from the edge. To the east the coast cut inland before sweeping back out in a curve. Brown grass topped the dark cliff edges before giving way to fields of yellow wheat and the odd farm house. At the highest point was a timber platform built out to the edge where the road came close to the cliff face. It was a lookout. It would be a good place to get an overall photo of the camp.
I climbed back up the slope to the road and the car. A pace short of the fence my boot kicked at something. I dug away the dirt with the toe of my boot and bent down and retrieved a silver necklace with a pendant shaped like half a heart. The type cut down the middle in a jagged line, one half for you and the other your best friend or girlfriend. I held it up to the sun. It was dull and looked old. I could not tell how old, but it sure wasn’t dropped yesterday. I pocketed the necklace.
At the lookout I took my camera and photographed the derelict holiday park. The grey concrete shells were an ugly scar on the gentle slopes down from the road. In the distance were the white blocks of hotels and apartments of Dawson, the principal town of the island.
Out to sea the dark blue of the ocean stretched to the horizon, the mainland too far away to make an impression even on a clear day. I leaned on the timber balustrade feeling strangely at home when I was in fact so far from it. I felt more at home than I ever had in the city where I now lived, where waves of people jostled for positions on trains and everyone seemed to always be in such a damn hurry.
I packed away the camera and slung my backpack over my shoulder when I caught a glimpse of a shape near the holiday park. It was a girl, standing on the cliff edge where I had stood not fifteen minutes earlier. The wind blew her long brown hair in waves and she wore a bright summer dress. Where had she come from? I hadn’t seen any houses nearby and there were no cars parked on the road.
I got back in the car and drove back to the holiday park, parking my car in the same place as before. I climbed the fence and started back down the slope towards the cliff edge. And there she was, standing there with her back to me. I paused by the long concrete building and turned to walk back up the slope before starting back down again. My heart thumped and my knees lost some of their strength. It was like approaching a strange girl in a bar, something I hadn’t often had the courage to do. But I felt a compulsion to know who this girl was and what she was doing out here. And maybe she knew if teenagers did still use this place to hang out.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice trembling a little.
She turned her head, but kept her body pointing out to sea. She smiled, a wide smile showing a full complement of teeth. Her bright blue eyes fixed on mine. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“No, I’m from the mainland.”
“I’m from the mainland too, but I live here now.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“What do you mean?”
I fought embarrassment before realising she meant my yellow safety vest, which I had forgotten to take off. I ripped at the Velcro and scrunched the vest up in my hands. “I’m doing an inspection, some people, the owners I guess, want to condemn this place and tear it down or put fences up or both.”
“Oh you can’t let them do it, it’s such a wonderful place.”
I turned back to the discoloured concrete buildings. “I guess so.”
“Promise me you won’t let them.”
She looked back out to the ocean. I stepped closer to the edge so I could see her face. “Do you come out here often?” I was immediately mortified at my question. I waited for a sarcastic response and maybe a roll of the eyes, but she was instead quiet for a few moments. The smile gone she closed her eyes.
“I’m always here. I never want to leave. It’s just the best place in the world. Promise me you won’t let them take it from us.”
“It’s not really up to me.”
“Promise me.”
“Ok, I promise.”
She smiled again. “Then I can stay. This place is such a sun trap, if I stay here much longer I’m sure to turn into a lobster.”
Her skin was pale and had a sheen to it, much like a doll. I frowned at her. “Are you here with anyone else?”
“I’m here with you. Have you come to keep me company?”
“No, I’m here for work.”
“But you could stay?”
“I don’t think I can. I have to get back to town, back to Dawson.”
“I don’t go there. I prefer it here.”
“I have a car with me, do you need a lift anywhere?”
“No.”
I looked back up to the road. I hadn’t seen a car or bicycle or anything. She must have walked down here from somewhere. I looked over the edge at the waves rumbling toward the rocks and an uneasiness crept up inside me. I held out a hand.
“Do you want to come away from the edge?”
“Why?”
“You might slip.”
She looked at me and laughed. “You’re silly.”
I retracted my hand. “I have to go back to town now, you’re sure you don’t want a ride somewhere?”
“No. You could stay here if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.” She held out her hand and touched mine. Her fingers were cold.
“I have to get back to town. I need to check into my hotel and call the office.”
“Then come back tomorrow. Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Is there something happening here tomorrow?”
“Will you come back?”
“I can try.”
She smiled and took her hand away and looked back out to the ocean. “Tomorrow you will come and maybe you will stay.”
I stepped back from the edge and the girl kept her back to me. I walked back up the slope and to the car. I sat behind the wheel for about a minute before getting back out and throwing my leg back over the fence. Something wasn’t right about the girl and it felt wrong to leave her out there alone. At the top of the slope I could see where the girl had been standing, but she was gone. I looked around, scanning the slopes, but there was no sign of her. I went down to the edge where we had talked and looked over and saw only the ocean and rocks and foam. I went back up to the car and drove back to Dawson.
I checked into my hotel. The room was small but it was nice enough. I opened the curtain to a parking lot. Not much of a view. I typed in the code on the card the woman at reception had given me and connected to the WiFi. I texted the office. It was now after 5pm and I hadn’t messaged for over five hours. I received a brief response. Already at drinks, see you Monday. It appeared I was more worried about not texting than anyone in the office had been about my whereabouts.
I found the nearest bar. It was an old fashioned place from the outside, black panelling above the windows and a big wooden door. Inside fit the theme of the exterior. Patterned carpet retained the lingering smell of countless spilled drinks covered the floor. In a corner shirt-sleeved men played darts and a jukebox pumped out the sounds of Bon Jovi. I sidled up to the polished wood bar. The elderly bartender rhythmically pumped dark ale from the cellar.
I took a stool at the bar and waited for the bartender to come over. He wore a dark polo with ‘Douglas’ stitched on the left breast in cursive. I expected most people in the bar knew him without having to refer to the name tag. Douglas gave me a friendly hello and I ordered the same as what he’d just poured. As the night wore on and the happy hour crowd thinned and it became clear I was in for the long haul, Douglas lingered a little more after delivering each pint. Keeping lone men engaged in conversation is bartending 101.
“You from the mainland?” Douglas asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not really, just never seen you around before.”
“I’m an engineer and went down to have a look at Martindale. Decided to stay on for the weekend and make a trip of it, see the Isle while I’m here.”
“Martindale, what are they going to do with that old place?”
“Condemn it and put a fence up in the short term. Don’t know what the long term plans are. A hotel maybe.”
“It’s a shame. I’m old enough to remember when it was still up and running. People would come from all over and spend a couple of weeks down there in their tents.”
“Why did it close?”
“They had a run of bad luck. A few rainy summers in a row dampened enthusiasm and then there was the fire in 61. Some kids were roasting marshmallows inside while it bucketed down outside. The rain wasn’t enough to stop the fire ripping through the barracks so fast it took five lives. And then there’s Marina.”
“Who is Marina?”
“She’d been coming every year and in 63 the camp announced it was going to be the last, so of course she came for one last summer. It was a ripper summer that year, driest and hottest we’d had in a long time. Still the best summer I can remember. On the last night Marina went missing and they found her the next day washed up on the rocks below the bluff out there. Her parents were sure she must have slipped, she was a happy enough girl, but we always figured she must have jumped. She knew the place well enough to know where the edge was. Ah the summer of 63. If I could go back and have one summer again it would be that one, save for poor Marina.”
“I saw a girl down there today.”
“Did you? No one ever goes down there anymore. It’s a bit too out of the way.”
“There was someone there today.”
“Might have been you saw the ghost of Marina. Some folk say they see her out on the edge.”
I smiled at him. “Are you having fun at the expense of an out of towner?”
Douglas leaned forward on his elbows. “Might be. Might not be. What did she look like?”
“Pretty girl, brunette. I guess she would have been 20 or so.”
“Yeah that’s her.” Douglas winked and went to look after another customer.
I took my camera from my pocket to show Douglas when he came back. I turned the camera on and scrolled through the photos I’d taken, searching for the one I’d taken at the lookout, just before I’d seen the girl. She had to be there. I found the photo and zoomed in to the cliff edge where I’d seen her standing. There was brown grass and nothing more. There was no girl anywhere. It wasn’t possible. I’d seen her not a few seconds later standing right there. And then I’d spoken to her, and she’d touched me.
Douglas came back. I looked up at him with wide eyes and he seemed to be enjoying himself now. “If you’re the superstitious type you should head down to the lookout up the road from Martindale. Folks say they see her. Seems to only happen at sunset, so it’ll have to be tomorrow now.”
I put the camera away. I blinked hard a couple of times and downed what was left of my beer. “That’ll do me.” I felt sick, and it wasn’t from the beer. I stood and almost fell.
Douglas reached out, holding his hand in mid-air as I steadied myself. “You alright young man?”
“I’m fine. Time for bed is all. It’s been a long day.”
“Been nice talking to you.”
I nodded in his direction and made for the door. The breeze blew hard and constant, chilled by the ocean. I almost ran to the hotel, my mind racing. What did he say her name was, Marina? It couldn’t be. It was some local farm girl I had seen who liked to look out over the ocean. And her invitation, it was probably just to some party a few local kids were having down in the old buildings. A place to get away from the prying eyes of parents. But why hadn’t she been in the photo?
In my room I thumbed at my phone. Everything I knew about Martindale Holiday Park was in the manilla file Derek had given me in the office. Photos of the camp as it was and as it is, but there was no mention of fire or girls flinging themselves from the cliff edge. I searched online now. On blogs and forums and anywhere that mentioned the park. I scrolled hurriedly, skimming until I found it.
The ghosts of Martindale was the title. I read on. Lone girl haunts the bluff at Martindale Holiday Park. Marina Stafford, a 21 year old girl lost her life in August 1963, two years after fire ripped through the camp and killed five. At the lookout above the camp her ghost can be seen standing alone at sunset.
Another article. Last letter of Marina. Marina Stafford sent a letter by post the day before her death, the letter received by her best friend Sophie three days hence. In the letter Marina writes about the wonderful time she is having. The article quoted from the letter: “this place is such a sun trap, if I stay here much longer I’m sure to turn into a lobster.”
I put the phone down and rubbed my eyes. Those were the exact words the girl had said to me out on the cliff edge. I took a hot shower. It couldn’t be. There must be some other explanation. Anything. Maybe, I thought, this was some sort of prank locals played on people from the mainland. A bit far fetched, it was a lot of work to go through for not much pay off. So what then? I gave up thinking about it and fell into bed. The beer and the early morning flight carried me off to sleep.
I woke in the dark and stumbled in a haze to the bathroom. I washed cold water on my face and fought to keep down the beer sloshing around in my stomach. I had dreamed of her, the girl Marina. We were together by the cliff edge. The moon shone down over the ocean making a silver trail leading from the horizon to our feet. Somewhere behind us a camp fire burned. I held out a box and Marina took it and opened it. She reached in and held a necklace up to the moonlight. It was the necklace I had found by the fence, the half heart cut on a jagged edge, only now the necklace was not dull and old, but shiny and new. She smiled and with her other hand tugged at a necklace she wore and pulled a pendant out from below her dress. It was the other half of the heart and she joined the two. She smiled and we embraced. A sense of joy filled me but it did not last and gave way to the sickness that woke me.
I climbed back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Yellow lights from the car park squeezed through the gaps in the curtains and formed shadows on the wall. My heart raced, which I told myself was from the beer, but it was a lie. I listened to my breathing and waited on daybreak.
After a quick breakfast I got in the car for the sightseeing I had planned. Anything to get my mind off my dream and the girl. Instead of taking Dawson road to the south, which would take me back to Martindale, I took the road north. There was a small village on the north coast, an old settlement dating back centuries. The stone buildings stood so close together only one car could pass at a time through the cobbled streets.
On the outskirts of town is a ruined castle. Thick stone walls stand half collapsed, the remnants fragile and naked without the rest of the structure to frame them. A cold wind whipped in off the ocean. It started to rain and I sought shelter in a nearby cafe. I ordered a tall cup of soup and sat alone at a two person table.
Locals filed in and some ordered and sat, whilst others had croissants and pieces of cake packed in paper bags. An elderly couple sat opposite one another between my table and the counter. He read the paper and sipped coffee. She scribbled in a crossword book and lifted a fork load of sponge cake to her mouth. They might have been doing this same thing for the last fifty years. Each Saturday morning coming to the same cafe and making the same order, him with the paper tucked under his arm and her with the puzzle book filed in her bag. They might have done this very thing the day Martindale hosted its last guests. The day they found Marina on the rocks.
I drove the rest of the island. Small roads penetrated inland over rolling green hills. Isolated farm houses appeared from time to time with their barns and sheds and small gardens full of flowers out the front. The island stood in stark contrast to my new life in the city where brick buildings were packed shoulder to shoulder looking over streets full of a constant swarm of people. The island felt more like home than the dirty and noisy city.
I made it back to Dawson in the afternoon. I considered heading back to the bar from the night before, but my stomach told me no. I went to my room and lay on the bed, considering how to spend the rest of the day. There was an inevitability about what I was to do next. I had to go back to the lookout. I had to be there at sunset. I had to see if the girl would come back. I hoped she wouldn’t be there and I had been worked up over nothing. It would be a relief and I could go home with a clear head. But as I got in the car, a small part of me I didn’t want to acknowledge hoped she would be there.
At the lookout the sun hung low in the sky. The morning rain had given way to a clear afternoon with only the occasional white cloud. The wind had died and the ocean calmed, gentle ripples breaking the surface and glinting in the sunlight. The bones that remained of Martindale stood exposed on the sloping plain below, silent and empty. There was no girl, but it was not yet sunset.
I had expected company at the lookout, it being a Saturday in the summer, but there was no one else. I looked over my shoulder feeling like I was being watched and judged for my foolishness. The road in both directions was empty. Maybe the legend of the girl appearing at sunset was not the popular myth Douglas had made it out to be. Or maybe the rainy morning had changed some plans.
The sun crept lower and turned the sky orange and pink. I buttoned up my coat against the freshening wind. I saw her first out of the corner of my eye and my stomach felt like it would leap out my throat. I kept my eyes fixed to the horizon, not wanting to look and confirm what I thought I saw. But I could take it no longer. There was the cliff and there was the girl standing on the edge, her face illuminated by the setting sun.
I jumped up off the bench. This was no illusion. It was no trickery of shadows cast by the setting sun. This was a flesh and bones human. I waved in my excitement and immediately withdrew my hand and swivelled my head around. There was still no one else up here. No one saw my foolish wave or the girl.
I got back in the car and drove down to the camp. I parked in the same spot as the day before, but this time I put the car completely off the road and onto the grass. I didn’t want someone to round the bend in the dark and ding the hire car. I threw my legs over the fence and started down the slope to where the girl stood. The tension I felt in my stomach had spread to my legs and I went down at almost a run.
I did not get to the edge. The girl came up to meet me, smiling as she came. It was the girl from the day before, wearing the same summer dress. As she neared I noticed her complexion looked browner than the pale skin I had remembered, like she’d suddenly had a summer’s worth of sun. Perhaps the light had been playing tricks yesterday. She reached out and put her hands over mine, her skin soft and warm.
“You came back, does this mean you will stay?”
“Stay for what?”
“The party of course, it’s our last night.”
She skipped back up the slope, one hand lingering on my elbow as she went. I turned and where before there had been one of the flat concrete slabs cut into the slope was now a timber structure with a large window revealing a brightly lit room housing a pool table. To the left was a row of white, circular tents with peaks like a big top at the circus. Poles topped with lights stuck up out of the ground. Beyond the tents the long and decrepit concrete building with the partially collapsed roof was now an immaculate block painted white with roof and windows intact. I took a step and my shoe kicked at soft green grass. It smelled freshly mowed.
“What is this?” I said.
“Why it’s Martindale silly. Don’t you know where you are?” The girl smiled and motioned with her hand to follow. “The sunset is the best by the pool.”
I followed the girl to the pool, now full with water and lined with sky-blue tiles. White painted chairs set back from the pool looked out over the ocean. The girl sat and tapped her hand on the seat of the chair adjacent. “Come and sit, the sun will set soon.”
I sat and looked at the girl. She looked out to the ocean. She turned to me.
“The sunset is out that way,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said and turned to the ocean.
“If you could have one day over and over again, wouldn’t it be this one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you wearing a coat, it’s such a lovely night.”
She was right. I had buttoned up my jacket at the lookout against the cool wind, but now a thin layer of sweat had my shirt clinging to my skin. She reached over and undid the top two buttons on my coat and withdrew her hands. “You’ll have to do the rest,” she said. I removed my coat and she smiled. “That’s better, come and say hello to the guys.”
She jumped up and took me by the hand and pulled me up the slope to a spot at the edge of the camp. A fire burned inside a ring of stones. As we approached I heard voices and a group of young men appeared behind the flames and smoke from the fire. They each held sticks with marshmallows in one hand and a can of beer in the other. They stared at the fire, mesmerized by the flames and the crackling of the wood.
One of them, tall and thin with blonde hair nodded at us. “Who have you got here?”
“He’s thinking about staying,” she said.
“That’s great,” the blonde boy said. “You’ll love it here. The weather is always good and the beer is always cold.” He had a cooler by his feet and he fished out a can and threw it in my direction. I dropped it and had to retrieve it from the grass. I wiped the dirt off on my shirt and smiled and cracked the beer. It went down cold, but it tasted like nothing I had ever drank before.
“We’ll talk to them later,” said the girl, “but first come with me.”
“Excuse me,” I said as the girl dragged me away by the hand. The young men chuckled amongst themselves and returned their attention to the fire. The blonde boy turned his back to me and in the growing darkness I could see something was not right with the back of his shirt. A rip began at the top and extended so deep it reached almost to the bottom. He turned further, the firelight illuminating his exposed back. Huge blisters and red welts covered the skin. It was like he’d been badly burnt, but the wound didn’t seem to bother him.
The hand of the girl tugged me away from the fire and pulled me into the long concrete building and out of sight of the others. It was a change room, as I had guessed, only now there were benches and hooks with towels on them and sinks arranged along the wall. She linked her fingers around my neck and stood on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear.
“Why don’t you wear it?”
“Wear what?”
Her fingers pressed against my collar bones and ran down my chest. She thrust one hand into my front pocket and pulled out the necklace. The necklace with the half heart was still where I had left it the day before. The girl slipped the ends around my neck and fastened the clasp. She stood beside me and we looked at ourselves in the mirror on the wall. She held my hand and with the other she pulled out her necklace hidden below her dress. The pendant shone in the light. It was the other half of the heart.
“Funny,” she said, “I thought you were taller.” She twirled a half turn and faced me, her back facing the wall and the mirror. “I don’t mind though.” I looked in her eyes, which were a dark bluish green like the ocean. My eyes wandered to the mirror, to my hand which had found its way to the hair on the back of her head. My stomach tightened when instead of the reflection showing smooth hair shining under the lamp, the mirror showed dark clumps that looked wet. I jumped and moved my hand pulling the hair and exposing wrinkled and grey skin on the back of her neck. A stream of dark red blood trickled down the back of my hand. I pulled away.
“What is wrong?” she said.
I looked down and then covered my eyes. “Nothing,” I said. In my mind’s eye I saw the mangled body of a girl on the rocks, dark waves slopping over her and turning darker still when they mixed with the blood pouring from her skull. I felt sick. None of this is real, I told myself. The girl is not here, this building is an empty shell with no windows and a collapsing roof. I am dreaming. And then she grabbed me. Her warm hand wrapped around mine.
“We have to go now.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Yes you can.”
She pulled me outside and I opened my eyes and her brown hair flowed and her eyes shone and she smiled.
She led me to the edge where we had met the day before. The sun hung low in the sky and almost touched the horizon.
“What is your name?” I said.
“You know it silly.”
“Marina?”
“See. Listen to me very carefully. We have to do it before the sun sets. The first time is always the hardest. I know. I almost didn’t myself. But when you do you get to come back. You come back here and the sun shines and the grass is green and it’s like that always. If you come with me now, we can do it together every day. We can live the happiest day forever.”
“I don’t think I can. I’m not sure I want to.”
The sun touched the horizon now, the once perfect disc distorting at the base as if it had turned liquid. The sky was a grading of colour from blue through purple and orange and finally red. I breathed in and felt the warmth on my skin.
“Come with me now.” She faced me and took my hands in hers as if we were at a wedding altar. Tears welled up in her eyes. She smiled a sad smile. We looked out at the sun and less than half remained above the horizon. She kept hold of one of my hands and faced the horizon. She started to count.
“One.”
My knees started to shake. A rush of thoughts ran through my head. My home. My family. The city. The old couple at the cafe.
“Two.”
The sick feeling persisted and worsened. I bent at the knees. I could discern no coherent thoughts as a yes I will or no I won’t. In that moment I felt as though I’d lost control of my faculties, like some external force possessed me.
“Three.”
I felt her hand slip away from mine and I stood alone on the cliff edge. The last sliver of the sun sank into the ocean. I blinked tears. I turned without looking down.
I walked back up the slope. The tents and the buildings and the lights were all gone. I took off the necklace, turned dull and old, and put it in my pocket. I went to the pool, adorned again with the dragon, and retrieved my jacket and buttoned it up against the cold. The group of boys and the fire were gone. I climbed the fence and went to the car. At the lookout I saw the shadows of a few people, turning to leave.
I brought the necklace back with me to the city. In the evenings I hold it in my hand, rubbing the dull metal with my thumb. I dream of her always. Of Marina and Martindale and the setting sun.
I bought a ticket back to The Isle. I’m going this weekend. I don’t know what I will do, only that I want to see her again.
Maybe one day you will find yourself on the Isle. If you do, take the Dawson road south to the lookout. At sunset look out to the old site of Martindale and you might see a lone figure at the edge. Or you might see two, holding hands and watching the sunset.