Page 3 of Washed Up
Assuming I want to go home again.
I sit heavily on the foot of the bed and gnaw on my broken thumbnail.
It’s not safe to go back there, but I’m without the resources to go anywhere else. If I go there, he’ll be waiting for me.
If you had a purse, you’ve obviously lost it, so there’s some money in the drawer with the clothes. It’s not much. We had a whip round. Who uses cash anymore?
I can almost sense the shrug that accompanies that line. I wrench open the drawer and find a couple of notes and a handful of change, maybe thirty quid in total. It might get me to the next town over on the bus, but it won’t get me a bed for the night. The clothing consists of a T-shirt, a pair of men’s low waist skinny jeans, a pair of navy boxer briefs, and socks for someone with enormous feet. I pull them and the shorts on as I continue to read.
If you’d like some breakfast, kitchen is downstairs, then do a 180. Help yourself if we’re not about.
If you want to say hello, and we’re not downstairs, we’ll be across the way in the studio. Go outside, and it’s the barn-like structure on the left. Don’t worry about disturbing us.
You won’t be disturbing us.
Please disturb us.
Just not in a disturbing way. You’ve already given us a big enough fright.
Your not at all scary rescuers,
Wynter, Reid, & Max
Wait what? I yelp and drop the paper, only to pick it up and read the last line again with my mouth hanging open.
Wynter, Reid, and Max.
I read it again, and again… and again. It doesn’t seem possible. Someone’s obviously having a joke at my expense. Ihave not been pulled out of the ocean by the members of my favourite band. That’s ridiculous.
This must be Harrison’s idea of a joke. Sick bastard.
Doesn’t explain where I am, though.
Maybe his mate’s place. What’s he called? Lewis. I think his gran owns a B&B. Never would have thought it was as high end as this mind.
I’m being a fool. There’s a window. All I need to do is look outside.
I scramble over the bed to do just that. Woodland and a steep bank. The property is detached, though. No immediate neighbours. Maybe I am where the letter claims? Maybe I’m not about to find Harrison on the other side of that door and won’t have to endure his sick insinuations and threats.
My stomach rumbles as I pull the rest of the clothing on. It smells freshly laundered, but a faint lingering scent of something masculine clings to the fibres.
I hope my high-tops made it to the washing machine too, and I’m not trapped here barefoot. Socks are no substitute for shoes.
The moment I venture out onto the landing, it’s apparent I am on Liddell Island. This is clearly a barn conversion, all exposed wooden beams and glass frontage through which I can see down to the pebbled shore, and way, way out across the bay, the town I’ve come from. I’m standing on a balcony overlooking the main living space, which is currently unoccupied, and the whole place smells of wood and sea air.
There’s a laptop and the remains of someone’s breakfast on the coffee table. A dogeared notebook, lying open, face down on the rug, as if someone hurled it towards the fire but missed. I pick it up. It’s full of scribbled poetry and elaborate doodles. Flicking through it makes my throat turn dry. I’m not sure if I feel more like Snow White in the seven dwarves’ cottage or Goldilocks about to be scared witless by the three bears.
I find both porridge and apples in the kitchen. The world is fucking with me.
There’s plenty of food, and the washing machine is still partway through the cycle. If I want to reclaim my clothes, I’m going to need to stick around. Thankfully, my footwear is in there too. Might as well at least have a drink. I click the kettle on and search through the nearby cupboard. It yields the required mug and an array of teas, plus coffee bags. I’d have been content with instant.
“Hey. You’re up.”
I jump. Astonished I’ve been so easily crept up on. Liquid goes everywhere. “Shitting hell!” Somehow, I manage to avoid scalding myself or soaking the borrowed shirt.
I turn to find a hulking brute of a man five inches from me, wielding a tea towel that he attempts to dry me with, while I attempt to back up.
I raise my hands in the universal sign of surrender.
