Free Island-in-Waiting by Anthea Fraser Page A

particular line joining your mind and his was never cut and the dreams you mention seem to show something’s still passing along it, like a telephone receiver that hasn’t been replaced properly.”
    Somewhere in another world a bell rang and the corridor outside echoed with hurrying feet. “I must go,” I said mechanically.
    There was a tap on the door and a boy put his head round. “Excuse me, Mr Kittering, H.M.’s looking for you, sir.”
    â€œRight, thanks.” He glanced at me as I rose unsteadily to my feet. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you, and we still haven’t fixed anything for Saturday.”
    â€œI really think I’d rather –” But he had already taken my arm and opened the door and we emerged to see Neil coming down the corridor towards us. I stopped abruptly, pulling Ray to a halt.
    â€œSo there you are.” Neil spoke directly to me. “Hugo said you were here somewhere.” He frowned slightly, searching my face. “Are you all right, Chloe? You’re very pale.”
    â€œI’ll have to go,” Ray interrupted. “I’ll phone you this evening.”
    He walked quickly away down the corridor and Neil said gently, “You don’t look overjoyed at the prospect.”
    I moistened my lips. “I think I’ve had enough of him for one day.”
    â€œThen come out somewhere with me instead.”
    I stared at him uncomprehendingly, still trying to shake myself free of the clinging strands of fear, and he smiled, his mouth going up in the way that somewhere deep inside myself I remembered so well. “That doesn’t seem to strike you as a much better alternative!”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said with an effort. “I’d like to, thank you.”
    â€œFine. Do you play squash?”
    It was difficult for me to adjust to what he was saying. “I haven’t for a while, but I used to.”
    â€œWould you like a game, then? We’ve some quite good courts here. If Martha could kit you up I can provide a racket.” His eyes moved assessingly over my face. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
    â€œYes, really.”
    â€œI’ll have to go; I’m due to invigilate but I’ll put my name down for a court on the way and pick you up about eight.”
    The air outside was sweet and clear and cold after the stuffy central heating in college. I stood drawing in lungsful of it before I climbed into Martha’s little Ford and set off for home.
    Tom Kelly. I’d forgotten he was a Manxman, but now I remembered the jingle that had been his signature tune – ‘Kelly from the Isle of Man’. And there was another tune – but it was dangerous to think of that.
    He loved this island, Ray had said, was sure to know the legend of Sigurd and Fafni, about the strange gatherings on the mound and the dance on the seashore.
    Somehow I had reached the cottage. Martha came out to meet me as I climbed unsteadily out of the car. “How did it go?”
    I looked at her blankly.
    â€œThe lunch, girl! Did you manage all right?”
    â€œOh – yes, I think so, thanks.” I felt a deep need to confide in her, to share the mounting fears of my unwilling involvement with Ray, but she and Hugo would simply prevent my seeing him and I knew that wasn’t the answer. Running away from his phone call this evening was a temporary respite, no more. I now knew that the unaccountable phenomena that had been assailing me ever since I came to the island had their roots five years in the past, and I suspected that I shouldn’t be free of them until they had played themselves out to the end.
    Martha, delighted to learn of my date with Neil, willingly lent me her plimsolls and tennis whites and as he’d promised Neil brought one or two rackets for me to choose from. Fortunately I managed to give him quite a good game. There was relief in physical