I had a very romantic viewpoint about Sark. It was a place I had always wanted to visit. Being a very poor sleeper the idea of going to an island bereft of traffic and street lighting sounded like the perfect escape.
I got off the ferry about 4pm, it was a bright and sunny day and the horse drawn carriage was charming, taking the six new visitors to their chosen accommodation.
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Helen sat on the restaurant terrace overlooking the bay, waves lapping the pebbles. Raising her glass, she saluted the photograph upright on the table.
Memories flooded her mind, her first meeting with Paul in the bar across the road. Their honeymoon nearby. Bringing their children always to this beautiful oasis of peace, Keflos.
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Sam wondered where Rosie, his home help was, she wasn’t usually late. He hoped she hadn’t had an accident. Slowly swinging his legs over to the side of the bed and with the aid of his crutches, he managed to get to the stair lift. He made some breakfast and wrote a list of food items that he needed, that Rosie could get later.
Through the window, he could see the palm tree waving in the strong wind. Quite a storm we had last night he thought, he was glad the tree had survived. It had always been a bit of a joke between his wife Maureen, and himself, a reminder of good times together in sunnier climes. It was only then he noticed that the garden bench wasn’t in it’s usual spot. It was bobbing up and down in water near the hedge. He looked towards the road hoping to see Rosie, but only saw a swift flowing muddy river that seemed to be surrounding his home.
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I glance at the headline of the newspaper folded in my lap, and smile. The plane takes off and the island shrinks into a chocolate-box toytown, surrounded by a champagne sea.
Only a week ago, I hauled my bag up the path that spirals around that cliff. The hotel loomed above me, built into the rocks and incandescent in the sunshine.
She was by the lift, talking into her phone when I walked through reception. I recognised her voice immediately: that same grating, high-pitched lilt. She looked up. A flash of recognition and – was that panic? Then she plastered on a smile.
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Father Scanlon wanted to be at his meal, a good stew washed down with a glass of red wine. Involuntarily he licked his lips. Saturday evening confessions were always difficult: the trivial sins of his flock comingling with his sharp pangs of appetite.
His attention returned to the penitent behind the grill. The fellow was rambling, unable or unwilling to name his sin. It was the mortal sins that mattered, and the priest couldn’t judge the sins’ gravity.
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Daniel was surprised to find he was dead. Not the fact of his death, because that was sure given the certainties of gravity, and the distance between the nineteenth floor of his apartment block and the concrete courtyard directly below his balcony.
No, his surprise was more like, “Wow! Continued existence”.
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