The Island

THE

ISLAND

SARAH GOODWIN

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © Sarah Goodwin 2024

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Cover photograph: Shutterstock.com

Sarah Goodwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008671082

Ebook Edition © August 2024 ISBN: 9780008671099

Version: 2024-11-20

This novel is dedicated to my first year living

in Cornwall, and to all its beautiful beaches,

which deserve better from our government,

than having sewage dumped on them.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Content Warning

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Loved The Island?

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Sarah Goodwin

About the Publisher

Content Warning

THE Island, although fictional, tackles some events and issues that some may find distressing. If you’d like to find out more, please read the author’s note at the back of the book but be warned it does contain spoilers.

Prologue

I can feel the pounding music in my chest, racing along with my frantic pulse. My eardrums rebel against it and send sharp throbs of pain through my skull. Even my teeth are vibrating as the headline act takes to the stage.

All at once everyone is screaming, leaping up and down. They’re completely focused on the act going on at some point behind and above me as I struggle away from the stage.

Ari! Carla! I yell, but it’s no use. I can barely hear myself.

I breathe in dust from the ground beneath a hundred thousand shuffling feet and cough. I don’t dare stop moving though. I’m tensed for a hand on my shoulder, a sharp sting in my back, it could come at any time. I can hardly move in the crushing crowd. Can’t get away.

Carla! I try again, clawing my way past a wall of sweaty dancers, all as plastered as I am in yellow-brown dust. Ari!

Someone blows a whistle and it sounds like a scream.

I’m surrounded by faces – all baked red and brown and sweaty, slathered in glitter and flaking face paint. None of them are familiar. None of them look concerned, just annoyed as I grab at them, elbow them in my rush to get past. I feel like an ant clambering over a whole nest of its fellow insects. An ant which knows a bird is hovering above, its sharp beak about to strike.

Something sharp does get me then. I feel the cold metal against my skin and scream, preparing for the pain, the blood. I feel hands pushing at me and I turn to find that it was just someone’s sunglasses. The sharp hinge has raked against me, there are tiny beads of blood welling all along the scratch.

What the fuck is her problem? I hear someone yell.

Bad trip, a voice says over my head as I blunder into a man’s chest, sunburned and covered in blurry tattoos.

Must be that shit they were warning everyone about…

Please, I’m clinging on to this stranger’s arm. You have to help me.

Go to the medical tent, a girl practically bellows in my ear, shoving me away. Get lost!

I stagger away, exhaustion and heatstroke competing to see which can take me down first. My skin is frying under the sun and I’m breathing in the hot air of the crowd, laced with the smell of weed, stale sweat, too much body spray and overflowing toilets. Over it all is the tell-tale stink of rotten rubbish – the festival’s official smell since day one. That should have told me everything I needed to know. As hot as it is though, inside I feel ice cold. I wish this was a bad trip. At least then none of it would be real.

I’ve been turned around by all the shoving and elbowing. I can’t tell which direction I came from anymore. Even the main stage, my one landmark in all the heaving bodies, has sunk into the tide of people. I’m too far away from it to see and the speakers all around us are confusing me – the music is coming from everywhere all at once.

Ari! Carla! I scream again. Help!

I spin on the spot, trying to spot Ari’s sunflower crown or Carla’s pink space buns, but there are so many other girls who look exactly like them. We’re all just part of the crowd now.

There’s no one else who looks like him, though.

My heart seems to stop, my chest echoing with the sound of the music, as I turn and spot him, heading straight towards me. I scream and try to claw my way through the crowd behind me. Around us, the first song of the headline act comes to a close. A voice comes bursting from the loudspeakers.

Lethe Festival! Get ready for the ride of your life!

Cheers burst out around me and before I can try and make myself heard, my foot tangles with someone else’s and I go down, hands outstretched to stop my fall. Before I’ve even registered the pain of landing, a foot crushes my fingers. My scream is absorbed into the opening of the next song.

This one’s for all the lovely ladies of Lethe! Make some noise!

Chapter 1

Jody, I’m baaaack.

Carla’s voice eclipsed the slam of the front door and made it up four flights of stairs to disturb me from my half-napping state. She was always loud enough for me to hear from the top floor of our odd little house share, but seemed even more so today. Maybe it was because I’d been alone with my thoughts since she and Ari left that morning. I’d become so used to the deafening silence that even the sound of someone else would have surprised me. Whether or not they were yelling.

The sounds of Carla moving around echoed up through the empty hallways, uncarpeted and chilly as they were. I heard her dump her jacket and umbrella in the hall, then come pounding up the four lots of stairs between the hall and my room on the top floor. Two flights of thinly carpeted stone, one painted concrete and finally, the wooden ones – which were basically a ladder – up to my bedroom under the eaves. Her head and shoulders appeared in the hatchway and she peered up at me, where I was curled up on my bed.

Cuppa? she panted, her long blonde hair still thick with rain. They had doughnuts at the office but everyone’s on a diet so some of them came home with me. The doughnuts obviously. Not Marjorie from accounting.

I managed a smile, though it felt foreign on my face. Sure. Be down in a sec.

Really all I wanted to do was stay put in the silence, but it was hard to ignore my housemates when they were home, even when I stayed in my room. Both Carla and Ari had so much energy that it was impossible to escape it – music, chatter and the thud of feet from the kitchen to their bedrooms and back made the house come alive below me.

Carla stayed there for a second too long, looking firstly at me and then at the dirty clothes overflowing my wash basket, the empty plates on my desk chair and, finally, at the packages she brought up for me yesterday, which I still hadn’t opened. I knew already that they were all course materials and textbooks. Things I didn’t have the mental energy to so much as look at right now.

Jody…have you been in bed all day again? she asked, so gently it made me want to cry.

"Just since Doctors was on," I said. It came out defensive, even to my own ears.

Carla looked even more troubled by my answer. You’d let me know if there was anything I could do, right? she asked. If there was anything…really wrong?

Yep, I smiled back, knowing that I would literally rather throw myself in the Thames than have my housemates do any more for me than they already had. Ditto telling them the full story of how I came to be haunting their attic like the ghost of a Victorian spinster.

Alright, I’ll go make some tea – you, pop some proper clothes on. You’ll feel better, Carla instructed me as she disappeared back downstairs.

I wasn’t in my pyjamas, not exactly. But she did have a point. I’d had the same jumper and leggings on for three days now. I also hadn’t had a shower. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be clean, it was just the thought of getting all my stuff together and going down to the bathroom, having to get into the shower and go through the whole routine, dry off, come back up and put more clothes on. It was too much. I could barely bring myself to go downstairs to grab some food twice a day.

Dressed in a cleanish t-shirt and jeans with a hoodie thrown on over the top, I descended to the first floor, where the kitchen was. The ground floor being just the entrance hall and a storage space for the mouldy washing machine, mammoth fridge freezer, several car boot sales worth of junk and the landlord’s project motorbike. Ludlow House was affordable even on my tiny bursary because it was tall, narrow, practically derelict and shared between the three of us. I only found out about it because I still had Carla and Ari on Facebook.

When I’d first gone to university, they’d oversubscribed the halls, so I ended up getting pushed into private accommodation off campus. Student services found me a room in a house with some third-year girls – Ari and Carla. When they left university and I moved into second year housing with strangers, we stayed in contact, not just in term time but over the summer, sharing memes and birthday wishes. They’d invited me out for coffee a few times and to parties since we were all still in or around London, but I hadn’t gone even once. I’d gotten with Nick right after they’d graduated and he didn’t like me going into the city alone. We were still living in Surrey at the time. He said he’d happily take me anywhere, but something had always come up, or he’d made a fuss about being busy and stressed, so I stopped asking.

Carla had been the first one of us in residence at Ludlow House, and when her housemates moved on to other things she brought in Ari, who’d been asking around for somewhere to live during her PhD. Then I moved in three months ago, with what I could pack in an hour, whilst Nick was at the gym.

As if I’d summoned her, Ari came up from the entryway, also wet through. It had been raining all day. The perfect June in my opinion, especially given my current mood.

Ari’s long dark hair was shoved into her hood and she was carrying a bag of books that had left red rings on her arms where the handle had cut into her. I took the bag whilst she stripped off her coat.

Did you leave anything in the library? I asked.

Just the Kant. I’m not taking that module. She offered me a smile that tried and failed to hide her assessment of my greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. I couldn’t help but contrast myself with her perfect winged liner and flawless skin.

How are you? Ari asked, eyes practically brimming with concern.

Fine, I lied. Carla’s making tea.

Ari followed me down the ladder and into the kitchen, where steaming mugs were already clustered between Carla’s bags and the mountain of junk mail and actual post she must’ve picked up on her way in. A slightly battered box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts was balanced on top of three different coloured local directories. The rest of the kitchen was just as messy as it had been that morning. I’d meant to tidy it whilst they were out. I’d meant to do a lot of things.

Anything vegan? Ari asked, hopefully, ignoring the crusty washing-up and the crumb covered counter tops, which I was grateful for.

The box? Maybe? Carla said, doubtfully. Then she grinned and extracted a packet from her handbag. Got you a strawberry iced ring from Krispy Kreme on the way home.

You are a saint, Ari said, already tearing into the cake. I’ve had two supervisions today, neither of which gave me much direction for my thesis.

Beats my all-staff meeting and a full three hours crawling around the filing room, getting into all the low drawers because no one I work with wants to file anything below N in case they can’t get back up on their feet again, Carla said. Though I think my day was worse on the knees – those shitty carpets have shredded my tights. She showed off her laddered fifteen deniers with a wince. That’s the last pair in the pack gone! Another seven quid down the drain. I should get an allowance, or knee pads at the very least.

Take it to your union, Ari suggested, smirking behind her doughnut.

I’d have to start one first. National Collective of Hosiery Deprived Administrators, maybe. Not as bad as the time I wore my new white shirt and they made me change the toner. I came home looking like a bomb had gone off in my face. By the way did you pick up any more milk? I just noticed we’re mostly out of almond and normal.

Got almond. Cow is on you I’m afraid, Ari said.

I let their domestic chatter wash over me. It was reassuring, homely. Just like being back in our shared house at university, as if the intervening two years hadn’t happened. Back then we’d sort of drift in and out of each other’s orbits, making pasta bake or begging to borrow printer credits. They’d nag me into going on nights out and I’d proofread their essays. One of the many things I was grateful to them for was that easy companionship, even now, when I’d been so bad at keeping in touch.

They’d been so great about everything since I’d moved in. So supportive of me even through all my moods and odd hours, roaming the house because I couldn’t sleep. They’d also done their best to make me feel welcome.

I’d been scared of my new-old-housemates at first. They weren’t the scatty students I remembered. These were women who had their shit together – Carla with her city job – out the door at six on the dot with an expensive travel mug in one hand, her sleek little suitcase always bumping up and down stairs from fully catered away weekends in the Cotswolds to discuss mainframes over finger sandwiches. Carla said she usually only took notes for two hours and then went to the hotel gym or spa. Then there was Ari studying for her philosophy PhD, carrying dense, important books around in wittily captioned tote bags, heading off to study sessions in the royal parks and chic little coffee houses. Nimble and energetic even in Doc Martens. I envied her effortless cool and the intelligence that saw her devouring classic novels whilst I struggled to make it through a magazine article without my mind wandering.

Their legions of colleagues and friends and study buddies were always coming to the house too, to hang out and gossip or drink wine and destress. People I only knew by voice because I hid in my room when strangers were around. I wasn’t scared of them, not really, I just didn’t have the capacity to be social with new people. Most of the time.

Despite my anxiety over how much more professional and grown up they were, both Ari and Carla had been so kind. Almost too nice, I thought sometimes, and then felt bad for thinking it. In the three months since I had moved in, Carla had helped me get hold of some furniture and clothes on the cheap, since most of my stuff was still at Nick’s. Ari showed me the places near us to get free Wi-Fi, the best but most affordable coffee and how to make most efficient use of the nearby laundrette, because the machine downstairs was permanently stuck on the wool setting and also stunk of mildew.

These are for you, Carla said, sliding a clear envelope packed with post over to me. Someone’s popular.

Her forced jolliness was well meant but it only made me feel worse. I smiled back and pulled the envelope towards me. I had set up a diversion on my post from Nick’s flat and it all came to me in a big pile like this every now and then. I had changed my address with the university but things still slipped through, bureaucracy being what it was. Most of the envelope’s contents was junk, catalogues and newsletters I’d forgotten to cancel. But there were two letters in there. My heart sank. One of them had my university’s logo on it. The other had the address written in my mother’s handwriting. I hadn’t told her my new address in case Nick found a way to contact her, because I knew no matter what I said she’d tell him anyway. Because she knew best, and she was just trying to help. Neither letter seemed likely to cheer me up. Though for very different reasons.

I ripped open the one from Mum first. It was a card from one of her ‘correspondence sets’ with wild foxes on it. Inside she’d written the latest on her neighbour’s bunion (worse) and the state of the roads (improving). Then came a lecture about me not writing enough or phoning enough. She was worried about me. Was I eating properly? I never did learn the value of ‘good home cooking’. It carried on like that until presumably she noticed she was running out of space in the card. She’d signed off by asking how school was going and when was I bringing Nick down to meet her? The last line asked me (again) to phone her. The idea of hearing her voice, of having to explain without telling her the full story, made me feel like there was a weight pressing down on my chest. The weight of her expectations and my own humiliation.

I slowly opened the letter from the university, as if what was inside might sink its teeth into my fingers if I surprised it. My eyes skipped over the niceties and landed on a bolded paragraph halfway down the page.

Your attendance has become a cause of concern in the latter part of this term. Please contact your head of department with any issues relating to prolonged absences in future. Please note that, if your overall attendance falls below the threshold outlined below, following the summer break, your bursary for the next academic year may be affected.

What’s the matter? Ari asked.

I realised I was shaking, the paper shivering in my hand. I slapped it down on the table and reached for the steadying influence of my cup of tea. Half of it sloshed over the table, drenching the letter, but Ari still managed to see the paragraph that had nearly reduced me to tears.

Oh, hon, Carla said, reading upside-down from her side of the mountain of post. You need to get in touch with them, explain about… her eyes met Ari’s and she bit her lip, clearly unsure how to finish that sentence. They didn’t know the half of it. To them, I was just taking the break-up with Nick really, really badly.

Ari took over from Carla. No one can blame you for needing some time away. For not being able to focus after having to move and everything. I’m sure the university would understand if you just arranged to talk to your tutors. I could go with you, if you want?

They were clearly trying to be kind but that’s what made it worse. I felt as if my skin was on too tight, like it might split open and all the awfulness inside me would spill out. I was emotional roadkill, getting more rotten by the day.

Maybe you should try and get away somewhere, you know, for summer break? Carla said, hovering nearby with a bottle of water. You could visit your mum?

I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was to have to look Mum in the eye and tell her I was failing off of my course after she’s worked so hard to support me during my training in veterinary medicine. I was meant to be qualifying as a proper vet, making her proud and securing my future. Which, a bitter little part of me whispered, was almost impossible anyway, even without messing up as royally as I had. Ever since Dad died when I was six, Mum had been obsessed with what would happen to me ‘after she was gone’. By now I was meant to have a big circle of friends, a boyfriend and a career in the making. Instead of that I was hiding away in my tiny attic room day after day, watching shit TV and rotting in my pyjamas.

Or we could go somewhere, the three of us, Carla said. What do you think, a girls’ trip? Like that time we all went to Southend for the week – like all of us and the girls from Oakhill hall. Only we could go somewhere better… Spain maybe?

I thought of that Southend trip and my stomach turned over. We had very different memories of how that all went down. I decided, as I had then, that I wasn’t going to bring it up. Especially not after all this time.

I can’t afford it, I said, still looking at the letter. I’d barely be able to afford the fare down to Dorset to see Mum, what with trains being the way they are, never mind booking a hotel abroad, flights, food, drinks, going out...

Neither of them seemed to have an answer to that. None of us were exactly rolling in it. Ari was a foreign student and had to save money for getting to and from her family in Norway and Carla was on the second rung from bottom on the corporate ladder (the one below her was just…Angie, the post-room attendant). They were better off than me, but not by much. A surprise holiday for their depressed roommate was definitely not something they could afford.

Well, you never know, Ari said, sounding slightly less positive than before. I might be the next person to win Lethe tickets – I entered a draw on Twitter and about twenty sponsored giveaways on Instagram. Then we’d have somewhere to go for free. A luxury festival no less.

Sure, and I’ll get invited to the next Royal Wedding, Carla said, nudging me to include me in the joke. Besides, even if you did win tickets for the festival – we’d still need to afford flights to Greece.

Whilst the two of them shared a fantasy of winning the tickets of a lifetime, I sat and looked down at the college letter. In only a few months I’d managed to completely fuck up my entire life plan. I’d wanted to be a vet, like my dad, since before I could remember. Mum hadn’t been fond of the idea – she’d wanted something that paid more – but I’d persisted, in Dad’s memory and eventually she’d given in. Her final words on the subject were ‘at least you’ll always have work’, and I could see her thinking of her own years spent out of the labour market whilst she was raising me. Things had been hard once Dad died, and she’d barely scraped by on her receptionist’s wages.

I’d been working towards this all my life almost, firstly by watching my dad, learning from him. Then after he died, I’d fostered animals in my teens, done work experience and wildlife rescue volunteering, worked at a cattery in the summer holidays. My GCSEs, A Levels and degree had all been aimed at getting me here. I’d put nearly every single one of my twenty-one years on the planet into this dream. Now I was probably going to lose my bursary and end up having to drop out of the course. All because I’d been stupid enough to get involved with Nick a year and a half ago. It had seemed perfect – I didn’t have to go home, and Mum was happy because I’d ‘landed’ someone.

What would I do once I lost my place at uni? Go home to Mum with my tail between my legs? Marry one of her friend’s boring sons and pop out a few kids to ‘take care of me’ when I got old? Surround myself with WI friends to bring me cakes when my husband died? I shuddered just to think about it. It was everything she’d ever wanted for me since Dad’s death left her with nothing and nobody but me. There’d be no escape.

I think I’m going to go back to bed, I said, causing a tense silence to descend on the kitchen.

If you’re sure, Carla said. Let me know if you fancy that doughnut later, OK?

I nodded, forced a small smile for Ari and then left the