The edges of the road are blurred by sand. Sand lies on window ledges, weighs down roofs, gathers in corners. After a minute or two, she sees the few, low lights that indicate the admin building. In the summer neon signs offering Dancing, Music, Licensed Bar can be seen from the other side of the Channel, but none of them are lit tonight.
The foyer smells of stale beer, cooking fat and damp carpet. There are stacks of metal-framed chairs against one wall. Crumpled crisp packets and sweets lie amongst balls of dust in the corners. A wide-headed brush has been abandoned on its side, its bristles encrusted with dirt and human hair.
The ballroom is almost in darkness but emergency lights lend a green glow to the walls as Maggie heads for where she can now hear voices. Directly ahead of her is a stage, curtained with heavy red velvet. For the first time, she is beginning to regret not taking Pete up on his offer to come with her.
She would not have been welcome here with Pete.
The voices have fallen silent and she has a sense of people, just around the corner in the bar area, listening to her approach. She gets closer and can see shoulders, backs of heads. Moving as one, the heads turn to face her.
She can see them all now. Around a dozen, most seated, some standing by a bar in which every optic is empty. She spots Sandra Wolfe in one of the seats, sitting next to a young woman with very long black hair.
‘Maggie?’
A man is coming towards her. He is small and skinny, with an angry-looking patch of eczema around his neck and several shaving cuts.
‘I’m Mike Shiven.’ He’s holding out a small hand towards her. She fights back a shiver when it lies, flat and dead, in her own. Up close, she can see a crusting around his eyelashes and, when he releases her hand, she feels as though he has left skin behind.
‘It was good of you to come,’ he says. ‘We’re all very grateful.’
Everyone is staring at her, not even trying to soften their curiosity. One woman looks quite elderly, a couple barely more than teenagers. Most are women. All of them, she sees now that she’s closer, are wearing paper flowers as buttonholes.
‘This is Andy Bear.’ Shiven is indicating a huge man who’s followed him over from the bar. ‘He’s the manager of the holiday village. It’s thanks to him we can meet here.’
Bracing herself, Maggie holds out her hand to Bear, whose hairy stomach is hanging below the rim of his sweatshirt. He is wearing oversized sweatpants, but the elastic in the fabric has gone in the knees and the thread is looking thin around the crotch. His hand is cold and clammy and she drops it quickly.
‘Shall we sit down?’ With one hand in the small of her back, Shiven steers her towards the waiting circle of chairs. ‘I’m sure we’d all like to welcome Maggie Rose here tonight.’ There is a half-hearted smattering of applause. ‘Maggie, thank you for coming. We’re here for you. What would you like to say to us?’
‘Can I suggest we start by you introducing yourselves to me,’ Maggie says. ‘We’ll go round in a circle. Tell me who you are, whether or not you know Wolfe personally, and why you believe him to be innocent.’
‘His name is Hamish.’ The woman on Sandra Wolfe’s immediate left, with long black hair and hard black eyes is staring at Maggie.
Maggie returns the look. ‘Why don’t you go first?’ she says.
Black eyes mutters something.
‘Sirocco, I wish you’d stop saying that.’ Sandra’s voice cuts across the cold air like a colder wind. ‘That’s the sort of nonsense that just embarrasses Hamish.’
‘Give me your name again?’ Maggie asks.
‘Sirocco.’ The woman sits upright on her chair, like a cat about to lick her paws. Her clothes are black, flowing and shapeless.
‘Like the car?’ Maggie says.
The woman shakes her long hair. ‘Like the wind. I’m Sirocco Silverwood. Hamish and I are soulmates.’
It is difficult to guess Silverwood’s age. Her dress, hair, make-up suggest early to mid twenties but there is a coarseness to her skin that typically only occurs after the age of thirty. She looks thin, but is dressed in such loose, shapeless clothes that it is impossible to be sure.
‘Does he know?’ Maggie asks.
A narrow-eyed glare. ‘Of course.’
Sandra practically jumps in her seat in frustration. ‘They’ve never met. Sirocco talks nonsense.’
The black-haired woman’s body tenses, as though she might leap at Hamish’s mother. ‘We write to each other all the time. The only reason I don’t see him is because you take all the visits.’
Sandra doesn’t seem remotely intimidated. ‘He wants to see family, not some stupid girl who’s living in a dream world.’
Maggie turns away from the quarrelling women. ‘Mike, why don’t you start with the introductions. We’ll go anticlockwise.’