There’s only the bride waiting for me, and she’s covered in blood.

Normally at the end of a holiday on this island the whole party is ready with their suitcases, sunburned but cheerful. As I power across to them in my deck boat, they’re often not looking at me but taking final glances around the island: its white sandy beaches, clear water, palm trees.

It’s a perfect day to be on the sea this morning. The sun is warm on my back and the tide is on my side.

But the bride waiting for me has changed everything.

I wouldn’t call myself an easily shaken person. When you run a private island, you prepare for every possibility. Just thirty minutes by speedboat from the mainland, I’m always there if something does go wrong. The guests have the island to themselves, but I’ve not left them stranded. There’s an emergency phone, flares, and a fully stocked first aid kit.

Crises have happened before, of course they have.

Someone thought they’d climb the edge of the cliffside and ended up breaking their leg. Another woman insisted her pregnancy wouldn’t be a bother and went into labour on the first night. I guess I thought I’d seen it all.

I haven’t seen this.

The boat reaches the pier and I’m able to cut the engine and secure it before the bride hurries over.

“What’s happened?” I ask, amazed by how forceful my voice sounds. “Is everyone okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Now that she’s reached me, the bride seems to be in a state of shock. There are deep gashes in her hands, but I’m not sure they’re enough to cause the devastation on her thin white dress. All across the front are huge blood stains, grown dark with time. Scratches cover one side of her face. A slight bruise is forming underneath her left eye.

I reach out a tentative hand and she jerks backwards.

“Sorry!” I look around, trying to find signs of the others.

It’s too quiet here. I think back to only days ago, the happy loud group of women I took to this island, leaving them ready for the hen party of a lifetime. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

The bride’s eyes finally focus on me, wide and fearful.

“Your bridesmaids?” I persist. “Where are they?”

“It all went wrong,” she says.

I’m about to speak, but the bride isn’t finished. She draws herself into a hunch, grabbing both arms, wrapping herself in an embrace despite the scorching weather.

Her next words leave me cold.

“She started it.”