How to Kill Your Best Friend

by Lexie Elliott

  “They’re probably on the buggy on their way here,” Adam says, but his eyes are tight with tension.

  “Radio the driver, then,” I say impatiently. “Can you do that, Jem?”

  “I don’t have a radio here.” He cuts off the call and dials again, speaking over the polite rote script that the receptionist answers with. “It’s Jem again. Can you radio to check where the buggy is?”

  “Just a moment,” replies the disembodied receptionist. There’s a clunk that sounds like a receiver being set on the desk.

  Jem looks across the room. “What’s going on?” he asks, his eyes unerringly fixed on me.

  “I don’t know. But Bron and Duncan are missing, and someone put a knife through Bron’s swimsuit into a wall, so I’m thinking that’s not good.”

  “Someone,” says Adam. It’s a statement, not a question, but I can see in his eyes what he’s really asking. I close mine. I can’t bear to say it.

  “I don’t understand,” Jem says testily. “What am I missing?”

  I open my eyes to find Adam still looking at me. He rubs his hair with both hands, short and sharp, an uncharacteristic display of consternation, and then he nods briefly as if we’ve had a full conversation. Perhaps we have. “Lissa,” he says baldly to Jem, though his eyes are still on me. “It must be Lissa. She can’t have drowned after all.”

  “What?” says Jem uncertainly, and I turn to see a myriad of emotions crossing his face—bewilderment, anger, despair—but not a one of them is hope. Perhaps he daren’t let himself hope. “But that’s . . .” And then he starts to put it together in earnest. “Is that who you think did that sick nonsense in Bron’s room? That’s completely ridiculous. Come on, you both knew her. Lissa would never be capable of something like that.” He looks around at each of us in turn. The dead silence that meets his words drenches him like a wave of ice-cold water: he takes in a sharp, ragged breath and shakes his head. “I . . . You . . . Look, even if she wasn’t actually dead, why the hell would she have it in for Bronwyn?”

  The phone crackles into life. “Mr. Jem, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Rafi says Mrs. Miller is gone.” I hear rather than feel my sharp intake of breath. “He’s been looking for her with the other sir—”

  “Duncan?”

  “Yes, sir, with Mr. Duncan, sir. They have both been looking for her. They have checked through every bedroom and bathroom and outside. He doesn’t know where she’s gone.” Jem looks across at Adam and me. “Mr. Jem, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “What should Rafi do?”

  “Tell him to come here,” suggests Adam. “Tell him to come and pick us up. We can go there on the buggy and search.”

  Jem nods quickly and relays that message. “And radio all staff to be on the lookout for Mrs. Miller,” he orders. Then he stabs a button to disconnect the phone and turns savagely to us, his face dark. “You’re fucking nuts about this Lissa rubbish, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now we need to find Bronwyn. I’ll go to reception; I can better manage things from there. I’ve got my mobile.” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he simply heads out of the door of the lounge. Seconds later we hear the front door bang.

  Suddenly Adam’s phone chirps into life. “Duncan,” he says, stabbing at the phone to put it on speaker. Duncan is already in full flow: “—don’t know what’s going on. We were both packing, I could hear her, and then when I went to see if she was finished, she was just gone. We’ve looked everywhere.” Despite the tinny sound of the mobile, I can hear frustration and concern warring in his voice. “It makes no sense.”

  “Duncan, listen, the driver—Rafi—is coming to collect us, and we’ll help look for her,” Adam says.

  “Dunc, be careful,” I add. “We think—we think Lissa is still alive.”

  There’s silence. Then a puzzled, “What?”

  “We think it’s Lissa behind all of this.”

  “You can’t really think—”

  “Yes,” I say, simultaneously bending over to unfasten my sandals.

  “But her body—”

  “Red herring.” Truly red, in this case. Fire-engine red.

  “What are you doing?” Adam asks me, directing his voice away from the phone.

  Duncan’s voice crackles out of the phone again. “That can’t . . . But why would Lissa even want to target Bron? Because of Jem? Bron told me there was nothing between them.”

  “There was nothing between them. She never slept with Jem.” I don’t have time for the explanations. One of the buckles is fiddly, and I can’t quite get it to release; my fingers are too jittery and unsteady. More haste, less speed.

  “Graeme?” asks Duncan. It’s impressive how quickly he has revised his calculations. There’s silence from our end. “Oh,” says Duncan faintly. “But he never said anything. Did—did you know, Adam?”

  “No,” Adam says briefly. His eyes are on me. “What are you doing?” he asks me again.

  “I’m going to take the bike. I can’t move fast enough right now with my knee.” I straighten up, my feet finally liberated. Those sandals are so lethal in the rain, I’m better off without them. I take the phone off Adam and put it close to my mouth. “Duncan, change of plan; we’re not coming to you. You need to check every inch of the villa again, and then go check Horseshoe Cove. I think Lissa is moving by boat; the same boat we saw at Horseshoe Cove this evening. Adam, when Rafi gets here, get him to take you to Steve’s place. Drag him out of bed and sober him up any way you can; the pair of you have to get his boat and bring it round to catch up to me.”

  “Catch up to you where? Where are you going?”

  There’s a grim inevitability about my answer. “Kanu Cove,” I say.

  * * *

  —

  Please don’t be there. Please be there. I don’t know what I’m hoping for more.

  I haven’t been on a bike for years—I wouldn’t dare in the Manhattan traffic—but here I am riding along in the dark, hunched against the rain that’s plastering my hair against my head, with the skirt of my sundress tucked up in my knickers so as not to get entangled in the chain, and my bare feet pressed uncomfortably against the ridged pedals and a nagging pain flaring in my knee with every rotation. I don’t know the pathways nearly as well as Rafi, the breakneck buggy driver from earlier, and even being the unseasoned cyclist that I am, I can tell that the tires are too soft and presumably the brakes won’t work well in this weather, which makes me cautious. Plus it’s difficult riding through wet sand, even when the sand is covering a harder surface beneath; I’m puffing from the exertion, though it feels like my open mouth drags in as much rainwater as air. Am I really moving so much faster than I would on foot? I can’t tell.

  Please don’t be there. Please be there.

  But in truth I have made progress. I’ve already passed the reception, catching a glimpse, through the curtain of rain, of Jem in his white shirt behind the counter, barking orders into a phone. He must have run there to have arrived so quickly. I wonder if he’s thought to close the entry gates, but I don’t stop to tell him. If I’m right, she’s not traveling by road. I hope I’m not right; intellectually there’s no reason to think that I would be—but I feel that I am. I feel it in the cold dread that fills my stomach, sending ice through my veins. Even the panic that infuses me has no heat in it. And the cycling, unfamiliar though it is, works the same way all exercise does for me: it wipes away the noise and focuses the mind. I am full of dread for a reason. I am doing the only thing I can do about it, and as quickly as I can. Nothing else is material right now.

  There’s a fork in the pathway that causes me to screech to a halt, the rusty bike protesting loudly. Everything looks different in the dark and the wild weather. I can only really see ten to fifteen meters ahead; I’ve been relying on the lamplights ahead springing into view as I approach t
hem. But now I’m unsure as to exactly where I am. There are two paths that one can take to the cove. One circles round to finish on the beach area of Kanu Cove, descending in a fairly steep slope, but something that I can probably manage on the bike. The other heads toward the top of the headland and finishes at those steep steps cut into the cliff, that Lenny, Adam and I climbed only hours ago. But have I really reached that point already? I don’t remember passing the junction where a fork leads off to the staff quarters; is that where I am now? I peer through the deluge and the darkness, searching around for any kind of clue, while simultaneously flexing my fingers; I’ve been gripping the rubber handlebars so tightly, so as not to be jettisoned from the bike by any unexpected potholes or tree branches, that my hands are starting to cramp. When I glance at them I can see in the dim light of a nearby path lamp that my fingers are a bloodless white and puckered from the water. I’m cold now. The air temperature must still be tropical, but the wind chill on wet skin is substantial.

  Pick the path that’s on the coastal side, I decide. I can’t risk being diverted to the staff quarters. I settle back onto the saddle, hopping on my left foot as I struggle to get the bike moving on the wet sand, and feeling a different kind of lancing pain through my knee as I do so. And then I’m off again. Either the wind has picked up again or the foliage here is less effective at protecting me; a couple of gusts of wind almost knock me off.

  Please don’t be there. Please be there. And then: What am I going to do if she’s there?

  I ride on, the rain streaming continuously down my face. My dress is so wet that I don’t have to worry about the skirt of it tangling in the chain any longer; it’s plastered to my upper thighs. The path has switched from groomed sand to tarmac and is climbing instead of descending, and after a couple hundred meters of climb, I can’t deny it: I’m on the path that goes over the headland. I’m going to have to ditch the bike at some point. And then the decision is taken out of my hands when a particularly strong gust of wind veers me sideways, causing the front wheel to jackknife on some kind of obstruction—a rock, presumably—and I’m tipped off, landing in an unceremonious sprawl half on, half off the tarmac path. I struggle back to my feet, ignoring the tears in my eyes, barely even checking myself over, because what is the point? It’s not as if I can stop. I don’t bother to pick up the bike again, and instead I start to run, trying to place my bare feet lightly on the hard path, though I soon have to drop back to a walk, pushing down on my thighs with my hands as I stride forward, as the path kicks up much more steeply. I will be on the top of the headland soon, but I’ll be able to see only the far side; not the side I want. Not the nearside, which has the jetty where a boat with a dirty blue hull might pull up.

  And then I’ve reached the top and the onslaught I’ve been under from the storm is nothing compared to the ferocity that greets me now. I’m buffeted so hard that it’s a genuine battle to move forward, and the drops of rain that continually strike my skin actually sting. I dip my head and push on, ignoring the pain and trying to break into a run now that path has flattened out, though it’s really not much better than a fast walk; I’ll be faster when I get onto the stone steps, I tell myself. The lighting here is much more infrequent, but the tarmac gleams wetly in whatever light there is, so it’s not hard to follow, even with my eyes half shut against the violent gusts. After a hundred meters or so, I realize that I’m moving downhill a little. And then the path veers sharply left, and I see the start of the wet stone steps. If anything, they seem more daunting here at the top: rough slabs of stone, narrow but deep, and desperately uneven, of such ridiculous proportions that I can’t help wondering what kind of being they were designed for—a giant perhaps, but one that’s ludicrously narrow in beam? A rivulet, born of the storm, is coursing down one side of them. I take a deep breath and start to descend. Each step is a leap of faith. There’s no handrail that I can see, and scant few lamps, either; and each step is deep enough that weight has to be transferred before the new tread is found, so that each stride involves an odd sort of hop down, praying for rock to meet my bare foot, praying that it will be flat and smooth, not pitted or scattered with the gravel that occasionally bruises my soles, my breath humphing out of me at each landing and my knee screaming. More than once I stumble; once I have to catch myself on a low bush growing at the side, or I would have fallen who knows how far down. After twenty or so steps, I notice that the wind has eased off a touch, and the rain is lashing less ferociously. Then I see the pathway we took earlier, the one that’s no wider than a rabbit trail. If the man who attacked me took it in the dark, he’s much braver than I. I wonder how long he had been watching me from above, biding his time. I wonder, too, how he fits in at all—but I can’t spare the energy for speculation. I have to keep climbing down, one giant step after another.

  Please don’t be there. Please be there.

  I’m so focused on my footing that it dawns on me well after it should that I’m now able to see the lights of the stone jetty; that I have only ten meters left to descend. And therefore I’m not focused on being quiet, though it’s not as if my strategy relies on that, because I have no strategy. The last steps are over in seconds, and then I’m stumbling over the rough gravel path onto the blessedly smooth surface of the jetty, looking back and forth, my attention initially caught by the boat that’s tied up only a few meters from me, rising and falling jerkily with the wild waves, but I can’t see anybody on board—and then I see a figure. A misshapen figure, about to clamber on board—but no, it’s two figures, clamped oddly together, their faces turned toward me, the jetty lamplight fighting through the rain to extend just enough illumination for me to be certain: It’s Lissa. It’s unmistakably Lissa. Now it’s no longer a thought experiment, or intellectual conjecture; now it’s solid fact. Lissa is alive. And she’s jamming something metallic into the side of a very wet, bedraggled and scared-looking Bron. It can only be a gun.

  HOW TO KILL YOUR BEST FRIEND

  Method 8: Drowning

  Drowning. It’s quite an arresting thought. I suppose it’s the poetic tragedy of the idea that a champion swimmer’s heart might beat its last in her own arena.

  But . . . drowning. Difficult to do—and yet, not. Executable and believable, it ticks those boxes; of course I could engineer an opportunity for just the two of us to swim together. That’s not the difficult bit. The difficult bit is the actual doing of it. I suppose I would have to hit her on the head with something to disorient her—a rock, maybe; I could claim a freak wave bashed her against some rocks—and then hold her underwater. Except she’s strong; she would fight; she would judder and jackknife and kick. And even if she didn’t, even if the rock knocked the senses clean from her head and the seawater swept them still farther away . . . even then, I don’t know that I could do that. Not in the water. Water, swimming, the clarity of it, the cleanness of it: that’s what’s been saving me. It’s sacred, in a way. I don’t feel I can sully it.

  So, no. Not in the water. Not there.

  TWENTY-ONE

  BRONWYN

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  That’s all I’ve been able to think from the moment she appeared in the villa—Lissa! Lissa, alive! But this can’t be happening. She is Lissa, but also she isn’t: there’s something wrong about her. The gun, to be sure, but that’s not all of it. She isn’t listening or engaging or reacting to any of my questions, a stream of whats that become whys that become wheres:

  What are you doing?

  What do you want?

  Why are you doing this?

  Where did you get that?

  Where are you taking me?

  There’s something robotic about her. It’s more terrifying than any display of fury ever could be. More terrifying even than the gun, because a gun is only ever as dangerous as the hand that holds it.

  It was the gun that stopped me from crying out to Duncan, that allowed her
to slip me out the French windows of the bathroom, then through a gap in the wall of the outdoor bathroom area, out to the back of the villa, and then on through a gap in the hedge to the next property where a small buggy was waiting. Don’t ever get in the vehicle, I remembered from some old safety briefing about kidnappings (Why on earth was I receiving such a safety briefing? I don’t remember). Once you do, you’re done for. But I got in. There really wasn’t anything else to be done. I drove, as she directed, half considering crashing into a tree, but the cold, hard barrel jammed against my side made me think twice; it would probably go off as we crashed. In fact, any pothole might jolt her finger . . . I drove very carefully after that particular thought. I followed her instructions. She knew which paths to take to avoid any staff, which also served to confuse me as to where we were going. Though I really should have guessed. Kanu Cove. Of course.

  And here we are, and there’s the same boat with the shabby blue hull, pitching horribly against the jetty in the swell. Could I throw myself in the water? But no, getting enough distance to be safe from bullet fire would put me into the path of the rip; I’d surely be swept away.

  “You tried to run me over with the boat,” I call over my shoulder, as she directs me along the path toward the boat. She’s only a foot or so behind me. I’m trying to look around for any kind of way out, but to my left is a sheer cliff face, to my right is the water, and behind me is a woman with a gun. And the heavens continue to assault us with the lashing rain.

  “Not really,” she calls back. “We weren’t trying that hard; we were just having some fun.” She sounds as if she’s starting to have fun herself, now. The robotic tone is melting away.

  “We? Who’s we? The man who attacked Georgie?” I risk a glance behind, but she simply gestures with the gun. It would take out my liver right now.

  “Keep walking.”