by Lucy Foley
‘Yes,’ he said, trying to stay measured, to speak calmly, to counteract the man’s tone. The therapist had taught him some breathing exercises – he could try those. ‘I was.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ the bloke said, smiling, except it wasn’t a smile at all, it was more like a snarl. ‘I thought everyone in that regiment was killed. I thought they were all surrounded, and blown up by the Taliban.’
Doug closed his eyes. It was al-Qaeda, actually. ‘They were. Most of us …’
‘Then how did you manage to get away, eh, mate? Look at me, I’m talking to you. How are you standing here, alive and well, drinking a fucking beer, mate? While my best friend is lying dead in Durka Durkistan? Can you explain that to me?’
He could feel something rising inside him. Something dangerous, rapidly growing outside his control. ‘I don’t have to explain it to you. Mate.’ He tried breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. It didn’t seem to be working.
The man took another step forward. ‘I think you do, actually. And we’ve got all night. I’m not going anywhere until you explain it all to me, piece by fucking piece. Because I loved that guy like a brother. And from where I’m standing, shall I tell you what it looks like?’
‘What?’ he managed – he was still fighting it, the thing rising in him. ‘What does it look like?’
The bloke prodded him, hard, in the centre of his chest. ‘It looks like you’re a fucking coward.’
That was when the mist had come up over him: the red mist they talk about – though it was more like a flood. If anything, he was most purely himself in that moment – more than he had been in months. More so than he had been since the good days at the beginning of the tour.
He had lunged forward and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. ‘What’s your name?’
The man gulped, but didn’t speak.
‘What’s your name, laddie? Forgotten how to speak?’
The man had made a kind of garbled noise in his throat, and Doug had realised then he was actually holding his collar too tightly for him to get any words out. He relaxed his grip infinitesimally, and roared in the bloke’s face: ‘What’s your fucking name?’
The man’s friends, it seemed, weren’t interested in helping him out. ‘Some mates you’ve got, eh?’ He looked at them. He felt as though he could take all of them on, if necessary, and he wondered if they knew it, too.
‘It’s – it’s Adrian.’
‘Well. Let me tell you, Adrian. I don’t think you should go meddling in things you don’t understand, got it? I don’t have to explain myself to anyone – especially not a little dipshit like you. What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m – ah – ah – an accountant.’
‘Right. An accountant.’ He gave the bloke a shake, and he whimpered. He couldn’t be bothered, he realised; suddenly he just felt tired, and very sober. The flood was ebbing away. This man wasn’t worth his energy. He let him go. ‘Do yourself – do everyone – the favour, and stop meddling in things you can’t possibly understand. Yeah?’
There was no answer. The man was massaging his throat. But he nodded, twice.
Doug’s hand ached. He flexed it. He wasn’t proud of what he had done, but at least he had stopped himself. Then he heard, sotto voce, ‘Fucking coward.’
That was when he had lost it properly, according to the eyewitnesses, of which there were many: it was a crowded bar, after all. They said they thought he was trying to kill the bloke. The police had to drag him off him. Adrian Campbell. That was his full name. There had been extenuating circumstances, to a degree. Campbell had a history of involving himself in brawls, and generally disrupting the peace. There was the nature of the insult – put in context with his own, previously undiagnosed condition: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, making him not fully in charge of his own actions.
He knew otherwise. Unsurprisingly, his lawyer advised him not to mention this in court. The sentence was two hundred and fifty hours’ community service, and the sessions with the psychiatrist. He thought, when it came to the latter, that he probably would have preferred to stay in prison.
‘OK,’ I say, when Doug finishes. But it’s not really OK. I’m not OK. I don’t know what to feel about it. On the one hand there is the fact that, for all its violence, the story has a strange kind of logic to it. He was suffering from PTSD, and he was viciously provoked. From what he says, that man was trying to get a rise out of him, pushing all his buttons. I suppose it at least provides some context for the horror I read on the Internet. But there’s a small voice that’s also saying: You are drawn to this man, in spite of yourself – therefore you are trying to excuse the inexcusable. Because his blunt, even dispassionate, account of the incident has illustrated exactly what he is capable of. Far more graphically, somehow, than any of those lurid column inches could.
What exactly the boss thought he was doing employing me here with a man who had done such a thing as my sole other co-worker, I don’t know, but that’s another matter. The important question is, does it make him capable of killing that guest? No, of course it doesn’t. At least … probably not. Hopefully not.
Unless, of course, she provoked him.
One day earlier
New Year’s Day 2019
EMMA
The party by the loch has suddenly diminished. Giles told us he was going to check on Priya, Katie has gone to get another jumper. It’s too cold to sit out here much longer.
‘Crap,’ Bo says, ‘Miranda still hasn’t come back. I bet she’s passed out. She told me to leave her … and to be honest she isn’t her best self right now.’
‘Leave her,’ says Nick. ‘She could do with sleeping a bit of it off.’
‘I don’t know,’ Bo says, ‘she was in a pretty bad way—’
‘I’ll go,’ I say.
It’s dark and very quiet when I step into the Lodge, so much so that I assume Miranda can’t be here at first. Then I hear the voices. Something makes me stop; there’s an intimacy to the darkened room that makes me feel I shouldn’t disturb them. One voice is low, hoarse, almost a whisper. The other drunken, belligerent. ‘I had to tell the truth. Duh. It was Truth or Dare.’
‘No you didn’t. You know you didn’t. You were doing it to wind me up.’
A laugh, sharp and mean. ‘Believe it or not, Giles, I didn’t think of you once.’
‘Fine – exactly. You didn’t think. You don’t. And what about Julien?’
‘Oh … he won’t think anything of it. I told him I slept with Katie once, to turn him on. He has this whole little fantasy about us – slutty schoolgirls. Chill out. She’s never going to guess it was you, Giles.’
‘If you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t that many candidates here. It wouldn’t take a genius. Samira knows we were in the same tutor group together.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t know why you’re getting your knickers in such a twist. It happened a million fucking years ago.’
‘Except not so much so that you could helpfully forget about it for one stupid bloody game. If Samira found out about us – even though it happened a long time ago – it would be really, really bad. She had a lot of trouble, after Priya was born, more than you know. And she’s always had this suspicion, this idea that something might have happened. That I have a thing about you. Which is completely ridiculous, of course.’
‘Is it?’ Miranda says now. ‘Is it Giles? What about that party—’
‘For God’s sake, yes. What are you trying to say? Don’t look at me like that. Look … we’ve all had a lot to drink. I think it’s probably time we all went to bed. I know you’re not going to say anything to her. I just got worried, for a second … when we were playing that stupid game.’
‘No. I don’t think so. Can’t promise anything, though. Might be good for your marriage – a little test. Might be refreshing for us all. Show you aren’t quite as bloody perfect as you think you are.’
‘For God’s sake Miranda.’
He’s practically hissing now. ‘You know what? One of these days you’re going to go too far.’
Then, suddenly, there’s a groan: a deep, animal sound.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Giles says again.
Miranda is hunkered over in her gold dress, on her hands and knees, vomiting onto the ground.
Giles watches her, impassive. He doesn’t seem at all like the man I have come to know, the caring husband and father – the man who saves people’s lives on a ward. I would have expected that man to kneel down, to hold back her hair. I’ve seen another side of him, this evening.
Then he turns, suddenly, before I have time to hide myself. His eyes meet mine.
MIRANDA
When I wake it’s very dark, and quiet. For a moment I have absolutely no idea where I am. I grope about with one hand to get my bearings. My first impression is of feeling absolutely disgusting, like my insides and my throat have been scoured with wire wool. The taste in my mouth is sour, acrid. What’s wrong with me? Am I ill? I grope for a switch, blink it on.
Oh. The light returns me to my surroundings. With a horrible inevitability the events of the evening come back to me. Drinking far too much. Having to prove myself as The Life and Soul of the Party. Giles accosting me with his paranoia. Well, maybe he’s not totally paranoid. I know Samira’s always had her suspicions. And I didn’t feel good about it at the time … it was after a boozy night in the pub for our tutor group, and I already knew she liked him. But for God’s sake – it was before they even started going out. If you let something like that upset you, you’re frankly too bloody thin-skinned. If anyone needs to be worried, it’s me. I was with Julien at the time, after all.
Oh God, and now I remember vomiting while Giles looked on, eyes on me the whole time, like he half wanted me to choke on it. When Julien appeared he just looked tired, vaguely disgusted. No: I wasn’t so drunk that I don’t remember that.
I glance in the mirror hanging above the dressing table. I thought I looked amazing in the gold dress. No, I knew I looked amazing. But it’s like I’ve woken up in a parallel universe. Now the fabric is rumpled and stained, and my make-up (I was wearing quite a lot of it – I need to wear more of it these days) has sunk into the creases of skin about my eyes and mouth that I could swear weren’t as deep yesterday. I move away from the light, thinking of Blanche DuBois, cringing away from lamps. Is that what I’m going to become? Is there anything sadder than a once-beautiful woman who has lost her looks?
For some reason there’s a song going around and around in my head. Candi Staton’s ‘You’ve Got the Love’. And there’s something about it that niggles at me, though I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like last night, when someone said that disconcerting thing. Who was it? And what did they say?
At least I’m feeling a bit less drunk now. I must have got rid of most of the booze from my system. I have no idea what time it is. But Julien isn’t back yet – so the party must be continuing. I feel a sudden sense of FOMO, at the idea of them carrying on without me. I can’t believe I managed to pass out. I’ve got to rally myself, get back out there. This is what is expected of me, after all. I stagger into the bathroom, drag a comb through my hair, splash some water on my face, and attempt to tidy the make-up smeared around my eyes, with little effect. I brush my teeth: that’s something, at least. What time is it? I check the clock. Four in the morning. Wow, the others have really made a night of it, then. I feel that sting again, at the knowledge of the fun I must’ve missed. I have always been – prided myself on being – the life and soul of the party. That was what Julien said at our wedding: ‘I love you’, looking at me, looking into my eyes, ‘because you are the life and soul of the party.’ ‘And a few other reasons, I hope,’ I had laughed. He had grinned. ‘Of course.’ But it has stuck with me, that phrase. I remember the way he looked at me as he said it, and I can never let it go, that aspect of myself. Well, I’m going to show him now.
I open the door of the cabin. The cold hits me like a slap. I steel myself against it. There are lights on, coming not from the Lodge building, as I had first thought, but from the sauna. I feel a little sting of resentment – they could have come and got me, asked if I wanted to join them. I’ve been wanting to try out the sauna.
I slip and slide my way there along the frozen path, past the Lodge. All the lights in there are off bar a single lamp in the living room. I can just make out Mark, sleeping on one of the sofas. Another casualty of this evening, then. I feel a little better for knowing that I’m not the only one.
There is a smell in the air that I recognise from skiing trips: a freshness, almost metallic. I remember Doug’s warning. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were all sitting in the sauna, looking out towards the loch, and it started to snow? So picturesque. Give us a good memory of tonight, one that would erase my messiness.
As I get nearer, I hear a strange sound that literally stops me in my tracks. Something animal. Somewhere between a cry and a groan. It sounded as though it came from the direction of the sauna, the woods behind. I feel my skin wash with goosebumps as I hurry towards the sauna: it represents a haven now from the great, wild outdoors.
Only a couple of feet from the door I hear the sound again, and this time I hesitate. Because now I’m almost certain it came not from the trees behind the sauna, but from inside the sauna itself.
NOW
2nd January 2019
HEATHER
I go to the little toilet next to my office to splash some cold water on my face, in an attempt to try to clear my mind after everything I’ve just discovered about Doug.
I’m just drying my face when I hear something, a murmuring of voices. A man and a woman. It’s two of the guests, I’m certain, but I can’t work out which ones. Part of the problem is that they all have the same voices to my ear: Southern, middle-class, entitled.
The man, first: ‘If they find out – I’m screwed.’
‘Why would they find out?’ The woman, answering.
‘There’s a note.’
I freeze, and move closer to the wall, as quietly as I can. Of course – the corridor to the back door wraps around beside my office. Someone could go there wanting to have a private conversation and never know that there’s a room here, because the loo is only accessible through the office.
‘The note?’ the woman says, with a tremor of incredulity, ‘You didn’t destroy it?’
‘No – I didn’t think. I was too panicked, with everything else. I don’t even know where it is now …’
There is a long silence, during which I am fairly sure the woman is trying to think of ways not to berate him. What sort of note? I wonder. A suicide note? That seems unlikely, the last time I checked it was pretty difficult to strangle yourself.
‘The important thing,’ the woman says, calmly, at last, ‘is that you didn’t have anything to do with her death. That’s what counts. They’ll be able to see that.’
‘But will they, though?’ he says. His voice rises to a shrill, panicked pitch. Then it sinks to a murmur again, quieter than before: I think she’s shushed him. I press my head closer to the wall.
‘When the other stuff comes out about me – when they decide what sort of person they think I am …’
There’s a sudden crash. I jump back, confused, and realise that in my eagerness to hear I’ve managed to dislodge the little hunting scene on the wall next to me. It has fallen to the ground with an impressive explosion of broken glass.
The voices, of course, have gone quiet. I can almost feel them, standing there rigid with shock, on the other side of the wall – hardly breathing. As quietly as I can, I creep my way back into the office.
One day earlier
New Year’s Day 2019
MIRANDA
The sight confronting me inside the sauna is absurd. I am so stunned that I feel a strange urge to laugh. I remember when our cat got run over when we were children, how when my mum told us, my brother’s first reaction was, ‘Ha!’ I was so sho
cked I slapped him. But my mum explained that it was a simple reaction to the trauma. The brain short-circuiting, unable to make sense of something.
This is what I see: my husband, crouched on the floor of the sauna. Above him I see Katie. My best friend, my oldest friend. Completely nude. Her legs open, his head buried between them. My plain, flat-chested, thick-thighed friend. Her head thrown back in ecstasy. He grips her calves. She has her feet locked around his back. And as I watch, he reaches up and takes the nipple of one of her fried egg breasts in one hand. This, finally, is too much. It’s torn out of me. ‘Ugh.’
They freeze. Then both, slowly, turn to look at me. Julien – oh Christ – wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Their expressions are blank at first, as they make sense of what they are seeing. I feel a tide of horror flooding through me, like a poison entering the bloodstream. I glance over at the scuttle of hot coals, and for a second I am tempted – really tempted – to pick up the shovel and chuck a load of the burning rocks at them.
It is all completely absurd. My husband and my best friend. It can’t be possible. I almost expect them to both suddenly crack grins and congratulate themselves on pranking me, as they did at the surprise party for my thirtieth birthday. This would be rather difficult to explain away as a prank, though.
‘Oh,’ Katie says. ‘Oh, God.’
‘I thought you were asleep,’ Julien says. ‘I left you at the cabin. You were passed out …’ And then, apparently, realising the ridiculousness of accusing his wife of not being where he thought she was while he cheated on her, he says, ‘Oh God, Miranda. Oh fuck. I’m so sorry. It’s not – it’s not what it seems.’
And now I do laugh, a mad-witch cackle that only makes them look more afraid. Good. I want them to be afraid.
