by Flynn Berry
“Sam was making the drinks. We were all dancing. I remember being sick in the room, in front of everyone. I was so embarrassed, but Sam was nice about it, he wasn’t angry. He said I should go lie down. I fell on the stairs and he helped me the rest of the way. He said he was going to get me some water.
“When I woke up, my clothes were on the floor. There was some blood on the sheets. It was light out. When I went downstairs, they were all in the sitting room, still drinking. James asked if I wanted an orange juice.”
I listen with a hand over my mouth, and my legs shaking enough to make my shoes rattle against the floor.
“I told the university,” says Tessa. “Sam came to my room that night and said no one would believe me, he’d talked to the other girls at the party and they would swear that I was making it up. When I went back to see the chancellor, I thought she would try to convince me not to drop the complaint, but she didn’t, she knew who Sam’s family was.”
“So you left?”
“No, I wanted to stay, I loved Oxford. I left in the next term, after I heard what had happened. It wasn’t only Sam, it was all of them.”
I bow my head against the dizziness.
For so long—not only as a child, even recently—I’ve made up reasons for what he did. He’d taken something on the night of the murder, or had a psychotic break. Something in him had come loose momentarily, but the real version of him was the one I’d known, not the version who came into our house that night.
But there was never another version of him. I understand that now. He didn’t have a double life. No one does, there’s only ever one. The man in the attacks is the same one who taught me to read is the same one who raped another student.
“Have you told anyone?”
“My husband and son,” says Tessa. There’s a pause, and then she says, “I told your mum.”
“What?”
“She came to see me after they separated. She’d heard Colin say my name on the phone, she thought we were having an affair. When I told her, she couldn’t speak. I held her hand. She asked me what I wanted to happen to them, and I said I wanted them to be punished.”
Her voice clots, she’s started to cry. “She went to ask your father about it, and brought a tape recorder, to show the police. He denied it, so she bluffed. She told him she had proof, he couldn’t lie about it anymore.”
“Why didn’t she tell the police during the inquiry?”
“I begged her not to. I was scared, I thought I’d be next. I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d never told her. I think about Emma every day.”
• • •
I’ve wanted to know his motive for so many years. My father planned to kill Mum because she’d found out about Tessa. There’s no statute of limitations on rape, he might have gone to prison. Along with Sam, and James, and the rest of their club, the members of Parliament, bankers, judges.
There’s a relief in knowing the truth—a completion, a block finally dropping into place—but I’m also so stricken it hurts to breathe, and weeping, my face hot, my hands clutching my stomach. I’d thought there might still be a way out of this. A notch in the circle through which all of us, even him, could escape.
* * *
*
• • •
I press a cold towel to my swollen face. I stand at the window and watch people walking in the alley below the hotel. I think of his clipped plastic bags of maca and dried mushrooms. The sunlight on the pink quartz crystals. I wonder if he believes in their healing powers. He owns a meditation pillow. Which means he can close his eyes at will, and feel peace.
37
MY FATHER and a mechanic are on the garage forecourt. His jeep is levered up on a pole inside, they seem to be discussing a repair. The mechanic holds his hands apart to demonstrate a size, and my father nods, with his arms folded over his chest. He seems nonchalant. It’s an old car, it must need repairs often.
The two of them crouch underneath the chassis. After a while, they reappear on the forecourt. The mechanic offers him a rag and my father wipes the black grease from his hands. He does this for a long time, working the rag around each finger, even after they must be clean. That was one of the things his friends said in his defense, I remember. That he was particular, that he didn’t like to be dirty, that he couldn’t be around blood.
My father shakes hands with the mechanic and walks back towards the center of town. I take out my phone and call DI Tiernan. It goes to her voicemail. I call the other number she gave me, for her department at the Met, and the receptionist puts me through to another detective in her unit. He knows who I am. As soon as I tell him my name, his voice loses its boredom and impatience.
“DI Tiernan gave me her number, but her mobile is switched off. Do you know how I can reach her?”
“She’s on a flight,” he says. “I can help in the meantime.”
I don’t know anything about this man, I don’t know if he’ll do this correctly. The police have let my father escape before.
“That’s fine. Do you know when she lands?”
“Not for another five hours,” he says. He’s curious, he wants me to tell him instead of waiting. “She’s coming from Singapore.”
I thank him and end the call, cursing. Without the key fob, I have no way of knowing where my father is. I circle through town, past all of the places I’ve seen him, the reiki center, the café, the restaurant, the hardware shop, but he isn’t at any of them. He might stay up at his house until the car is repaired. He might be enjoying the break in his routine, the excuse for laziness. I try not to panic. He hasn’t been warned, he has no reason to leave now. DI Tiernan will land soon, it’s only a few more hours.
I walk to the cove hidden down the coast from town, where my father went scuba diving. The sun has just dropped below the horizon, but there’s still light in the wide dome of sky. I fold my dress on top of my bag, then pick my way over the shadowless beach. Everything is clear, poised, held in the same even light.
The water’s warmer than the air. The rocks shift under my feet, and I look down to avoid the sea urchins. The water closes around my hips, then my waist. I float my palms on the surface, stirring them so ripples spread around me. My dry hair brushes against my back. A few birds fly over my head, towards the Pakleni islands.
There are no other swimmers. Behind me, the dirt lot is empty of cars. I dive under the water, and shivers crest over my scalp. I tread water for a long time, facing the horizon, the salt keeping me buoyant. Then I turn to head back in.
A man is standing on the shore.
The cove is surrounded by boulders. I’ll have to come in near him. It’s fine. It’s still light. And there are people on a boat nearby, if anything happened they’d hear me.
I swim back in, turning my head from side to side. I walk the last few steps, waves foaming around my legs.
My father is standing a few yards from my bag. I smile at him, and he nods in return. His feet are bare, and I notice the knobs of bone on their sides. He’s wearing the navy swim trunks and a white linen shirt.
He doesn’t turn to watch me walk past. He’s not here because of me, I think, with relief. He comes to this cove often. I pull my dress on over my bathing suit. My feet are numb, I can’t get them into my sandals, they keep sliding off.
“Did you have a nice swim?” he asks.
“Yes.” My voice sounds distant. He still has his hands in his pockets, but he’s looking at me plainly. My scalp tightens. I understand now. He’s seen me. He knows I was inside his house.
The boat isn’t in view anymore. It’s gone back to the harbor, we’re alone. He must think I’ve stumbled on him, and plan to sell the story to a newspaper, or blackmail him.
“Are you done swimming?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I don’t run or start screaming, because doing either would be like giving a signal for it to start. And
because part of me is expectant, like I’m about to learn the answer to a question.
I won’t tell him who I am. It doesn’t matter, does it? If he would make an exception. I want to know what he would do to a stranger.
I bend down to pick up my bag. I give him a polite smile and start towards the lot. Then he’s at my back, and the fear is like a hood dropping down the length of my body. I’ve only taken a few steps when his hand closes around my wrist.
He drags me to the water. It splashes up my front as I try to twist away from him. I’m not screaming, but my breath is rasping.
We’ve been here before. When I was four, maybe, or five, we stood in the warm shallows off a coast, and he said, “Can you swim to me from there?”
His hand is still around my wrist, but he’s looking at me. He’s not just looking at me, I realize. He recognizes me. He knows who I am. I understand this, and then the panic booms through me.
“No,” I say, “no, Dad.”
He takes hold of my hair and pushes my head under the water. My eyes are open, but I can’t see anything, only the water churning. Pressure tightens in my throat and the bottom of my lungs.
It’s loud under the water, with the rocks shifting under his feet. I dig my nails into his hand to loosen his grip, and he jerks my head hard, so my neck twists. The back of my head burns where my hair is being pulled out. I breathe in then, and water rushes up my nose. The pressure in my lungs is worse now, and my chest is convulsing.
I open my eyes again. The water is still churning white. He can’t see my hands. I run them over the pebbles until I feel a cluster of sharp needles. I break off one of the spikes. Then I stop resisting, and let him hold me under the surface. The water starts to clear, streams of air moving to the surface.
As soon as I can see, I push the sea urchin spike into the soft web of skin between his first and second toe. It slides in easily.
He grunts and lets go of my head. I rear back, so I’m squatting in the water. He reaches for his injured foot, his brows drawn together, his mouth open in disbelief.
He’s a tall man, it seems to take ages for him to bend forward. I stand, lift a rock with both hands, and bring it down as hard as I can on the top of his head.
His full weight falls forward, onto me, and I shove him off. I thrash away from him. My feet slip, and my arms jerk in the air to keep me upright. I stop, panting, with wet hair scraped over my face. Water and spit roll down my chin.
He’s facedown in the water. I wait for him to stir. I’m still holding on to the rock, so hard that blood starts to drip between my fingers. He isn’t moving. I flinch, dropping the rock, wiping my red hands on my dress.
My heart stamps, and I look towards the shore. There’s no one in the dirt lot or between the pines. In the distance, a water taxi is speeding towards the harbor, but it’s too far away for me to see the people on board, they won’t be able to see me either.
Small waves move past us. Water slides under his shirt, lifting it from his back, and then it’s gone, and the wet fabric plasters to his skin.
I don’t know how many times I watch this happen. The sky has faded more, leaving a tarry darkness under the pines, though it’s still light. Anyone on shore would be able to see us. I hold my shaking hand at my mouth.
I force myself to move closer, and check for a pulse. He doesn’t have one, I knew he wouldn’t, and my body’s trembling now. I only hit him once. There isn’t any blood on his head or in the water around him. He looks like he could still stand up.
Something has happened to time. Everything seems to be moving slowly, but with blank spots, so I don’t remember where I was standing or what I was thinking a moment ago.
My body’s cold. I need to get onto shore, and walk to the police station in town. I finally start wading in, then stop. I look at my hands and arms, touch the back of my head. There are no bruises. He was trying to drown me, but that hasn’t left a mark. No one witnessed it. And I came here to find him. They might not believe me that it was self-defense.
I clutch the wet fabric of my dress and bend in half, something howling through me. This can’t have happened, this can’t happen, I can’t go to prison.
I lift my head and look at the cove. He was going to drown me. What was he going to do with my body? The lot is empty. He didn’t bring his car, or the Zodiac. The town is a mile or so to the west, and to the east is wild coast, the waves foaming against boulders, with tall pines above them. No houses, that I can see.
I step forward before I can think about it. I hold the back of his shirt and start to drag him through the water, towards the rocky coast to the east. I don’t think about his face, I don’t look down.
My arm and shoulder start to ache, but I have to bring him further away from the town. I keep expecting to hear the bump of a speedboat on the water, or sandals on the rocks above me, for people to suddenly careen into view. We’re so close to the shore.
Farther down the coast, a pine tree has fallen into the water. Waves sluice over its dark trunk. Once I’m finally past it, I scan the boulders, until I notice a gap between two of the rocks.
I flip him over and start to unbutton his shirt. He can’t be wearing a shirt, it has to look like he was swimming. The buttons keep catching on the wet fabric. My throat heaves, but then it’s done, and I slide it off him. I bunch the shirt around my hands so I won’t have to touch his skin, and push him until he’s in the narrow space between the boulders.
A wave comes from behind us, and there’s a loud thunk as it pushes his head against the rock. The wave recedes, dragging at his body, then he’s pushed against the boulder by the next swell. By the time he’s found, his body will be covered in bruises. The one from me will be camouflaged by the others, and by then I’ll be far away from here.
I pull myself out of the water and up the rocks, strip off my wet dress and bundle his shirt inside it, and carry them in my fist through the trees.
It’s nearly dark when I reach the cove. My sandals are at different places down the beach, where they tore from my feet as he dragged me. I look at their pale shapes in the dim light.
He would have collected my sandals from the beach after he killed me. He would have brought them somewhere to burn or bury. They’re only cork, they would incinerate or decompose quickly, and no one would have ever known where I’d gone, my brother would have never known.
Neither of the straps is broken. I fit the sandals onto my feet, and they carry me off the beach.
38
WHEN I CAME HOME from the airport, I slept for sixteen hours. I ordered a takeaway, then another, and another, since I was constantly starving. I showered often, dyed my hair back to its natural color, and waited for the story to appear in the news.
His body was found six days after my return to London. It was ruled a drowning. There was no inquest, it’s a common cause of death on the island. There are twelve drownings a year off the Dalmatian coast, on average.
The funeral has already happened. He was buried as Grant Holleran. He would hate that, he would want to be restored to his rightful name and buried in England.
DI Tiernan returned my call when I was on the ferry. We’d just left Hvar, I could still see the lights on the island. I panicked, like she’d be able to see me, and the stained clothes in my bag. I went out on the deck in the darkness, the inside of the cabin a fluorescent box behind me, with a few people inside it. She said, “I got your message. Is everything all right?”
“I thought I saw him.”
“Where?”
“Hampstead Heath.”
She asked me a few more questions, but her voice was gentle, conciliatory, like she didn’t believe I’d seen him, or that he’d ever be found.
“It probably wasn’t him,” I said. “It was probably a stranger.”
I left his shirt in a bin near the port on the mainland, and my stained dress in a
nother bin in a different neighborhood. Even if there had been an inquest, no one in Hvar would ever connect it to me. My father made sure of that, no one there knew who he was.
The Frasers know, of course, and Sam, but they won’t ask the police to look into it. An investigation might show they’d been in contact with him. They might even be relieved. What they did will stay hidden now. Alice might have told her parents about me, but our secrets are evenly weighted, none of us will talk.
Alice did send me a bill for the canceled party. It was waiting with the rest of my post when I returned from Croatia. I posted her a check, though so far she hasn’t cashed it.
It’s over, nearly.
* * *
—
THE DRIVE to Yorkshire takes five hours. After Hawes, I pull off onto a single-track road. The leaves have changed color. It’s autumn now, it seems like it hasn’t been autumn in ages. I drive farther north, across the dales. Sheep gather on the side of the road behind a crooked wooden fence, and horses stand in a field under heavy green blankets. I pull into a gateway when another car comes past. Oaks and chestnut trees arch overhead, and acorns crack under the tires.
A painted wooden sign for the farm hangs above its gate. After parking on the grass, I walk past tables laden with crates of apples and jugs of cider. I stop a woman in a green fleece. “Is Mark here?”
A man comes outside in a flannel shirt and down vest. He has short hair and brown eyes with sunlines around them. He looks younger than I expected, even though I found his age online. He’s only forty-six.
He shakes my hand. “You’re here about the caravan?”
“No. Do you have a minute?” I wasn’t sure before, but his expression confirms it. He knows exactly who I am, he’s been waiting for me.
As we walk towards a bench on the far side of the barn, he asks me where I drove from, in a casual voice, but I saw his face a moment ago, he was terrified.
