by Mel McGrath
‘If you were so bloody sure of it, why didn’t you report it?’ Anna says.
Gav lets out a bitter sound and shakes his head. ‘A gay man with a long hook-up history, accusing a straight man of roofying women he’s never even met? How do you think that would go down with the Met Police?’
‘This is your fault then,’ Anna says. ‘For not doing anything.’
‘Well, I’m doing something now, aren’t I?’
‘Get out of here, Gav,’ says Anna stiffly. ‘You’re despicable. You know who it was who took care of what happened in the alleyway in Wapping? It was me. Not for your sake, for Dex’s.’
Gav smiles, though there’s no warmth behind it. He’s only pretending to be amused. ‘Do you have any idea how much money Dex stands to inherit when I die? If I started divorce proceedings today I could disinherit him in three, four months. My husband isn’t stupid. And he’s not spending the last few months I have in this world in a fucking prison because his friend is a pervert.’
‘You just assaulted me. I could get you arrested,’ Bo says, limply.
‘I wish I’d killed you. I would have, if I didn’t need you to come with me to the police. Dying focuses the mind. You’ll find that out some day.’
Bo just shakes his head, slowly, sadly, as if standing on the moral high ground. To no one in particular, Bo says, ‘I’m not fucking staying in this place.’ He takes a step, wobbles, rights himself then takes another, heading back towards the car park, along the path through the bluff at the edge of the quarry to where it joins the track which runs along the cliff’s edge, muttering to himself, walking towards the thermals where the falcons are hunting, towards the sunset. On a direct line to the cliff’s edge, towards the huge, rosying sea.
It’s almost funny to hear Gav shouting after him. Like a father chastising an errant child. Anna is calling him too, but he’s not responding. Bo carries on walking, doesn’t even turn his head. It’s a display of resoluteness, a dramatic turn. Even I know that. This is what he has always wanted, a complete hold over Anna. But he won’t die for it. In Bo’s mind he’s immortal but he’s too much of a coward to put his theory to the test. Anna and I both know that. We saw the car. Bo knows it too.
All Gav sees is Dex’s get out of jail card disappearing. And that he cannot tolerate. With a great roar, he launches himself forward, pounding the stone path towards the cliff Hearing Gav approach, Bo turns. Behind him is an orange sun and the darkening expanse of the sea. Gav is like a wounded bull in the ring, an outrageous fury-bomb. He’s charging at Bo, who is standing his ground, with a shocked expression and something else, the stance already of a victor. Bo thinks he’s going to win. Bo always thinks he’s going to win. But Gav’s got nothing to lose. Thundering towards Bo, he hits him straight on in a rugby tackle, clasping the younger man’s waist in an attempt to force him over the edge. There’s a moment of confusion in Bo’s eyes before he goes down. He wasn’t expecting the older man to be this strong. He’s on the ground, taking Gav with him. Bo is first up on his feet and kicking out. His right foot catches Gav under the chin, snapping his head up. Gav lets out a cry but he manages to right himself and with a monumental push against his thigh, rises to standing. He comes at Bo once more, but the younger man is wised up now and braced, and the rush ends in a clinch. The two men tussle, Bo breaks away first, lands a punch at Gav’s head, which bounces off his jaw. Gav counters with a punch of his own, makes contact with Bo’s shoulder.
A yelp rips through the air. The men are too busy fighting to notice that the shout isn’t one of fear but one of rage. Anna is suddenly flying towards them, her arms windmilling. With every muscle in her body taut and to the point, she launches herself at Gav. Caught off balance, he staggers back and in that moment she throws out her leg and makes contact with the back of his knees. He slides, begins to crumple. Anna pulls back her arms and braces herself and lands Gav an almighty push. His body gives a shudder, his feet slide then fail to find a purchase. He is paddling now, arms and legs trying to catch something other than the air, he staggers back, teetering on the edge, shock registering on his face. Then in an instant, he recovers his balance.
Bo is standing a couple of feet away, watching on without intervening. For a few moments he and Anna lock eyes as if seeing one another for the first time. A moment of complete human stillness falls over us, a holding of breath.
Only the earth continues to move and the sun sinks a tiny bit lower. Then, as if from nowhere, a blur of feathers bombs out of the sky, a landing gear of talons descending from the body, aimed directly at the bloodied wound on Bo’s head. The falcon makes contact and Bo, shouting, reflexively waves his arms above his head, trying to bat the thing off and the creature, suddenly realising its mistake in taking on so large a target, releases its grip, the long, powerful wing on its left side just clipping Bo’s hand as it attempts to rise but its body is within Bo’s range. His arm flails, makes direct contact. The falcon is flustered and flapping, its body part propelled by Dex’s arm, a whorl of wings and talons trying gain enough momentum, a great whirring of wings hurtling directly towards Gav. I watch him tense as the bird, unable to right itself, flaps and grabs at the air, half-flying, half-tumbling towards him, his arms reaching up to protect his face and in that instant, the momentum of his weight which only a few seconds ago he relied upon to charge Bo, sends him backwards, stumbling and shouting, arms akimbo, over the edge of the cliff and out of view.
All three of us stand stricken and immobile. Gav’s screams are a terrible thing. A spray of seagulls jets up over the cliff edge, disturbed by the falling body. I am first to the edge, one eye on Bo and Anna. The wind is buffeting and the salt spray makes everything filmy. The man that was Gav – perhaps still is him – is reduced to a dark smear lying across rocks licked by the sea. Something moves. An arm perhaps, or a leg. A sign of life or the push and pull of the waves?
My eyes sweep along the cliff face until they reach a path carved by feral goats, inhumanly steep, but possible, just. I back away from the cliff edge. Anna and Bo remain where they were, their eyes alive with fear and the horror of what has just occurred. What we have come to.
I am very vulnerable here. Seeking out an escape route I step sideways, never once taking my eyes from Bo or Anna. Would they dare? Right now, anything seems possible. Bo is staring at me now but Anna is looking away, her body language impossible to read. This is what it is about now. A twisted, toxic obsession, Anna and Bo trapped in each other’s orbit, each powerless to escape even if they wanted. I scope the ground for a rock with a sharp edge. If they come for me, I will be ready to defend myself.
Marika, I’m going to sort this. This time I’m not running away. I’m done with that, I’m done with the Group. I am done.
All of a sudden, Bo turns. He has made a calculation and I am not a part of the formula. I see his body prepare to propel him forward, the shoulders tense, the legs sprung, a mist of evaporating sweat rising from him. From his pocket he pulls out the keys to the Audi and in an instant he’s turned on his heels and he’s running.
In five minutes from now he’ll be off the island.
It’s just me and Anna. Until now I’ve always assumed I need Anna more than she needs me, but it’s the other way round. Every beautiful girl needs a homelier girl to anchor her. I am Anna’s lighthouse, her marker, her navigation through choppy waters. Without me, Anna will run into the rocks.
She watches me as I take off towards the path heading for the goat track. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you think I’m going to do? He’s moving.’ Of course it’s a stupid question. What would any person do? Any person with a moral compass. Any person with an overwhelming need to redeem themselves.
What did we do?
We did nothing.
‘Call for help, Anna, do it now.’
Then I’m over the edge, keeping my centre of gravity low, using the branches of wind-torn bushes to keep my balance, and Anna has disappeared from vie
w.
Gav is still alive when I reach him, but only just. He’s taken a knocking on the way down. His clothes are torn and there are a number of bloody openings in his face. His torso is twisted and both his legs and one arm are set at a frightful angle. From his lips, a pinkish foam oozes. He’s too heavy to lift up onto the track and in any case moving him would do no good. His breathing is shallow and patchy. The tide is coming in and I can already see that unless help comes fast, there’ll be no saving him from the sea. The waves are cold and relentless. I take his hand in mine, though I think he is beyond feeling now. In comes the water. Each time it goes out it takes a piece more of Gav’s life with it. There is nothing for it but to wait and hope for help. In my mind Anna appears. The last time we had fun together, in the VIP tent, having our shoulders massaged, Anna pointing to the make-up station, telling me how good I’d look if I sparkled. The waves are up around Gav’s arms now, washing them to and fro like kelp. The brine has crept over my feet and seeped into my shoes. I will have to leave him and try to find my way back up the goat track. I will not make it all the way up because the track is too steep and there are no handholds. The branches of the wind-torn bushes will not hold my weight. Soon, the sea will take Gav and then, unless I am very, very lucky, it will take me.
The proximity of death clarifies the mind. I recall that night in the churchyard as if it were happening right in front of me. Dex’s face in the moonlight, the shadow of a man behind him. Anna saying, Look they’re coming. Dex’s phone torch, the twist of horror on his face.
But here in my mind is Marika, waiting, as she always is, for me to say something or do something. You were easy prey, small and alone and out of it and powerless. I am sorry I led you to that, Marika. I will always regret it. I will try to survive this so that it can be put right. And if I don’t, I will share your fate. That seems fair, Marika, doesn’t it? I can make my peace with that.
42
Anna
3 a.m., Sunday 14 August, Wapping
Everything in Anna’s life up to this moment appears hazy and off-kilter, as if none of it is part of her world at all. Her only reality is here, on these steps, with Marika and her torn clothes and her soiled legs.
‘I’m calling the police.’ Control the narrative, Anna. That’s what her father used to say, man to girl, when he was still under the illusion that she’d follow in Daddy’s footsteps. Making a big play of checking her phone, Anna swipes at nothing, looks up, shakes out her hair, trying to seem casual.
It’s not over. Marika has picked herself up. Anna steps directly in front of her to prevent her from staggering out into the street.
‘Come on,’ she says, all action now, grasping the woman by the elbow in an effort to spin her back around, but Marika isn’t going. She’s steadying herself on the downpipe and using it to swing a little to the left, to give her a direct view out into Wapping Wall. An arm comes up and points. Something indistinct comes out of her mouth. Anna reaches for her hand and pushes it back into her side.
‘Shh.’ Anna puts her finger to her lips but Marika repeats whatever she said before, only this time louder.
The sound of shouting comes from the street.
Shit, thinks Anna. This is dangerous. Blinking away the first flutter of panic, she tells herself to keep calm. Stay focused. You can still make this go away.
The river water slops up the steps. The alleyway stinks. The water stinks. Why did Anna ever think this was a good idea? She takes a breath. A picture rises in her mind of a police interrogation room, the kind she’s seen a hundred times on the TV but never in real life, and of her, sitting opposite some sly detective, trying to explain away her midnight flit to Ollie’s apartment. No, this is no good. She blinks the picture away. She’s started this now and she has to finish it. The woman is swaying, zoning out, incapable of calling the police herself. Anna notices the graze on Marika’s forehead, the bald patch, partially covered with blood-matted hair where her attacker pushed her head against the wall.
A seed of hope germinates in Anna’s mind. Maybe there’s an angle on this, a way to wrest back control. She needs to get the woman away from the scene.
‘Tell you what, we’ll call an Uber,’ she says, breezily, as if there’s really nothing wrong here, nothing to see.
The woman begins sniffling. Her eyes burst their banks and she’s weeping and sobbing, her hands in her face. Look at her, Jesus. She probably needs to go to hospital.
Something rises up in Anna. A burning feeling and an itching. She feels sick. She wishes she could just step out of her skin and walk naked into the filthy water. How cool it would feel. I have to contain this, she thinks, so that it doesn’t get out of hand. The sick feeling falls away. Her focus is suddenly absolute, knowing as she does that if she is not careful this whole thing is going to slip from her grasp.
‘Listen, the Uber is five minutes away. Let’s just stay here and wait.’
Taking the injured woman’s arm, Anna leads Marika further into the gloom of the alleyway. Time for calm. This is good. The woman makes a grunting sound, which could mean anything.
‘All we need to do now,’ says Anna, remembering the scarf around the woman’s neck and trying to slip it off, ‘Is to get you cleaned up for the cab.’ As she turns to step down to where the water is sliding against the steps, the woman grabs at her scarf, and the blue pom-poms slip from Anna’s grasp. The woman is a rag doll, almost like a macabre kind of toy. She’s leaning against the wall now, close to collapse, very evidently not fine but there’s fight in her still.
‘Police,’ she repeats. Her voice is angry now.
This is exactly what Anna is trying to avoid. Anger is cheap and dangerous. Righteous anger is the most dangerous of all.
Something is happening out on Wapping Wall. A fight breaking out. The sound of bottles smashing and men yelling. Anna grabs the woman by the shoulders and staring deeply into her face, says, ‘You want to go home, don’t you?’ The woman nods. Anna is on her toes. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline but she’s feeling completely sober now, utterly focused on this one thing. She watches the woman’s body slump once more, sees an opportunity to step over her conscience and out to the other side. ‘Let’s just get you home, and into bed. Can you remember your address for the taxi driver?’
The woman nods then lets out a low moan. Her head is floppy and she’s murmuring incoherently. It occurs to Anna then that she might die, right there.
‘Let’s all just sit on the steps and think about this for a moment,’ Anna says.
At this point in the game, Anna thinks, she’s strayed so far from anything resembling the truth that she’s no longer sure she’d recognise it if it came bowling down the road. The thought amuses her, despite herself.
Enough of this, she thinks, it’s time to take action. Quickly, before the woman has a chance to protest, Anna removes the scarf around her own neck, goes over to the steps and dips the silk into the river water. She bustles over, wrings out the scarf, crouches low and begins to wipe the woman’s face.
‘There, I bet that makes you feel better, doesn’t it?’
Brought back by the cold water, Marika groans and lifts up her head. Very slowly, doing her best to make no big deal of it, Anna moves to the woman’s legs and begins softly to wipe away the bloody evidence. She’s cleaned the woman’s right leg below the knee.
A police siren wails from somewhere nearby.
Anna wheels about. Her chest is full of starbursts and the back of her skull feels like it might split open. Anna can feel herself losing it. But she mustn’t.
She must keep her cool now. Everything depends on it.
‘Listen: you don’t remember what happened tonight. Not in any detail. You wouldn’t be able to identify anyone. Would you?’
Marika closes her eyes and sobs. Anna feels herself rising up out of her body, growing taller. From the corner of her eye Anna becomes conscious of movement. She turns just in time to see Marika lunge forward and run past her towards W
apping Wall, arms flailing. As she lurches past, a ring on her finger catches Anna on the side of her neck.
Anna turns on her heel. She has to get Marika back. As she surges forward she feels her ankles giving way and suddenly she’s arcing through the air, her hands grasping for anything and finding Marika’s hair. With a hard smack the two women come down together. For a moment nothing moves, not her hands or her body or her brain. Then a terrible hot burning starts up in her palms and with it her brain kicks in. She pulls herself upright, spins about and jumps to her feet. Marika is lying on the ground inside the alleyway, out for the count.
Turning, Anna storms back into the alleyway. What the fuck was that? She’s trying to help the woman and this is how she reacts? An overwhelming rage comes over her. Moving over to the form beside her she grabs Marika’s ankles and, mustering her strength, drags the woman inch by inch towards the Old Stairs where the murky, evil smelling water is waiting to receive her.
43
Cassie
Morning, Monday 10 October, Royal London Hospital
You don’t know you’re dying until the process is already underway. It can take a while to catch up with yourself. The first time it happened to me all I sensed was a feeling of drifting towards the horizon. Only as an afterthought did it occur to me that I had began to die – before the more startling realisation that the process would be complete only in the moment I ceased to be able to think about it. An odd calm set in. There was no pain or panic, only an overwhelming feeling of sadness. If it hadn’t been for Marika, I would have given myself up to it.
I’ve quite a bit of time on my hands to think about this question and I haven’t come up with an answer. Being in a coma isn’t what people think it is. I am dead to the world and yet I am not dead. I have heard voices talking about all kinds of things. Voices spilling their secrets, secrets told only because the bearer thinks you cannot hear and will not tell. It is powerful, living on the seabed like this. Why am I down here in the murk and mud with the flatfish and the stones? If I am dead, would I still hear the voices? Would I have heard the story of my rescue? Would I know that a passing fishing boat plucked me from the sea, shortly before pulling Gav’s lifeless body onto deck? What if I am hovering in the gap between life and death? Will someone find me down here? Will they pluck me from my silence and give me voice?
