by Ruth Ware
That day passed agonizingly slowly. After Carrie had left I paced the room, trying to ignore my growing hunger, and my growing fear of what would happen if Carrie didn’t face up to the reality of Richard’s plan.
I was absolutely certain that he had never intended Carrie to live much beyond establishing Anne’s departure at Bergen. When I shut my eyes, pictures rippled in front of them—Anne’s face, glassy-eyed with terror as Carrie let the suitcase fall. Carrie, walking innocently along some alleyway in Norway, a figure coming up behind her.
And now me. . . .
To distract myself I thought about home and Jude, until the pages of Winnie-the-Pooh blurred in front of me, and the familiar well-worn phrases dissolved into a flood of tears that left me too exhausted to do anything but lie there.
I was just beginning to lose hope of supper, and conclude that Carrie hadn’t been able to get any food after all, when there was a sound from the outer door and the noise of rushed footsteps in the corridor outside. I was expecting her to knock, but instead I heard the key in the lock and she flung the door open. It was obvious as soon as she came into the room that she wasn’t carrying any food, but all that went out of my head when I saw her panicked expression.
“He’s coming,” she burst out.
“What?”
“Richard. He’s coming back tonight—it was supposed to be tomorrow, but I just got a message, he’s coming back tonight.”
Tuesday, 29 September
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BREAKING NEWS: Second body found in search for missing Briton Laura Blacklock.
- CHAPTER 31 -
“He—he’s coming back?” My mouth was dry. “What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means? We’ve got to get you off the boat. They’re docking to pick up Richard in about thirty minutes. After that . . .”
She didn’t have to say anymore. I swallowed, my tongue sticky against the roof of my mouth.
“I— How . . . ?”
She pulled something out of her pocket and held it up, and for a moment I didn’t understand. It was a passport, but not mine: hers.
“It’s the only way.” She pulled off the headscarf, revealing her shaven head beneath, bristly with regrowth, and then began to strip.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to walk off this boat as Anne and get on a plane as me. Understand?”
“What? You’re crazy. Come with me!”
“I can’t. How the fuck am I going to explain this to the crew? Here’s my friend who’s been hiding out in the hold?”
“Tell them! Tell them the truth!”
She shook her head. She was down to her underwear now, shivering in spite of the fuggy heat of the stale air in the cabin.
“And say what? Hi, I’m a total stranger, the woman you think I am got pushed off the boat? No. I have no idea if I can trust any of them. At best he’s their employer. At worst . . .”
“So what then?” I was half hysterical. “You’ll stay here and let him kill you, too?”
“No. I’ve got a plan. Just stop arguing and take my clothes.” She held them out, a bundle of silks that felt featherlight in my hands when I took them. Her skinniness was shocking, her bones practically poking through her skin, but I couldn’t look away. “Now give me yours.”
“What?” I looked down at myself, at the stained, sweaty jeans and the T-shirt and hoodie I’d been wearing for almost a week now. “These?”
“Yes. Hurry up!” Her voice was edgy. “What size are your feet?”
“Six,” I said, my voice muffled as I stripped off my T-shirt.
“Good. Mine, too.” She pushed the espadrilles she was wearing towards me and I kicked off my boots and began to peel off my jeans. We were both down to our underwear now, me awkwardly trying to cover myself, she completely focused as she began to pull on my discarded clothes. I pulled the silk tunic over my head, feeling the expensive fabric whisper cool against my skin. She pulled an elastic band off her wrist and handed it silently across.
“What’s this for?”
“Pulling back your hair. It’s not ideal. You’ll have to be very careful with the headscarf, but it’s the best I can do. We don’t have time to shave your head, and in any case, if you’re going to skip the country under my passport, it’s probably better that you have real hair for passport control. We don’t want to give them a reason to look twice at the photo.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I just go as me? The police must be looking for me, surely?”
“For starters, Richard has your passport. And he has a lot of friends around here—not just in business, he knows people high up in the Norwegian police force as well. We have to get you far away from him before he puts two and two together. Get out. Get away from the coast. Cross the border into Sweden. And when you do get on a plane, don’t fly to London. He’ll be expecting that. Go via somewhere else—Paris, maybe.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, but her alarm had infected me. I shoved my feet into the espadrilles, and the passport into the pocket of the kimono. Carrie was zipping up my vintage leather boots. I felt a faint pang of regret—those boots were the single most expensive piece of clothing I owned. It had taken me weeks, and a fair amount of encouragement from Judah, to pluck up the courage to shell out for them. But the boots felt like a small sacrifice in exchange—potentially—for my life.
At last we were almost fully dressed—just the headscarf lay on the bunk between us.
“Sit,” Carrie said brusquely, and I sat on the edge of the bunk while she stood beside me and swathed the beautiful printed scarf around my head. It was green and gold, blazoned with a pattern of intertwined ropes and anchors, and I had a sudden, distracting flash of Anne—the real Anne—floating down into the blue-green depths, her white limbs tangling in the detritus of a thousand wrecks, caught forever.
“There you go,” Carrie said at last. She slid in a couple of pins, holding the edge of the scarf in place, and then looked at me critically, up and down. “It’s not perfect—you’re not thin enough—but you’ll pass in poor light. Thank God I’ve not met most of the sailing crew.”
She looked at her watch and then said, “Right. Last thing. Hit me.”
“What?” Her words made no sense. Hit her with what?
“Hit me. Hit my head against the bunk.”
“What?” I was starting to sound like an echo—but I couldn’t help it. “Are you crazy? I’m not going to hit you!”
“Hit me,” she said furiously. “Don’t you get it? This has to be convincing. This is my only chance of Richard believing I wasn’t in on it. It has to look like you attacked me, overpowered me. Hit me.”
I took a deep breath and slapped her on the cheek. Her head whipped back, but it wasn’t hard enough, I could tell it wasn’t, even as she looked sourly round at me, rubbing her cheek.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Do I have to do everything?”
She took a deep breath, and then, before I realized quite what she was about to do, she smacked her head into the side of the bunk.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Blood started welling from the shallow cut the metal edge had made, dripping down her—my—white T-shirt and puddling on the floor. She staggered back, gasping in pain and holding her hands to her skull.
“Jesus!” she whimpered. “Fucking hell, that hurt. Oh God.” She fell to her knees, her breath coming short and sharp, and for a second I thought she was about to faint.
“Carrie!” I said in panic, dropping to my knees beside her. “Carrie, are you—”
“Don’t kneel in it, you stupid bitch!” she screamed, pushing my hand away. “Do you want to ruin everything? You can’t have blood on your clothes! What the hell would the crew say? Oh Christ, oh God, why won’t it stop bleeding?”
I got awkwardly to my
feet, half tripping on the trailing kimono, and for a moment I just stood there, trembling. Then I came to my senses and ran to the bathroom to get a thick wad of tissue.
“Here you go.” My voice shook. She looked up, ruefully, and then took the tissue and pressed it to the cut. Then she sank back onto the bunk, her face gray.
“Wh-what should I do?” I asked. “Can I help you?”
“No. The only thing that can help me is if Richard believes you beat me up so badly I couldn’t have stopped you. Hopefully this’ll do the job. Now get out,” she said hoarsely. “Before he comes back and this is all for nothing.”
“Carrie, I— What can I do?”
“Two things,” she said, her teeth gritted against the pain. “First, give me twenty-four hours before you go to the police. Okay?”
I nodded. It wasn’t what I’d meant, but I felt I couldn’t refuse her that, at least.
“Second, get the fuck out.” She groaned. Her face was now so white that I was frightened, but there was a fierce determination in her expression. “You tried to helped me, didn’t you? That’s what got you in this mess. Now this is the only thing I can do to help you. So don’t make it a waste of my time. Get the fuck out!”
“Thank you,” I croaked. She didn’t say anything, just waved a hand towards the corridor. As I got to the door, she spoke.
“The key to the suite’s in your pocket. You’ll find about five thousand kroner in a purse on the dressing table. It’s a mixture of Norwegian, Danish, and Swedish, but there’s nearly five hundred pounds’ worth, I think. Take the whole thing—it’s got credit cards and ID. I don’t know the PIN for the cards—they’re not mine, they’re Anne’s, but you might find somewhere that’ll let you sign. You’ll have to ask someone to lower the gangway so you can get off the boat—unless they’ve already got it out for Richard. Tell them that he just phoned and you’re going to meet him en route.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Change your clothes, and get away from the port as soon as you can. That’s it.” She shut her eyes and lay back. The chunk of paper pressed to her temple was already soaked with red. “Oh, and lock me in when you go.”
“Lock you in? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It has to be convincing.”
“But what if he doesn’t come and find you?”
“He will.” Her voice was flat. “It’s the first thing he’ll do if he finds me missing. He’ll come and check on you.”
“Okay . . .” I said reluctantly. “Wh-what’s the PIN for the door?”
“The door?” She opened tired eyes. “What door?”
“You said there was a second locked door outside this one. With a PIN panel.”
“I lied,” she said wearily. “There’s no door. I just said that so you wouldn’t jump me. Just keep climbing.”
“I— Thank you, Carrie.”
“Don’t thank me.” Her eyes were closed again. “Just pull this off—for both of us. And don’t look back.”
“Okay.” I moved towards her, I don’t know why—to hug her, maybe. But her chest was spattered with fresh blood, with more coming from the wound at her temple. And she was right—bloodstains on my gown wouldn’t help anyone, least of all her.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done—turning my back on a woman who looked like she was bleeding to death, all because of me. But I knew what I had to do—for both of us.
“Good-bye, Carrie,” I said. She didn’t answer. I fled.
The corridor outside was narrow and hot as hell, even hotter than the stuffy little cabin I had left. There was a heavy clasp across the door, drilled roughly into the plastic, and a thick padlock with a key sticking out of it. I snapped it across, swallowing against the guilt that was constricting my throat, and then hesitated, my fingers over the key. Should I take it? I left it. I didn’t want Carrie to spend a moment longer in there than she had to.
The cabin door was at one end of the drab beige corridor. At the other was a door marked NO ENTRY—AUTHORIZED CREW ONLY and then, past that, a flight of stairs. I took one stricken look back at the locked cabin door, behind which Carrie lay bleeding, and then I ran for the stairs and began to climb.
Up and up I climbed, my heart beating in my chest, my legs shaky with disuse. Up the service stairs, drably carpeted and edged with metal. I felt my hand slip with sweat on the plastic banister, and in my mind’s eye I saw the dazzling glare of the Great Staircase, the glint of crystal, the feel of the polished mahogany rail beneath my fingers, smooth as silk. I felt a laugh bubble up inside me, as irrational as the time I giggled through my grandmother’s funeral, my fear and fright turning to a kind of hysteria.
I shook my head and pushed on, up the next flight, past doors marked MAINTENANCE and STAFF ONLY.
I kept climbing, until I reached a huge steel door with a bar on the inside, like a fire escape. I stood for a moment, panting from the long climb, feeling the cold sweat pooling at the base of my spine. What was on the other side?
Behind me lay Carrie, curled on the bunk in that airless coffin of a room. My stomach turned, and I forced myself to put that picture out of my mind and focus, coldly and deliberately, on the steps that lay ahead. I had to get out—and then as soon as I was safe I could . . . but what? Call the police, in defiance of Carrie’s request?
As I stood there, my hand on the door, I had a searing flashback to that night in my flat—to cowering inside my own bedroom, too scared to open the door and confront whatever—whoever—was on the other side. Perhaps it would have been better if I’d kicked down the locked door, burst out and confronted him, even if it meant being beaten bloody. I could be in the hospital right now, recovering, Judah at my side, not trapped in this waking nightmare.
Well, the door wasn’t locked now.
I shoved my hand against the release and pushed it open.
- CHAPTER 32 -
The light. It hit me like a slap, leaving me blinking and dizzy, gaping at the rainbow prisms of a thousand Swarovski crystals. The service door led directly out onto the Great Staircase, where the chandelier blazed, day and night, a giant “fuck you!” to economy and restraint and global warming, not to mention good taste.
I steadied myself on the polished wooden handrail and looked left and right. There was a mirror at the turning point of the stairs, throwing back the reflected glare of the chandelier, multiplying the dancing light again and again, and as I turned I caught sight of myself in it and for a moment I did a double take, my heart leaping into my throat—for there in the glass was Anne, her head swathed in gold and green, her eyes hunted and bruised.
I looked like what I was—a fugitive. I forced myself to stand up straighter, and walk slowly, in spite of wanting to scurry like a terrified rat.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, snarled the voice in the back of my head. Bullmer’s coming. Get a move on! But I kept my pace slow and steady, remembering Anne’s—Carrie’s—stately walk, the way she measured each pace like someone conserving their strength. I was heading towards the front of the ship, where cabin 1 was, and in my pocket my fingers closed over the cabin key, feeling its reassuring hardness under my sweaty fingers.
And then I came to a dead end, stairs leading up to the restaurant, no way through into the prow. Fuck. I had taken a wrong turn.
I turned back, trying to remember the route I had taken when I went to see Anne—Carrie—that night before Trondheim. God, was it really only last week? It felt like an age, a different life. Wait—it was supposed to be right at the library, not left. Wasn’t it?
Hurry, for God’s sake, hurry!
But I kept my pace steady, kept my head up, trying not to look back, not to imagine the hands snatching at my flowing silk robes, dragging me back down below. I turned right, then left, then past a storeroom. This looked right. I was sure I remembered the photograph of the glacier.
Another
turn—and another dead end, with stairs leading up to the sundeck. I wanted to sob. Where were the fucking signs? Were people supposed to find cabins by telepathy? Or was the Nobel Suite deliberately hidden away so that the hoi polloi couldn’t bother the VIPs?
I bent over, my hands on my knees, feeling my muscles trembling beneath the silk, and I breathed slowly, trying to make myself believe I could do this. I would not be still wandering the halls, sobbing, when Richard came up the gangplank.
Breathe in. . . . One. . . . Two. . . . Barry’s soothing voice in my head gave me a surge of anger, enough to propel me upright, set me walking again. Stick it, Barry. Stick your positive thinking somewhere painful.
I was back at the library, and I tried again, this time turning left at the storeroom. And suddenly I was there. The door to the cabin was ahead of me.
I felt in my pocket for the key, feeling the adrenaline zipping up and down every neuron in my body. What if Richard was already back?
Don’t be the loser cowering behind the door again, Lo. You can do this.
I shoved the key in the door and opened it, faster than fast, ready to drop and run if there was someone in the room.
But there was not. It was empty, the doors to the bathroom and adjoining bedroom standing wide.
My legs gave way, and I sank to my knees on the thick carpet, something very close to sobs rising in my throat. But I wasn’t home and dry. I wasn’t even halfway there. Purse. Purse, money, coat, and then off this horrible boat forever.
I closed the door behind me, stripped the kimono off, hurrying now that there was no one to see my feverish movements, and in my bra and knickers searched through Anne’s drawers. The first trousers I tried were jeans, and impossibly tight, I couldn’t get them halfway up my thighs, but I found a pair of Lycra sports leggings I could get into, and an anonymous black top. Then I put the kimono back on over the top, belted it tight, and adjusted the headscarf in the mirror where it had slipped.
