Her Last Lie
Page 21
Something inside her, as she lay under the weight of him, gathered momentum. And, like a defeated army that somehow finds strength for one last battle, she lifted her hand, grabbed his testicles and twisted.
Shock and pain radiated across his face. Yelling, he fell backwards, letting go of the rope to grab himself between his legs and cracking his head on the wall.
Isla scrambled to her feet, the rope still wound around her neck. She stumbled into the kitchen, her eyes flicking over the worktop, and grabbed a knife.
He was behind her in moments, and she turned to see his face purple with rage, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he yelled, dripping with sweat as he grabbed the rope and dragged her painfully towards him like the evil owner of a disobedient dog. ‘You deserve what’s coming to you.’
He cried out when she plunged in the knife. His scream told of immense agony as she tugged the blade free from his flesh. He gripped his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers, his stare frozen.
With his free hand he grabbed her wrist, and twisted. ‘Bitch,’ he spat.
Her body shook as she plunged the knife into him again. His drop to the floor was heavy, his cry ear-splitting.
‘For Bronwyn,’ she whispered, through the ache in her throat, as the knife tumbled from her hand and bounced three times across the wooden floorboards.
Chapter 39
Roxanne
Roxanne tugged off her snowsuit, and raced towards the hospital lifts.
As she waited with nurses, doctors and a pale man with a drip, determination took hold. If this was Isla, and she prayed it was, they had another chance to put her broken pieces back together. Roxanne could be Isla’s glue. With Sally and Gary and Millie, and maybe even Jack if she could convince him, they could work with Isla, make everything right again.
A lift descended, and the doors whooshed open. Inside, huddled at the back next to the man with the drip, she pressed the button for the high-dependency ward.
Once there, she hurried towards the doors and pushed the intercom. ‘Hi, do you speak English?’ she said into the metal grid.
‘Yes. Can I help?’
‘I’m Roxanne Furaha, a friend of Isla Johnson. I understand she is here.’
A few moments later a nurse appeared, smiling as she opened the door. She gestured for Roxanne to enter. ‘Your friend is unconscious,’ she said, as Roxanne followed her onto the ward. ‘But there are signs that she is making progress.’ She screwed up her forehead. ‘Is your friend English?’
‘She is, yes.’
‘Does she speak Norwegian?’
Roxanne shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘It’s just that her mutterings seem to be in Norwegian. But that’s not unusual, as she may have heard someone speak Norwegian just before her accident.’ She pointed to a side room. ‘Please go ahead, I’ll be with you in a moment. And don’t be too worried by her injuries. They will heal.’
Roxanne approached the room and tapped on the glass door, despite being aware there was nobody inside to invite her in. Isla wasn’t going to sit up and wave, excited to see her.
She edged open the door and stood in the doorway. Everything blurred in front of her, as tears swam into her eyes, her determination from moments ago draining away.
The beeps of the monitor sounded loud in her ears, and she desperately wished she wasn’t alone, that Isla’s parents were there, or Jack, to absorb some of the shock. It was as though the fear that had hovered about her since she first read Isla’s email had thickened and lowered quite suddenly, about to consume her.
‘Isla,’ she whispered, taking a step forward and brushing the tears from her eyes. ‘It’s me, lovely lady. What have you been up to?’
But as she approached she knew. The woman’s face was swollen, bruised and grazed from her injuries, difficult to identify, perhaps, but this wasn’t her friend.
She touched the woman’s arm. ‘Oh God, where are you, Isla?’
The woman’s eyes flickered open, and closed again, and Roxanne dropped into the chair next to the bed. She would have to tell Sally.
But then what?
Where was Isla?
Who was this poor woman?
Why had she got Isla’s bag, her identity?
She pressed her palms into her eyes attempting to halt tears, before burying her head in her hands.
‘Please don’t worry, the signs are good.’ It was the nurse entering the room, and Roxanne looked up, a shimmer of tears clouding her vision.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said, rising. ‘This isn’t my friend. This isn’t Isla.’
‘But she has identification.’
‘But it isn’t her,’ Roxanne said again, a lump rising in her throat. ‘You think I wouldn’t recognise my own friend?’ She paused. ‘Can I see her bag?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s in the safe,’ the nurse said, leaving the room.
Roxanne stood over the bed, studying the woman’s swollen eyes, the bruises as black as storm clouds on her forehead. ‘Did you snatch Isla’s bag?’ she whispered.
There was no response.
The nurse was back, unzipping Isla’s canvas bag. She placed it carefully on a side table, glancing at the door as though she wasn’t sure she should be allowing Roxanne to look inside.
But Roxanne wasted no time in pulling out Isla’s passport, and leafing through a notebook with jottings about Kiruna. There were pens, and her purse, which she opened to find a handful of pound coins, and a wad of Swedish kronas. ‘Oh God,’ Roxanne said. A wallet-sized photo of Isla with Andy outside the café, stared up at her through the transparent plastic of the purse.
She threw everything back into the bag and zipped it closed, handing it to the nurse, and glancing over her shoulder at the woman in the bed. ‘She must have stolen it,’ she said.
‘Perhaps, but we need to let the police decide that,’ the nurse said, leaving the room with the bag.
Roxanne looked again at the woman. Had she snatched Isla’s bag? Had Isla chased after her? Was that how it had happened? Had Isla chased the woman into the road, and was now hiding? But then how did that fit with her threatening to take her own life?
Roxanne pulled out her phone and began texting Sally. She was about to press send when the phone rang. It was Jack.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’ve just picked up Sally’s message. I can’t seem to get hold of her. Is there any news from Narvik? Are you there?’ His voice was wispy and breathless.
‘I’m in Narvik now. It isn’t Isla.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Really? At least we’d have been sure she was alive. Where are you?’ Her voice was rising in volume. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I stayed in a hotel near the airport overnight. I just shut down, you know, thinking – drinking too much.’
‘You’re an arsehole.’ Roxanne regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
He didn’t reply for some moments. ‘I’m at Camp Arctic. Can you come back?’
‘Why?’
‘Something’s not right here.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘I just know Isla’s here somewhere. Call me crazy. I can’t explain it.’ There was a crack in his voice, and Roxanne felt a pang of sadness. ‘It’s hell, Roxanne. I should probably fuck off. But something keeps calling me back.’
Roxanne looked at the woman in the bed once more. Her vitals beeped, and lights zigzagged across the screen by her bed. She was still and lifeless, eyes closed. I’m no use here.
‘On my way,’ she said, ending the call and leaving the room.
Chapter 40
Isla
Isla forced her eyes open.
A bolt of nausea rushed through her body, her head thumping as she leant over the edge of the bed and heaved.
She flopped back onto the pillow – random,
incoherent memories dancing about her mind, kicking against her skull, painful as they intruded. Julian in his car: ‘You were such a spunky young thing.’ Blood dripping – post-box red – from her hand onto her mum’s dining table. Sara crying, holding Isla close: ‘My dad died.’ Had that really happened?
She searched her wrist for her rubber band, desperate to put an end to the extreme anxiety and confusion. It wasn’t there.
Her sore, dry eyes latched on to a window draped with blue and white checked curtains. Outside, from a white sky, snow tumbled – each flake unique. She’d read that somewhere: no two are exactly the same. Yes, she’d read that somewhere.
Where am I?
Her fear increased as she attempted to swallow and almost gagged.
She hauled herself up, limbs heavy, and propped her body against the wall. She was wearing pink, silk pyjamas. She never wore pink pyjamas – she never wore pink.
She spotted her mobile on the bedside table and, with a burst of adrenaline, she reached for it and fumbled, attempting to turn it on. It was dead. I forgot my charger.
Her eyes flicked over the room. No personal touches, just wood-clad walls, a print of the Northern Lights, a pine wardrobe and dresser, her clothes neatly folded on a chair.
She rose from the bed and staggered towards the window. Outside, footprints in the snow led to and fro. There were tyre tracks some distance away, but no car. A shed, a pile of wood, an axe and, beyond that, snow stretched endlessly under a milky sky.
Where am I?
She grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around her shoulders, before easing open the bedroom door.
From a small landing, doors led to a bathroom and another bedroom. She could see a double bed covered by a floral duvet. A window, open and letting in the cold, was draped by another set of blue checked curtains that flapped noisily in a light breeze.
‘Hello,’ she attempted, tugging the blanket around her and cautiously making her way down the stairs, but her mouth was so dry, and her throat ached. She could barely make herself heard.
She padded into a kitchen. Pine cupboards dominated the small room, and two wine glasses were upturned on the drainer.
‘Let’s drown our sorrows.’
She moved towards a door that led outside and tried the handle. It opened onto deep snow. She looked down at her bare feet, her flimsy pyjamas, and closed the door once more, knowing she wouldn’t last five minutes in the freezing conditions.
She turned, a ball of screwed-up paper on the worktop catching her eye. She picked it up, and flattened out the creases. The words swam before her eyes, as she tried to focus.
My darling Isla,
I’ve been awake all night thinking – tormenting myself for coming. I thought this was the right thing to do, as I missed you – I really did miss you. But this morning, I found a text from my wife. She’s having our baby, and I realised I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. I can’t leave her. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.
I love you, Isla, but I’m returning to Canada. I’ll be changing my phone number, so you can’t contact me – not because I don’t want to hear your voice, but because it’s easier this way. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. The mess I’ve made of both our lives.
Forgive me, Andy
A woozy sensation had taken hold, as if she was drunk on a bobbing boat in the middle of a choppy ocean. Nauseous once more, she staggered towards the sink, falling against it and retching, but nothing came up.
The light in her head was fading, as though someone was blowing out candles. And, losing her battle with consciousness, she slipped down the worktop, landing in a heap on the quarry-tiled floor.
Everything went black once more.
Chapter 41
Roxanne
Roxanne sat in the waiting room at Narvik Station – a yellow, two-storey building close to the railway line – her phone open on the Internet in front of her, struggling to find ways to help Isla. Everything she came up with seemed futile or pointless.
Apart from Andy, it was the reunion that played on her mind the most. The odd way only Sara had turned up, and Trevor’s strange comment on Isla’s Facebook update.
Trancelike, she searched for Veronica’s website. There was a contact address and, without thinking too much, she emailed her.
From: ROXANNE Furaha roxannefuraha@littleboxmail.com
To: VERONICA Beesley veronicabeesley@yomail.com
Hi Veronica
You may not remember me, but we went to university together. Isla Johnson mentioned that you almost met up for a uni reunion the other night with Ben Martin, Sara Pembroke and Trevor Cooper. Just wondered if she’s been in touch with you at all, especially in the last few days.
Cheers
Roxanne Furaha
She felt, deep down, it was a waste of time. Surely she would have known if Isla had been in contact with Veronica. Roxanne and Isla shared everything. Except they hadn’t, had they?
She signed into Facebook. Sara Pembroke had accepted her friend request, so she composed a message to her too.
Hi Sara,
You may not remember me, but we went to university together. I understand you met with Isla a little while back at a reunion in Cambridge, organised by Trevor Cooper. The thing is, and this is really hard to say, it looks as if Isla may have attempted suicide. I know this is a total long shot, but I wondered if you thought there was anything strange about her when you met up, or did she mention a bloke called Andy? Or if you’ve heard from her in the last few days. I’m sorry if this all seems a bit odd, but I’m desperate.
Cheers in advance,
Roxanne
She pressed send, before thrusting her head into her hands. What the hell was she doing telling Sara about Isla? Was she being disloyal?
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The train roared into the station, bringing her out of her anger. She shoved her phone into her bag and rose. Determined to keep strong, she slapped away a tear rolling down her cheek, and strode from the waiting room and stepped on board.
An hour and a half later, she was back in Abisko, hurrying from the railway station, crisp newly fallen snow crunching under her boots, as she headed for Camp Arctic. She prayed Jack had found something out, and together they would find Isla.
Once there, she scanned reception for Jack’s face among the guests, before dashing towards Alma.
‘Have you seen Jack? The man I was with when I first arrived?’ she asked, a little out of breath, as she fussed over the dogs, who’d greeted her with wagging tails.
‘He left a while ago,’ Alma said, glancing up from her computer screen.
‘Left? Did he say where he was going?’
Alma shrugged. ‘Not to me, I just noticed him leave.’ She paused, and tilted her head. ‘I understand you still haven’t found your friend.’ Another pause. ‘The police have been here asking questions.’
‘Really? Well thank God they’re taking it seriously.’ Although the fact they were made it all the more worrying somehow. ‘We thought we’d found her in Narvik,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t her.’ The words took shape in her head, and the mystery surrounding her friend deepened to a darker level. Isla hadn’t been seen for over thirty-six hours, and it was well over twenty-four hours since she’d sent the email. If she’d taken her life, wouldn’t they have found her by now?
She turned away, pulled out her phone, and tried Jack’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Where are you, Jack?
Her stomach grumbled and a wave of nausea washed over her. She hadn’t eaten for ages. She would be no use to Isla if she passed out, so she tugged off her snowsuit and hung it up, before heading into the restaurant where she ordered game soup.
‘I wondered, have you seen my friend?’ she asked the waitress before she could walk away, thrusting the photo of Isla and Andy in front of her.
‘Yes, I saw her a few times,’ the waitress said, studying the picture.
&nbs
p; ‘What about him? Did you see him?’
She shook her head. ‘No, she was always alone.’
The dark, hot soup smelt rich and comforting, and as Roxanne ate, her stomach made grateful gurgling noises. One-handed, she did a Google search for ‘Ben Martin’ and ‘Publisher’, and came up with nothing.
There was a text from Leo, who had drifted so far from her thoughts since she arrived that she wondered if she would ever meet up with him again. She’d probably be alone for ever – would prefer it that way. Was she afraid of commitment? Too selfish to share her life? Or was it more than that? Had what happened to Isla in Australia affected Roxanne more than she realised?
As she left the restaurant her phone rang. It was Sally.
‘Roxanne, where are you?’ Her voice was tense.
‘In Abisko.’
‘Well, we’re at the hospital, and it’s not Isla.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, didn’t you get my message?’
‘Message?’
‘I sent you a text.’ Roxanne thought back to how the call from Jack had come through just as she was about to send it. Had she pressed send? Had her mind been so full that she’d forgotten to press send? ‘I was at the hospital, but I’m back at Camp Arctic,’ she said, moving on as swiftly as she could, guilt engulfing her. ‘I’m trying to find Isla.’ It sounded weak. How could what she was doing – eating soup, for Christ’s sake – be classed as searching? She put down her spoon, no longer hungry.
After a silence, Sally gave a little cough, and said, ‘She’s awake – the woman they thought was Isla – she’s awake.’ She paused, and Roxanne knew she was crying. ‘The police spoke to her. She’s a student, apparently, and admits she was pretty out of it last night. But she remembers someone pushing her in front of the car, and insists she has no idea why she has Isla’s bag.’
‘Jesus. That’s pretty weird stuff,’ Roxanne said. ‘Do you think she’s telling the truth? Maybe she’s covering her back.’