The Glass Tower

by Gregg Dunnett

  "It's pretty awesome," Rob agreed.

  "Should we live here forever?" she asked, but this time Rob only chuckled gently.

  "What? Why not?" Becky insisted. "It's beautiful. You can surf and film seabirds. I can write. It's perfect."

  "It'd be nice," Rob allowed. They walked on in silence for a few steps.

  "How is the writing?" Rob went on. It wasn't a question he often asked, probably because Becky usually found a way to not answer it. But the three vodka and cokes inside her changed that. She took a deep breath of the salty air while considering how to answer.

  "I'm stuck," she said at last.

  "How stuck?" Rob asked. "Like you've got writers’ block or something?"

  Unseen by him, Becky wrinkled up her nose at the cliché. "No, I don't really believe in that. I just feel like I've taken a wrong turn somewhere, but I don't know where."

  When Rob answered it was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. "I know I'm not much of a reader, but I'd like to help, Becky. I really would."

  Becky stayed quiet. Tempted now to open up. Perhaps he could help? It wasn’t impossible, was it?

  "But you'd need to tell me what the story is about!" he added, a little playfully.

  In response Becky swung her arm back and forth, her hand still embedded in Rob's strong grip. He let her do it in silence, waiting for what she would say next.

  "Alright."

  And she told him. Not everything about the book, but the bones of the story. How it was – loosely – inspired by what had happened to them, but how in her version of events her author, Joanna, had devoted her life to undoing the wrong she had caused.

  "That sounds cool," said Rob, when Becky was finished. "So, am I in it?"

  "No!" she replied. "No one's in it. None of us are anyway. It's fiction. It's not real." In the moonlight she saw a flash of his smile that showed he was teasing her.

  "So what's the problem? How does it end?"

  "Well, that's just the thing," she said, instantly serious again. "I've got this idea that she – Joanna I mean – works harder and harder to undo the wrong she has caused – you know, giving to charity, helping out the family of the dead woman, but whatever she does, it's never enough..."

  She stopped long enough that Rob prompted her.

  "So, then what? Is that the ending – she gets away with it?" There was enough in his voice to suggest it didn't impress him much.

  "No," Becky replied at once. "It wouldn't really work like that. It's a story, so it has to be discovered. The story can't actually end until the secret is revealed."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, think about it. When you read a book and..." She stopped. "Or see a film and there's a – I don't know – one of the characters discovers a gun. Does that gun ever just disappear and never get mentioned again?"

  Rob shrugged. "No, it usually gets used to shoot someone."

  "Not usually. Always. It’s like a rule. You can't introduce a gun into a story and then not use it. It wouldn't feel complete as a story. It wouldn't work," Becky said. She looked over at Rob to see if he understood her.

  "Yeah, I see. So is there a gun in your story?"

  "No. But there is a threat. Everything that Joanna does is because she feels the threat hanging over her from what she's done. What will happen to her if anyone finds out how she killed the woman."

  "Okay. So?"

  "So the threat has to be realised. Until it is, the story isn't complete."

  They both walked on a few more steps before Rob spoke again.

  "So? What actually happens?"

  When Becky spoke again she sounded unsure, having been driven to the nub of her frustration.

  "Well, in my version it doesn't matter how much good she does, how many people she helps, it's never enough. So in the end she confesses to what she's done. On a talk show."

  "A talk show? Like on TV?"

  "Yeah. Because she's a national celebrity by then."

  "And she admits that she ran someone over and hid the body?"

  “Yeah. On live TV."

  Rob walked a few more steps.

  "Wow. Then what?"

  "Then everyone forgives her, because by then everyone loves her so much. Because of all the good things she's done."

  They were arriving at the lodge now, and the automatic light flicked on and cast them in a puddle of artificial yellow light.

  "Okay," Rob said as he let them in. "Yeah. I can see that happening."

  "It's weak though, isn't it?" Becky insisted, following him through the dining room and towards their bedroom. By putting voice to her ending, it had become clear to her just how weak it sounded.

  "It's alright," Rob tried to reassure her. But then he went on. "Well, maybe something else happens instead?"

  He flicked on the light in their bedroom. Neither Rob nor Becky noticed how the door of the wardrobe was now stuck just very slightly open, nor that something inside was preventing it from properly closing.

  "What else could happen?" Becky asked.

  "I dunno," Rob said. He went into the bathroom. Becky stood still at the end of the bed for a while, thinking. Then suddenly Rob called out.

  "You know, talking about Julia, did I tell you I thought I saw her the other day?"

  Becky walked to the door of the bathroom. "No? When?"

  "Yesterday. Only I don't think it was her, just some woman who looked a bit like her. Like a scruffy version of Julia. If you could get a scruffier version. I thought she was watching me when I was in the water, surfing."

  "Really? Here?"

  "Yeah. Only no, because it wasn't her. Because she's in London, isn't she? And if it was her she'd say hello, not hide behind rocks like some kind of lunatic." Rob leaned in close to the mirror and removed his contact lenses, one after the other. He didn’t bother putting on his glasses, with their thick lenses, in their place.

  "Mmmmm," Becky answered him, her voice distant.

  "Although it did kind of look like her," Rob went on when he'd finished. He laughed. "She had that crazy look Julia's got."

  By now Becky was cleaning her teeth, and he had to wait until she removed the brush before she answered. "Rob! She hasn't got a crazy look!"

  "Yeah she has!" Rob teased her. "You know what I mean. That kind of falseness she has. Like she's pretending to be nice but really she's not, and she's not even any good at hiding it."

  "Rob!" said Becky again. Rob wasn't a big drinker but he’d drunk three pints that night, and when he did it often made him say things he shouldn't.

  "Come on, you know what I mean. How she thinks she's some kind of legend in the book world, but actually her books aren't even that good."

  "Yes they are!"

  "That's not what you said. You said her Glass House, or whatever it's called, got some good early reviews but then people weren't buying it. And that you weren't actually surprised once you'd read it. It wasn't as good as you’d hoped?"

  Becky didn't answer. She had said those things. But only because writing was hard, and sometimes it helped to look at the flaws in other’s work.

  "Yeah, well. It's mean to say it."

  Rob squeezed past her into the bedroom.

  "And she's so bloody full of herself," he went on. "I mean, I'm grateful for the bursary, but she could have just offered it to us without making out like she's some kind of god."

  He jumped full length on the bed then rolled over on his back to face her.

  "I know what you mean actually," Becky replied at last. A memory had come to her. Something she had kept from Rob. Something she had never imagined she would need to share. She sat down on the bed next to him and slowly removed her shoes and socks.

  "Do you remember…" She began, speaking quietly this time. "When we had our thing?" She sensed him stiffen. It was as close to a name as they had for the weeks when they had split up over the misunderstanding about the pornography on Rob's computer, and it still wasn’t something they had properly discusse
d.

  "Yeah?" he said, guardedly.

  "No, it's not that," Becky went on. "It's..." She hesitated, not sure how to tell him, nor whether she should. But she knew she wouldn't be able to just drop the topic now.

  "Well, I never told you, but she came to see me. When you were living at John's."

  "Julia came to see you? Why?"

  Becky swallowed. "You said something online about having those photos," Becky bit her lip and hurried on. "Those ones we took, you know, in bed." Becky hurriedly went on. "I know you were just joking, but she thought you meant the ones of her the night of the accident."

  Rob said nothing but when Becky looked across at him he was frowning now.

  "She thought you were going to put them on Facebook, or give them to the police or something. I don't really know, she was really worried. And she thought we needed to stick together to protect ourselves."

  "She thought I’d give them to the police? Why the hell would I do that?" Rob said at last.

  "I dunno, I thought she was a bit crazy."

  Rob thought about this.

  "So what did she want from you?"

  Becky hesitated now. She was thinking hard, she wasn't clear exactly what Julia had wanted. It wasn't something she had considered in detail.

  "She said we should stick together. You know, against you, if you released those photographs, we should say it was you driving that night."

  "What? Why?"

  "Because then it would be two against one. The police would have to believe us, and then you'd be the one that got into trouble. Or into the most trouble."

  "But that's..." Rob stopped. "So what did you tell her?"

  "I didn't... I don't..." Becky was forced to swallow a lump of sudden guilt as she remembered how she had agreed with Julia's plan. She glanced at Rob, his eyebrows furrowed with a mixture of confusion and brewing anger.

  "Nothing. I didn't say anything to her. I just told her not to worry. That you didn't even have those photographs anymore."

  This seemed to placate him a bit, but Rob's expression was still dark.

  "But did you agree to do it? To blame it on me?”

  "No! Of course not.” Becky held his gaze. Suddenly she laughed, a clear, beautiful, sincere sound. She had remembered something else. Something that would lighten the mood.

  "Actually, something really funny happened after that." She looked at Rob, a naughty smile forming on her lips. "You know I was in a bit of a state, upset by..." She looked down, demurely, the forgiveness clear in her voice.

  "Anyway, she started comforting me a bit. She was sitting next to me and..." Becky pushed off her jeans as she spoke and lay down on the bed next to Rob, in her underwear, looking him full in the face now.

  "And then this really funny thing happened." She bit her lip again, waiting for him to ask her to go on.

  "What funny thing?"

  "I think she made a pass at me."

  Rob’s eyes grew wide. There seemed a moment when he was deciding whether to take a path of anger and resentment at what Julia had proposed, or a new avenue of humiliating her. He chose humiliation.

  "Julia made a pass at you?! No way, she's like fifty years old!"

  "I know!"

  "Oh, man! That's disgusting. What did you do?"

  "I didn't do anything. I mean, I didn't know what to do. I kind of pretended it wasn't happening, but she kept going..."

  "Doing what?" Rob laughed loudly now. Becky almost told him to stay quiet but she remembered there was no need. The man from room five was their only guest and they had left him at the pub.

  "Was she, like, trying to kiss you, or what?"

  "Worse. She touched me, too."

  "No!" Rob's eyes grew wide. "Where?"

  "Here." Becky still had her jumper on, and through the fabric she pointed to her breast. Instantly Rob's attention changed.

  "What, here?" he said. He moved his hand close to her. Not touching, but closer than he needed to indicate the area he meant. Very slowly, he then moved his hand closer and laid it on the outline of her breast.

  "Right here?" he said again. He swallowed and his fingers searched for the bump of her nipple.

  "Mmmmm," Becky said. She bit her lower lip. Then Rob changed his position and slipped his hand up under the front of her jumper.

  "Did she touch you like this?" He rubbed at her chest and leaned in and began kissing her mouth. For a few minutes the room was almost silent, apart from the rustle of Becky's clothing. Then Rob leaned back again.

  "I can't believe Julia tried it on with you!" he said, as Becky sat up and pulled her jumper off and over her head. Rob did the same with his jumper and t-shirt in one. Then he slid down his jeans.

  "Can you even imagine the thought of having sex with that?" He grinned, and rolled on top of Becky so that their taut stomachs were pressed against one another.

  Then, from underneath him, Becky said something strange.

  "Have you noticed how the wardrobe moves when someone walks about upstairs?" She giggled the words.

  "What?" Rob frowned in confusion. He stopped what he was doing, pressing himself against her and moving.

  "I noticed it earlier... And then again, just now. Sorry – don't stop."

  Rob started again, but he continued to look at her strangely.

  "What do you mean? The wardrobe moves?"

  "It moves. I don't know. I just... Forget it." Becky wrapped her hands around Rob to pull him tighter against her. But then she froze.

  Scrambling now, Becky tried to push Rob off.

  "Becks? Becks, what is it?"

  But she was suddenly so filled with terror it was impossible for her to speak.

  "Becks, what the hell is wrong?"

  Becky drew herself up into a tight ball beside Rob on the bed. She fought to breathe, and she fought to speak. All the time she was staring in terror at the wardrobe. The old, antique wardrobe that must have seen so many stories over the years. Of shipwrecks and lighthouse keepers gone mad.

  "The ending to the story. What if I got it all wrong? What if that’s why I couldn’t make it work." She was talking fast now, still staring at the wardrobe, just a few feet away. "You said you'd seen her, here on the island? Rob? There's another way she can end the story!"

  "What are you talking about?" Rob said. He was still lying on his front, staring myopically at Becky's face, not at where she was looking.

  "Another way to end it. All she has to do is silence us. Rob, what if she’s in there? In there right now. What if she’s here to kill us?”

  Finally, Rob turned to look at the object of her terror – the door of the big, heavy wardrobe that sat at the foot of their bed. As he did so, the door creaked open.

  Fifty-Nine

  It was just a mile down to the beginning of the causeway, and Geoffrey drove faster than he normally would, working hard to steer the big Land Rover around the tight corners. But as he drew near to the road that stretched across the beach, he was forced to brake hard.

  "Shit," he said.

  Ahead of him the bay was filled with seawater, a billion corners of chop reflecting the light from the moon, the roadway hidden beneath six metres of salt-green water.

  "Shit."

  The Land Rover was an all-terrain model, capable of breaching rivers or climbing through thick mud, but there was no way it was going to get across the causeway until the tide dropped. Geoffrey stopped at the top of the ramp and pushed open the door. He swore again. There was no one about. In the summer there was a ferry service that connected Hunsey to the mainland when the tide was high, and it also ran a tractor service over the beach on low tides, but both boat and tractor were put away for the season now, hidden inside one of the dark sheds that sat by the side of the road. Geoffrey walked towards them. He found the iron clasp that held the doors closed, and rattled the padlock that held it in place. It was wrapped in plastic, and inside that coated in grease to protect it from the salt. He felt some of the grease come off on his hands but
he wiped it on his trousers and looked around again.

  There was nothing to see. His car stood at the head of the ramp, the door still open. Beyond it the water sparkled and, a half-mile away the dark hump of Hunsey Island rose up. Somewhere on it, presumably, was Julia.

  Geoffrey looked around again. Pulled up high onto the beach, above the high tide line, there were a few private boats, mostly tenders and small fishing dinghies. In fact, the dark shapes of their hulls were dotted along the curve of the beach. Geoffrey thought for a moment and then he ran back to the Land Rover. He moved it so that it was parked by the side of the road, and then he got out and locked it. Now he began walking quickly along the head of the beach, using his flashlight to check each dinghy. It took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for, a robust dinghy secured under a tarpaulin, with a small outboard motor hidden underneath the hull. He picked it up and tried to shake it, feeling the slosh of fuel in its tank.

  A thin chain secured it to a tree root higher up the beach, but the padlock looked flimsy. He ran back to the Land Rover for his tools again, and using his screwdriver and hammer he was able to smash it open relatively easily. He felt a burst of guilt at what he was doing, but he didn't stop. He flipped the dinghy and clamped the outboard to its stern. Then he dragged it down the short stretch of sand until his feet were in the water.

  When the boat was fully afloat he clambered carefully inside, and at once he drifted away from the shore. He prayed the motor would start, since there were no oars or other means of propulsion. He stood to pull the starter, and on the second attempt the engine fired. The noise was like an angry rasp in the quiet night, but Geoffrey didn’t think about whether it would attract attention, since there was no one about. Instead he sat in the little boat's stern and aimed its bow at the east side of the island. Then he opened the throttle fully. The little engine was just able to push the boat onto a plane, and it began sending a white wash out behind it as Geoffrey sped away from the mainland.

  He ignored the landing area on the Hunsey Island side of the causeway, instead keeping close to the cliffs and turning so that the little boat travelled parallel to the steep sides of the island. It would be quicker to travel the two miles to the lighthouse in the boat.