Julia leaned out to see Becky's body lying on the ground, as if she expected the damn girl to get up and start running away – but that didn't happen. Slowly, Julia realised it was over. She was finally free. There was no jubilation, no feelings at all really; it was more as if she was descending from another plane. Becoming human again, after an episode as a monster.
She checked around – there were no lights coming towards the lighthouse complex, and it didn't seem as if the alarm had been raised. She felt for her gloves and hairnet, which had both survived the ordeal mostly intact. Then she looked around the lantern room for any incriminating evidence. There was nothing she could see.
Slowly, she descended the long spiral stair of the lighthouse, and as she did so her heightened mood seemed to sink further with her, so that every step down was taking her closer to the awfulness of what had just happened. What she had just done. By the time she reached the door that led outside, which had swung shut behind her minutes before, she almost couldn’t face going through it. What had she done?
A new fear reached her, too. What if Rob wasn’t dead? What if he were now crawling towards her, trying to get his revenge? Now that the mania had left her, she felt scared. As if a deeply wounded Rob would be far more than a match for poor little her. But she knew she couldn’t just run away. She had to finish what she had come here to do. So she opened the door to the cool outside and looked around.
There was no one there. She looked carefully at the lodge, for any signs of Rob moving about, but it seemed still. Even so, she decided it would be less terrifying to collect the fork again before going inside, just in case. So she turned and walked unsteadily around to the other side of the lighthouse where Becky's body had fallen.
It didn't take long to find Becky; her body lay twisted and broken, a surprising distance from the base of the tower. Julia did everything she could not to look at it, but her eye was drawn to see. The girl’s neck was snapped, the head broken. It was strange. This girl, now dead, had been there at the beginning of all of this, had caused it really, by distracting her on that drive home, many months before. The beginnings of a smile touched at Julia’s lips, but only for a moment. Then she turned away, in search of the garden fork. It hadn’t stayed in Becky’s stomach, it had fallen a little further away than the body, but it wasn’t hard to find. She picked it up and holding it before her again, trying to regain some of the power it had offered her earlier, she walked back towards the lodge.
The path she took merged with a second path – the one which led down to the small landing stage that served the lighthouse complex. As she walked she considered what she still had to do: find their laptops, and if they could be accessed to locate the photographs and the manuscript, and if not, then destroy them…
Suddenly Julia was illuminated by a shaft of yellow torchlight. There was nothing she could do. Nowhere she could hide. Whoever was holding it was only a few steps away.
"Julia?" an incredulous voice said to her. An incredulous voice she knew. An incredulous voice that swept away her mood of calm practicality at once. She put her hand up to shield her eyes.
"Geoffrey?"
At once Geoffrey lowered his torch so as not to shine it in her eyes. "Julia? Is that you?"
"Yes!" she replied. She was suddenly breathless. Her heart rate doubled, she could feel it hammering inside her chest.
“Geoffrey?” She heard her own disbelief. And then something else. The sound of hope. Geoffrey was here. He would make it all alright!
"What on earth are you doing here?" they both said at exactly the same time. Then they both fell silent at the same time, too.
"What's going on?" Geoffrey recovered first. For Julia it was as if she had been teleported from one world to another, completely separate one. Worlds that were never meant to meet. She couldn’t line up where one world began and the other ended.
"Are you okay?" he went on, and she could hear the concern in his voice. “I thought I heard a scream?”
Julia opened her mouth. She closed it again.
“No. I didn’t hear anything.”
“I was worried about you,” Geoffrey said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Julia couldn’t answer. She wanted to tell him that no, she was anything but okay. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and squeeze her tight and sort out this mess in the way that only Geoffrey could.
But she couldn't say any of that. And when he went on she could hear that where he had before sounded pleased to see her, that was slipping from his voice. With every word he sounded more uncertain, more wary.
"What's going on? What is this?"
"I..." Julia hunted in her brain for an excuse to explain this. Anything.
"Kevin said you were doing some kind of research for your next book?" Geoffrey went on. "I was worried..."
It sounded impossibly feeble, but Julia grasped onto it.
"Yes," she said. But found nothing to add.
"Well..? Well, are you okay?" Geoffrey said again, and again Julia wasn't able to answer. She just nodded. She felt like she was rapidly filling up with a sadness such as she had never experienced. She didn't yet know what it signified. But she would. She soon would.
"What's that you've got there?" Geoffrey asked with a laugh.
Julia looked down at the garden fork that was still in her hands. She rested the tines on the ground in front of her, as if she might be about to turn the soil. From her perspective, with the torchlight on the ground between them, a thick veneer of black was clearly visible on the handle and the steel head. She knew it must be blood, and tried to work out if Geoffrey would be able to recognise it as such.
"Are you doing some gardening? At this time of night?"
And then Julia felt a rush of love flow into her. Dear Geoffrey. Dear, sweet Geoffrey who was so filled with goodness he couldn't even imagine how evil the world really was.
Julia opened her mouth again, meaning to find something to explain herself. But no words came out. She wanted to throw the damn fork to the side of the path. She wanted Geoffrey to come forward and hold her.
"Oh, Geoffrey," she finally managed. He moved closer. She could smell him now. The familiar aftershave he used. He really was here.
"I've been so worried about you. I've left you messages..." he said. Julia yearned for his touch.
"Why are you dressed like that?"
Julia looked down at her overalls. She thought to pull the hairnet from her head but didn't. Instead she screwed her eyes tight shut.
"It's research," she said. Her fingers curled tighter on the handle of the fork. There was no way he would believe her. She looked up, trying to judge the distance between herself and her friend. Her only true friend.
"Well, you're taking it incredibly seriously." Suddenly he cast the torch around them. "I’m sure there was a scream. Is anyone hurt?"
Julia didn't answer at once, instead watching as the beam from his torch played on the buildings of the lighthouse complex and the rocks. She almost expected it to pick out Becky's dead body, twisted and smashed, but it was lying just around the curved wall of the lighthouse.
He knows, Julia thought.
"Are you staying here? I found your car, with a leaflet advertising this place. That's why I came. I felt you might need me."
Oh, I do. I do need you, Julia wanted to say. I need you more than anything. I’ve always needed you. You’re the only thing that can save me, and you always were. I just didn’t realise.
But nothing came out except a garbled noise.
"Julia? Are you staying here, or what?"
She pulled herself together. She had to say something.
"Yes. I have a room. I was just..." She looked down at the fork. "I was using this earlier. I remembered I'd left it out. I couldn't sleep thinking it might be stolen."
She couldn't see his face, but at the same time she could. She could imagine perfectly the frown of confusion he wore.
"So this is all about a book then?" H
e said, a few moments later.
She understood at once. He was giving her an opportunity. The chance to explain all this away. And she wanted to take it. She even opened her mouth to do so. But Julia knew Geoffrey. She knew him too well. It wasn't a question. It was a test. Geoffrey might be a devoted man, but he was never a stupid man. Julia shook her head.
"No,” she said. “There's something else."
He sighed, and his voice was colder when he went on. "I didn't think so. You'd better tell me what is going on then."
Julia didn’t answer. She understood now the source of the sadness that weighed her down. There was no explanation. There was nothing she could tell Geoffrey to explain this. There was only one answer. She had to finish what she had started.
She tried to visualise herself lifting the fork and swinging it. There was a clear target, she would simply aim at the light of the torch. She already knew how much damage it would do. But this time she had no energy. The power of the fork was gone. Now it felt almost too heavy to lift.
"Okay," she said instead. And then she felt an overwhelming urge to return to a happier place, a happier time, when she and Geoffrey had spent countless hours drinking tea in her little kitchen.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
"What?"
"There's a kitchen. Let's have a drink. I'll explain everything. And then you can call the police."
Sixty-Three
She led him back to the lodge, keeping him away from where Becky’s body lay. As they approached the door the exterior light flicked on automatically, surprising Julia again. She was still carrying her fork, and realised it would look strange to take it inside, so she left it leaning against the outside wall of the lodge.
Inside the dining room was a mess of upturned tables and chairs. She had forgotten, too, how Becky had crashed into them during her flight from the building. Geoffrey looked around in alarm, but it served to distract him from seeing into Rob and Becky's bedroom, where the door was open. Julia noticed Rob’s foot was visible through the doorway, but it was part covered by the bed sheets.
"Come through," Julia said, indicating the kitchen, and using her body to shield the doorway to the bedroom. Geoffrey gave her a curious look but did what she said. Julia followed him inside, and flicked the light on the wall.
Suddenly, she was aware of how she must look. She glanced down and saw that she was splattered with blood. Yet the dark blue colour of the overalls had absorbed and hidden it better than she feared outside.
"Well?" Geoffrey asked. “What’s this about the police? What’s going on?”
Julia didn’t answer. In response she found the kettle, and smiled at him as she filled it. There was a tiny table and two chairs up against the wall. Julia waved a hand at it.
“Sit. I’ll make some tea.”
He hesitated, but she turned away, taking down two mugs from the shelf. When she looked again he had taken a chair.
"Well?" Geoffrey said again. "I do hope you've got a good excuse for all this, because I actually stole a boat to get here."
Julia turned and smiled again. "A boat?" she asked, happy for any conversation to distract her from reality. She looked at his face. His lined, lived-in face with the fuzz of that beard. Why had she never felt the scratch of that beard against her face? Why had he never tried to kiss her? Why had she never invited him to do so?
“Why did you steal a boat?”
"Well, the tide was in. So I left the Land Rover on the mainland side of the causeway and just helped myself. I've moored it on the little quay down there."
Julia made herself turn away and look for tea bags. But as she moved she felt something in the pocket of her overalls. And she remembered what it was. Her plastic shampoo container of homemade cyanide. As she pulled a container marked ‘tea’ towards her, a new idea struck her. Not the police.
There was another way out.
"I kept calling by the cottage and even drove up to London, but I couldn't find you..." Geoffrey was saying, but now Julia wasn't listening to him at all. There was a way out.
She felt for the lump in her pocket again. Then, taking care so that the movement wasn't too awkward she slipped the plastic container from her pocket and held it, shielded from his view by her body. She thought of how she had produced it, following the directions in Geoffrey's own novel. Oh, the irony of it.
She placed a teabag in one of the mugs. Then gently, she unscrewed the lid of the poison and stared at the two mugs for a long while. She considered how she might divide the deadly liquid equally between each of them. As Geoffrey continued his explanation, talking now about things Kevin had told him, she poured it out.
When the kettle boiled she filled both mugs with hot water, and dunked the teabag in each. She looked for a bin, and dropped it in. Then she crossed and opened the fridge, taking out a bottle of milk. She remembered as she did so how she had poisoned Becky and Rob's sandwiches. The pain the dog must have gone through. Would this be the same? She closed the fridge. She poured the milk, and very carefully she turned and presented Geoffrey with his tea.
For a second it was as if they were in the kitchen of her cottage. He smiled his thanks, and he took a sip at once. Geoffrey liked his tea hot.
"Oooh," he said. He took another sip.
Julia took her own drink and sat down slowly next to him. She also took as big a sip as she could manage.
"So," Geoffrey said. "I can see you're in some sort of a pickle here. But I'm sure it's nothing that can't be sorted out. One way or another." He took another sip of his tea. "Actually, I needed this. I've been waiting by your damn car for hours." But there was a shadow of uncertainty on his face now, as if he had detected an unusual flavour in what he was drinking. He had another sip, perhaps trying to identify it. Julia matched him. She gazed levelly at his face.
No one knows what it tastes like. No one has ever lived that long.
"So, are you going to tell me?" Geoffrey asked. But at the same time he put a hand to his collar, like he was suddenly feeling hot. Julia didn't answer. She just drank her tea and watched him.
Next he began to frown, his warm, brown eyes widened in confusion. He was still holding his tea, and now he smelt it, then looked across at Julia. Still she watched him.
"Julia?" Geoffrey said. Then he began to cough, but it wasn't a proper cough, it was his body beginning to go into shock from a lack of oxygen. The cyanide was preventing its absorption into his blood stream. It was as effective as if she had placed a plastic bag over his face and pulled it tight. He put his mug down now, so that he could put both hands at his neck, as if trying to prise away whatever was tightening its grip around him. He staggered to his feet, sending the chair flying out behind him. Julia took another sip of her tea.
It wasn't quite as instant as Geoffrey had promised. Debilitating, yes. He fell to the floor, his eyes rolling back up into his head and he began to jerk violently, like a fish pulled from the water and left to die in the air. But he didn’t die. He was still moving when Julia finished her tea, washed up and put away her mug, then went to find Becky's laptop.
Ten minutes later, when she had packed it into her little backpack and she leaned down to feel his pockets for his car key, she could see his chest was still moving, though he was unconscious by then. She rolled the little plastic container of cyanide, and the handle and shaft of the garden fork around his fingers and palms, she wiped some of the bed linen from Rob and Becky’s room, now soaked with Rob’s blood, against Geoffrey’s clothes, and then she placed her gloved hands in front of his mouth and nose.
Just seconds later, Geoffrey was dead.
Sixty-Four
The launch party for Julia's second novel – the hugely anticipated sequel to The Glass Tower, about which nothing had been revealed yet, not even the name – took place in one of London's most expensive hotels. The venue had been suggested by Julia herself, and this time around there was no question of anybody overruling her.
She was fashionably l
ate again, but this time it was by design. Her blacked-out Range Rover, driven by her usual chauffeur, pulled up outside the hotel's entrance a full hour after she had been asked to attend, but it was James McArthur who opened the door for her. He had been waiting outside the hotel, again as instructed. The rumour going around was that she had insisted upon renegotiating his percentage even before she sent him the manuscript this time. And he’d had no choice but to accept.
He trailed behind her as she swept inside, dressed in a beautiful Givenchy woollen cape that her personal shopper had selected just for the occasion. The poor girl had been sent back three times when Julia had deemed her choice not good enough. She wore it for less than thirty seconds, striding past a small flurry of camera flashes, before shrugging it off and letting it fall into the hands of the doorman.
Julia noticed Marion as soon as she entered the ballroom, looking as fretful as ever, but she cast her eyes away and instead swept them around the room, pursing her lips as she ticked off those who had attended. Publishing industry executives. Literature prize committee judges. Politicians. This time around there were no junior employees from her publisher. Everyone in the room had been hand-selected by Julia, and it was as important who wasn’t there. Deborah Gooding had not received an invite.
And yet, for all the combined power and influence of the guests that night, none knew anything about the book they were there to celebrate. Only that at some point during the evening its title and cover would be revealed to them.
The source of Julia's new-found notoriety and influence stemmed directly from the horrific events of that night on Hunsey Island. It was a crime that sent shock waves echoing around the entire world.
The elderly man from room five, when he finally left the companionship of the Hunsey Tavern, discovered the brutal scene. He went running back the way he had come, and within hours the scene was lit up and alive with police and scene-of-crime officers. But even before the dawn had arrived to reveal the full horror of the events of that night – the thick red smears down the side of the lighthouse that no tarpaulins could hide from the media helicopters and their long-lens cameras – it was a story that told itself.
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