by Jane Holland
‘Was it?’
‘Horribly.’
He laughs too. ‘Sorry.’
We’re crossing the sands towards his friends. The blokes look okay, standing about the makeshift barbecue with beers, most in scruffy jeans and shorts. The girls look like supermodels, tall and skinny in tiny shorts and bikini tops, their hair long and impossibly straight. None of them are older than twenty, by my estimate. One of them turns and stares at me, hands on hips, her make-up immaculate, face frozen in an expression of disbelief.
I feel uncomfortable at once and disentangle myself from his arm. ‘Who’s that?’
Denzil makes an irritated noise under his breath. ‘It’s nobody. Relax, enjoy the party. You’ll be fine.’
An ex-girlfriend, I guess. I accept a can of beer – warm, unfortunately, but still drinkable – and sit on a rock near the barbecue, carefully not looking in her direction. Someone turns the music up. I drag my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls, three texts. Two from Hannah, one from Tris.
I read the two texts from Hannah first.
The police rang. Wouldn’t leave a message. Hx
Text number two is simpler:
PS. Tris just called, looking for you. Hope it was okay to tell him.
I frown, perplexed, and thumb back to the main menu. The text from Tris himself is even more troubling.
Hannah says you are in Newquay tonight? Connor wanted to go clubbing so we’re both here too. If you’re going to Tempest, maybe we could hook up. T.
What is he playing at? Tris has barely looked at me for months, he and Connor have been so focused on keeping the farm together since their dad died. Now suddenly he’s interested in meeting up with me at a club? I want to read something into that, but dare not.
Denzil is right. I don’t need any more complications right now. And Tris would be a massive complication.
‘Denzil?’
He’s talking to the blonde who glared at me, but turns at my call, cigarette in hand, looking vaguely guilty. ‘Yeah, what’s up?’
‘Are we going to Tempest tonight?’
He nods. ‘That’s the club where I’m gigging. Why?’
‘I might meet some friends there, that’s all.’
‘Cool, good idea.’ He turns back to the blonde, who is still staring at me through narrowed blue eyes, and continues with what he was saying.
I feel a bit embarrassed by his brush-off, then tell myself to get over it. What was I expecting? I like Denzil, and I’m interested in him sexually, but we’re not dating. Besides, we didn’t come here together as boyfriend-girlfriend. Like he told me earlier, he sees this night out as a favour for a friend. Not a date. Whatever might happen at the end of it.
I text Tris back, Maybe see you at Tempest, then turn off my phone. I don’t want to appear needy.
Jumping down from my rock, I decide to work the party. Better than sitting on my own for the next hour. I get into a conversation about films with one of Denzil’s friends; he’s a little younger than me, not bad-looking, with a shaved head. Some of the others come over later with a bowl of hot spicy sausages from the barbecue and we all help ourselves. After a few beers, I start to relax, and even agree to dance with one of the guys. It’s not turning out to be such a bad night. At least none of them seem to know anything about the body in the woods.
It’s nearly nine o’clock by the time we leave the beach party and move on to the club where Denzil is working that night. He’s the guest deejay, which means I get in for free.
‘Remember,’ Denzil says in my ear as he shows me to a much-coveted seat near his deejay platform, ‘you’re here to shake it loose. So enjoy yourself tonight, understand?’
‘I’ll try.’
He sends over a tall, orange-red house cocktail with an umbrella and sparkler, then proceeds to ignore me for the next hour. But I don’t really care. I’m out of the house and anonymous, that’s what matters.
Sometimes I get up to dance, leaving my cocktail unattended at my seat, sometimes I keep my eyes on Denzil on his high platform. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening. New drinks arrive at intervals, and Denzil waves a hand as the bartender points him out, winking across at me.
I watch women drooling over him, all of them beautiful and exquisitely made-up, wearing tiny outfits in green and pink neon, armed with clubbers’ pom-poms and glow-sticks, and I can see why he has hang-ups about dating. As a deejay, Denzil is constantly surrounded by all these gorgeous, adoring women; why would he want to tie himself down to one girlfriend when he could have a different lover every night?
Halfway through the evening, I weave to the ladies through a heaving pack of dancers, the beat thumping through every bone and nerve, unsteady on my feet, pleasantly drunk.
I see a familiar dark head ahead of me. ‘Tris?’
But there’s too much noise, he can’t hear me. The heaving crowd shifts and merges, and he vanishes.
‘Tris?’
The strobe comes on. Everything goes weird. Heads moving, arms whirling, lights flashing, and none of the faces familiar. I start to feel sick. Stumbling, I turn back towards the ladies’ toilets, then catch another tantalising glimpse of Tris under the central mirror ball. I stop, swaying slightly, and scan the dancers for his face. Again, there’s no sign of him in the crowd. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone. It’s almost like Tris is playing a game with me, and I’m losing.
I turn, staring all around, confused and frowning. Where the hell did he go?
‘Hey, looking for me?’
I spin round at the voice in my ear, over-balancing. Tris catches me by the shoulders, looking surprised. ‘You drunk?’
‘Cocktails, that’s all.’
‘Where’s Denzil?’
I point out Denzil on his high platform, tending to the decks with his headphones on. ‘He thinks I should let my hair down, forget about the … the body.’
‘Hang on.’ Tris pulls out his phone, which is lit up with an incoming call. He puts it to his ear, then nods. ‘Yeah, okay. Five minutes, out the front.’ He ends the call, looking at me soberly. Like only Tris can do in the middle of a packed night club. ‘That was Connor. He wants to go home.’
‘But we only just hooked up.’
‘You know Connor, he’s a law unto himself. And he hates Newquay. I don’t know why he insisted on us going out tonight. I’ve been dancing, but he’s barely moved from the bar all evening, miserable sod.’
Still missing his dad, probably. I say nothing. Everyone deals with grief in their own way.
‘Well, I’d better go and find him,’ he says, then bends to kiss my cheek. His voice is husky in my ear. ‘Take care of yourself.’
When Tris turns away, I grab his elbow. ‘Stay for one dance,’ I tell him, shouting to be heard above the music.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘With you?’
‘Why not?’
‘In your state?’
‘I told you, I’m not drunk. Just … tipsy. I can manage a dance.’
He half-grins, just a twitch of his mouth. ‘I can’t, sorry. Connor’s waiting outside and I don’t want him to drive off without me. I’ve got no transport. It’s a long way over the moors.’
‘Denzil will drive you home.’
He looks angry suddenly. ‘What, you, me and Denzil in his jeep? I’m sure that’ll be cosy.’
I shake my head. ‘We’re not dating.’
‘You must think I’m stupid.’
‘Maybe you are,’ I mutter, not meaning for him to hear, but he gets the point anyway.
‘So I’m Public Enemy Number One now? What exactly am I supposed to have done? Or is this the drink talking?’
‘Nothing, forget it.’
He bends close, his eyes meeting mine. I try not to look at his mouth. But the rest is even more alluring. His chin is rough with stubble, his shirt unbuttoned just below the neck, some of his chest on show. ‘Look, Ellie, why not come home with me and Connor? I’m worried about you. This place won’t clo
se for hours and Denzil can’t be trusted to get you home safely. He can’t be trusted, full stop.’
‘I don’t need you to worry about me. I don’t need anyone.’ My mouth is dry, and my head is starting to spin. Too many cocktails. ‘Anyway, Denzil’s not like that. You’ve got him all wrong. He would never abandon me.’
Tris glances down at his phone again. The screen is lit up with a new incoming call. He cancels it without answering, then pushes the phone down inside the front pocket of his jeans.
‘You want to take your chances with Denzil, that’s fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Whatever. See you around.’
‘Goodbye, Ellie.’
Tris leans forward and kisses me roughly on the mouth, holding my face with both hands. Then he turns away and the crowd swallows him.
I regret it at once.
‘Tris?’
I take a few steps after him and the room starts to spin horribly. I stop, then stumble on stubbornly, unsure of my direction. Time moves slowly. A while later, I find myself sagging against the wall near the women’s toilets, drawing a few amused glances from girls queuing in the doorway.
Staring across the dance floor, I see dozens of dark heads that could be Tris. But none of them are Tris, of course, because he’s gone. Gone home across the moors with Connor beside him. I could weep, or smash something. I remember his hands holding my face as he kissed me. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on each cheek.
The music hammers at me like a rebuke.
I can’t seem to breathe, this club is so hot and stuffy. Suddenly I feel sick again, my skin clammy, and grope my way along the wall towards the toilets.
Did somebody spike that last cocktail?
It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning before Denzil supports me outside into the cool air. The club is on the coast road near the cliffs, and I sway there in the darkness while he’s fiddling about with the jeep. The sea is crashing against rocks far below, a rhythmic boom-slap-crash.
I’ve been sitting in a corner for hours, refusing any more cocktails and wishing I had stuck to soft drinks. My head still hurts but at least I no longer feel sick.
Denzil wraps his jacket round my shoulders. He lights a cigarette and offers me a drag.
‘No thanks,’ I say, then add accusingly, ‘You spiked my drink.’
He laughs and shakes his head, helping me to climb into the front seat of the jeep. ‘No, you’re just drunk.’
The black sky is spinning above us. Diamonds and more tiny diamonds, round in a circle. I try not to look.
‘I only had a few drinks.’ That’s what I mean to say, but it comes out wrong, I know it. My tongue feels numb, and I can’t seem to keep my eyes open. He’s leaning across me, putting my seat belt on for me. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Don’t try to talk. I’ll drop you home.’ Denzil climbs into the jeep beside me. My dress has ridden up, my exposed thigh pale under the overhead street lights. ‘You’re completely out of it, aren’t you? Do you know how many offers I had to turn down tonight because I was taking you back home after the gig?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
‘And you’re gorgeous too.’ He hesitates, then smooths back my hair. ‘And maybe not too drunk.’
I should have realised he would try this. Perhaps that’s why he spiked my cocktails. To make sure I would not fight him. His mouth is firm and demanding. His hand is warm, moving suggestively on my thigh, and I fumble to push him away.
‘It’s okay, I don’t want anything you’re not willing to give,’ he whispers against my mouth, then kisses down my throat.
I push at his chest. ‘No, I don’t … I can’t do this, sorry.’
To my relief, Denzil does not force the issue.
He pulls away, shrugging, and only then do I see the small white card tucked under the windscreen wiper.
I point at it. ‘What’s that?’
Denzil frowns and reaches round the windscreen for the card. There’s silence as he reads it, then he shrugs and hands it to me. ‘Looks like it’s for you, Ellie.’ He watches me turn over the card. There’s a note of frustration in his voice. ‘You gave some dude your anklet? While I was working?’
‘What?’
My eyes can’t focus at first. But the message rouses my brain from its drunken stupor. It’s been cut from a larger piece of card, and not very expertly. One edge is ragged, the other less than straight. One side of the card is blank. On the other is a handwritten note in black marker pen, clumsy letters but clear enough to take in at a glance.
Suddenly I understand there’s more than one person who could have spiked my drink tonight.
You’re my Number One. Thanks for the anklet.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I stare down at the card in my hands, not quite understanding the message, then read it through again slowly. Force myself to concentrate, despite the alcohol in my system.
Number One.
I think of the dead woman in the woods. The number three written in what looked like black marker pen on her forehead.
Thanks for the anklet.
I glance down automatically but my ankle is bare. The little gold chain I was wearing earlier in the evening has vanished. Did the anklet fall off when I was on the beach? Or in the club?
I have been dancing tonight, and climbing on rocks, and getting drunk. And all the while this person was watching me. Composing this note in his head.
‘Did you … ’ I stare at Denzil. ‘Is this from you? Did you write this? And the number on her forehead?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
I am starting to panic. There was nothing in the newspaper about the number written on the dead woman’s forehead. So whoever wrote this note knows about it. That is only a very small number of people, I realise.
And one of them is the killer.
Denzil takes the note from between my slack fingers and clicks open his lighter, setting fire to the edge of the card.
‘No.’ I try to reach for it, horrified, but he holds it up in the air.
‘It was left on my car, I get to decide what happens to it. And I can see that it’s upsetting you.’
‘It’s evidence.’
‘Of what?’ Denzil shakes his tawny head, looking serious for once. ‘It’s only evidence that there’s some bastard out there who gets his kicks out of frightening women. Don’t worry, I’ll get you home safe.’ He tosses the burning card out of the window, then starts the engine and pulls away from the kerb. ‘You’ve got to be careful who you talk to at these clubs.’
I begin to say, ‘I didn’t talk to anyone … ’ Then stop, slowly going back over the evening – or what I can remember of it.
So I’m Public Enemy Number One now?
Tris.
I talked to Tris.
The drive across the moors from the coast has never seemed so long nor so tiring. I doze off several times, then jerk awake, instantly aware of the man next to me, the danger I could be in if I’m wrong. Denzil drops me in the turning area outside the cottage. He’s exhausted, like me, and not very talkative.
‘See you around,’ he mutters.
The car roars away in the darkness, and I stand listening to the engine until I can’t hear it anymore.
I pull my phone from my bag and light up the screen. It’s nearly four in the morning. I check the signal strength. One bar. Enough to send a text.
Meet me Sunday 2pm at the church. Wear running gear.
I text it to Tris, then turn off the phone. It’s probably a stupid thing to have done. I should go straight to the police, tell them about the note. But I have to know the truth. And the only way is to ask.
There is a sudden rustling noise from the hedgerow behind me.
Sometimes deer cross the lane here, plunging from heavy woodlands into open fields, probably in search of water. Or foxes. There is a large male fox in this area, we often spot it padding silently past at dusk, red bushy tail held out straigh
t. It could even be a badger. There’s a large holt dug into the sandy bank behind the cottage.
Then I hear something more frightening.
Breathing.
You can hold your breath when standing still, but it’s a lot harder when moving. Someone nearby is breathing and moving at the same time, getting closer and closer. My ears track the sound and I turn abruptly to my right, holding my own breath.
The breathing continues another second, then stops too.
Like an echo.
I catch a movement behind the hedgerow opposite the cottage, and fix my gaze there, staring harder. There’s a shadowy shape, darker than the night surrounding it. It shifts half an inch to the right as I watch; a distinct movement, not my drunken imagination. Human, not animal. Someone is standing a few feet away behind the hedgerow. Someone roughly the same height and build as the shadow that comes to the end of my bed some nights, watching me through the darkness.
Shadow man.
I feel the familiar swell of panic in my chest, and it makes me so angry. Why should anyone get away with frightening another person like this? If it’s a person behind that hedge, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. And if it’s a phantom of my sick imagination, then it can bloody well piss off.
There’s a long knotty stick near the door; we use it for unclogging the rivulet that runs past the cottage when it gets blocked up with leaves and silt, which it frequently does.
I make a grab for the stick, and then lunge at the hedgerow like a crazed Samurai.
‘Take that,’ I yell at the shadows, repeatedly smashing the sturdy pole against the hedgerow. Great puffs of green and white fly up into the darkness and drift back down around me like rain, ragged shreds of hawthorn blossom and nettle heads and cow parsley. The whole structure creaks ominously. ‘Do you hear me? You can stick this in your pipe and smoke it. Go on, get out of here, leave me alone ...’
‘Eleanor?’
Someone is standing in the cottage doorway, directing the white beam of a torch towards me. The outside light is broken, has been for months, so we keep a torch on a low table by the front door. With relief, I recognise the voice.
I toss the stick aside, clatter across the stone bridge in my heels, and throw my arms around my housemate.
