Page 24 of Someone in the Water
I grab my dagger, thrust it hard into the owl’s chest, straight through its heart. The wings flare, then drop. Snowy feathers become stained by red, sticky blood as life seeps away.
I look at the owl’s lifeless face, wanting to bask in the glory of my conquest.
But it’s changed. The bird’s features have gone.
Replaced by a human face.
One so familiar that it hits me like a lightning bolt.
I scream. My heart hammers in my chest. I rub frantically at my eyelids, trying to erase what I’ve just seen, but that final image is too strong, so I whip my eyes open instead. Try to adjust to reality. Light and darkness merge, blurring my vision. Think, Frankie! I flail around with my arms, looking for clues. I find a door handle. A steering wheel. Of course, I’m in the car. I stare at the view through the windscreen. Concrete pillars and lines of cars on asphalt. Faded strip lighting.
The airport car park.
I remember now, how tired I felt, driving up the M3 from Lymington in the dead of night. And how relieved I was to finally arrive without falling asleep at the wheel, or veering off into a field and smashing into a tree. But the relief must have relaxed me so much that I fell asleep before getting out of the car.
And then I had the dream. The mazzeri dream.
And I saw Lola’s face on a dying eagle owl.
The mazzeri legend goes that the person you see in your dream, their face imprinted on the animal you’ve killed, will die in real life soon after. It’s a stupid fable – a Corsican myth – and of course I don’t believe it.
I’ve never believed it, not really. What happened twenty-one years ago was just a coincidence. And it happening on the 31st of July – the darkest night according to the mazzeri legend – means nothing. Now, more than ever, I need to remember that.
I slam my hand against hard plastic. But if I know the mazzeri thing is all bullshit, why the hell won’t it leave me alone?
When I had that first mazzeri dream in Corsica, it wasn’t exactly a surprise – with the terrible trauma I was going through at the time, and Salvo’s raspy voice like a worm wriggling into my brain, including my dad in his twisted claims, of course it would come while I slept. After all, that’s what nightmares are – subconscious fears making their presence known.
But then the dream came true, and not even going back to England could help me escape that fact. Some nights I couldn’t erase the dead faces of my friends from behind my eyelids, and sleep evaded me completely. But on others, I became so exhausted that I sank under, and then suffered that terrible dream again. Me hunting in Corsican forests, always with a weapon, always killing wild animals. And always seeing the face of someone I knew.
I couldn’t bear it. That’s why I started drinking heavily, and staying up all night partying. I found that catching a few chemically deadened hours, when I blacked out rather than slept, helped keep the nightmare away. But I could never repress it when the anniversaries got closer. To most Corsicans, the mazzeri legend is a cool story to spook kids and tourists, but to some old-timers – people like Salvo – it’s unquestionably real. And he believed I was one of them, a mazzera.
I know it’s not true. Not possible. But the bitter irony is that I did play a part in my friends’ deaths. And so, when my insomnia is at its worst, and I’m half-dead with tiredness, the two things get mixed up in my head and I start talking crazy. It’s why I’ve been sectioned twice – I tell people, usually medical professionals, that I can predict death, and they class me as delusional – without realising what a relief their diagnosis is to me.
But now I have seen my daughter’s face on my prey.
The person whom I love most in the world, whom I am supposed to protect.
Except, of course the dream would come for me now. Knowing Lola is in Corsica. And at Hotel Paoli, meeting Anna and Raphael. These are the reasons why I had a mazzeri dream, not because it was ordained by some dark witchcraft. The mazzeri legend is nothing more than Corsican cult history and I need to let it go.
Lola is not going to die.
I push open the car door and step into the stifling air of the multistorey car park. I collect my holdall from the boot, hoist it over one shoulder, and slam the door. Then I look for the sign to departures and head inside.
Lola
27th July
Lola stares at the pale blue blind covering the window. The room isn’t plush by any stretch, but it’s a thousand times better than the one in that Airbnb. No loud men stomping around. A lock on the door. Lola stretches out on the single bed and dips her fingers into the carving on the dark wooden headboard behind her. She doesn’t know what time it is – she’s still phoneless – but from the strength of the sunshine leaking around the blind’s edges, it feels like morning has been around for a while.
Which means her mum will arrive soon. And she’s not sure how she feels about that.
She was mad with her yesterday, but maybe that wasn’t fair. After all, it was Lola’s choice to come to Corsica, alone, and in secret. Her idea to book a room without considering why it was so cheap. Yes, most mums would have their phone within three-second reach when their child goes on holiday without them for the first time, but her mum has always been different. At least, at this time of year.
When Lola walked up Hotel Paoli’s long driveway yesterday – palm trees and rolling lawns on each side of her, sun beating down – she didn’t know what to expect. Her mum had lived and worked there, but it was a long time ago, and something bad had clearly happened that brought it to an abrupt end. The glass door had slid open automatically, so Lola didn’t even have the chance to collect herself before she came face to face with the receptionist. A glamorous older woman with blonde hair and high cheekbones who eyed her suspiciously.
She wanted to tell her story gradually, but in the end, the words tumbled out. She was Frankie Torre’s daughter. She needed help.
The receptionist had looked shocked at first, colour visibly draining from her already pale face. But she recovered quickly. She introduced herself – Anna Paoli, which told Lola that she was more than a receptionist – and asked lots of questions, like whether Frankie was in Corsica too (no), what she’d told Lola about her time working at Hotel Paoli (nothing) and finally, why Lola needed help. Once Lola had explained that she’d been mugged, that she was too scared to go back to her accommodation and couldn’t get hold of her mum, Anna had ushered her into the office behind the reception desk, pushed the big phone towards her, and told her to take as long as needed.
