Page 71 of Someone in the Water
She feels Patrick’s torso stiffen. ‘You need to forget about it,’ he says. ‘The mazzeri aren’t real. You’re not going to die.’
Is this when she tells him about the notes? Explains that her life might actually be in danger in the real world? She feels his arm wrap around her shoulder and leans in. ‘Are you sure?’ she chooses instead. Maybe this is all she really wants. Reassurance.
He picks up a strand of her hair and moves it behind her ear. ‘Yes I’m sure. Because while you’re here, with me, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.’
Frankie
29th July
Both my friends were murdered. That’s what Lola read in the notes, and it makes sense to me too now. Archie didn’t kill himself, and I didn’t leave Izzy to drown. Someone was in the water with us. Was I supposed to die too; did I fend off the killer? Or was I always meant to be the scapegoat?
I kick at the sand. It flies up, catches in the breeze for a second, then settles a few centimetres closer to the sea. It shows there’s an offshore wind, the most dangerous type, the threat of being blown further into treacherous waters.
I know I should go back to the hotel. Check on Lola again. But I can’t help wondering if I’m giving myself more credit than I deserve. That in fact, Lola can look after herself better than I can. She’s already proven that she’s smarter than me by figuring out what the notes mean, and she’s been suggesting someone else was involved in Izzy’s death right from the start. She trusted my gut instinct more than I did. I’m her mum; it’s my job to protect her. But it’s also my job to raise her into a capable young woman. And the last few days have shown how I’ve managed that at least.
I pull out my phone and send her a text. She was heading to the shop after our talk on the beach to buy a new phone card, and she promised to put her phone on charge as soon as she got back to her room, so I’m hoping she has both credit and power. A moment later, I get a text back.
Yes, all good. Meeting Patrick soon. Don’t worry about me.
I send a quick response, feeling a mix of relief that Lola’s fine, and unease with who she’s meeting. Lola getting involved with Patrick is not a good thing, but I know I need to tread carefully. She’s not a child anymore; I can’t tell her to stop doing something and expect her to follow my rules. And the irony is, Patrick does seem like a nice guy. Nothing like either of his parents. He’s older than Lola, yes, but my dad was eighteen years my mum’s senior, so I can’t hold that against him. Maybe him being around Lola until we get off this island might even be a good thing.
I pick up my pace again. This anniversary never hits as hard as Izzy’s, but it always comes with some fallout. Except I’m hoping it won’t tonight. I want to sit on the stretch of sand where Archie and I shared those two bottles of terrible digestif and find some kind of peace at last.
For years I have picked apart our conversation, looking for what errors I made, the missed opportunities to pull him back from the brink of hopelessness. But now I know that’s not how it was. Yes, Archie was upset. But according to Dom, he was with Jack later on that night. Playfighting or just fighting, he clearly still had some life in him. And now I find out that it could well have been murder, not suicide. After years of hating myself for not doing enough, could the truth be something entirely different?
I pause, assess the view. I think this is where we sat. There’s a new hotel set back from the beach that wasn’t here in 2004 – although it’s a small boutique one, suggesting Corsicans still guard their island against overtourism with the same passion. The sand has been cleared of the scrub that sprouted through it back then, but otherwise it looks the same. The headland with a dirt track that snakes down to the edge of the beach, the woodland behind – where we found Archie’s body – and the wide expanse of empty sea in front of me. I drop down onto the sand and stare at the waves.
I don’t know how much time passes, but I watch dusk turn to night. It’s a clearer sky than I remember it being in 2004, and there is also light from the new hotel, so it’s brighter and I can see all the way to the headland. My mind goes back to that night, and amazingly, I find myself smiling. I remember how pleased Archie was with himself when he pulled that bottle of Mirto Bianco out of the sand. And how we collapsed, giggling like little kids.
I lie down. I’m wearing long jeans and a thick hoodie, so the cold sand doesn’t infiltrate. And I’m so tired, I wonder if I might drop off, just like I did all those years ago. I close my eyes and go back there. Our heads touching, us sharing our worries – Archie’s about Jack, mine about Izzy.
There was a fishing boat that came right up onto the sand. A group of men walking down to it. One of them, so drunk he couldn’t stand, being carried by his mates. At least, I assumed he was drunk at the time, but maybe he was ill, or even injured. They were angry, I remember now. Shouting at each other. I wonder why they were going fishing in that state. Were they even fishing? I also wonder why I’m only remembering this now. But that’s stupid. That night was the start of the worst two days of my life. Of course I wouldn’t remember something unconnected, however strange it was.
The images start to fade, grow darker until there’s only blackness behind my eyelids. I’m drifting now, deeper into the sand.
Suddenly I hear a man’s voice shouting.La vengeance est douce!I whip open my eyes, gasp, push up to a crouch. Volts of adrenaline pulsate through my limbs as images crackle through my mind. But then I see a child, maybe eight or nine, running towards the water’s edge, squealing. A man my age – his father probably – is chasing him, his hands up and fingers splayed like he’s ready to tickle the child into submission.
Tears of relief sprout in my eyes. Not everything in this place is bad or dangerous. I straighten up and start walking back to the hotel. It’s dark now, and when I see the lights of Hotel Paoli, I breathe a sigh of relief. But the feeling is only fleeting – because the real danger is in there somewhere.
I look at my watch. It’s past eleven o’clock, which means I’ve missed dinner. I don’t want to go to my room in case there’s another note waiting for me there, but I’m also nervous about going to see Lola if she’s still with Patrick. She’s a young woman now and deserves her privacy. I could go to the bar, but I’m too wired to risk drinking alcohol, and too scared to abstain.
Reception used to stay open until midnight when I worked here. If there’s someone manning the desk now, it will be quiet, and I doubt Anna or Raphael would work the late shift. I could collect Lola’s travel documents for her. And with those in my possession, I might even be able to get some sleep.
My prayers are answered when I get to the desk, because there’s a young woman behind it whom I don’t recognise. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks. She’s wearing a name badge. Gwen.
‘Hi, yes, thanks,’ I mumble. ‘My daughter has some post to pick up. She asked me to grab it for her.’
‘Sure. What’s the name?’
‘Lola Torre.’
Gwen searches the desk for a few moments, then looks back at Frankie. ‘It must be in the office. If you could wait a moment.’
I nod, smile. My eyes sting in the overhead light and I blink to ease them. But as Gwen pushes the office door open, I notice Anna in there, talking to someone I can’t see, but she’s speaking English, not French. I lurch to the right before she spots me. A minute passes, and I fight the urge to rest my burning cheeks on the cool smooth surface of the reception desk.
Finally, Gwen reappears. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no post for Lola Torre. Perhaps check back tomorrow?’
‘But it was due today. My daughter got an email. Official travel documents, sent recorded delivery.’
