Page 23 of Someone in the Water
I’ll do something constructive while I wait instead. A task to distract me. And if I’m going to get Lola out of Corsica before Thursday, I’ll need to be as efficient as possible.
An hour later, I sit back and rub my eyes. From what I can glean from the Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office website, Lola needs a crime reference number before she can apply for temporary travel documents – which means visiting the police station as soon as I arrive tomorrow. I hate the thought of going back to that place, but I need to remember that Lola’s situation is completely different from mine. We’ll be in and out in five minutes. And hopefully that misogynistic police officer will be long gone.
Then we need to contact the closest British consulate, which is in Marseille – on the French mainland – to apply for the documents. They take twenty-four hours to produce, and the consulate works seven days a week, so assuming they can send them next-day delivery, we can be on a flight home – or a ferry to mainland France if it comes to it – by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest.
I don’t have the energy to pack up all my stuff, but I’ve rented this place for two weeks, so I can come back once I’ve got Lola safely back to the UK. Instead, I shove my favourite clothes in my holdall – the cut-off denim shorts and white T-shirts, the Quiksilver sweatshirt and O’Neill windbreaker – and wolf down a big bowl of cereal. Then I lock the door on my refuge, and head back into the world.
It’s hard to believe that I only left my house yesterday – so much has happened since – but its familiarity is welcome. The air is thick with July heat, so I head to the kitchen and push open the back door. I run the tap until the water finally turns ice cold, then pour a large glass. I sit on the back step to drink it, and as I stare at the lilac lavender wafting in the breeze, my eyelids grow heavy again.
I should go to bed. If I’m driving to Gatwick in the middle of the night, I owe it to myself – and Lola – to at least attempt sleep.
I head upstairs to my bedroom, pull the curtains closed, strip down to my underwear, and climb into bed. Sunlight is still streaming through the cracks, so I pull on my eye mask, and everything goes black.
But the darkness triggers my memories. I see Izzy in a bar, dancing wildly to Beyoncé. And then lying on her bed, the night air too hot for sheets, confiding in me about her father, and how losing him changed the trajectory of her life. I see Dom. Laughing, sad, humiliated, bleeding. And I see Archie and Jack. Archie’s glass of Long Island iced tea tipping against mine with a conspiratorial smile. Him looking at Jack, like he still can’t believe his luck. And Harriet.Fucking hell, Frankie! You’re a shit friend!
And then I see waves. And rope. And Salvo’s wizened face. And then they’re dead.
I push the eye mask off my face, catapult my body up to sitting, suck in air. My heart is pounding. The water I gulped down earlier sloshes in my stomach. Emotion swamps me and I burst into tears. Why did it happen? How could I have let it happen? And how the hell am I going to find the strength to go back there?
When I’m all out of tears, I push back the duvet and head into the bathroom. I run the shower and step inside – cold first, to calm my burning skin, then hot, another pointless attempt to scald my guilt away. The shower does its job of waking me up, but I know it will only be temporary.
When I’m dressed again, I head back downstairs and make myself a cup of strong coffee. If I’m not going to sleep, then I need to do everything possible to help keep my body awake. It’s a three-hour flight to Corsica. Maybe when I’m buckled in, flanked by happy strangers heading off on their summer holidays, I’ll finally be able to drift off.
A few hours later, I lock up for the second time in two days, this time with my passport zipped inside my jacket pocket and a new set of clothes in a cabin bag, and start the two-hour drive to Gatwick Airport.
Frankie
27th July
I glide slowly, silently, through the forest. Thin slivers of moonlight seep through the branches, providing just enough light to see. Its white glow is ethereal, ghostlike, and my body melts into it. I’m almost invisible as I move from tree to tree, calm, as though in a trance. But my mind is focused.
Searching for prey.
I drop my hand to my side, run my fingers over the cold metal of my dagger. A thrill surges in my chest, then ebbs away, leaving the smoking heat of a snuffed-out candle in my belly.
A dark shadow appears in the distance. I stop, crouch down, listen. But the sound of rustling fades, then disappears. Some might think it a lucky escape for whatever animal has moved away, a wild boar or perhaps a wolf, but I know that’s not the case. Surviving was its destiny.
Just like mine is to hunt.
I straighten out my limbs but hesitate before moving again. I can hear something. Not the hushed crackle of leaves under an animal’s step, but the faintest whisper of feathers. A bird. I look up. A soft glint of moonlight flickers down. There it is.
An eagle owl.
Perched high in a tree, its brown and tan feathers merging with the bark, but its fiery eyes vivid against the night sky.
I stare at the regal creature, knowing instinctively that I must kill it. It lifts its wings in protest, revealing the pure white feathers underneath. But it won’t intimidate me.
I walk to the tree, reach for the lowest branch, pull myself up. The tree is tall. Perhaps fifty metres. But I’m not scared of falling. Branch by branch, I climb, the twigs and rough bark that scratch at me leaving no mark.
Whoo-whoo. Whoo-whoo.
The owl is warning the forest of a predator. But it doesn’t fly away. It thinks it’s got the power to repel me. It doesn’t understand how much stronger I am.
I climb.
Finally, I reach its height. Our eyes catch. The owl tries to challenge me with its stare, but I hold its gaze and the energy shifts. I feel my dominance, and I know the owl senses it too. The imminent danger it faces. It lifts its huge wings, preparing to soar away.
But I’m too quick.
