Page 5 of Someone in the Water
‘I know it,’ the driver says, nodding. ‘But it’s not a good neighbourhood. You know, my brother-in-law has small hotel. It’s on the edge of town, away from the beach, but very safe area. He might have a room. I can call him?’ He points at a phone nestled in a cradle by the aircon unit.
‘Thanks, but I’m good.’ Lola can’t read the driver’s face now, whether there’s genuine concern on it or the recognition of opportunity, but as soon as the words are out, his warning taps at her skull again –not a good neighbourhood. She thinks about her mum. She knows that something happened to her in Corsica that scarred her for life, and here Lola is, risking moving in with a serial killer. Is she even crazier than her mum?
The driver nods and shrugs like it’s no skin off his nose, then turns his gaze back to the road. Fifteen minutes later, they take a left turn at a roundabout signposted Porto Vecchio. The sign is vandalised with small dents and graffiti, like most of the others she’s seen, but the roads are lined with luscious trees – a strange mix of oaks, firs, and palm trees – and there’s a beautiful mountain range rising in the distance. Lola can’t quite work out whether Corsica is a sunny beach resort or a rugged wilderness.
Eventually they reach the town with its narrow streets, and brightly coloured residential blocks. As the cab driver turns left onto the coast road, Lola stares at the marina with its line of sparkling white boats, and it reminds her of home. She thinks about Grams busy in her workshop, her mum fighting her private demons in some mystery location, because why the hell should her only daughter be trusted with the address. Neither of them knows that Lola’s in Corsica, but she doesn’t feel guilty. If her mum can have secrets, disappear every year, so can she.
The car follows the coast road for another five minutes, then heads inland again. There’s a mix of patches of scrubland and big apartment blocks. Originally white, but greying now, and decorated with cracks that span out like tree roots. The cab driver takes a few more turns and then parks up outside one of the buildings that all look the same. He twists to face her. ‘This is it. Happy holidays.’
‘Merci,’ Lola mumbles, embarrassed by how much her hands are shaking as she gives him twenty euros. Then she hoists her backpack onto her shoulder, slides out of the car, and walks towards the front door with her heart pumping.
Lola
25th July
Lola pushes the half-eaten basket of fries away and tries not to cry. When she first knocked on the door of her Airbnb, she thought things would be all right after all. Okay, the views weren’t as pretty as the parts of Porto Vecchio she’d seen from the cab window, but what could she expect for forty euros a night? And the woman who answered her knock – Celine – had a kind face and bright eyes, and she bustled with the efficiency of someone who’d welcomed new guests many times before. The room was small, but the bed was comfy, and even though she had to share the bathroom with Celine’s family, it was clean, and everything worked.
But then Celine’s husband and grown-up son turned up – loud, leery, and smelling of fish, sweat and beer – and Lola suddenly wanted to be anywhere else.
The town is busy with holidaymakers, but under the black sky, their drunken laughter sounds threatening. About an hour ago her resolve dipped low enough for her to contact her girlfriends in Ayia Napa. She sent them a long voice note, hoping they’d lift her spirits back up. But their response did the opposite. With barely concealed terror in their voices, they told her to call her mum. That her safety was more important than any secret mission.
She’s not calling her. Partly because she’s too proud, but mainly because she’s scared of what her mum’s reaction might be.
Even though he died before she was born, Lola has always known that her grandfather, Grams’ husband, was Corsican, and that her surname – Torre – is a common Corsican family name. But when she asked if they could go there on holiday when she was eleven, her mum point-blank refused. She blamed the cost, which made sense at the time – they had never holidayed outside the UK back then – but when her mum got a bonus at work a few years later, she still wouldn’t agree to a trip to Corsica, and took Lola skiing instead. For years Lola couldn’t understand why her mum didn’t want to find out more about her heritage.
And then, in February, she found the answer by accident.
She was at work. It was still winter, and there weren’t many windsurf sails to fix, so Grams asked her to clear up the workshop. There was an old wardrobe in the back corner, and she decided to start there. As well as a bunch of ancient windsurf equipment, there was a cardboard box full of memorabilia. She found a few photos of herself from when she was little and got sucked in. Then a while later, she came across a thin pile of postcards held together by a dry and faded rubber band that snapped when she wriggled it off.
There were five postcards from a place called Porto Vecchio in Corsica. And each of them was from her mum to Grams. They were dated from June to August 2004 and kept in order. The first was of a hotel with a beautiful beach, the name Hotel Paoli written in cursive script at the bottom, and on the other side her mum had written:
This is where I work. Amazing, isn’t it?! And I’ve made a new friend – Izzy – who’s awesome. I miss you, but I’m really loving it out here. I hope you’re coping okay without me.
The next three postcards weren’t quite as effusive, but her mum still seemed to be enjoying herself. Then Lola read the final postcard, dated 1st August 2004, her birthday. And the words made her skin crawl.
The last three days have been the worst of my life
I am a monster
I need to come home
I will never forgive myself for this
Lola put the postcards back in the cardboard box and shoved it to the corner of the wardrobe. But she couldn’t wipe those words from her mind. She knew her mum wasn’t a monster, but clearly something had happened that summer, and her mum had never forgiven herself for it. The insomnia, her mum’s mental health challenges, her annual disappearances – it seemed to have all started in Corsica in 2004.
Lola knew that if she confronted her mum, she would be met with either silence or lies. And that the only way to get the truth was to unearth it herself. And then maybe, just maybe, she could use that knowledge to fix her mum. When Tamsyn suggested a girls’ holiday to Ayia Napa after their A levels, it gave Lola the perfect cover story.
Except it doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.
Lola slips off the high stool and leaves the café. She hovers on the pavement for a moment, but she can’t put it off forever, so she reluctantly turns north and starts walking back towards her Airbnb. Hopefully she can slip into her room without being noticed, although whether she’ll sleep or not with no lock on her door is a different matter. Perhaps getting a taste of her mum’s insomnia on this trip would be poetic.
It’s quieter off the main drag, which makes Lola nervous. But night-time can do that – even when she’s at home in Lymington – so she tries to bat the feeling away. As she follows the route back, the roads get narrower until she’s walking down one not much wider than an alleyway, with only a street lamp at either end. She quickens her pace. But then jolts to a stop when she sees the shadow of a man in the distance.
He’s leaning against the grey concrete wall of a house. Smoking a cigarette. Lola senses him staring at her, but is he really? She’s automatically labelling him as a threat, but he might just be chilling out in front of his own house. She’s the foreigner here, not him.
She says a silent prayer and starts walking again. She can’t pretend she’s not scared – her blood is pumping in her ears – but she’ll pass him in ten or so steps.
He’s wearing a hoodie, she notices as she gets closer, and the hood is pulled low over his brow. The rest of his face is obscured by a mask.
