The Heatwave

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tim said. She turned to see him walking out of the kitchen, brows furrowed. ‘Did you go inside?’ he asked, his face awash with rage.

  ‘Where were you just now?’ she said, realising that he had been in the house, but she hadn’t seen him. How did he get inside when she had locked the doors earlier? To get from the dining room to the garden she had passed every room on the ground floor and he hadn’t been in any of them. The frown disappeared from his face and his eyes turned kind, but she didn’t believe them.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ he said, but she knew he was lying; he was somewhere else in the house. What was he doing?

  Pushing past him, she went back into the house, closing the French doors behind her. What was in the guest house that he was so worried about her seeing? She had seen the look on his face when he thought she had gone inside. Maybe the key to whatever game he was playing was in there.

  When looking through the photo album for Belize, Jasmine was hit by how pretty it was. They had visited the island of San Pedro, which was so colourful and the people were so friendly, it had been the inspiration for La Isla Bonita, the Madonna song. Jasmine had been eleven and they had refurbished a medical centre, although in reality she did very little besides play football in the street with the kids of the neighbourhood. It was one of her fonder memories of travelling abroad. When she got to the final Belize album, she opened the sleeve and found a piece of fabric pressed between the pages, a bright blue piece of torn silk. Jasmine had no idea where it was from but it had been ironed flat from being squashed among the pages of the album for so long. She turned the pages and remembered Ladyville, where they had helped to paint a community centre where people could bring their children. Jasmine’s mother was very artistic, and she had painted a brilliant mural of cartoon characters on the walls. When the work was finally completed there was a party to celebrate and officially open the place. The local press had been there, and her parents had posed front and centre for photos with their colleagues.

  The next photo was of Jasmine and her mother. Lisa’s face bore a glowing smile as she looked past the camera to the person taking the photo. Jasmine could tell by the look on her mother’s face that it was Frank. She completely adored him. Then something in the background caught Jasmine’s eye and she dropped the photo.

  It couldn’t be.

  Overcome with a wave of nausea, Jasmine stared at the back of the picture that had landed face down, scared to pick it up and turn it over. But she did. And there, standing less than twenty feet behind her and her mother, at the makeshift bar, was a man staring straight into the camera with piercing blue eyes.

  It was Tim.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Now

  More bones have been found in the woods. It’s actually made the national news, a tiny segment but I watch greedily in the hopes of gleaning any more information. The concierge has brought me a selection of papers and I root through, looking for anything new, anything I haven’t seen before. More police have been brought to the site for a more thorough search, and the subtle implication that the woods are a mass burial ground runs through the newspaper articles. The media excitement is palpable, as though they have forgotten these are real people they are talking about.

  The papers have revealed the identity of the man in the woods, confirmed by the dog tags found with the body. They have also accessed his bank records which show that all activities ceased sixteen years ago. Tim Fulton was in the woods all that time and I didn’t know. Seeing the name sends a chill down my spine. The article in the Echo paints him as a homeless loner, a man who was dishonourably discharged from the army after being implicated in a murder investigation. He was exonerated but the damage was done and so he disappeared, many people still convinced that he was a killer.

  None of this matches up with what little I knew. There’s no photograph of his face but it’s etched on my memory. The only picture is of the cordoned-off woods which are still being searched for evidence after the discovery of more human bones.

  I don’t know how I know, but I know it’s Hannah.

  It’s all connected. That summer was the end for so many of us. I think about her mother and father and how I would see them walking around town asking questions after her disappearance. I wondered why they never asked any of the younger people what might have happened, as if we were unreliable in some way, or maybe we were just invisible. It was more real for us than they could ever know. We never knew why or how she disappeared; it was always a mystery. We never knew if whoever did it was coming for one of us next.

  I decide to walk towards the woods, still feeling guilty from driving under the influence the other day. It’s a long walk but I don’t mind; I could use the time to think, to prepare myself for what happens next. It feels strange to be so sad about someone I only knew very briefly but I am, especially knowing he died when I was angry with him. I don’t know why that makes me feel worse; it’s not as if he knew or even cared what I might have been thinking after he was gone. As for Hannah, we said hello now and then, that was it, and yet I feel responsible, as though maybe I could have saved her if only I had tried. As I walk I think about what else they might find up there. Is the truth finally going to come out?

  Almost every low garden wall I pass is made of pebbles or stones, adding to the fairytale feeling of this place. Apt, really, when I think of the grim goings-on. I try to remember how I used to feel about it, before I knew what I know. I thought it was the prettiest place imaginable. I have since realised that what we see is not always all there is. That applies to people as well as places.

  I reach the theatre and consider turning back. Walking to the woods means I will be walking past the road my house was on. My mother may well still be there. I haven’t spoken to her since the day I ran away and I have made no enquiries as to whether she is alive or dead. Like Shrödinger’s cat, as long as I don’t look, she is alive and crying into the sink where I left her. But I can’t avoid it much longer. Maybe the woods were never my destination, maybe I always knew I would end up back at that house. I had hoped when I left that I would never see it again, but I have avoided it so consciously that it has become a magnet, always there, ready to receive me, pulling me to make me face the truth about myself. About what I did.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Then

  Jasmine was alone in the house. Tim could walk in at any moment. Who the hell was he? She went over every interaction they’d had since he arrived and it became clear he had always had some ulterior motive. Whenever she had questioned him or got in the way he would do something to make her forget. Like sleight of hand. She felt so conflicted about everything. She remembered how tender he had been when they were together, then just a few hours later he was ransacking her parents’ room. She just wished she knew what it was he wanted. It certainly wasn’t her. Her only advantage at the moment was that he probably thought she was still under his spell.

  She looked out to the driveway; Tim’s car was there. Her parents wouldn’t be home for a few hours. She was going to talk to them as soon as she had proof. She needed to find out more before she presented her parents with the truth. Something he couldn’t wheedle his way out of with that crocodile smile of his. If she found the right leverage maybe she could just make him leave without telling her parents at all. That was the ideal situation, then there was no danger that he would tell them she had slept with him. She didn’t want to stay in the house alone until they got home. She picked up her phone and called Felicity.

  ‘Can I come over?’

  ‘Now? I guess. Warning though, Mum’s off her face. Are you staying?’

  ‘Probably not, I’ll get my dad to pick me up after work. I’ll walk over now.’ Jasmine put the phone down before Felicity had a chance to protest.

  She took the photograph from Belize out of her pocket and studied it again before quickly putting it in her jewellery box to hide it in the hidden tray under the ring compartment. S
he didn’t want her parents to see it. They didn’t deserve that, not after all the hospitality they had given Tim. They would be terrified, and she couldn’t bear to imagine the look of disappointment on her father’s face. What if he confronted Tim? Tim was much stronger than him, more menacing. In her father’s condition he could get really hurt.

  Her instinct that Tim was hiding something in his lodgings seemed completely legitimate now. Every time she got suspicious of him, he had put her off the scent. She knew now though. She knew he wasn’t right. Could she even trust her own judgment anymore? She reminded herself that her parents also trusted him. This wasn’t all on her. There was a spare key in the kitchen drawer, so the next time he was out she would go and investigate.

  Felicity’s mother Carol was in the kitchen, and the usual smell of nicotine and spilled alcohol wafted up Jasmine’s nose as she entered the house. Felicity led Jasmine up to her room where she had been watching Friends relentlessly while sneaking sips of a bottle of cheap rum. She had been drinking for a while by the time Jasmine got there. They settled in and watched together. Felicity put her head on Jasmine’s shoulder, the smell of rum emanating from her, her once full bottle now holding only two inches of the clear off-brand liquid.

  ‘You never come over. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Just missed you. That’s all.’

  ‘What’s going on with you? You’ve been pretty evasive lately.’

  ‘Nice word.’

  ‘Are you still upset with me about the other night? I was pretty blasted. I’m sorry. I think I knew you liked him. I don’t mean to do things like that, Jazz, I just get a bit jealous of everything you’ve got. I wish I was more like you, you’re my hero.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s OK.’

  ‘Did he say anything about me?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ Jasmine said.

  ‘You haven’t ever talked to me about Mr Morrell. You can tell me the truth, you know,’ Felicity slurred. Jasmine had never seen her so drunk before.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Did you love him, Jazz?’

  ‘What, no! Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You know, what’s funny about you, Jazz, is that you don’t even know what you’ve got. I have to work so hard to get a fraction of the attention you do. I think I’m in love with Tim. I can’t stop thinking about him.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Jasmine said dismissively.

  ‘You don’t even know how beautiful you are. Everyone could see that Mr Morrell had a thing for you, it didn’t just come out of nowhere. You are so oblivious to the way boys look at you.’

  ‘You’re being silly now.’

  ‘You don’t see it, but I see it. You’re like, magical, or something. I wish I had your life.’

  ‘I have to tell you something’ – Jasmine knew it was now or never – ‘about me and Tim.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last weekend, after you left.’

  Felicity shrugged as though it was inevitable. ‘Was he using me to try and make you jealous? That’s a first.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think he’s like other guys. He’s not normal. I can’t even begin to guess why he kissed either one of us. I wish I could go back and change what happened. I feel like such an idiot for falling for it.’

  ‘Why would you feel like an idiot? Did you sleep with him?’

  ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Are you OK? I thought you were waiting for Mr Right.’

  ‘Just do me a favour and stay away from him. I don’t trust him.’ Jasmine tried to impart how serious she was with her expression, but Felicity could barely focus.

  ‘Don’t trust him, or don’t trust me?’

  ‘You’re not listening to me. I think he’s dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘You’re paranoid,’ Felicity retorted, lying back down.

  Jasmine considered telling her about that night at the fair with Mr Morrell, or showing her the photograph, but she didn’t know what she would do. Felicity never let things go. She would want to know everything and Jasmine couldn’t be sure that she would be entirely discreet about the whole thing. Felicity wasn’t quite the detective she thought she was, particularly as she was usually half cut. When she looked across, Felicity had fallen asleep. Jasmine snuggled in and watched the TV; the repetition of the theme tune and gags she had seen a hundred times before were soothing. She didn’t realise until she was out of her own house how tense she had been there. The fact that she felt more relaxed here, with the sound of Felicity’s heartbroken mother blasting power ballads through the house, just went to show how bad things were at home. The muffled sound of Whitney Houston accompanied by canned laughter served as a lullaby, Jasmine snuggling into Felicity and closing her eyes, just for a moment.

  When Jasmine woke up she was alone. Felicity’s door was open and she could hear shouting coming from the kitchen. She couldn’t tell whose voice was whose; the power dynamic in this house was not the norm, as Felicity and her mother were more like resentful siblings than mother and daughter. There was a lot of love there – Jasmine had seen it – but there was a lot of anger, too. On both sides. It was getting dark outside. She tied her hair into a loose bun and picked up her phone.

  ‘Jasmine?’ her dad answered.

  ‘Could you come and get me from Felicity’s house?’

  ‘It’s barely ten, I thought you wanted picking up at midnight.’

  ‘Felicity’s asleep already and I’d rather come home,’ Jasmine lied.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I haven’t, I promise.’

  ‘OK, well, I’m still not home yet. We thought we had a bit longer. I’ll call Tim to come and get you. Just keep an eye out. Text me when you’re home.’

  Before Jasmine had time to object, he was gone.

  Lights appeared on the street outside Felicity’s house as Tim pulled up in his car.

  In the car Jasmine tried to remember how she had behaved the last time Tim drove her anywhere. She was aware that she couldn’t let on that she’d seen the photo, that she knew he was up to something. She was too tired to feign lust, praying that she didn’t have to.

  They drove past the turning they should have taken and instead Tim headed to the eastern side of town and through the ford. It wasn’t the way home.

  She looked over at Tim; he stared at the road unflinchingly. Where was he taking her? She couldn’t jump from a moving car but her heart was bursting out of her chest.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, trying to sound a lot calmer than she felt.

  ‘I want to show you something.’

  He drove up to the highest point on Cliff Road, stopping next to a path that overlooked Pennington Point, the place where Mr Morrell had committed suicide. The place where she suspected Tim had pushed him from.

  Tim opened the door and helped Jasmine out of the car, keeping hold of her wrist as they walked down the path towards the clifftops. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything but follow him. It was still so warm and there was no breeze at all; the air was so stagnant that she could barely feel herself breathing. The silence around them magnified the sense of danger. They reached the edge of the path and the sea stretched out before them. It looked magnificent and inviting in a deep dark indigo, a star-peppered sky above them with a full moon painting haphazard stripes of light across the water.

  ‘We had better get back home,’ Jasmine said, aware that she wasn’t far from the edge, a few metres maybe, and it would be nothing for him to pick her up and toss her over the side. Jasmine could see the narrative now. Lovesick girl commits suicide in the same spot that teacher lover took his life just days before. Her parents would probably even believe it.

  ‘We’ll go back in a minute. I just wanted to talk to you. To make you understand.’ She felt his hand on the small of her back and she resisted every urge that was telling her to turn back and run away. Stay calm.

&
nbsp; ‘Let’s just go home,’ she said. Why had he brought her here?

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, rubbing her back a little as he got closer. She should never have got in the car with him. She should have walked home, it wasn’t even that far.

  ‘No, actually I’m warm. I’m just tired,’ she said, pulling away. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘I thought it might help. I know you feel guilty about what happened to your teacher. I thought being here and seeing this might make you feel better.’

  ‘Why would being here make me feel better? And besides nothing “happened” to him, he killed himself. Didn’t he?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He smiled strangely and turned away from her.

  ‘Did you hurt him? After that night, did you come back and hurt him?’

  ‘How would you feel if I did?’

  ‘Afraid … of you,’ she said honestly.

  ‘There’s no reason to be afraid of me, Jasmine. Do you think people like him change? Do you think they deserve another chance? I don’t. I don’t think they can change. You’ve got to believe me though, Jasmine, I would never hurt you.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ she said. She believed that he hadn’t brought her there to hurt her, but had he brought her there to confess? He was different up here; there was none of his usual bravado, no simmering arrogance. There was something a little out of control about him on this grassy clifftop.

  He turned and looked at her, studied her even. ‘I bet you wished he was dead, didn’t you? When they were asking you all those questions about him. Asking you if he touched you? I bet you thought about different ways you could make it all go away, make him disappear.’