“Are we going on the boat?”
But she doesn’t reply. We’re nearly on the pier. The steep escarpment to our left seems to be warding off the worst of the wind and rain: I can hear Lissa’s footsteps behind me. She’s wearing some kind of hiking boots—much more sensible than my sandals, but then, I didn’t know what I was dressing for—and dark-colored shorts with an army green tank top, and a baseball cap that’s presumably keeping the rain off her face. She looks like she’s channeling G.I. Jane. All those advantages, and a gun, too.
How can I get myself out of this? I keep scanning around, looking for options—and then I see a flash of something high on the cliff face, perhaps thirty meters above us. A slender bare calf stepping down in a pool of lamplight. I struggle to see more without making it obvious that I’m looking, but the pale blue dress that follows the calf gives me an answer. Georgie. A flood of hope springs up like a fountain inside me. Georgie is on her way, and if Georgie is on her way, then surely there is hope yet. Surely she’ll be followed by the cavalry.
I try one of my previous questions again, hoping to distract her, to keep her from noticing Georgie’s progress. “Lissa, why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”
“So did I. But that friendship ended when you started fucking my husband, so no, I don’t think we’re friends anymore. You deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this.”
“An eye for an eye.”
She can’t mean . . . “An eye for an eye? Georgie, it was just a brief affair.”
“A brief affair? You destroyed everything. Every good memory I’ve ever had with him. If I’d found out when he was alive, maybe I could have at least salvaged something. Maybe he could have made me believe that it didn’t mean anything. But he’s dead, and I have nothing, and you have everything. Does that seem fair to you?”
“For God’s sake, Lissa, I have children!” My voice is rising.
“I wanted children,” Lissa says. She sounds almost thoughtful. “I wanted children with Graeme. I don’t think you deserve to enjoy your children.”
Her last sentence robs me of breath and sends icy dread coursing through my spine. I can’t pretend it was uttered in anger. She’s horribly, terrifyingly dispassionate. I can’t pretend she’s not being herself, either. Lissa has never struggled for courage in her convictions; she’s always been binary. True or false. Right or wrong. Life or death. We’re by the boat now. I feel her clamp my right arm with her left one. I could pull away; she wouldn’t be able to maintain her grip given how slick and wet my skin is, but the gun is ever present, both in my mind and, at this very moment, jammed against my side. She turns us so that we are looking toward the cliff face. “Let’s wait for Georgie, shall we?” she says, as if suggesting a stop for coffee.
“How did you find out?” We both have our eyes on Georgie. The lamps along the steps are quite widely spaced, but now that we’ve spotted her, it’s easy to follow the pale shape. She’s dropping heavily onto each step, but always on the same leg; presumably she’s trying to protect her bad knee.
“Georgie, actually.” I turn to her, horrified—What? But she shakes her head. “No, no, she didn’t tell me anything. But I realized she was wondering if I’d killed him. Which made me wonder if I had had a reason to, that I didn’t know about. So I checked his phone very carefully. You know he was always useless with technology. He’d accidentally taken a photo of one of your Snapchat messages.” She shrugs. “At least, I presume it was accidental; he regularly took photos of his own ear when he was on the phone. It wasn’t even that incriminating a message, it was just—strange. Then I started looking back at all the odd little things and it started to fit.”
“It didn’t mean anyth—”
“Rubbish. It meant everything, to me.”
Her words are a sledgehammer. There is nothing I can say, but I try it anyway. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
She laughs. It sounds like she’s genuinely amused. “We’re well beyond sorry. We’re a really long way past that. My husband died, and I thought I couldn’t go on living. And then I found out that even before that, you’d stolen him from me. There’s not enough sorrow in the world to atone for that.”
I need to keep her talking. I’ll think of something if I can just keep her talking. “I don’t understand what your plan was.”
“It hasn’t quite gone as intended,” she admits. “I’ve been improvising pretty well, though. Nobody was supposed to see me swimming, and there certainly wasn’t supposed to be a body spotted. Ideally I would have just disappeared. The police would have suspected Jem; they always look to the husband first. They’d have found my emails and concluded that you two were having an affair—and that you were stealing from the company. Rob would have had to hear about it; you couldn’t have kept it under wraps. Then when you threw yourself into Kanu Cove after my memorial it would obviously have been suicide, out of guilt at your terrible behavior.” I draw in a sharp, ragged breath. So that is the plan: I’m to drown in Kanu Cove. I look at the water. If she tosses me in here, I can probably get to the side; the most dangerous water is in the center of the narrow inlet. But if she tosses me in from the boat . . .
“But they wouldn’t find any evidence we were having an affair, because we weren’t,” I argue.
“Weren’t you? I was never quite sure. But anyway, they’d have found evidence, if they’d looked. It’s pretty easy to plant evidence.” She turns her head from the cliff face to look at me. “And you’d be gone and no one would miss you because everybody would know what a little snake you are, though with the wrong husband. But I’d get what I wanted—I’ll still get that. An eye for an eye.” In the darkness, her own eyes might as well be made of obsidian. “It’s not hard to commit murder, is it? It’s the getting away with it that’s difficult. Much easier to do that if you’re technically already dead.”
“Lissa,” I manage. “Lissa, please listen—” But Lissa isn’t listening; she’s watching Georgie on her last couple of steps. We watch her reach the flat ground, stumbling a little then straightening, looking round—and then she sees us. “Lissa,” she says. Her voice is cracking. Her face is cracking, too. “Lissa.”
“Hey, Georgie. You look like shit,” Lissa says matter-of-factly.
It’s true. Her dress is soaked through, streaked in places with dirt, and hitched up strangely as if she’s caught it into her knickers in the bathroom; almost the entire length of one of her lean legs is on display. There’s blood mixed with the rain streaming off one forearm. Georgie glances down at herself, but she doesn’t seem to see; she just looks back at Lissa. “How could you? How could you let me believe you were dead?”
“It was the only way,” she says dispassionately.
“Bullshit.”
Lissa doesn’t say anything.
Georgie tries again. “I didn’t betray you. I didn’t. It was an impossible situation. I didn’t want to put you in the position of hating Bron.” Thank you, Georgie. Thank you, thank you. “And their fling was over so quickly, and I was scared of what you might do to Bron—”
“You chose Bron.” I wonder if I could pull away now. I wonder if Lissa is involved enough in this exchange that I could take her off guard. But she’s still gripping my arm, and the gun is still nudging my side.
“I didn’t—”
“You betrayed me. You did.” Lissa is yelling now.
Georgie stops, all the fight dropping out of her. “All right,” she says in a tired voice. “Maybe I did. But I don’t know what else I could have done.”
“You could have told me. And then maybe he’d still be alive.”
“That makes no sense.” Lissa doesn’t reply. Georgie tries again. She’s trying to run out the clock, I realize. She’s trying to give the others a chance to get here. “How long have you been planning this thing anyway?”
“Since I found o
ut about Bron. Though it took meeting Jem, and hearing about this place, to figure out exactly how to do it.”
“But . . . Jem loved you,” Georgie says, almost bewildered.
I risk a glance at Lissa, feeling the butt of the gun scrape across my ribs as I turn to her. Her mouth is tensed in a straight line. “Jem does whatever is best for Jem. Jem might think he loved me, but it was convenient to him to love me. I daresay he would have kept thinking he loved me right up until the moment it became more useful to him to screw someone else.”
“You’re wrong about him,” I say quietly.
Lissa shrugs, and I tense as I feel the movement through the metal of the gun. “Maybe. But I doubt it.”
Georgie changes tack. “You know, I didn’t get your emails until much later. They got stuck in my work firewall.”
Lissa ignores her. “Come on, Bron, time to climb aboard.” She lets go of my arm but moves behind me, pushing me toward the boat.
“Is that why you had your guy attack me? To punish me?” Georgie asks.
“Actually, no. Sorry about that. He thought you were Bron. He was taking advantage of the power cut; to be honest, he’s none too bright. He used to work here, but he got let go for suspected theft; that’s how he knew how to move through the villas, where all the keys were kept and everything. He thinks we’re going to live together in the lap of luxury in Thailand now. By the time he figures out that isn’t happening, I’ll be long gone.” I feel a shove at my back. “Come on, Bron, don’t dawdle,” she says impatiently.
“And what about Cristina?” I ask, looking to stall.
“That was unfortunate. I do regret that somewhat. She saw me, on the clifftop; she realized it was me. I didn’t have a choice.” She shrugs, which once again makes my insides ice-cold as I worry about what that movement might do for her pressure on the trigger. “She had always been dying to get into Jem’s pants, though, so maybe I’ll just mark it down as a preemptive strike.”
“She’d already quit,” I say. “She wasn’t going to be going anywhere near Jem in the future.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” But she’s not at all interested; I can feel her focus slide across to Georgie. “You were supposed to come on the trip, you know.”
“To stop you?” Georgie asks.
Lissa laughs again. “No, there was no stopping me. You were supposed to make sure they investigated. But by the time you came out it was too late, and anyway, you were too busy fucking Adam. I had to kick you to get you even slightly suspicious of Jem. Get on, Bron.” She’s pushing me; I have no choice but to step from the jetty onto the pitching and yawing speedboat that’s slick with rain and sea spray. I’m planning to go straight over the other side, into the water, but she yanks on my dress, hauling me back, and the moment has passed. “You’re going to drive, Bron. Go grab the wheel.” I stumble along the boat, one hand bracing me against the gunwale.
“Adam is on his way here. And Steve is bringing the boat,” calls Georgie from the jetty. I look desperately across at her, through the side of the windscreen, our panicked eyes meeting. She’s only a few meters away from me, but it’s a yawning gap. She might as well be miles away.
“Then we ought not to delay. You can cast us off, Georgie.” She jabs me. She’s standing right behind me. Presumably the gun is now in her left hand, because her right is hanging on to the handle in the side, but she’s so close that even a wild shot would hit me. “Do you remember how to drive? Switch on the engine.”
“You don’t need Bron,” calls Georgie desperately. “It’s all over now. Leave her and go. Live on the money I presume you’ve squirreled away from Graeme’s house. You’ve scared us all, you’ve won, you’ve had your justice—you can just go.”
“Justice? Graeme is dead. And now I know what was ruining our relationship. Bron has to pay.” I hear a warning note creep into her voice. “Cast us off now, Georgie. Do it, or I’ll shoot her. She’s going to die either way.”
I look at Georgie desperately. She looks down at the bowline, nearest to her feet, then bends to start untying it. She throws it messily onto the bow of the boat. I realize I’m shivering, even though the rain seems to be abating. And possibly the wind, too.
“Now the other one. Bron, get ready to pull us away.”
The engine is idling in neutral. I have a hand on the throttle and twist to watch Georgie. Is there a way I can gun the engine and cause Lissa to fall? Or will she just end up firing the gun anyway? Georgie is unwinding the rope, then coiling it in her hand, ready to toss it onto the craft. She starts her throw, but at the very last minute she leaps across, too, landing heavily on one side of the boat just as I engage the engine and we lurch away from the pier.
“Georgie, you weren’t invited.” Lissa is not pleased.
“I’m gate-crashing.”
“Your funeral.” I glance back in shock. Lissa laughs as she sees the look on Georgie’s face. “Not literally. At least, not for you. That wouldn’t be fair. I’ll drop you somewhere.”
“Where am I supposed to be heading?” I ask. Right now I’m headed for the beach. Could I run us straight onto dry land?
“Out to sea.” Reluctantly I turn the wheel. I’ve barely put the engine above idle; we’re being tossed around like flotsam. I haven’t driven a speedboat for years; I’d be nervous even without a storm and a gun pressed into my back. “Come on, give it a bit more welly. You know there’s supposed to be a serpent that lives here?” yells Lissa above the engine noise, for all the world as if we’re on a day trip.
“We saw it,” Georgie yells back.
“Did you really?” Lissa is genuinely energized. “I thought I did, too, once, but Jem didn’t believe me. What was it like?”
“Really long. Dark. Really fast.”
“That’s what I saw, too!” It’s the oddest thing to hear them talk. It’s as if nothing has happened, as if they’re exactly how they’ve always been. “The locals think it ate me.”
“The locals think you wanted it to.”
“Not really my style.”
“How did you survive?”
“I had fins and a boat waiting just behind that headland.” Fins. No wonder Arif thought she looked like she was kicking hard and swimming fast. She gestures to the opposite side from the cliff that Georgie descended from. “Put it in neutral now, Bron. And it was a slack tide, too. Even so, it was a scary swim; I bloody hate night swims, as you know. All right, Bron, this is where you get off.”
I turn. “You’re joking,” I say desperately, even though it’s perfectly clear that she isn’t.
“Nope. Over the side with you.”
“I’ll—I’ll drown.” Or the sea creature will get me.
“Yes. That’s the point.” I don’t move. She sighs. “Well, okay, I can shoot you instead. Though frankly I’d take the water, if it were me; at least there’s some chance.”
“Lissa, stop. This is crazy.” Georgie sounds crazy herself. “Everything can be okay if you just stop.”
“No. It can’t. It’s too late for that.” She’s circling round, one hand on a windscreen strut, and the other holding the gun, her arm extended, reaching out until the barrel is on my belly. She looks at my face. “Do you want me to pull the trigger?”
“No!” This can’t be happening. Rob, I’m sorry. Kitty, Jack: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
“Back away then.” I take a step back, twisting to slip past the driver’s seat, one hand steadying myself on the side. “Now jump in.”
“No.” I put all the authority in my voice, all that I can muster from my years of being a mother. Because, after all, Lissa is just a child. A child who needs to know where the boundaries are. “I won’t. I won’t do it.”
“Okay,” she sighs, and in horror I realize that she’s closing an eye to aim, and I throw myself sideways just as there’s an earsplitting crack from the gu
n. The boat is so very slippery from the rain and the sea spray that I find I’m hanging half over the side, the gunwale pressed into my hip bones and one hand on a fender cleat, with just enough purchase to stay on. But then I realize that I’m being lifted up and over, and then my wrist is twisting awkwardly and I have to let go—I’m falling into the ocean. There’s no shock on entry; the water barely feels any colder than the air temperature, but the strength of the waves is utterly terrifying. I’m lifted up and down, and pulled left and right, in what seems like a random fashion, except that I can already see I’m being swept away from the boat. I kick my shoes off and start to swim front crawl desperately toward the boat, my eyes stinging and blurry without goggles, but when I stick my head up to check my progress I can see that I’m losing the battle. It’s like swimming in a washing machine. Turning my head to breathe is a lottery: I might equally find a face full of water rather than clear air. The current is already tugging me away frighteningly quickly; I can feel how it wants to sweep the skirt of my dress away. I should take it off, but I don’t want to lose ground in the seconds it would cost me to do that; if I can’t get to the boat in the next minute or two, I never will. I’m sprinting as hard as I ever have, but it’s a crazy sort of swimming: sometimes I can’t get an arm out the water because of waves crashing over me, and sometimes my arms are pulling through open air when the sea drops away beneath me, and all the while I’m trying to keep myself as high on the surface as possible, as if that might protect me from the sea creature. Three strokes, breathe and look. Three strokes, breathe and look. But I’m losing ground quicker than ever, or the boat is deliberately moving away; I can’t tell. And then I realize that I’m going to exhaust myself doing this and I still won’t get back to the boat, but I keep going and going because I can’t think of what else to do; I’m terrified to stop. When I next stick my head up to sight, Georgie is leaning over the back of the boat, shouting something. She’s so far away now that I can barely make out her features. I tread water for a moment, rising and falling with the waves that sometimes obscure the boat, gasping for breath, straining to hear, but I’ve no chance with the water in my ears and the wind whipping away her words—though I think it’s the same word, over and over again. The same word, though I can no longer see her making it.
How to Kill Your Best Friend Page 26