Keep Her Safe

by Sophie Hannah

  “ID? Um . . . no, I don’t mind.”

  I root around in my bag, pull out my passport and hand it to him. The girl has taken a step back, out into the hall. She’s still rubbing that patch on her head. Did she bang it on her way out of bed? Or is it some kind of nervous tic?

  “Okay, Cara Burrows. Can I take a look in your bag?”

  “My bag? Why?” This is getting a bit ridiculous.

  “You turn up in my room in the middle of the night? I’m taking no chances.”

  I hand him the bag. “You’re being paranoid. I’ve told you what happened: a mixup at reception. If I was going to do anything scary, wouldn’t I have done it by now? I just want to get the hell out of here, get a room that doesn’t have anyone in it, and go to sleep.”

  He turns and says to the girl. “You go back to bed, honey. Get some rest. Everything’s fine—there’s nothing to worry about.”

  She does as she’s told without a word.

  Why does he talk to her as if she’s five years old? Because it’s nighttime and she was scared of the intruder, or does he talk to her the same way over breakfast? If I spoke to Jess like that, she’d say, “Will I hell go back to bed!” Then she’d list all the ways in which I was handling the stranger-in-the-bathroom situation badly and proceed to deal with it far better herself.

  I don’t like this man. He’s poking around in my bag as if we’re at an airport and he’s head of security. “Where’s your cell?” he asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your cell phone. Don’t tell me you don’t own one. Everyone has a phone.”

  I shake my head. Unbelievable. “Yes, I have a phone. I gave it to the guy from the car-hire firm and asked him—paid him a hundred dollars, actually—to look after it for me until I give the car back.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Tears start to prickle in my eyes. “Because I didn’t want to have it with me. Because I have messages waiting to ambush me the minute I turn it on, and I don’t want to read them, and I knew I would if I had my phone within easy reach. And none of this is any of your business!”

  The man hands me back my bag and holds up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Come on, though. You can’t blame me for being careful under the circumstances.”

  “Probably not,” I mutter, pushing past him to get to my luggage and the escape route.

  Now that he’s satisfied I’m not a secret agent intent on slitting his throat, he’s all charm and compassion. “Here, let me hold the door for you. Or—better idea—you get the door. I’ll take your cases to the elevator.”

  “No, thanks. I can manage.” In spite of my best efforts, a tear has escaped and is snaking its way down my face. I knock the doorframe again—hard, twice—as I pull my cases out into the corridor.

  The man looks alarmed. “Hey, don’t cry. No harm done, right?”

  “Good night. Sorry again.”

  “Listen, Cara . . .”

  “What?” I didn’t say he could call me by my first name. Can’t he leave me alone? I’m out of his room. So are all my cases. All he has to do is shut the door, so why doesn’t he?

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t seem it. Are you in some kind of trouble? I couldn’t help seeing the ultrasound photo.” He nods at my handbag. “If you need help . . .”

  Shit. How could I have forgotten the photo? Now he knows something about me that even my closest friends don’t know.

  “I need sleep and to be left alone,” I tell him. “That’s all.”

  “Tomorrow, get your cell phone back from the rental-car guy. Read those messages. It’s better to know, right?”

  Great. Unsolicited advice from a hairy-chested, half-naked stranger in a hotel corridor.

  I stare at him in disbelief. “Did you not hear me say I need to be left alone?”

  He shrugs. “All right, well . . . g’night.”

  Hallelujah. Never in my life have I been so pleased to see a door close.

  I take the lift down to the ground floor, marked L for lobby. Riyonna’s tilted her chair back and put her feet up on the desk. She leaps up when I appear, surprised to see me.

  “There’s someone in the room you gave me. Father and daughter.”

  “Excuse me?” Her eyes widen. She leans forward.

  “The room you sent me to—I’m afraid I left the key up there, but I’ve got . . .” I hand her the folded cardboard wallet with the room number written on it. “It’s someone else’s room. It’s occupied. Go up and look if you don’t believe me. I walked in on a man and his daughter, who were fast asleep. I woke them up.”

  Riyonna is already tapping frantically on her keyboard, her eyes darting around as if she’s trying to look closely at every part of the screen at once. Her fingernails are long, carefully shaped, and painted a pale eau-de-Nil color. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmurs after a few seconds. “I am so, so sorry. I . . . that was . . . Oh, my word.” She hits herself on the forehead, hard, with the heel of her hand. “What is wrong with me? I have never done that before. I can’t believe I did it!”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I’m not interested in making her feel better. “Can I have a key to a different room, please? I’m really tired. I just want to—”

  “Room?” She sounds horrified. “Oh, you’re not just getting a room—not anymore. Mrs. Burrows, I feel so sick about putting you through this horrible experience. I really hope nothing . . . you know, happened?”

  Is she asking me if the man in the already-occupied room sexually assaulted me? As if that’s the only way my experience could have been awful? I glare at the little bronze Buddha statue, who needn’t look quite so smug about everything. I consider flicking him hard with my finger, but manage to resist the urge.

  Riyonna turns back to her computer screen. “I’m upgrading you, for no extra charge and with our compliments, to one of our Camelback Casitas. I took a call ten minutes ago from a couple who are supposed to be here already and can’t make it after all, sooo . . . you’ll have your own private infinity pool on the terrace and the very best views of Camelback Mountain that Swallowtail can offer. The Praying Monk, too. Please accept this, and my heartfelt apologies, as compensation for the terrible shock you must have had.”

  I should be grateful and excited, but Riyonna started to look tearful halfway through her little speech, and all I can think is that if she starts to cry, that will be my limit. I’ll walk out of here and go and find the nearest cheap B and B—anywhere that can keep track of how many rooms they have and who’s in them at any given time.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say. “That’s very kind of you.” What did she mean about a praying monk? I don’t want anyone in my casita apart from me, however devout they might be. She can’t have meant an actual person.

  It is kind of her, though. Very. She didn’t have to upgrade me quite so substantially. When I wake up—late tomorrow afternoon, hopefully—I’m sure I’ll be thrilled and think Riyonna Briggs is the best receptionist ever.

  “Not. At. All,” she says. “I’ve put you in number twenty-one. Let me ring for a club car—you can’t walk, it’s too far.”

  Please let the driver not be Diggy. Let it be someone blank-faced and bland who doesn’t speak any English.

  “I’d take you myself but I. Am. Shaking,” says Riyonna. “I can’t believe I did that! I am just. So. Sorry. I can’t bear to think what might have happened to you!”

  Her “might have” grates on my worn nerves—as if what did happen wasn’t bad enough. Is she afraid I’ll report her to the resort manager? Do I look that mean? I can’t assure her I have no intention of trying to get her fired without sounding as if I’m saying I could if I wanted to.

  At this point, I’m not certain any of my thoughts make sense. Might as well pack in thinking for the night.

  My club car driver is not quite as mute as I would like him to be, but he’s considerably less talkative than Diggy and Riyonna. As we chug along the
resort’s winding side-lit roads, I’m braced for something to go wrong—a flat tire, a hailstorm, an ambush—but mercifully, I arrive at my casita a few minutes later without any problems. It’s spacious and cool and, even better, there’s no one in it. I check every room and find no hidden families stashed anywhere.

  I lock the door, put the chain across and pull off items of clothing as I stumble to the nearest bedroom. I have time to say “Thank God” to nobody in particular before I black out.

  The Kind Smiles say that Emory died so that I could live. Or something like that. I don’t remember the words they used, but I remember thinking it sounded like Jesus, who died for all our sins.

  Is that what Emory did for me? I said I didn’t think it could be because she didn’t do it deliberately. She didn’t choose death, and nobody chose it for her. She died for no reason, without knowing I would ever be born.

  The Kind Smiles smiled and said yes, of course, I was right about that. They tried to explain that they’d meant it only as a kind of metaphor. But what they did truly believe was that sometimes, although no one causes a thing to happen with their actions, Fate has a plan, and maybe Fate was and still is determined that I should survive.

  I’m supposed to find this idea comforting, but I don’t. If Fate is so powerful, why did He make it so that only one of us could live? Couldn’t He have shuffled things around so that Emory could have a chance, too? It doesn’t seem fair.

  “Well, you must be the favorite child,” the Kind Smiles said. “The universe’s favorite. Destiny’s favorite.” It became their special name for me: Favorite Child. I’ve always hated it. It feels disloyal to Emory. She’s my sister and always will be.

  The Kind Smiles don’t care about Emory, only about me, and they think I like it that way. They think it makes up for the way my parents felt about us. They tell me I’m special all the time, and beautiful and kind and good.

  I don’t want to be special, or anybody’s favorite. I want to be an ordinary girl with a sister, part of an ordinary family.

  2

  October 10, 2017

  I wake up too hot, with the sun blasting my face through the window. Didn’t I shut the curtains last night? Obviously not.

  What time is it? With my eyes still closed, I reach out and start patting the first surface I touch, to find my phone. It’s a few seconds before I remember that I gave it to Rock the Hole. Damn. That was a stupid thing to do.

  I sit up, blinking, and look around. Green leaves press against the window, all along its length to about halfway up. I’m in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. Five people could lie in it side by side, no problem. There’s a quilt that’s slid off onto the floor—shiny red and gold hexagons stitched together to make a honeycomb pattern—and red and gold silk cushions in and on the bed, on the floor, on the high-backed armchair in the corner of the room.

  To my left there’s a tiled fireplace; opposite the bed, a television set four times the size of mine at home, with shutters. They’re open, and the screen has a blue box on it displaying a message for me: “Welcome, Mrs. Cara Burrows. The management and staff of Swallowtail Resort and Spa wish you a delightful stay. Please contact us if there is anything further we can do to ensure that your time with us is as special as you deserve.”

  I ran away from home without telling my family. What I deserve is . . . hmm, let’s see . . . an alarming encounter with a boundary-violating man, a weird girl and woolly dog-pig hybrid in the middle of the night.

  The bottom right-hand corner of the TV shows the time: 1:10 P.M. I’ve slept for twelve hours and feel like myself again, which may or may not be a good thing. No longer smothered by fatigue, my mind starts to race.

  Giving up my phone was crazy—a serious mistake. What time is it in England? Eight hours later, so ten past nine in the evening. Patrick, Jess and Olly are about to spend their second night without me. How are they all feeling? What are they thinking and saying? I could know the answers to these questions if only I hadn’t given my phone to a random stranger. I left a note so they wouldn’t worry, but what if they’re worried anyway? Really, seriously, desperately worried—as I would be if Patrick did what I’ve done.

  Jess might never forgive me. Olly and Patrick don’t remember every tiny slight the way she does. She hoards grievances. Her ex–best friend, Nuala, was cut off for watching the final episode of Pretty Little Liars without Jess after promising not to, and hasn’t been seen at our house since.

  What I’ve done is so much worse. I’m the world’s worst mother. The man with the hairy chest could see it as clearly as he saw my suitcases in his hotel room. That’s why he gave me unasked-for advice, because he could see it was an emergency, that I was about to ruin my whole life.

  I take a deep breath. Start again.

  If all I do in Arizona is make myself suffer, I’ll have wasted a hell of a lot of money.

  That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it. I’ve got these two weeks that I went to the trouble of stealing from my real life, and I’m damn well going to make them count. In a good way.

  Yesterday I didn’t feel strong enough to receive messages from my family. Today, after my twelve-hour sleep, I do. If they scream at me to come home immediately, I’ll calmly explain that I’m not ready yet and that I’ll be home on Tuesday 24 October. It would be nice to talk to them, though, and reassure them as far as I can. It would make what I’m doing feel less extreme.

  And I don’t need to contact Rock the Hole and get my mobile. I can ring home from a landline. There’s a phone on my bedside table.

  It occurs to me that the resort must have a business center. I’d rather email than phone, I think—the first time, at least, until I’ve been assured that a phone call won’t lead to a barrage of accusations.

  I’ll make contact after breakfast. Or lunch, I suppose I should call it. Eating comes first. I’m so hungry, I feel hollow. There’s a room service menu standing up on the desk beneath the TV, drawing attention to itself, but I’d rather go out and see a bit of the resort. The website said there were five restaurants. I might as well try one.

  I shower, dress, brush my teeth and pull what I need for today out of a suitcase: faded blue one-piece swimsuit, sunglasses, green caftan, pink flip-flops. Unpacking can wait.

  It seems wrong to go out without first exploring this amazing little house that I’ve got all to myself. Was the embarrassment and irritation of last night worth it, for this upgrade? Definitely not. Not today. Though I’m pretty sure if I ask myself the same question in two days time, my answer will be different.

  Last night I only checked for unwelcome roommates and took in almost nothing else about the casita. I didn’t notice the wicker basket in the shape of a flower, piled high with fruit and tied up in a pink satin bow, or the bottles of still and sparkling water like blown-glass sculptures—curving cylinders that look as if they’ve been artfully twisted in the middle. I didn’t see the little cream-colored box, also tied with pink ribbon, with four chocolates nestling in a bed of pink satin inside.

  This place is unbelievable.

  The TV embedded in the living room wall is even bigger than the one in my bedroom. There’s a sliding door that takes up most of the back wall of the living and kitchen area. Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of a tantalizing turquoise rectangle. My own pool. Jess can’t know about this. Ever. If she found out I had my own swimming pool at a resort I went to without her . . . No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I slide open the door and step out onto the tiled terrace. Outside is a surprise after the quiet of inside. The hum of birds and other creatures is strong and hypnotic. I could stay here listening to it all day if I weren’t starving. Maybe a quick dip in the pool . . . but no, I want to see my other swimming choices first. This is five-star-resort maths: dividing your days between the number of beautiful pools available. It’s hard to see how any could be more stunning than this one. It’s an infinity pool with two blue sides that look rough, as if they’d scr
atch your palms if you rubbed your hands over them, and two shiny black sides that look smoother than any surface I’ve seen before. The rough with the smooth: I can almost hear the architect thinking those words.

  The infinity edge of the pool offers what has to be the best possible view of Camelback Mountain. I can’t imagine a better one. I spot a section of rock jutting out near to the top that looks as if it could be a person slightly bent down, as if bowing to the mountain’s summit, and say “Hah!” quietly as I realize this must be the Praying Monk that Riyonna mentioned. How can it not be?

  I go back inside and close the door. At the center of a long coffee table of dark polished wood there’s a leather folder, the front of which is embossed with Swallowtail’s logo: a capital S composed entirely of tiny butterflies. I’m too hungry to look at everything properly now, but I pull out a couple of information sheets, fold them and put them in my bag. I can read them over lunch.

  The casita’s second bedroom is almost identical to the one I slept in last night, except the color scheme is blue and silver, not red and gold. The effect is less dazzling, more calming. I sit down on the edge of the bed. A corner of the little terrace pool is visible through the window, which probably explains the choice of blue for the décor in here.

  I could divide my nights between the two rooms—more resort maths—but even as I have the idea, I know I won’t do it. I already think of the red and gold room as mine. Patrick, if I told him this, would say this is my whole problem—that I grow attached to things too quickly.

  I don’t like the idea of this beautiful blue and silver bedroom going to waste for two weeks, so I make a decision: this is where I’ll do my thinking. Every day I’ll spend at least an hour in here, sitting on this bed, or maybe lying on it, actively focusing on my situation and working out what I want to do about it. The rest of the time—when I’m out and about in the resort or when I’m in my red and gold bedroom—I won’t feel obliged to think about my predicament at all.

  Having made this resolution, I feel happier and lighter. I go and get my handbag from the living room, open it, pull out my ultrasound photo and take it back to the blue room. My twelve-weeks-pregnant photos of Jess and Olly were grainy and hard to decipher, but this one is much clearer. If I had to guess, I’d say this one’s a boy, and—though no one who hasn’t seen the photo would believe it—he looks as if he’s raising one eyebrow.