‘But I still don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Why are they blanked out?’
‘Well,’ said Rosalie, ‘not to be too blunt about it –’
‘Stop talking, Rosie,’ said Paul. ‘You’re pissed.’
‘– but the one who was invited brought her little sister. Far too young to be unsupervised and … she … died.’
‘What?’ said Kim. ‘No.’
‘She drowned,’ Rosalie said. ‘It’s true. We all went swimming. And this poor girl went in and sank like a—’ She swallowed the word and took a big drink of water.
I waited to see if one of them was going to crack and start cackling. When the silence had stretched thin, I spoke at last. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘We wouldn’t joke about something like that,’ said Ramsay.
‘No, of course not. I believe you believe it. You nearly told me this afternoon and Peach blurted it out last night. But I think you’re wrong is what I’m saying.’
‘What do you mean, Donna?’ Paul said. ‘We were here. You weren’t even born.’
‘No, but no one’s ever drowned swimming in Knockbreak Bay. We did research before we—’ Bought this place, I was going to say. Basic suicide check, my mum called it. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and Googled ‘drowning, Galloway, 1990s’. There was nothing. I knew there wouldn’t be.
‘Iss been hush up,’ Peach said.
‘What are you all on about?’ I said. ‘This is only twenty-odd years ago, right? Not the olden days. I mean, I know Galloway’s backward but even then they had a proper police force and the Coastguard and a – a local newspaper and all that. If there had been skinny-dipping after a wild party and some drunk girl drowned, people would know.’
‘That’s not what happened,’ Rosalie said. ‘She didn’t go skinny-dipping.’
‘Sssh, Rosie,’ said Paul.
‘And then I brought him back here?’ said Kim. ‘No wonder he’s going crazy.’
‘But it didn’t happen!’ I said. ‘There’s nothing online. What was her name and I’ll search again?’
‘I dunno wish one was wish,’ said Peach.
‘It was all so nuts that night,’ Paul said. ‘We went to the beach and lit a fire. We thought she’d gone home. But we were all right there on the beach when she drowned and we were so pissed we didn’t even know.’
‘Jesus,’ said Kim. ‘What kind of sixteenth birthday party was this?’
‘More sex than this one and not so many dead rabbits,’ Ramsay said.
There was a long silence and then every one of them started gulping with guilty laughter.
Not me. Questions pinged in my head, like high scores on a fruit machine. Could an accident or even a suicide be kept that quiet? If the Glasgow and Edinburgh press didn’t hear about it, would the small-town back-scratchers on the local force bend the rules that much, keep it out of the local rags too? Could a family – three rich families of doctors, lawyers and the like, used to getting their own way – bury a death that deep? Put it in a locked box, stitch their lips and—
‘What was her name?’ I said. ‘To make sure.’
‘I can’t remember,’ Buck said.
‘Okay, I can do this,’ I said. ‘I’m hopeless with names so I know all the tricks.’
‘What? You’re wonderful with names,’ said Rosalie. ‘Eight of us and you never faltered.’
‘Close your eyes,’ I said.
‘Mine are closed,’ said Peach.
‘And don’t try to remember the names, just the tune. The rhythm. So, like Rosalie is Dum-de-dee and Ramsay is Dum-dee.’
‘Dum-dee and Dum-dee,’ said Paul.
‘Dum-dum and Dah-da,’ said Buck, then opened his eyes. He pointed across the table at me. ‘Burn the witch.’
‘Close your eyes again,’ I told them, ‘and put your hands flat on the table.’
‘I’ll have to, for balance,’ Paul said.
I told them their left forefingers were the big sister and their right forefingers were the little sister and then I started chanting the letters of the alphabet, clear and slow.
‘A, B, C…’ Five forefingers rose up.
Ramsay and Kim both opened their eyes then.
‘E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L…’ Rosalie and Paul’s fingers rose.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ said Rosalie. ‘It’s too much like—’
‘Carol and Laura?’ I said.
‘One was quite exotic and one was bog-standard,’ said Rosalie. ‘I remember thinking they didn’t go together.’
‘Carol and Lettice?’ said Ramsay.
‘Other way round, wasn’t it?’ Paul put in.
‘Clotilde and Laura?’
‘Wait,’ said Paul. ‘The funny name was musical, wasn’t it?’
‘Stop it,’ said Rosalie. ‘We were supposed to take it to— We pledged. We vowed. Together on the beach after she died.’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘Wait. Was it Linda?’
But suddenly the food inside me felt like a sandbag lying in the bottom of my stomach. ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ I said. ‘You make it sound like Swallows and Amazons or the Famous Five or something. If a kid died, how could another gang of kids on a beach decide to keep it quiet? Where were the adults?’
‘They took us away,’ said Rosalie. ‘Our parents bundled us all away first thing the next day and told us not to talk about it. But it’s true, Donna. There were two sisters.’
‘Locals, right?’ Buck said. ‘Not holiday-makers?’
‘Locals,’ said Rosalie. ‘Something musical and maybe Linda. And one of them walked into the sea.’
‘I’ll clear,’ I said, standing. I didn’t know I’d barked it until I saw them all startle, saw Paul knock his wine glass over. ‘We need a break before pudding.’
I blundered out of the dining room and went to splash my face with water. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Why had I tried to hypnotize them into remembering something that couldn’t be true anyway? I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. If there was no official record of a drowning in Knockbreak Bay, it couldn’t have happened. But what about a missing person? Had a child ever disappeared? What if this lot were the only ones who knew what had happened to her? And their parents had hustled them away to get them out of trouble. What if the kid’s family were still looking for her all these years later and this bunch of spoiled twats had known all along there was no hope of her ever coming home again?
I dried my face and made my careful way to the kitchen. I was drunker than I’d ever been, trying to waitress in spike heels with my own china I’d have to pay for if I dropped any. And concentrating only made it worse. I could see trails of sparkles when I turned my head. It would be a bloody miracle if I managed to make crème brûlée without burning the house down. I’d chosen it because it was easy, but I’d never used a blowtorch drunk.
Even at the thought of it I could feel my stomach rolling. I’m not a picky eater. No one who’s ever worked in a hotel is a picky eater. Maybe it’s from standing there with our pens poised over our order pads while diners practically call in the UN to help them decide between steak and fish, then change their minds four times and still sigh when their plate comes. For whatever reason, waiters will chow down on anything that’s slapped in front of them unless the maggots are still wriggling. I eat kidneys, capers and tapioca. I eat sweetbreads and steak tartare. The only thing I’ve never been able to swallow is crème brûlée.
I took my heels off sitting on one of the breakfast-room chairs and dug my phone out of my back pocket.
‘Donna?’ My mum picked up on the first ring, her voice harsh. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘How are you? Where are you?’
She groaned. ‘Back at the hotel. Next time I’ll pay extra and get one closer to the convention centre. How am I? Knackered. My head’s fizzing. My feet are stinging. If I have to admire another diamond ring or look at another thumbnail of a white dress, I’ll go stark raving
mad.’
I laughed. She was never a romantic.
But my laugh didn’t fool her. ‘Okay, for the second time,’ she said. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I said again. ‘But only because the clients are so chummy. I joined in with dinner, Mum, and I’m pissed.’
‘You?’ my mum said. ‘You joined – you mean you sat down and—?’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re working your arse off up there and I’m down here eating the profits.’
‘How did they taste?’ she asked, and I giggled. My mum never made a fuss about anything.
‘The salmon was amazing. They must cut it with a laser. The beetroot and chilli jelly was ridiculous, like all good amuse-bouches. The venison was spoonable and it’s completely finished. And I’m bunking off of the pud, obviously, because it’s boak brûlée.’ Now she was laughing and I started to forgive myself. ‘Maybe I’m not pissed,’ I said. ‘I’ve been scunnered since this avvy. I saw something weird when I was looking for the computers – which I still haven’t found by the way.’
‘Weird how?’ she said. ‘Oh, my feet!’ I heard the sound of lapping water. She must be soaking them.
‘In the cupboard in the billiards room. A party hat drenched in perfume. God, it stank.’
‘A what?’
‘Yeah, I know. I didn’t know what it was. It just looked like a lump of coloured paper, but it was spiked to the wall with a knife. My meat knife, I think, although I haven’t had a minute to check yet.’ I craned my neck but couldn’t see my knife rack from where I was sitting.
‘What?’
‘I know! They’re a very strange bunch. Really into the kind of practical jokes that aren’t the least bit funny. Everyone thinks it’s the husband behind it all, but he took a complete benny when he saw the hat and he’s disappeared. That’s why there’s so much spare food and why I ate it. Doesn’t explain why I drank so much, mind you. If I immolate myself trying to use the blowtorch, you can have my leather jacket.’
‘What stage are you at with it?’ said my mum. ‘Why don’t you just dust the top with a bit of something, shove on a raspberry and call them vanilla pots? Did you use the vanilla sugar?’
‘Of course.’
‘Or plain cream pots if you didn’t.’
‘I did. What am I telling you? But that’s a great idea. I think I will. I’ll email you a photo and then crash out.’
‘A photo of what?’ my mum said. ‘I’ve seen crème brûlée before. And God knows I’ve seen your wee white face when you’re hammered.’
‘I took a pic of the party hat,’ I said. ‘Seriously weird.’
I uploaded the photo to an email and then said, ‘God, I nearly forgot why I phoned. Mum, no one’s ever drowned in Knockbreak Bay, have they?’
‘Eh? Not that I know of, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to swim at night if they’re pissed and full of venison.’
‘No, it’s a specific person,’ I said. ‘A wee girl. Someone from when they were here before. Did you see anything about that when you were checking this place out?’
‘When was this?’
‘Early nineties, I think.’
‘Sounds like they’re telling ghost stories, Donna. No wonder they’re getting under your skin.’
‘And no one ever went missing?’ I said. ‘We’d know that too, right?’
‘Are you asking me if I sank our last bean into a holiday house where a kid disappeared?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’ve got to say, Donna, it doesn’t sound like much of a party. Go and shove the cream pots under their noses and go to bed.’
‘Vanilla pots,’ I said. ‘I think I will. I’ll put coffee in the drawing room and leave them to it.’
* * *
I was sure I’d have to puke before I could lie down and rest but in the end I just undid my waistband and bra and crashed onto my bed, pulling the quilt over me.
I woke hours later, my bare feet hanging out and ice cold, jerked awake by a dream or a memory. I lay panting, waiting for the sweat on my body to dry. Something was missing. Not the devices. Or not missing … but I’d forgotten to do something. I’d been close to it, then got distracted. I turned my pillow to the cool side and settled down again. What was bothering me? The drowned girl? She didn’t exist. It was probably something professional. Crapping out of the burned sugar? No, that wasn’t it, although it was close enough to make my brain tickle. It was something to do with the guests. All the pranks. Was it the gift card I’d taken out of the fire and then somehow mislaid? No, but that was even closer.
My knife! I had forgotten to check up on my meat knife. The relief of remembering flooded through me and I swung my legs out of bed.
I realized I was still off my head as I tottered down the stairs, my frozen feet feeling wooden and strange. I clicked on the kitchen light switch and squeezed my eyes shut as more of the little sparkles fizzed at the edge of my vision. I had seen enough anyway. All my knives were there on their magnet, biggest meat knife included. So either Sasha – if it was Sasha – had spent two hundred quid on a knife of his own for his trick or he had slipped in at the kitchen door and returned mine.
‘No matter,’ I said.
Back upstairs, I set my alarm clock for six, to give me time for clean-up before breakfast, then I cuddled down in bed and fell into a pit of sleep so deep, with walls so smooth, that – no matter the nightmares – there was no escaping.
Chapter 14
But what woke me in the morning wasn’t my alarm. Someone was screaming. I opened my eyes onto a brightness that hacked into my skull and sat up with my head lurching like a lava lamp.
She was still screaming – it was definitely a woman – and it was getting closer too. I stood up, ignoring the sick swirl in the pit of my belly. It was coming from the front garden. I stumbled through to the empty bedroom and got to the window in time to see Kim come dragging across the lawn, her feet leaving dark prints in the dew. I knocked on the window and she raised her face, wild-eyed, to see who was there.
‘Help!’ she said, lurching forward, then falling onto her hands and knees on the wet grass. ‘Donna, help me,’ she croaked, through sobs, looking down at the ground.
I checked myself, wincing as my eyeballs moved, and found I was still wearing my clothes. I pulled my shirt tail out – quicker than trying to grapple with the side-fastening of my trousers – then headed towards the back stairs, thumping down in my bare feet and jamming on my Crocs at the back door. I hopped and trotted through the house and was out the front when Kim threw herself onto the porch, falling again and stopping herself on her outstretched hands.
‘Kim?’ I said. ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong? Is someone chasing you?’
‘It’s Sasha,’ she said. She flicked her head to get the wet rats’ tails of her hair off her face. ‘Donna, he’s in the sea. He’s floating in the sea. I think he’s dead down there.’ She was on her feet again and she backed away from the house, looking up at the windows. ‘Why is no one else…’ She staggered a little and took a step forward. ‘God, I’m so out of it still,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ I shivered. ‘Kim, are you sure? I’ve been having the freakiest dreams the last few hours. Maybe…’
‘No,’ she said, slow and certain. ‘My husband is lying dead in the tide. I didn’t dream it.’
But there was something not right about her. It was more than shock. Her eyes looked beady and her colour wasn’t the grey of a hangover or the white of being cold and wet, shivering there in the cheerless damp morning.
‘Show me,’ I said. ‘Take me and show me. And if you’re right, we’ll come back and wake them. But it’s probably a tyre or something.’
Kim nodded, then put her hands on her knees and bent over, catching her breath. She was wearing a pair of our fluffy slippers and one of our dressing-gowns. I could see the strap of her pink bra in the wide-open neckline.
‘How long have you been up?’ I
asked her.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What the hell does that matter?’ She grabbed my hand and started pulling me across the grass. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Sasha’s dead!’
‘I mean, when did you last see him?’ I said. ‘How long has he been gone?’
We slipped through the gate and into the trees, stumbling on the tree roots across the path.
‘I didn’t see him,’ Kim said. ‘I couldn’t face him. I went to the empty room. Jennifer and Peach’s room.’
‘But what took you down to the beach?’
‘Stop asking me so many stupid questions. Hurry!’
I don’t know if it was the hangover or the fog of sleep still clouding my head, those dreams I’d been having – the scuffle of rabbits in the walls and the sweep of headlights showing through the cracks around the edge of the cupboard doors – or even if it was Kim’s panic transferred, but nothing about this morning seemed real. As the trees closed in behind us, deadening every sound, I kept thinking about all the stories of girls going into the woods and all the terrible things that ever happened to them there. I had a picture in my mind of Sasha crouched behind one of the trunks, ready to jump out at us. I was half sure I could hear his breathing. Then I thought I could see him, flitting in the shadows.
The beach path got steeper as it went on, though, and I got colder and colder as we got nearer and nearer the sea. And soon the world seemed real again: leaf mould to skid on and rocks sticking up like shark teeth to trip me. Then the canopy started to thin and the ground paled where the sand had blown in, and suddenly we found ourselves standing on the little ridge, not really a dune, staring at the half-gone tide, at the pebbles that were chuckling and glistening as the water sucked at them on its way out, and at the dark shape that was almost beaching as each wave drained away, floating again as the next came washing in.
I would have thought it was a dead seal, or even a broad clump of wrack, except that a bit further up the beach there was a lobster pot, and the lobster pot was full of rocks and a rope led from it to the dark shape.
Go to My Grave Page 17