‘Think of all the music you heard tonight,’ Jennifer says.
Sasha starts singing Bryan Adams at the top of his voice.
Jennifer laughs. I turn over and lie on my back on the sand, looking up at the stars. She laughed. ‘But not only the music,’ she goes on. ‘Take every word spoken, every sound made, and imagine that you’re stitching your lips shut. Big black Frankenstein stitches, crisscross. Okay?’
‘Mm-mmm,’ says Sasha.
‘And now we swear,’ says Jennifer. ‘Say after me: I will go to my grave keeping the secret of what happened here tonight. I will never picture it – never open the box. I will never speak of it – never cut open the stitches. I will go to my silent grave.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Jelly,’ says Sasha. ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?’
‘Do you?’
‘She wasn’t even invited. She gate-crashed.’
‘Sasha, you need to wise up,’ Jennifer says. ‘She’s twelve. And, as of today, you are sixteen. Yesterday it would have been one thing and today it’s a much worse thing.’
‘Oh, come off it!’ Sasha says. ‘They wouldn’t bring the hammer down on the stroke of midnight on my birthday.’
‘Why are you having such a hard time facing facts?’
‘Because she’s a total prick-tease. Flirting away all night, then acting like a nun when I went in for a fumble. I could kick her teeth in.’
‘Why did you have to “fumble” her at all? What was wrong with the sister?’
‘Her sister was passed out on the floor of the bog.’
‘Put it in the box, stitch your lips and go to your grave,’ says Jennifer. ‘Seriously. Do it for me. Because I’m in a lot of trouble too. I mean, you should have known better, but I’m eighteen. I was the only adult.’
They’re silent now. All I can hear is the sound of the waves and the occasional crack of a twig in the fire, sending up a shower of blue sparks as the salt burns.
I notice the two people walking before they do. It’s inky black but they’ve got a torch. The circle of light on the sand is only metres away when Jennifer says, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Anna,’ says a voice. ‘And Oliver. We’re going to have a conversation with you and if we can’t get this thing straightened out we’re going to have a conversation with the parents of those two little girls who came to your party.’
The silence lasts so long that I risk discovery to pop my head up and see what’s happening. If they moved their torch they’d see me, lying there so close to them. But the torch is pointed straight down, like Anna doesn’t want to see the face of her own son.
‘What did she say?’ That’s Sasha. ‘Has she phoned up telling tales?’
‘She covered for you all,’ Anna says. ‘But I want to know what happened. Sasha, put that bloody wine bottle down!’
‘What’s changed?’ says Jennifer. ‘Since we met in the lane?’
‘It’s not up for discussion.’ It’s the first time Oliver has spoken.
‘It was very irresponsible of you,’ Anna says, ‘to let such a young girl get so drunk that she’d…’ She stops talking and starts to cry.
‘Go swimming?’ says Jennifer. ‘Or go swimming with her period?’
Anna makes an incoherent sound.
‘Was it you, Sasha?’ says Oliver.
‘Was what me?’ Sasha says. ‘I didn’t even invite her. She just turned up.’
‘She should have been safe at a party full of well-brought-up responsible children,’ his father says. ‘I’m not going to ask you again. Was it you?’
‘I think she helped herself to the drinks, Uncle Oliver,’ Jennifer says. ‘We showed her where the lemonade was, but—’
‘Don’t!’ he barks. ‘Stop.’
‘We found her underpants under the breakfast-room table,’ says Anna.
‘Oh, no, those are mine!’ says Jennifer. ‘I got changed into my swimsuit in the breakfast room.’
‘And we found a bed made of towels in the downstairs loo.’
‘Yes, I was keeping an ear cocked for Morag. That’s why I changed downstairs. She was in the loo. I made that bed up for her to lie on until she felt better.’
‘Shut up!’ Anna says, with her voice breaking. ‘Stop lying! What’s wrong with you? The child’s name is in her knickers.’
‘A twelve-year-old child has been assaulted in our house tonight,’ Oliver says. ‘At best our children did nothing about it. At worst – at worst—’
‘It wasn’t me, Dad,’ Sasha says. ‘And I don’t think it was Paul. Or Buck. So that leaves Ramsay. If you’re serious. Are you really serious?’
‘This is going to ruin lives,’ Oliver says. Then he pauses. ‘If it comes out.’
‘I could stop it coming out,’ Jennifer says. ‘You should let me loose on the rest of them. I’ve got this three-part method, you see. I can teach it to you. It’s quick and easy and it really works. A locked box and stitched lips and—’
‘Jennifer, just stop talking,’ says Anna. ‘I know you’re all drunk, and I know these girls might be rough and ready, but for God’s sake!’
‘Tell them she drowned,’ says Sasha, suddenly.
‘What?’ His father spits the word.
‘You want them to take it seriously, don’t you? You don’t want Ramsay confessing or anyone else blabbing? You want them to lock it in a box and all Jennifer’s crap? Well, tell them she drowned and it’s our fault for not looking after her. That should do it.’
‘How did we spawn you?’ says Anna. ‘How did we manage to produce two such malformed creatures as your sister and you?’
‘Malformed?’ Sasha says. ‘What’s wrong with Rosalie?’
‘Get back to the house,’ his mother says, ignoring him. ‘We’re leaving in the morning.’
‘Aw, Mu-um,’ says Sasha.
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ says Jennifer. She has stood up and she’s dusting the sand off the back of her skirt. ‘It would be impossible to make them believe she’d drowned if we were still here. I mean, if she really drowned there’d be the Coastguard and frogmen or something, wouldn’t there? You can say we’re packing up and leaving because a child has gone missing and then you can reveal the big news that she drowned once we’re all home again.’
‘There’s something diabolical about you, Jennifer,’ says Anna. She turns and stumbles away, taking the torch.
‘Kick this bonfire over and get back to the house,’ Oliver says, before he takes off after her.
They’re completely silent until the torchlight’s disappeared into the trees. Then Sasha makes a noise like a bottle of warm fizzy juice opening, a long, burbling hiss. ‘Oh, my God!’ he says. He puts on a falsetto voice: ‘There’s something diabolical about you, Jennifer!’
‘How did we spawn you?’ says Jennifer. ‘Jesus, Sash, how did you keep your face straight?’
I know I can’t move till after they’ve gone, so I lie there, on my back, looking up at the sky, trying to ignore their cackling voices, letting the tears slide out of the sides of my eyes and fall into my hair.
* * *
I’ve drifted off when I realize the tone of their voices has changed from cackles to murmurs, so low that the rustle and rub of their clothes almost drowns it. The tide is at its lowest ebb, far down the bay and hardly moving.
‘Sasha,’ says Jennifer, in a slow creaking voice, halfway to a groan. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Claiming my birthday treat,’ Sasha says. The crooning of his voice makes me swallow a sour mouthful of spit. I don’t know which of them’s worse. Jennifer knows exactly what he’s doing and she’s fine with it, even though she’s just got out of bed with Buck. And Sasha— I will my thoughts away from that. And, telling myself they’re too busy to notice, I creep away.
Back at the house, Lynsey’s curled in her bed in our shared room, with a towel under her head to keep her damp pigtails off her pillow, an empty cup on her bedside table.
‘How you doin
g?’ I ask.
She holds out a hand. ‘One tiny wee black lump for you.’
I gulp it down. It hardly registers among all the lead in my belly. ‘It’s over,’ I say. ‘They’re going away in the morning. They won’t be back.’
‘Good,’ says Lynsey, and she huffs over onto her other shoulder. ‘Will you sing again, Carmen?’
I begin softly singing to her. I hear the wet smack as she puts her thumb in her mouth.
She’s asleep before I’ve got my clothes off.
She’s snoring when I get back from the bathroom.
But when I wake in the morning to the sound of the cars in the lane, as Anna and Oliver drive all their precious children away, she’s gone.
Chapter 16
I cleaned the kitchen. There is no explanation for it – none at all – but when I came reeling out of the staff shower room, I went in there for solace and what I found was all of last night’s mess. Someone had cleared the dining table, but every glass, every pudding bowl, every coffee cup was sitting out on my teak worktops. So I cleaned.
And when the good crystal glasses were draining upside down on spread tea-cloths and the dishwasher was running, when all the empty tins were in the recycling, and all the rubbish was tied in a black bag and it was taken out to the wheelie-bin, when the worktops were wiped and the floor was mopped, then at last I went to the foot of the back stairs and started to climb them.
And, anyway, there was an explanation. Jennifer’s death was terrible, of course, but it was down at the beach. When it came out that someone had died right there in the house, we were finished. And it seemed to me that telling Kim – telling anyone – was where that started. Until I told, I could hang on to the dream of The Breakers. Five-star reviews, restaurant critics coming to stay, a second property added, an office manager, articles in the glossies, a recipe book, a TV series, an empire. All of that was going to vanish now. But not until I told someone. Until then it could maybe un-happen.
Then I shook the thought out of my head. Stupid! Kim had already vanished it. She had gone to tell Sasha and he was probably on the phone to the police station already. I shook my head again. There was something wrong with that, but I couldn’t work out what it was.
When I stepped through the door to the front corridor, Kim was walking towards me. She was wearing a fresh dressing-gown and her hair was wet and pulled back from her face.
‘I can’t find him,’ she said. ‘He’s not in our room and he’s not in with Buck and Peach.’
I opened my mouth to tell her what I’d seen in the bathroom downstairs, but she was already pushing on the door to Ramsay’s room. A cold sweat passed over me, as if I’d been doused with a bucket of ice-water. Suddenly I was sure he would be dead too. All of them were dead, Paul and Rosalie cold and stiff in each other’s arms in the silver bedroom.
But it left as quickly as it came. I heard a low groan from the dark. ‘Leave me alone, Kim,’ came Ramsay’s voice. ‘What the hell time is it?’
‘I’m looking for Sasha.’
‘Well, I haven’t got him. Sod off and look for him somewhere else.’
She came out and wheeled round to go in and check the cherry-wood bedroom, where Jennifer should have been. This time the wave of sweat brought a picture of Jennifer lying soaked and bloated under the crisp white sheets, her matted hair spread out like seaweed on the pillow under her head.
‘Ramsay,’ I said, knocking softly and going in. ‘It’s Donna.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. He was lying in a sweaty tangle of sheets, naked above his waist.
‘Sasha,’ I said.
‘Isn’t here.’ His voice was a rasp and his throat clicked as he swallowed.
‘He’s downstairs in the staff bathroom,’ I said.
‘Tell Kim. I don’t care.’
‘He’s hanged himself.’
I thought for a minute he hadn’t heard me or that he’d managed to fall asleep again.
‘For kicks?’ he said at last. ‘With a belt from the back of the door? Did you interrupt him?’
‘He is hanging from the ceiling light,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘It might be a harness,’ said Ramsay. ‘He could be tricking you.’
‘I need to call the police.’ Even as I said it, I knew I was beginning to wonder. Was any of this real? When I closed my eyes I saw two flashes: the first one Jennifer’s blue face and her dry lips stretched to splitting around the stone in her mouth, then Sasha’s face, black and dull, a glint in his black slit eyes but the stone in his mouth just a deeper darkness.
Ramsay gave a groan that was almost a snore. ‘Go and tickle his feet and see if he jumps, eh?’
I crept back out to the hall.
Kim was standing at the head of the stairs. ‘Rosalie hasn’t seen him,’ she said. ‘I told her about Jennifer.’
‘Did she believe you?’
Kim swung her head from side to side, slowly. ‘No. Did that really happen, Donna? Did we really go to the beach? Or did I dream it? Is she dead?’
‘If we went,’ I said, ‘then it’s real. If we dreamed it, she might be alive.’
Now she swung her head up and down, confirming what I was saying. She was closing one eye and then the other in turn, making her vision jump from side to side. She had stopped listening.
‘You’re as high as a kite!’ It was Rosalie, still caked in last night’s make-up and wearing nothing but a red shortie nightie, trimmed with marabou, like something from a saucy seaside postcard. We must have made a pretty stunning picture too – Kim with her face pure white, and God knows what I looked like. I felt as if all my blood had turned to jelly and was pooled in the pit of my stomach. ‘Go to bed, Kim,’ Rosalie said. ‘Sleep it off.’
‘I can’t find Sasha,’ Kim said.
‘Count your blessings,’ said Rosalie. ‘Paul’s been snoring all night long and farting every two minutes.’ She stretched. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a sovereign remedy for hangovers, Donna? My mouth’s like a junkie’s carpet this morning. Could you do something with tomato juice and raw eggs that’ll straighten me out?’
I said nothing.
‘More sleep would help, of course,’ said Rosalie. ‘But Kim came sharing her drunk dreams with me and when I’m up I’m up.’
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ said Kim, on a rising note. ‘Donna, tell her. I feel as if I’m going crazy!’
‘Ssh,’ said Rosalie. ‘My head.’
‘Rosalie,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry but it’s true. And I’m really, really sorry, Kim, but that’s not all. There’s been a … Sasha … I actually don’t know how to say this.’
‘True?’ said Rosalie. ‘Jennifer? On the beach? It can’t be.’
‘What about Sasha?’ said Kim.
‘He’s downstairs,’ I said. ‘He’s in the loo. He’s … not okay.’
‘Well, why are we standing around?’ Kim said. She was already running. ‘If he’s not okay we should be getting help. Fuck’s sake, Donna. What the hell’s wrong with you?’ She threw herself at the top of the stairs and went clattering down, bringing a bellow from inside Ramsay’s bedroom at the noise. Then we could hear her slamming in and out of the back rooms down there.
‘Not the utility,’ I shouted. ‘The shower room.’
‘Shut up,’ Ramsay groaned.
Kim was still bashing around. She shouted up the stairs. ‘Where did you see him, Donna? He’s not here now. Was he injured? If he’s wandered off, injured…’
I walked down as steadily as my feet would carry me, holding on to the banister and telling myself I wasn’t going to faint when I looked at him again. I needed to forget myself and think about his widow and his sister. Even his cousins. I walked towards the bathroom, breathing deep. There were enough doors down here to confuse anyone, between the kitchen, the scullery, the pantry cupboard and this one. She had somehow managed to miss him.
I was still telling myself that when I pushed the door open.
We had chose
n cleverly. The glass shade of the ceiling light and the soft-glow lightbulb gave such a warmth to the room. Especially when it was full of steam – if you took a shower with the window shut. I stared up at it. If a twelve-stone man had tied that cord round his neck and then stepped off the toilet seat, it would have stretched or cracked the plaster … or something. Surely.
And he was wet when I saw him hanging there. The seawater had dripped off his sodden clothes and made a puddle on the floor. I stepped forward and pushed my toe along the dry vinyl, feeling it squeak.
‘You had a nightmare?’ Rosalie said, coming up behind me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I wasn’t dreaming.’
Kim came and stood in front of me. ‘What did you see?’
I put my hands on her shoulders. ‘Sasha is dead,’ I told her. Rosalie covered her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I came in and saw him hanging. His face was black and he was definitely, definitely dead. He was wet with seawater. It was dripping off him.’
‘Seawater,’ Kim said. ‘You think he killed Jennifer, then came back here and killed himself? Why?’
‘And then cut his own body down and hid it?’ said Rosalie. She leaned against the wall and wiped her forehead with the edge of a palm. ‘It was a trick. Sasha and his tricks. Sasha!’ she shouted. ‘You can come out now. You’ve delighted everyone enough.’
Her voice echoed and the silence stole around us again.
‘Or it was a hallucination,’ Rosalie said. ‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. ‘Something isn’t right.’
Kim was shaking my arm.
‘I know what you mean,’ Rosalie said. ‘I don’t feel drunk, but I don’t feel hung-over either. I certainly don’t feel normal.’
The word hit me with a jolt. Kim and me sitting on the sand waiting for the tide to go down. Kim wanting a shower before she shared the news. Me cleaning the kitchen. None of it was normal.
Kim was still tugging at my arm. ‘Jen,’ she whispered.
We were both running before the thought – the unthinkable thought – had even formed in my mind. ‘We’ll take the car,’ I threw over my shoulder. ‘Go through the slipway. I can’t scramble down that path again.’
Go to My Grave Page 19