One Year Later

by Sanjida Kay

This sounds more like Bee. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask Dr Virgili.’

  ‘For God’s sake, stop being such a limp dick and just book the fucking flights! If we leave tomorrow morning, I’ll have been here for forty-eight hours, and that’s enough time to make sure I’m not going to collapse and die of a brain haemorrhage and sue their sorry asses!’

  ‘Glad to see you’re getting better,’ I say, hauling myself to my feet.

  I’m about to take my laptop out of the hire car and go to a cafe that has Wi-Fi so that I can rebook the tickets, when I have a better idea. I grab a taxi back to our holiday house, but instead of turning along the path through the olive grove to Maregiglio, I ask the guy to drop me off at the beach. The barman is clearing tables. I go inside the wooden hut and take a ciabatta stuffed with salami and Pecorino. I leave some money on the counter. I almost grab a beer too, but think better of it.

  The beach is practically deserted. I suppose most Italians will have gone home, now that Ferragosto is over, or else they will sensibly have returned to their villas for a siesta. Sweat trickles down my temples as I slog across the soft sand. The bay is so bright, it’s like an over-exposed photograph. I would never have thought I could miss the cold, damp and drizzle of Bristol. I retrace Bethany’s footsteps in my mind – up the hill through the olives and then across the hillside and down towards the cliff edge, before she descended to the next beach. If I keep walking until I’m past the headland, I’ll come to the spot where Bethany was found.

  I’m not really sure why I’m here. To achieve closure, as Maddison would say? One minute everyone is accusing a drunk bloke of attacking my sister, and now they all believe she was the drunk. I guess I want to see it for myself. Put my mind at rest. Move on. I climb up onto the flat rocks at the far end of the beach; the heat sears my feet, even through my sandals. The tide is halfway up the sand, lapping at the base of the cliff, but it’s low enough that I can climb over the jagged edges. The stone scrapes my toes, drawing blood. I cling to the cliff, my palms burning, and clamber round. I’ve reached the other beach. It’s a thin spit of white sand at the base of the cliffs; a jumble of dead seaweed and sea-bleached plastic, tangled at the tidemark. There’s no cafe or sun-loungers, no road down to it, only a crooked path that cuts steeply through the stone down to the shore: the route my sister took. I jump off the rocks and walk a little further. At some point, between here and there, is where it happened.

  Did someone attack her? A drunk Italian who hated the idea of foreigners on his island? A sexual predator? Joe? Or are the police right, and she simply got drunk and fell over? I squint against the sun. The cliff looks lethal, even if one weren’t tipsy. Bethany must have collapsed above the line of brackish debris, or else, when the tide came in, she’d have drifted out to sea and drowned. I shudder at the thought. I scan the ground as I walk. Ruggieri is correct about one thing: the stones here are sharp as needles.

  And then I see it. A dull stain on the tip of one. It’s my sister’s dried blood. I walk over to the edge of the cliff and throw up. It’s the heat, making this worse. I can’t face the rest of my sandwich and I toss it away. And there, hidden beneath the overhang and half-buried in the sand, is a bottle. I pull it out, surprised by its weight, and hold it up to the light. A cork, originally from a bottle of red – maybe one Bethany found on the beach – has been jammed in the mouth; the stub is dyed burgundy. The sun glows through the thick green glass and, even after two days, the contents hiss slightly.

  It’s almost full. Bethany had drunk barely a single glass.

  So now I know. I stand there, the sun beating down on my shoulders burning my scalp, holding a hot, dark bottle in my hand. My sister was found in the early hours of the morning by a holidaymaker, who called the police. Martelli rang for an ambulance, and the medics carried her on a stretcher round to our beach whilst the tide was still low enough. The Carabinieri did not arrive for several hours. She’d been found with her clothes on, so no one had checked for semen; she had a head injury, so Dr Virgili assumed she’d been attacked and didn’t monitor her blood alcohol. When the Carabinieri came here, they might not have noticed the Prosecco bottle. Even if they had, perhaps they thought she’d drunk it all, or that it was her second.

  But I know this is the bottle Bethany took from the house. So now I am certain my sister was not drunk and she was attacked. I am going to find out who did this to her. I owe it to her. She wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed if I hadn’t accused her of causing Ruby-May’s death. I couldn’t continue to shout at my ageing father and curse his failing memory, so I took it out on my sister.

  I can’t help it. I glance back at the bloodied rock. It wouldn’t take much strength to push someone, especially if they lost their footing in the sand and slipped: a disproportionate amount of damage for a small amount of effort. Even a woman could have done it. I think of my other sister, Amy, and reject the idea immediately. Of course Amy would have wanted to kill Bethany, if she’d really been responsible for Ruby-May’s death, but Amy doesn’t have any doubts about her sister. Amy doesn’t know that Bethany lied about taking Dad for a dementia test. Does she?

  I’m not sure what to do now. I need to go back, talk to Martelli, see if I can persuade him to follow this up, in the absence of Ruggieri and Biondi, book new flights, get Bee home. I know, already, that Martelli will give that lugubrious shrug that seems so peculiarly Italian, and I can almost hear him telling me that it is out of his hands.

  The gulls screech and fight over the scraps of meat from my ciabatta, and I notice something else. It’s small and made of plastic. I pick it up and turn it between my fingers. It’s warm from the sun. Another piece of flotsam and jetsam. I put it in my pocket and haul myself up the rocks in the lee of the cliff. As I trudge back across the beach, I notice rust-red petals, shrivelled by the sun, drifting across the sand in front of me – and then I remember when I was last here. A few feet away is the outline of a small grave. Some of the stones and shells have been kicked or knocked, and the mound of sand – damp when Lotte, Theo and I patted it down – has dried and cracked. The lines from the poem Theo read that night play in my mind.

  I will lend you, for a little time,

  A child of mine…

  There’s something poking through the top. I walk over and crouch down. It’s a hand: a small plastic doll’s hand, with fat, chubby fingers, like a child’s. I pause and remove my sunglasses, rub my eyes.

  For you to love while she lives,

  And mourn for when she’s dead.

  I don’t know how Amy has coped, especially when Matt is so emotionally repressed he makes me look like Oprah. I touch the doll’s fingertips. They’re warm from the sun. I wonder if I should dig her up. Amy had been so upset when she heard we’d buried the doll, but then what will Theo and Lotte think when Pearl rises from the grave? How will that help them understand that Ruby-May will never return?

  Ruby-May. Ruby-May. Would I have been happier – would we all have been happier – if she hadn’t lived? If we’d never loved and lost, than never loved at all, as some poem I once read at school goes? Yes, I think, yes, I’d be happier now. But how could I wish away that child’s life? Deny her those three bright, blazing years of existence?

  I loved Ruby-May, of course I did, I loved her with all my heart. I also loved what she meant: that I was a person capable of being loved, of being responsible, of being worthy of a small girl’s attention, and that one day maybe I, too, could become a father and not be a monstrous screw-up like my own dad had been.

  As I stand there by Pearl’s grave, I have a searing realization: I brought my family here, to this island, to try and put us back together, to make us whole. Instead we’re irretrievably broken, with jagged edges and pieces missing. We’re like some holidayhouse jigsaw puzzle: we’re never going to fit together again. I put my sunglasses back on. My sister lied to me. Again. She knew she wasn’t drunk. She colluded with the police. I know now that it’s too late for our family. But I am going
to find out the truth, no matter what it costs. I’m going to find out who tried to kill my sister. And then I’m going to find out who was really responsible for Ruby-May’s death.

  PART III

  19 AUGUST, BRISTOL

  35

  NICK

  We arrived in Bristol yesterday lunchtime, flying into a damp, grey cotton wool of fog. So much for British summertime. The rain is oddly comforting, though. Bethany slept for most of the journey and when I dropped her off at her apartment, she said she was tired; and no, she did not want me hanging around. There was no point asking why she lied to me; she’d just have lied even more and better. But I will find out the truth. I’m going to take her to have her brain scanned for a blood clot this morning at St Michael’s. I’m hoping that she’ll feel vulnerable enough to confess, when faced with possible death.

  I ring the bell to her flat and I’m buzzed in immediately, as if she’s been standing waiting for me. I trudge up the stairs, wheezing a bit. Bethany lives on the top floor, with a view that skims the rigging of the SS Great Britain. The door swings open as I reach the landing and a young girl with blonde hair in a straggly bun and a cropped top pouts at me.

  ‘Are you the photographer?’

  I’m slightly thrown. ‘I am a photographer,’ I say.

  She looks me up and down. I suppose I’m dressed for the part in my saggy jeans and dirty Converse, my retro Adidas top and Gert Lush tee.

  ‘Where’s your camera, then?’

  ‘In the studio,’ I say, getting impatient. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Holly. I’m the researcher.’

  I push past her and into Bee’s flat. It’s full of people. The sofas have been shoved aside and orange and black cables snake across the floor. There’s a camera on a tripod in the middle of the room and the cameraman is fiddling with soft box lights; they droop like flowers on their metallic stalks, the petals gauze and silver. His assistant is fastening a reflector to a stand; the circular gold disc catches and spills the early-morning light across the white walls. There are bouquets of white lilies and roses in glass vases on every surface.

  A woman in skinny jeans, a black jacket and Nike Frees strides over to me. She glances at her clipboard as if the answer she seeks will be there and, when she looks back at me, she frowns.

  ‘Are you Martin’s assistant?’

  ‘I’m Nick. Bethany’s brother.’

  ‘Ah. I’m Jen. It’s nice to meet you, but I’m sorry, Nick, this isn’t a good time. We’re about to start filming.’ Her voice is southern, clipped. I’m guessing she’s the producer of Bethany’s regional programme; originally from London, here because she wants ‘the lifestyle’ for a fraction of the price you’d pay in the big city.

  ‘Where is Bee?’

  ‘In her bedroom, getting ready, but please don’t—’

  I walk in without knocking. Bethany is sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, while a man with tattoos covering both arms, and a Great Gatsby haircut, is painting foundation on her face. An older man with greying hair is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning towards my sister, as if he’s ravenous and she’s a delectable morsel.

  ‘This is my brother, Nick,’ Bethany says. ‘Jay, make-up artist extraordinaire—’ the tattooed man gives a little bow – ‘and this is Stuart, my exec producer.’

  Stuart stands up and holds out his hand towards me. He’s tall, with designer stubble and vintage jeans, a short-sleeved black linen shirt and Paul Smith glasses.

  I want to punch him. I grit my teeth and ignore him.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m doing a piece on the dangers of booking holidays online.’

  Jay moves back slightly to inspect his handiwork. He’s made up my sister so that one side of her face is blemish-free, leaving her black eye and bruised cheek, and pinning her hair back to expose the jagged red scar at her temple.

  ‘You’re coming with me to get a brain scan.’

  She flaps her hand at me. Her nails have been repainted metallic gold, to highlight her new tan. ‘I’m fine. Don’t fuss. But sweet of you to call in.’

  I’m just about to push Jay out of the way and yank Bee to her feet, when Stuart steps in front of her.

  ‘We appreciate your concern, we really do,’ he says; his voice is as thick as the toffee in a Twix. ‘I promise to take good care of your sister. If she has the slightest sign of a headache, we’ll whizz her to the Spire immediately. In fact, Nick – it is Nick, isn’t it? – we’ll sort that straight away.’ He cups Bethany’s bare shoulder in his hand. ‘It would make a fantastic segue after the piece-to-camera about your experience. As you’re doing the voiceover we’ll see you disappearing into one of those machines, your brain flashing up on the screen. It’ll really heighten the jeopardy.’ He swings round. ‘Holly? Holly!’

  Holly rushes in, a little breathless at being summoned, blue eyes wide as she stares adoringly up at Stuart. He tells her to speak to the Spire, Bristol’s premier private hospital, the one that I now remember is in Henleaze, and which the consultant suggested my father might have been to. Stuart wants Holly to organize a brain scan for Bethany. ‘Just need access to the MRI or a CAT or whatnot, and a nurse or two. We don’t have to actually scan her. Tell Jen to arrange it with the crew, right after they’ve wrapped here. And find a blanket to put round Bee when we’re filming her on the sofa. She needs to look like an invalid.’

  ‘Give me a second,’ Bethany says, weaving round them. ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  She takes my arm and leads me past Jen, who is barking at someone down the phone, the sound recordist and the real photographer, who is lugging his kit in as we reach her front door.

  ‘How the hell can you even look at that bastard?’

  ‘Shush, keep your voice down. It’s going to be amazing for my career,’ she says. ‘I can do something serious for once. Come on, Nick, don’t stuff it up for me.’

  ‘Bethany! He raped you! What are you doing?’

  ‘He’s promised he’ll talk to the producers of The Show.’

  I ball my hands into fists, take a breath, count to four. ‘You told me you were drunk. You said you weren’t attacked on that beach. Which is it?’

  ‘Not so loud! I was drunk, I told you that. But this story sounds better on TV,’ she says.

  I’m not sure what to believe. ‘Dr Virgili said you had to have a brain scan. Have you got a headache? Tell me the truth this time.’

  She hesitates for a fraction of a second. ‘I’ve taken four ibuprofen this morning.’ She holds the door open for me. ‘Call you later, yeah?’

  ‘Bee. I know you didn’t take Dad for that dementia appointment.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘At The Castle. It’s in his diary. When I called them to make a follow-up appointment, they said he’d come in for a medical. You didn’t take him to the Memory Clinic.’

  ‘You’re an idiot. I don’t know anything about him having a medical. I took Dad to the Spire. The one I’m about to go to.’

  ‘For your fake brain scan.’

  ‘Whatever. Like I said, I’ll make Dad an appointment when this is all over.’

  Now it’s my turn to gape at her, but she pushes me out and is about to shut the door when I wedge my elbow in the frame.

  ‘Wait. What was the argument with Joe all about?’

  ‘On holiday? Oh, for God’s sake! It was nothing. He asked Tiffany to write the foreword for his book, because he says she’s more famous than me. The wanker! Whatever, I’m over it.’

  ‘I thought it was – I thought maybe you’d got together and then you found out he had a girlfriend already…’

  ‘What? Nick, you are so fucking ridiculous. Joe is gay.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Yes! Now, will you—’

  ‘I think I saw him. At the festa.’

  ‘Probably. He stayed on,’ she says. ‘Wanted to see the rest of the island and check out the festival, but he pretended to leave,
for Amy’s sake. Are we done?’

  She doesn’t wait for a reply, but slams the door in my face. I stand there for a moment, feeling bewildered and stupid, and then go and buy a coffee from the cafe on the waterfront – the same one where I’d bought espressos for Bee and Joe, not all that long ago. It feels cool after the heat in Italy; the sky is the colour of sheet steel, as if it’s going to rain. I shiver. I’m convinced Bethany wasn’t drunk and that she was attacked, but I don’t know why she’s lying or what I’m missing. And who the fuck was having sex in the shed, if it wasn’t Joe and Bee?

  I leave a message for Amy, telling her that Bethany won’t go for a brain scan and asking if she’ll meet me in Dad’s flat.

  36

  AMY

  She lets herself into the flat – she still has a set of keys. The place smells stale: Nick’s only spent one night here in nearly ten days, but still, it doesn’t look like it did when she lived here all those years ago. She’d been studying and had started dating Matt. Her father had had to return to Somerset every night to look after Nick, once their mother walked out. No more womanizing during the week.

  There’s almost nothing in the fridge; the milk looks as if it’s solidified and there’s something growing out of the draining hole at the back. She boils water, pours it all over a mug to sterilize it, makes herself a herbal tea. Blackcurrant and echinacea. Probably Maddison’s.

  There’s a battered copy of The Divine Comedy on a coffee table. She flicks through it while she waits for Nick to turn up, and sees Luca’s name in tiny, flowing handwriting on the frontispiece. She wonders why Nick has got Luca’s copy. Maybe Luca lent it to him, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing her brother would read.

  She wanders round the flat, opens one of the sash windows. There was a brief downpour, but now the rain has stopped and the city glitters below her. She climbs out and perches on the stone lintel: she used to sit here, dreaming of life with Matt, her bare toes on the edge, the vertiginous drop below. How she used to love this view: the slow loop of the river, the city centre trapped in its coil, the Suspension Bridge slung across the raw red cliffs and the mud banks below, Leigh Woods and the green hills of Somerset. It’s as if she can map out her whole life from here: the fields and orchards where she grew up, the university her father taught in, the bar where she met Matt, the terraced house that’s Chloe’s home, the hospital where she gave birth to her children; and, out by the disused railway path on the way to Bath, the cemetery where they buried Ruby-May.