The Wild Girls

by Phoebe Morgan

  I move her to the side of the room. She’s lying facing upwards, gazing up at the ceiling. One eyelid is half-closed, but the other is wide open and I can’t bear it – I run into the bathroom and grab a white towel, the towels I’d practically salivated over the other day, unable to believe my luck that I was really here, in such a luxurious place, ready for a party, ready to meet Felicity’s glamorous friends. It feels like a lifetime ago – in reality, it’s been only twenty-four hours.

  Careful not to meet the dead, awful stare of her eyes, I lay the towel over her body, covering up the lumps and bumps of it, everything that made Alice who she is. Who she was. Only once this is done do I realise I’ve been holding my breath, and I let it out, a gush of air filling my lungs. Tears rise up my throat, threatening to choke me as I pull out my phone. I’ll call the police. I have to. But when I look at the screen, I’m horrified to find that it’s blank. Black. Water has filtered into the holes at the bottom; I hadn’t thought to take it out before jumping into the pool. Frantically, I press the on button, shake the phone, rub it dry as best I can, but nothing happens. I need to try to bring it back to life. Scrambling in my haste, I go to my bedside table, where I’d left my charger plugged in since last night, but it isn’t there. The only thing there is the chess piece, the Queen, her blank face giving nothing away. Fear thuds through me but I force myself to keep calm. Perhaps I didn’t plug it in after all – perhaps it’s still in my suitcase.

  With trembling hands, I pull open the case, rifle through my things – already, they seem as though they belong to another life. A red one-piece and my wrap-around, the long maxi-dress that I was going to wear to the party that never was, my high-heeled wedges that I thought might impress the girls. All of it seems foolish; ridiculous now. My hand catches on a wire and hope fires up in my chest, but it’s my headphones, used briefly on the plane before I fell asleep, and then promptly forgotten about. A moan escapes me as I shake everything out onto the floor – there is no doubt about it, my phone charger is nowhere to be seen.

  I know I charged the phone last night – it won’t last more than a day, so that only leaves one option – someone has taken it. I feel terror ripple through me as I picture somebody in here – hands pawing through my things, eyes gazing at my belongings, easy access to this inner world. Who is doing this to us? Can it be Felicity? Or someone else, someone who perhaps has her captive – I imagine her tied up, straining at the ropes around her wrists, mouth gagged. My mind is racing – what if Felicity had got on the wrong side of someone out here, fallen into the wrong hands. What’s happening out here feels personal, but what if it’s not? What if all of us are simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time? I think of the airport, of the sandy-haired man who watched us all depart, his eyes never leaving Hannah.

  Then I think of Felicity’s text messages, the syrupy sweet tone, luring us in. They could have been written by anyone. Was she ever really here at all? I feel as though she is a ghost; a presence that flits around the complex without us catching sight of her, as though if only I can think hard enough, figure out the answer to all this, she will appear, grinning wickedly, blonde hair flowing down her back. I think of those awful words she said to me, the last time I saw her: There’s nothing brave about telling lies, Grace, and all at once, I am glad she isn’t here. If I told her what had happened, she wouldn’t believe me anyway, would she? She has a history of not believing a word I say.

  I sink down to the floor, near to where Alice’s body lies, shrouded by the towel. I know I should go to Alice’s lodge, try to find her charger, or go to Hannah’s – but something inside me is reticent. Hannah’s behaviour was so strange today, so off-kilter. I think about the way she babbled, out by the pool, the wild, staring look in her eyes. What was she thinking, when she spoke like that about Alice? I always thought she and Alice were the closest of us all. To tell the truth, it’s always made me jealous.

  I take deep breaths, trying to think clearly – or as clearly as I can when there’s a dead body lying next to me. A horrible thought hits me – how soon will it be before Alice’s body begins to smell? I’ve seen the TV shows; I’ve read crime novels. I know she won’t look like Alice for very much longer. The water will be disfiguring her insides, and it won’t be long before it transforms her outer appearance, too, stiffens her limbs and changes the colour of her skin.

  I don’t have a phone – I’ve no way of phoning for help. Alice is dead. Hannah is in her lodge. Felicity is – I have no idea where she is. And what about Nathaniel, the lurking ghost of him, the mystery of what happened between them? A memory comes to me, of that night, and I force myself to push it away. There is no point thinking about that now, it won’t help. I need to be constructive, rationalise my thoughts.

  The best-case – and I feel awful for using the word best to describe her death – the best-case scenario is that Alice really did have an accident. Perhaps she slipped on the wet decking, lost her balance, hit her head as she slid into the water, screaming once as she went down. I picture her underneath – the water filling her mouth, her nose, her body sinking deeper, deeper than she thought. Did she try to scream again, the sound coming out silent? Did she call for us, for Hannah maybe? Did she try to stay afloat? I look sideways at the white towel, think of the blood on her head. She’d have had to have hit it hard to become unconscious, incapable of pulling herself out. I imagine hands scrabbling at the sides of the pool, grasping nothing. Vomit rises in my throat and before I can stop it, it’s spilled out of me, splashing onto the floor of the gorgeous lodge and dripping slightly onto my shirt. Saliva fills my mouth as a drop splashes onto the towel, and I retch, hating myself for being so weak. Alice wouldn’t be like this. If our roles were reversed, she’d take control of the situation. Even now, she taunts me from beyond the grave.

  Slowly, every muscle in my body aching, I get to my feet and stagger towards the en-suite bathroom. Running cold water over my hands, I splash it on my face, wipe my mouth, trying to avoid looking in the mirror. But my eyes catch on my haggard reflection – my skin is a ghastly pale colour, and there are flecks of blood on my left cheek – I must have smeared it on there after touching Alice. Carefully, I wipe it off, taking deep breaths to avoid the sickness starting again. I feel shaky and weak now, my throat raw with that awful feeling you get after throwing up, but I can’t let my guard down – I have to find a way to get help. I wonder whether Hannah has managed to get hold of Chris. I wonder whether she tried at all.

  As I stare at my own reflection, I’m forced to confront reality. It’s not just the unknown out there that I’m scared of. It’s Hannah, too. One of you knows why you’re here. One of you will pay. Is that person Alice? Have we paid the price already?

  I can’t trust Hannah anymore, I decide – I can’t trust anyone apart from myself. But the lodge doesn’t have a lock – perhaps I could barricade the door, wait until the morning and then go out onto the road, try to flag down a car, or walk to the next village. Do they have phone boxes here? I try to remember seeing a landline inside the main lodge, but the thought of going back out there into the darkness fills me with fear.

  I drag my eyes away from the mirror, checking to see that all of the blood has gone, and that’s when I see it – the little golden lock on the bathroom door. It’s not much, just a slim bolt, but it’s something. I can stay in here. Just while I think.

  Relieved, I pull it across quickly, my hands still slightly shaking from the shock of everything that has happened tonight. I’ll stay in here for a little while at least, until I can figure out a proper plan, work out what to do. I can feel tiredness overtaking me, making even my small movements sluggish, slow.

  With the door bolted, I feel a sense of control begin to return, but can’t stop myself sinking to the floor, allowing my head to rest gently against the wood. Around me, the bathroom glimmers – the expensive toiletries, so decadent only a day ago, seem ridiculous, absurd. The gold taps wink at me. The silver showerhead hangs above,
like a poised knife, waiting to fall. I know something more is coming. The only question is, when?

  When I wake up, I don’t know where I am. My mouth feels stale, dry, and my eyes are sticky – I’ve been asleep in my contact lenses. For just a few seconds, I forget what has happened, imagine myself back home in Peckham, the day stretching out before me – but then with a thud of dread reality kicks in. Horrified that I’ve allowed myself to fall asleep, I glance at my watch to find that it’s edging towards six o’clock in the morning. I’ve slept for hours.

  My neck, when I move it, is horribly stiff from being upright all night, and when I put a hand to my cheek I find a smear of dried saliva, crusted onto my skin. Standing up, the bathroom sways around me and I put out a hand to the sink to steady myself – the dizziness will be because I haven’t eaten in so long.

  When the world rights itself, I stand completely still, listening. The lodge is deathly silent; I can’t even hear birdsong, as if the landscape knows what has happened, knows that death has enveloped us in its cloak. Sliding back the bolt on the bathroom door, I step out into the bedroom and am immediately hit by the weird, creeping atmosphere – the hint of a sickly, rotten smell that curls up my nostrils. Gagging, I realise that I can’t stay in here a minute longer, not with Alice’s body. I have to go get help.

  My phone, still dead, is in the pocket of my leggings, and, without thinking too much about it, I also grab my passport from where it – thankfully – sits in my handbag, untouched since the day we arrived. Picking up my jacket off the end of the bed, I slide it on and pull back the main door to the lodge. So early in the morning, the light is only just beginning to rise, and even in spite of everything I can’t stop myself from noticing the strange beauty in it – the orange burn of the sun beginning to creep across the horizon, sneaking through the thorn trees, illuminating our complex and shining off the water underneath. Looking at the scene from above, you wouldn’t know that anything had happened, wouldn’t be able to tell what horrors the complex has seen.

  Treading carefully, I make my way along the walkway. I feel calmer than I did last night; able to think more clearly. My instincts are telling me to go straight to the house, try to find a phone, but I know I have to check on Hannah. Despite what I thought last night, and the weird way she behaved, I have to look out for her. I have to make sure she is safe. And that I’m safe from her.

  Outside Gazelle Lodge, I hesitate. It’s still so early, but surely Hannah won’t mind being woken up. She can’t want to stay here. Not with our friend lying dead; not with what we saw.

  Raising my hand, I knock on the door, my breath caught tight in my chest. What mood will Hannah be in this morning? But there is no answer, not even when I try again. I think of Alice’s scream echoing across the grasses last night and feel fear wrap its ice-like hand around my heart – what if something’s happened to Hannah too?

  Unable to wait any longer, I push back the unlocked door, my heart hammering in my chest. But the lodge is empty – the bed is made, and save for a small pile of what look like her pyjamas curled up in a ball on her pillow, there is no sign of her.

  I exhale – though I don’t like to admit it, part of me, a large part, is relieved. I don’t trust Hannah anymore, and if I go alone to get help, she can’t blame me. Then a thought strikes me – has she gone already? Have we both had the same idea? The thought of her suspecting me is absurd – but perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps in this situation, none of us is safe from each other at all.

  I look over her things, unsure even what I’m searching for. Her suitcase is half open, and her make-up bag is on the side – the place is untidy, even though Hannah is usually so ordered, so neat. She’s the type to hang up all her clothes, make herself at home, even if we’re only here for a few nights. I step to the wardrobe, and sure enough, three dresses are hanging there, still but slightly rumpled, as though Hannah has just stepped out of them. As I turn my head, I get a whiff of her perfume; the ghost of her lingers in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as though someone has run an icy finger across my skin.

  Leaving the door on the latch, I go back outside, where at last the first birds are beginning to sing. A white butterfly zings past me, incongruous and strange, its wings beating fast and urgently, as though it is warning me of what lies ahead. Other than that, it is eerily quiet; there is no Alice, sashaying along the walkway, her words biting into me, and there is no Hannah, speaking to me as if I am a child. And there is no Felicity, her golden hair swinging in the breeze, her mouth open, laughing. I am the only one, now.

  There is, of course, the possibility that Hannah is in the main lodge; if not, I decide I will leave her a note – so that she knows I’ve gone to get help. It’s the right thing to do – I know it is. It would look strange not to. Guilt gnaws at me – already, I am picturing how this will look to other people. There will be an investigation, I know there will – a woman is dead. There is no going back from that. There will be questions, and inquiries, and they will want to know what each of us did and when. I have to do the right thing, for when the time comes.

  It is odd walking down to the lodge on my own – I feel so alone, as if I might be the only person left on Earth.

  The air in the lodge feels stale, trapped, and in spite of myself I hold my breath, almost expecting to see Felicity sweeping through the rooms, her long hair trailing behind her, her arms outstretched to me. It strikes me how much I would love someone to put their arms around me, the feel of another person’s body around mine. I want to call my grandmother, to be with people who know me, really know me, to be in a place I feel truly safe. But, Felicity doesn’t come. Nobody does.

  In the hallway, I look around for a landline, but the dead-eyed photos of the animals stare back at me from the walls, giving nothing away. I go through to the dining room – and stop dead in my tracks. I’m not alone, after all.

  Hannah is sitting upright at the table, facing away from me. Her blonde hair is tied up, hanging neatly down her back, and her shoulders are still, almost rigid. There is something odd, though, about the angle of her neck, and I let out a little cry, the sound strangling in my throat.

  ‘Hannah?’

  There is no reply. She doesn’t move.

  I circle around her, terrified that there is someone in the room with us, my eyes darting from corner to corner, and then I see it – the wound in the centre of my friend’s chest. Dark and deep. Recent. It looks like she’s been stabbed. Blood spreads down her front, sticky and wet, and when I look down I see that it has dripped onto the floor, is beginning to pool at the base of her high wooden chair.

  I do rush forward, then, I run to her and I press two shaking fingers against her neck, desperately feeling for a pulse even though I know it is fruitless, I can tell by the strange stillness in the room and the way her neck is tilted and the waxy pallor of her skin. On the table in front of her is a cup of coffee – I reach out, touch the china, feel the cold. How long has she been up? Who did this to her?

  A sob escapes me, rising up through my chest and bursting out into the room, too loud, too loud. I have to get out of here – I have to go. There is no sign of a weapon near Hannah which means whoever did this must have taken it with them – and the further away from the lodges I can get, the safer I will be. A thought hits me – Hannah’s phone. Sure enough, I see the shape of it nestled in the front pocket of her shirt, the same one she was wearing yesterday, back when we thought we really were going to go out on safari. Carefully, I ease my fingers into the pocket, wincing as they brush against the blood. My hand catches on something else, and I gasp as the sharp edge slices my finger – Hannah has a long, thin shard of glass in her pocket. I remember the champagne flute breaking, the splinters on the table. She must have gone back, picked one up, hid it here, a secret weapon, without telling me. Drops of blood bloom from the cut on my finger as I slide it into my own pocket, heart thudding, then turn to Hannah’s phone. The screen lights up, asking for a passcode or
a thumbprint, and before I can think about it for too long, I pick up my friend’s hand, press her thumb onto the roundel, watch as the phone whirrs to life. Tears roll down my face as the picture of Chris and Max appears, their faces pressed together, beaming out at me, oblivious. I cannot stay here any longer.

  As quietly as I can, I leave Hannah, let myself out of the lodge and begin to run. Even though I haven’t eaten for hours and still feel exhausted from a night spent sleeping sitting up, once I begin to move the adrenaline hits me, and the fight or flight instinct kicks in. Whoever did this to my friends is still out there. I clench my fists together, feel the wetness in my palm – my finger is still bleeding; a thick splash of blood falls to the floor and I put the cut quickly to my mouth, trying to stem the flow.

  I feel awful for suspecting Hannah last night – that I didn’t comfort her properly after what happened, didn’t suggest we stayed together and waited the long night out. I should never have left her in an unlocked lodge whilst I barricaded myself in the safety of the bathroom. Selfish Grace. Again.

  I’m running so fast that I haven’t looked where I’m going – I’ve ducked down off the walkways, into the long grasses below that lead out onto the plains. Glancing behind me, I see the lodges retreating further into the distance and know I should have gone out towards the main gates, back the way we came, but perhaps that’s what someone would expect me to do. Maybe this way, I’m safer.

  The sun is up now, and despite the fact that it’s still so early in the morning the warmth of the day is coming already – oppressive and thick as icing in my mouth. I have no water, nothing to eat. I try to run faster, but the grasses are whipping against my bare lower legs, stinging my calves like tiny knives. My chest is beginning to burn – I’m no runner, that was always my flatmate’s Rosie’s complaint about me – she’d look at me disapprovingly as I sat on the sofa, used to tell me to come out with her for a jog. You’ll feel better, Grace! I wish I’d joined her now – wish I was better equipped. Sweat is beginning to pour down my back, pooling at the base of my spine and the nape of my neck. As I reach the edge of the plain, I stop, gasping for breath, bent over. What am I thinking, running out here into the wild? My muscles tense beneath my leggings; I keep expecting the roar of an animal, the soft tread of a predator, and wonder whether I have simply swapped one danger for another. I have to keep going.