Fault Lines

by Doug Johnstone

  Surtsey felt a tremor through her body. She lay there working it out for a moment, thinking what to say. ‘It was all you.’

  Donna was at the stove, water burbling away. She lifted the pan to the table and poured water into the mugs. She stood holding the pan with the remains of the boiling water in it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tom. The messages on his phone. You killed him.’

  Donna still had the pan in her hand, water sloshing as she gesticulated.

  ‘He wasn’t right for you, Sur, anyone could see that.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘A married man twice your age, and your boss? What a cliché. You could do so much better.’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  Donna screwed her nose up and her brow creased. ‘I’m not like that. It’s not about that.’

  ‘How did you know about me and Tom?’

  Donna put the pan back on the stove and stirred the mugs. She lifted the teabags out and dumped them in an empty Asda bag. She got the milk from the table, popped the seal and poured.

  ‘I’ve been looking after you for a long time, making sure you’re OK.’

  ‘Spying on me?’

  Donna shook her head. ‘It’s not spying if you do it for the right reasons. It’s observing.’

  ‘But you didn’t just observe,’ Surtsey said, her voice shaking. ‘You killed him. You smashed his head in with a rock.’

  Donna brought both mugs to the edge of the table nearest the bunks and sat on the bench.

  ‘The look on his face was pathetic,’ she said. ‘So eager to see his secret lover, so needy. I’ve no idea what you saw in him.’

  Surtsey frowned. ‘How did you have the number of his phone?’

  Donna smiled. ‘It was on the beach when you found him, wasn’t it? I copied the number then put it there afterwards, so you would pick it up, I knew you wouldn’t leave it lying around so that people knew about the two of you. Then I could be in touch with you.’

  ‘You’re a murderer and a psychopath.’

  Donna picked up one of the mugs and threw the tea in Surtsey’s face. Her lips and eyes burned as she spluttered. It wasn’t quite boiling, the milk had taken the edge off, but it stung like crazy. Surtsey felt the blood rise to the skin on her neck and cheek where it had taken the brunt of it.

  Donna leaned over her, pointing. ‘I’m the only friend you’ve got, remember that. The sooner you come to terms with it the better.’ She stepped away from the bed. ‘Those others are all wrong. That bitch Halima, your slut of a sister. You said yourself she’s useless and selfish. Tom was ridiculous, I felt embarrassed for you. No wonder you kept it a secret. And Brendan.’

  ‘He never did anything wrong.’

  ‘He wasn’t good enough for you.’

  ‘According to you, no one is good enough for me.’

  Donna smiled. ‘Except me.’

  ‘So you do fancy me.’

  ‘I’ve told you already I’m not like that. We’re friends.’

  Surtsey’s face was singing with pain. ‘Friends don’t tie each other up.’

  Donna sat down and sipped her tea.

  ‘It’s only temporary, until you come to your senses.’

  ‘What if I never do?’

  ‘You will.’ Donna looked out the window. ‘Besides, you can’t go back now anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The police will arrest you for murder.’

  Surtsey stared at her. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I had to time it all right,’ Donna said. ‘I’ve been drip-feeding them leads about you, but I couldn’t have them arrest you before I got a chance to get you. Now you’re safe, they’ll soon get an anonymous tip off and find Tom’s boat in Fisherrow and guess what? Your DNA will be all over it. And forensics at Brendan’s death will find traces of you too.’

  Surtsey realised she’d been straining against her ties, her head raised from the thin pillow. She flopped onto the bed and breathed out.

  ‘I’m sorry about the tea,’ Donna said. ‘But you made me so cross.’

  Something suddenly occurred to Surtsey. ‘Oh, shit. Mum.’

  Donna pursed her lips. ‘No.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘She did that herself.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘She was very brave, your mum. Much stronger than mine.’

  ‘You gave her the pills from our bathroom,’ Surtsey said. ‘You took them when you were at my house.’

  Donna got up. ‘Are you hungry? I’m hungry. A cheese sandwich, I think.’

  ‘Tell me, please.’

  Donna opened the loaf of bread, got a knife and ripped open a pack of cheddar.

  ‘Louise wanted to die,’ she said, buttering a slice of bread. ‘In her own way, at her own time. She knew you wouldn’t help her, and she didn’t want to ask you anyway. So I helped her. I was going to give her an overdose from the medical stores, but they would’ve suspected me. Louise told me about the pills in your house.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, she wouldn’t have gone like that without saying goodbye.’

  ‘What do you think our trip here was?’ Donna sliced cheese and placed it on the bread. ‘You saw how happy she was.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Surtsey said. ‘After everything you’ve done.’

  ‘You can choose to believe me or not,’ Donna said, adding the second bread slice and halving the sandwich. ‘I know the truth. She wanted to end it herself and I helped. I did what you couldn’t do because you’re family. I did you a favour.’

  ‘The post-mortem will find out the truth.’

  Donna put both sandwich halves on a plate and came over to the bed. ‘There’s no post-mortem, you know that. A terminally ill patient dies in a hospice during the night. Hardly grounds for suspicion.’

  She held out half a sandwich. ‘Here, you need to eat.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Donna sighed and sat down, took a large bite from the sandwich and chewed. After a few moments she spoke. ‘I don’t expect you to come round straight away but a bit of appreciation wouldn’t hurt.’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘After all I’ve done for you.’

  Surtsey felt the pressure on her bladder, all that wine still sloshing around. She thought of the chemical toilet just outside the hut. A chance to get away.

  ‘I need to pee.’

  Donna frowned. ‘It can wait until I finish this.’

  ‘I really need to go.’

  Donna brushed crumbs from her hands and stood up. She went to the holdall and pulled out something white and plastic. A bedpan.

  ‘No,’ Surtsey said. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Nonsense, I can’t take that chance. This will be fine.’

  ‘I can’t go in that.’

  ‘Of course you can, there’s no need to be embarrassed, we’re friends. I’ve done this a million times with patients. I’ll be discreet, I promise.’

  Donna came to the bed and placed the bedpan on the blanket. She reached for the button on Surtsey’s jeans and undid them.

  Surtsey squirmed. ‘I’ve changed my mind, I don’t need.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s just me.’

  Donna pulled her jeans and pants down to her tied ankles.

  Surtsey felt the draft on her legs, goosebumps on her skin at the exposure. ‘Don’t.’

  Donna pushed at her buttocks, rolled her torso over as far as it would go with the constrained legs, slid the bedpan under her bum and rolled her back.

  ‘On you go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Donna smiled. ‘I won’t look, how about that.’

  She turned and faced the door of the bothy.

  Surtsey released her bladder, the relief overwhelming. So humiliating. She couldn’t get her legs spread enough and the pee ran in rivulets down the inside of her thighs and buttocks into the bedpan, uncomfortable warmth mixed with shame and relief. She seemed to pee forever an
d worried the bedpan would overflow. Eventually the stream stopped, the last drips trickling into the pan wedged under her bum.

  Donna turned. ‘Good girl.’

  She rolled Surtsey over and removed the bedpan, placing it on the floor. She went to the holdall and took out toilet roll and wet wipes.

  ‘I’ll sort you,’ she said. She dabbed with folded up squares of toilet paper, then a cold wipe against Surtsey’s buttocks. She dropped the paper and wipes in the bedpan and eased Surtsey’s hips straight. Her fingers lingered on the skin of her waist for a moment, then she went to the bottom of the bed and wriggled Surtsey’s pants and trousers up, Surtsey lifting her hips to let her.

  ‘I’ll get rid of this,’ Donna said, picking up the bedpan from the floor and heading out the door, which stayed open.

  Surtsey angled her head to see out. She could make out a swathe of volcanic rock, the black bubbles and jags of it sweeping towards shore. She looked for the jetty, a boat, anything out on the water, but couldn’t see from here. She strained at her wrist and ankle ties but they didn’t budge. She flopped back on the bed exhausted, head thumping, heart jumping in her ribs, the skin on her face tingling.

  Donna filled the doorway, silhouetted against the thin cloud outside, the shimmering sea. Surtsey tried to think what time it was, what day even. She’d slept for seven hours, at least that’s what Donna said. Did that mean it was early morning of the next day?

  ‘What’s your plan?’ she said, as Donna came in and pulled the door behind her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Surtsey shook her head. ‘There will a research team on the island soon.’ She raised her eyes to the roof, thinking. ‘The next one is scheduled for tomorrow, I think. They’ll come to the hut.’

  Donna laughed. ‘It’s so sweet you think you can lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘I checked the research trip schedule online, there isn’t one for ten days. But it doesn’t matter, the police have put a stop to any island visits because it’s a crime scene.’

  ‘But they already did forensic tests.’

  Donna shrugged. ‘Who knows? Anyway, we won’t be discovered for a long time, and by then I’ll have another plan.’

  Surtsey was about to speak when the ground shook under them. Another tremor. Donna braced herself against the roof and the doorframe. Surtsey felt vulnerable, spread-eagle on the bed. The aluminium legs of the bed scraped and rattled against the concrete floor and the bed shifted a couple of inches away from the wall and into the room.

  The quake kept going. Normally a few seconds and these shocks were over but this grumbled on, a low level buzz of the earth amplifying to a shiver then jerks, each one making Surtsey’s muscles clench. The loaf of bread fell over on the table, the knife bumped off the plate where it had been placed, the water bottles arranged along the wall shimmied and danced, nudging each other as if sharing a secret. As long as the bothy didn’t shake apart, as long as the stove stayed in one piece and the windows in their frames, they were OK.

  After a minute or more a sudden jerk made the bed jump an inch, then there was stillness. Surtsey’s head thumped with the blood coursing round her veins, her heart frantic, stomach tight.

  Donna’s eyes were wide, a grin on her face as if they’d shared a secret. ‘That was something.’

  Surtsey looked at her wrists. ‘You have to untie me, it’s not safe.’

  Donna patted the concrete wall. ‘You’re OK, this thing will stand up to more than that.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t, what if there are more quakes? Stronger ones?’

  Donna shook her head. ‘I can’t let you go.’

  She looked around the room, assessing it, checking for anything out of order.

  ‘Now, I have to get the rest of our provisions,’ she said, reaching for the door handle. ‘I won’t be long. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?’

  Surtsey stared at her for a long time then shook her head.

  Donna opened the door and stepped into the doorway. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  The door closed behind her and Surtsey heard the key turn in the lock.

  42

  She looked around for something to help her. Flexed her wrists in turn, hoping the ropes had loosened, but she couldn’t feel any difference. She did the same with her legs, nothing. She craned her neck to survey the room. The stove was still going, the water pan on the side cooling. The rucksack and the holdall on the floor. She wondered if Donna had unpacked everything, there must be something she could use. She looked at the table again. Two mugs, the open cheese packet, the remains of a sandwich.

  The knife. Just a butter knife, but a knife all the same. It had bumped off the plate in the tremor and was sitting near the edge of the table about three feet away from her. It might as well have been a million miles.

  Surtsey looked at the door. She wondered what Donna meant by getting the rest of the provisions. Was she only away for a few minutes to the boat to bring more bags, or did she have to leave the island and head back to Portobello? The difference between ten minutes and two hours.

  Surtsey put her head back on the pillow and thought. She summoned all her energy and threw her body up and to the left. The bed scraped an inch to the left with her. Holy shit, this could work. She tried to calm her breath, get her energy back, then made the same manoeuvre again. The bed jumped again, landing another fraction closer to the table and the knife. The table was low, only an inch or two higher than the bed frame. The knife was sitting on the edge, almost hanging over. If she managed to position the bed in the right place, she might be able to scoop it with her fingers into her grasp.

  She heaved again and the bed rattled and shifted. It was noisy, the metal legs against the concrete floor, and Surtsey waited a moment afterwards, listening for anything from outside. But all she could hear were gulls and crows.

  She repeated the movement again and again. She had to presume Donna would be back sooner rather than later, so she worked as fast as possible. Each exertion was taking its toll, decreasing her energy levels, the ropes digging into her wrists and ankles with every tiny jump. She found it easier to swing the bottom half of the bed with one heave then the top half of the bed in the next, easing the strain on her a little and effectively walking the bed over to the table.

  Heave after heave, Surtsey arched then thrashed her back against the covers, the bed creeping towards the table with each effort until finally she was almost there. She stretched her left hand out as far as it could go, brushed at the end of the knife handle with her fingertips, but couldn’t get any purchase.

  Two more bumps, her arms and legs drained, the skin on her wrists cut by the ropes, the abrasions showing small bubbles of blood along them.

  She stretched again, touched the knife, but it slipped under her finger and spun away from her. She heaved again, lower half of the bed then the upper half, another two inches closer, then she spread her fingers as wide and long as she could. Her middle finger touched the handle, pushed it down against the wooden slat of the table. She managed to get her index finger to hold the handle there as she did a desperate flick back with her middle finger, and the knife budged a couple of inches towards her. It was enough to get a grasp with both fingers. She lifted it and precariously bent her fingers until she could use her thumb to balance her grip from the other side.

  She had it. She fucking had it.

  She looked at the door. Maybe she had hours. Maybe she had two minutes. Maybe she had no time at all.

  She flicked the knife upside down in her hand and felt under the mattress. The frame seemed solid underneath and she carefully placed the knife under the mattress then lowered the mattress back down.

  She thrashed again, this time in the other direction, trying to get the bed back in place. Again, it was easier doing the top half then the bottom. She had cramp in her shoulder blades and calves
, her biceps and forearms burning with the exertion every time she moved. She launched herself away from the bed again, the legs scraping against the floor but moving, an inch at a time. Despite the pain surging through her she felt energised. This was a way out, this was a possibility of escape. She had to take it.

  She stopped for a second and listened. No noise outside. The air felt electric with silence after the constant grate of the bed legs on the floor. She heaved again and again, top then bottom. She was getting closer to her original position with every thrust but the bed was slightly skewed, the feet end sticking out more than the top. She didn’t know exactly where she’d been before, but the angle made it obvious that the bed had moved.

  She heaved her legs again, the ropes slicing into her ankles, and she grunted in pain. The bed moved, then moved again with the next effort. The bed had been up against the wall when she woke up, but the earthquake had shifted it a little. She tried to guess where it had been. Then she thought about the scraping. She looked but couldn’t see any marks on the concrete.

  She heaved one more time, the bed snapping to the right, further away from the table. It still hadn’t quite straightened up. She was about to thrust herself upwards again when the door swung open and Donna came in carrying another holdall and a small backpack.

  43

  She tried to calm her breathing. Her wrists raged in pain, her ankles too, all her muscles screamed at her, but she tried to just lie there as if she’d been doing nothing. Her armpits were damp from the effort, sweat at the base of her back and between her thighs, but she hoped her face wasn’t too flushed.

  Donna smiled at her and put the bags down.

  She looked around the room then back at Surtsey. Her eyes went to the foot of the bed, at a slight angle to the wall. She frowned. Looked at the floor. Surtsey kept her eyes on her, watching, didn’t try to crane her neck or look at what Donna was seeing. Marks on the floor, something amiss in the room, the knife gone from the table.

  Donna came over and stood at the foot of the bed.

  She leaned down and lifted the frame, carried it to her left until it was flush with the wall.