by Lucy Foley
‘No. We should leave it where it is,’ Femi says. ‘We shouldn’t have even touched it. Or the crown, to be honest.’
‘Why?’ Angus asks.
‘Because, you idiot,’ Duncan snaps, ‘it could be evidence.’
‘Hey,’ Angus says, as they leave the shoe and carry on. ‘The wind – it’s stopped.’
He’s right. Somehow, without their noticing it, the storm has worn itself out. In its wake it leaves an eerie stillness that makes them long for its return. This quiet feels like a held breath, a false calm. And they can hear their own frightened breathing now, hoarse and shallow.
It has been difficult to make much progress when they’re checking in all directions – anxiously scanning the velvet darkness for any threat, any sign of movement. But now, finally, the Folly looms into view in the distance, its windows reflecting a black glitter.
‘There.’ Femi stops short. The others behind him freeze.
‘I think—’ he says, ‘I think there’s something there.’
‘Not another fucking shoe,’ Duncan shouts. ‘What is this? Cinderella? Hansel and bloody Gretel?’ None of them are convinced by this attempt at a joke. All of them hear the rattle of fear in his voice.
‘No,’ Femi says. ‘It’s not a shoe.’
All of them have heard the edge to his voice. It makes them want very much not to look, to cringe away from whatever it is. Instead they force themselves to stand and watch as he moves his torch in a slow arc, the light travelling weakly across the ground.
There is something there. Though it’s not a something, this time. It’s someone. They look on in growing horror as a long shape appears in the light upon the earth. Prone, terrible, definitely human. It lies fairly close to the Folly, on the edge of where the peat bog takes over from the more solid ground. In the wind the edges of the body’s clothing fidget and snicker, and this, along with the wavering light from the phone’s torch, gives an unnerving impression of movement. A macabre trick, a sleight of hand.
To the ushers it doesn’t seem likely that there can really be a human being inside those clothes. A human who was, until recently, talking and laughing. Who was among them all, celebrating a wedding.
Earlier
AOIFE
The Wedding Planner
With the help of several of the waiting staff, and infinite care, we have lifted the great cake into the centre of the marquee. Shortly the guests will be called in here to gather around it, to witness the cutting of the first slice. It feels as much of a sacrament as the ceremony in the chapel earlier.
Freddy emerges from the catering area, carrying the knife. He frowns at me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, looking closely at me.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. I suppose I must be wearing the tension of the day on my face. ‘Just feeling a little overwhelmed, I suppose.’
Freddy nods, he understands. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’ He passes me the knife, to place beside the cake. It’s a beautiful thing, finely wrought: a long blade and an elegant mother-of-pearl handle. ‘Tell them to be really careful with this. It could give you a nick from the slightest touch. The bride asked for it to be sharpened specially – madness really, as a knife like this is really meant for cutting through meat. It’ll go through that sponge like it’s butter.’
JULES
The Bride
Olivia and Will, by the cliff edge: I heard it all. Or, at least, enough to understand. Some of it was snatched away by the wind and I had to move so close to them that I was certain that they would glance in my direction and see me. But apparently each was too intent on the other – their confrontation – to notice. I couldn’t make sense of it at first.
‘I’ll tell her about us,’ Olivia shouted. At first I resisted understanding. It couldn’t be, it was too horrific to contemplate—
I thought then about Olivia, when she came out of the water. How it seemed, for a moment, like there was something she was trying to tell me.
Then I heard the way his voice changed. How he put his hand over her mouth. How he grabbed her arm. That shocked me even more than the actual substance of what he was saying. Here was my husband. Here was also a man I barely knew.
As I watched them from the shadows I noticed a kind of physical familiarity between them that spoke more eloquently than any words.
When I saw them by the cliff edge the whole hideous shape of it began to coalesce before me.
There wasn’t time for anger at first. Only for the huge, existential shock of it: the bottom dropping out of everything. Now I am beginning to feel differently.
He has humiliated me. He has played me for a fool. I feel the rage, almost comforting in its familiarity, blossoming up inside of me and obliterating everything else in its wake.
I rip off my gold crown, cast it to the ground. I stamp down until it is reduced to a mangled piece of metal. It’s not enough.
OLIVIA
The Bridesmaid
‘Will!’ It’s Jules’s voice. And then a bright bluish light – the torch on her phone. It feels like we’ve been caught in a spotlight. Both of us freeze. Will drops my arm, straight away, like my skin has burned him, and steps quickly away from me.
I couldn’t tell anything from the way she said his name. It was completely neutral – maybe a bit of impatience. I wonder how much she has seen, or, more importantly, how much she has heard. But she can’t have heard all that much, can she? As otherwise – well, I know Jules. We’d probably both be lying at the bottom of that cliff by now.
‘What on earth are you two doing out here?’ Jules asks. ‘Will, everyone’s wondering where you are. And Olivia – someone said you fell?’ She comes closer. Something’s different about her, I think. She’s missing her gold crown: that’s it. But maybe there’s another change, too, something that I can’t quite put my finger on.
‘Yes,’ Will says, all charm again. ‘I thought it best if I took her out for a bit of air.’
‘Well,’ Jules says. ‘That was kind of you. But you should come inside now. We’re going to cut the cake.’
NOW
The wedding night
The ushers move towards the body carefully.
It lies a little off the tract of drier land, where the peat takes over. Already the bog has begun to gather itself around the edges of the corpse, hemming it in diligently, lovingly – so that even if the dead one were suddenly to miraculously come to life, to stir itself and try to stand, they might find it a little more difficult than expected. Might struggle to free a hand, a foot. Might find themselves held close and tight to the wet black breast of the earth.
The bog has swallowed other bodies before, swallowed them whole, yawned them deep down into itself. This was a long time ago, though. It has been hungry for some time.
As they creep closer, disparate parts are revealed in the sweeps of light: the legs, splayed clumsily outwards, the head thrown back against the ground. The vacant, sightless eyes, gleaming in the beam. They glimpse a half-open mouth, the tongue protruding slightly, somehow obscene. And at the sternum a stain of dark red blood.
‘Oh fuck,’ Femi says. ‘Oh fuck … it’s Will.’
For the first time, the groom does not look beautiful. His features are contorted into a mask of agony: the staring clouded eyes, that lolling tongue.
‘Oh Jesus,’ someone says. Angus retches. Duncan lets out a sob: Duncan who none of them have seen moved by anything. Then he crouches and shakes the body – ‘Come on, mate. Get up! Get up!’ The movement creates a horrible pantomime of animation as the head rolls from side to side. ‘Stop it!’ Angus shouts, grabbing at Duncan. ‘Stop it!’
They stare and stare. Femi’s right. It is. But it can’t be. Not Will, the anchor of their group, the untouchable one, loved by all.
They are all so focused upon him – their fallen friend – so caught up in their shock and grief, that they have let their guard down. None of them notice the movement a few feet away: a second figure, very
much alive, stepping toward them out of the darkness.
Earlier
WILL
The Groom
Jules and I walk back to the marquee together. I leave Olivia to make her own way. For one crazy moment there, realising how near we were to the cliff edge, I was tempted. It wouldn’t have come as that much of a surprise. She tried to drown herself earlier, after all – or that’s certainly how it looked, before I saved her. And with this wind – it’s really blowing a gale now – there would have been so much confusion.
But that’s not me. I’m not a killer. I’m a good guy.
It’s all somewhat out of control, though, everything getting out of hand. I’ll have to sort things out.
Obviously I could never have told Jules about Olivia. Not by the time I made the connection between them that day at her mum’s house, not when it had gone so far. What would have been the point in hurting Jules unnecessarily? The thing with Olivia – that was never going to be real, was it? It was a temporary attraction. With her it was all based on lies, hers as much as mine. In fact it was the pretence that got me going when we met on that date, trying to be someone she wasn’t. Pretending to be older, pretending to be sophisticated. That insecurity. It made me want to corrupt her, rather like a girlfriend I had at uni once, who was one of the good girls – smart, a hard worker, who came from some crummy school and didn’t think she was good enough to be there.
When I met Jules at that party, however, that was different. It was like fate. I saw how good we would be together straight away. How good we’d look together – physically, yes, but also in how well-matched we were. Me, on the brink of a promising new career, her, such a high flyer. I needed an equal, someone with self-confidence, ambition – someone like me. Together we’d be invincible. And we are.
Olivia will keep quiet, I think. I’ve known that since the beginning. Knew she wouldn’t feel anyone would believe her. She doubts herself too much. Except – and perhaps I’m simply being paranoid – it does feel like she’s changed since we’ve been here. Everything seems changed on this island. It’s as though the place is doing it, that we’ve been brought here for a reason. I know that’s ridiculous. It’s the fact of having so many people in one spot all at once: past and present. I’m usually so careful, but I admit I hadn’t thought it all through, how it might play out having them all here together. The consequences of it.
So. Olivia: I think I’m fine there. But I’ll have to do something about Johnno, soon as I get back to the marquee. I can’t have him running his mouth off to anyone and everyone. I underestimated him, perhaps. I thought it was safer to have him here than not, to keep him close. But Jules invited Piers without my knowing. Yes, actually, that’s where it all went wrong. If she hadn’t, Johnno would never have known about the TV thing and we could have carried on as normal. It would never have worked, him on the show, he must know that. He does, in fact: he put it so well himself. He’s an absolute liability. With his pot-smoking and his drinking and his long fucking memory. He’d have had some sort of freak-out in front of a journalist and it would all have come out. If he can see that – what a disaster he would have been – then I don’t really understand why is he so cut up about it. Anyway, he’s dangerous. What he knows, what he could tell. I’m fairly sure no one would believe him – some absurd story from twenty years ago. But I won’t run that risk. He’s dangerous in other ways too. I have no idea what he was about to do in the cave, because I had the blindfold on, but I’m bloody glad Aoife found us when she did, otherwise who knows what might have happened.
Well. This time, he’s not going to catch me unawares.
HANNAH
The Plus-One
I’m trying to look at it rationally, what I learned from Jethro and Luis. Is there the smallest chance it’s a coincidence? I am trying to listen to my sensible voice. Imagining what I would tell Charlie in a similar situation: You’re drunk. You’re not thinking coherently. Sleep on it, think again in the morning.
But really – even without having to reflect properly – I know. I can feel it. It fits, too neatly to be any coincidence.
The video of Alice was posted anonymously, of course. And we were too lost in grief at the time to think about seeking out her friends, who might have been able to help us find the culprit. But later, I vowed that if I ever had a chance to get my revenge on the man who ruined my sister’s life – who ended her life – I would make him suffer. Oh God … and to think I fancied him. I dreamt about him last night – the thought makes more bile rise into my mouth. It is yet another insult, that I fell for the same charm that destroyed Alice.
I think of Will at the rehearsal dinner. Did we meet at the engagement drinks? You seem familiar. I must have seen you in one of Jules’s photos. When he said he recognised me, he didn’t recognise me. He recognised Alice.
Beneath my calm exterior, as I step back into the marquee, is a rage so powerful it frightens me. The man responsible for my sister’s death has flourished, has carved a career out of false charm, out of essentially being good-looking and privileged. While Alice, a million times brighter and better than him – my clever, brilliant sister – never got her chance.
I’m surrounded by a sea of people. They’re drunk and stupid, bumbling about. I can’t see through them, past them. I push my way through, at times so forcefully that I hear little exclamations, sense heads turning to look at me.
The lights seem to be failing again. It must be the wind. As I walk through the crowd they flicker and go out, then come on again. Then out. Earlier, when it was twilight, you could still see pretty well. But now without the electric lights it’s nearly pitch-black. The little tea lights on the tables are no use. If anything it’s more confusing, being able to see vague shapes of people, shadows moving this way and that. People shriek and giggle, bump into me. I feel like I’m in a haunted house. I want to scream.
I clench and unclench my fists so hard I feel my nails puncture the flesh of my palms.
This is not me. This is a feeling like being possessed.
The lights come on. Everyone cheers.
Charlie’s voice, amplified by the mic, echoes from the corner of the room. ‘Everyone: it’s time to cut the cake.’ Over the guests crowding in front of me I stare at my husband, holding his microphone. I have never felt so far away from him.
There is the cake, white and glistening and perfect with its sugar flowers and leaves. Jules and Will stand, poised, next to it. And in fact, they look like the perfect figurines atop a wedding cake: him lean and fair in his elegant suit, her dark and hourglass-shaped in her white dress. I would never say I have hated anyone before. Not properly. Not even when I heard about Alice’s boyfriend, what he had done to her, because I didn’t have a real figure to focus it on. Oh, but I hate him, now. Standing there, grinning into the flashes of a hundred mobiles. I move closer.
The wedding party is clustered around them. The four ushers, grinning away, patting Will on the back … and I wonder: have any of them glimpsed his true nature? Do they not care? Then there’s Charlie, doing a pretty good impression – and I’m certain it’s just that – of looking sober and in control of his faculties. Nearby stand Jules’s parents and Will’s, smiling on proudly. Then Olivia, looking as miserable as she has all day.
I move a little closer. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, this energy that is crackling through me, as though my veins have been fed with an electric current. When I put out a hand I see my fingers tremble with it. It frightens me and excites me at the same time. I feel that if I were to test it out, right now, I’d find that I have a new, unnatural strength.
Aoife steps forward. She passes a knife to Jules and Will. It’s a big knife, with a long, sharp blade. There is a mother-of-pearl handle to it, as though to make the whole thing look softer, to conceal its sharpness, as though to say: this is a knife for cutting a wedding cake, nothing more sinister than that.
Will puts his hand over Jules’s. Jules smiles at us all.
Her teeth gleam.
I move closer still. I’m nearly at the front.
They cut down, together, her knuckles white around the handle, his hand resting upon hers. The cake cleaves away, exposing its dark red centre. Jules and Will smile, smile, smile into the phone cameras around them. The knife is placed back on the table. The blade gleams. It is right there. It is within reach.
And then Jules leans down and picks up a huge handful of cake. Whilst smiling for the cameras, quick as a flash, she smashes it into Will’s face. It looks as violent as a slap, a punch. Will staggers away from her, gaping through the mess at her as chunks of sponge and icing fall, landing on his immaculate suit. Jules’s expression is unreadable.
There is a moment of appalled silence as everyone waits to see what will happen. Then Will puts a hand to his chest, does an ‘I’ve been hit’ pantomime, and grins. ‘I better go and wash this off,’ he says.
Everyone whoops and cheers and shrieks and forgets the strangeness of what they just saw. It is all a part of the ceremony.
But Jules, I notice, is not smiling.
Will walks from the marquee, in the direction of the Folly. The guests have resumed their chatter, their laughter. Perhaps I am the only one who turns to watch him go.
The band begins to play again. Everyone spills towards the dance floor. I stand here rooted to the spot.
And then the lights go out.
OLIVIA
The Bridesmaid
He was right. I’m never going to tell Jules now.
I think about how he twisted it all around. How he made me feel it was my fault, somehow, everything that happened. He played on the shame he made me feel: the same shame I have felt ever since I saw him walk through the door with Jules. He has made me feel small, unloved, ugly, stupid, worthless. He has made me hate myself and he has driven a wedge between me and everyone else, even my own family – especially my own family – because of this horrible secret.