Your Message:
Hi JD (I don’t know what else to call you, so we’ll go with this)
Honestly, I can’t really believe I’m getting in touch with you, I’m not very good at social media but something in me is compelled to contact you.
I do want to start by saying thank you. Your words have been a comfort, more than a comfort, a lifeline, these past couple of months. You see, I’ve been struggling to cope with the anger I feel after the death of my son. Nobody else seems to understand my anger. I think it’s because they think it was his own fault that he is dead. That he killed himself because of a reckless choice. But he didn’t. She killed him. Without her, he would very likely still be alive.
My son Eddy was the perfect son. As a child and teenager, he was quiet, respectful and completely dedicated to his studies. He had his sights set on studying economics and had his eye on the top universities in the country. Well, you wouldn’t believe how thrilled I was to find out he had been offered a place at none other than the London School of Economics – I was very much the proud mother hen. His first year passed without incident. Eddy was still the young man I had raised; he did well in his first-year exams. Not exceedingly well, mind you, but that is always expected when one takes the step up from school to university. His second year was the same, but I did start to notice something in him. The desire to get out and see the world. This didn’t worry me, in fact the opposite: I was quite excited to see him venturing away from the library and exploring the big world. At the end of his second year, he got a job working in a bar in Menorca, not necessarily the summer job I would have chosen for him, but I decided it wasn’t my place to get involved. It was during his time in Spain that he met her. To say he was besotted would be an understatement. I remember the emails he used to send me. He wrote that she was like no one he had ever met before, that she was cool and sexy, that she liked to party but loved reading books about philosophy. I could go on, but I won’t.
Anyway, the summer was over and Eddy was devasted to have to leave Spain and her but I was of the opinion that it was a summer romance (I say romance; Eddy never indicated that she reciprocated his affection) and what might or might not have happened between them had come to an end. If only things had ended there.
I heard nothing of her from Eddy for a while. He’d returned to university for his third and final year and, by all accounts, was doing well. He messaged me from time to time but with nothing of note on the girl front. That was, until November.
Eddy messaged me full of excitement that she was moving to London and had invited him to her housewarming party. Saturday night, I’d given him a call to wish him luck and he’d thanked me and said he would call me the next day.
Eddy never made that call. Instead I received a very different message at 2 the following morning. My beautiful boy was dead. Drugs. I couldn’t believe it – Eddy had never done drugs in his life and I’m not just saying that as his mother. His friends said the same and even she attested to that, when she was questioned. Eddy had arrived at the party, far earlier than everyone else. Eddy wasn’t a party person, hence his ignorance of the ‘don’t arrive early’ rule. She was getting ready still and decided to pop a pill to get her in the mood. Ecstasy, apparently, but from what the coroner said the drugs weren’t exactly premium. She was a part-time waitress while trying to pursue her dream of being famous, so she couldn’t afford anything of quality. She said she took one of the pills and that Eddy had asked for one too. She claims she tried to discourage him but that he took it out of the bag and swallowed it. She then left to go and get set up for the party. She said she was ‘giving him some space to let the drug kick in’. He died at some point between then and three hours later when she finally realised he hadn’t come to the living room. She found him slumped on her dirty, threadbare carpet.
My lovely, kind, gentle Eddy died in a bedroom of a disgusting London houseshare after taking a pill that a good-for-nothing bitch gave to him and not a day goes by when I don’t think about what I want to do to her.
To look at me, you wouldn’t think I am the type of person to get angry. If you saw me, what you’d see is a sixty-year-old woman in smart trousers and an expensive set of pearls hanging over a buttoned-up cardigan. ‘She looks well-to-do’ is what you’d probably think. Not that that isn’t true but underneath it all, beneath the cashmere, is a soul consumed.
I cannot tell you how life-changing it is to know that you exist and feel the same as I do. A kindred spirit if you will.
Reading your work has made me think. I’m starting to see what I need to do to fix things, but I can’t do it alone. I need your help.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards,
Dr Joanna Upton
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kimberley
Sunday 27th July, Time Unknown
The pain is what eventually wakes me. I have no idea how long I was gone for but my respite from the horror of this place is violated by the pain. It roars in my head, shooting behind my eyes and making my eyelids flutter. It pulsates rhythmically. Like a baton on a drum, the pain strikes the back of my head, its waves reverberating around my skull. In the darkness, I reach a hand to my head and locate the source. The lump is coming along nicely. A gently rolling hilltop that served to knock me out quite successfully.
The bed is soft beneath me and slowly I shift myself upright. I sit in darkness as the memory of everything comes crashing down on me once again.
The villa. The Judge. The deaths of Jack, Sophia, Valentina and Mo. And they think I’m behind everything. They trusted me, and I’ve failed them.
How long have I been out for? Long enough for the Judge to have finished what he started?
‘Fuck,’ I shout into the darkness. The shout only serves to set my headache off further.
An ache creeps through my body. My arms throb from Daniel’s grip. Being in this villa, trying to satisfy the Judge’s sick agenda has left me exhausted. I sit up further and press my back against the headboard, leaning my weary body against it. I relish the darkness and quiet of the bedroom, letting my breathing and heart rate slow.
I give myself permission to wallow in my failure. It seems to gather in the pit of my stomach, making me feel sick. But maybe this is what the Judge wanted all along. The Judge wanted me to fail on national television, so he could prove what he said from the start: police officers are incompetent.
Well, the Judge picked the perfect person because I’ve already established how incompetent I am as a police officer and a person.
I reach my hand out to my left and walk my fingers along the side table. They brush the smooth base of what I hope is a lamp. Finding the cord, I guide my fingers down it and switch it on. The light sears my eyes for a moment and I’m reminded of the morning when I stepped outside, hungover and feeling sorry for myself. The memory of me this morning is as foreign and removed for me as thinking about a character in a film.
That Kim was an idiot, thinking the only problem she had was getting over a hangover. The Kim of the last five years has been stupid.
As my eyes adjust, I survey my prison.
Had this been any other moment, my jaw might have dropped. Had the circumstances been different, I might have squealed and broken into a smile. Had I been awarded a night in this room to get to know one of her fellow Islanders better, I might have been excited, there might have been butterflies in my stomach wondering what the night might hold. Had I not touched the skin of four dead people, I would have been impressed by this private room, or the boudoir as a sign above the door names it.
But instead, it all makes me queasy.
The walls and ceiling are painted a midnight blue. On the ceiling, golden stars that have been stencilled in a cluster above the bed are waiting to twinkle down at the bed’s occupiers.
The lighting in the room consists of a golden tube that runs across the middle of the wall and culminates in a giant golden heart above the headboard of th
e bed.
The bed itself is huge and circular; plastic rose petals are scattered across it. They stick to the bare skin on my arm.
Subtle.
My stomach churns. The heart only serves as a reminder of the four that stopped beating in the villa and the rose petals are the colour of spilled blood. The perfect presentation of it all jars with the events I’ve seen.
I can’t look at this. I lurch forward and grab fistfuls of petals in my hands, throwing them indiscriminately on the floor.
The violence of my movement makes my head sway. I don’t want to be in this room, full of petals and neon light. There’s a door on the opposite side of the room. Hopefully the bathroom will offer some relief from this horror. I wrench the door open and wrap my fingers around the cool rim of the sink, taking deep, steadying breaths.
When I’ve composed myself, I run the tap; cupping my hands under the water, I splash it on my face. The icy temperature of it makes me gasp but serves its purpose. The tears that have collected in my eyes are washed away along with the fire of my panic.
I pause before drying my face and, with my hands planted on the surface either side of the sink, I stare at my own reflection. Water clings to my cheeks and my dark eyebrows but the droplets don’t hide the truth of what I’ve become. The skin underneath my eyes has darkened and my eyes themselves are sunken. Their usual brightness is dulled as if covered over by a yellow film, streaks of red cut across them. My lips are cracked, desperate for moisture and care. My usual full cheeks have hollowed; I’m gaunt and drawn. It really is amazing the toll one day of stress can do to a person.
But then again, at least I’m alive. I am alive. I grip the sink harder and make a resolution. While I’m alive and breathing I will give everything I can to save the others, whether they want my help or not.
I roughly dry my face and, turning my back on my reflection, leave the bathroom. I stride to the door. I ball my hands into fists and bang them against the door, but the door barely shakes beneath my battering.
‘Rosalind, Daniel, Carly. Let me out. Please, don’t do this to me.’ I only realise I’m crying when I feel a warm tear roll down my cheek. It collects at the edge of my mouth and I lick my lips, tasting its saltiness. It doesn’t matter how much I strike the door or how much I protest. It does me no good. They’ve locked me in. Like it or not, I’m stuck here. The three survivors don’t want me anywhere near them.
But they’re not all survivors. One of them is a murderer.
I let my hands slide down the door and rest my forehead on it, taking some time to catch my breath.
If I want to help them, I need to break out of this room. I won’t be much help to anyone sitting on a bedroom floor. The door is locked, so the solution is simple, in theory: break out.
I stride across the room and flop down by the door, my eye line hovering next to the handle.
From inspection, it looks like a standard mechanism lock. If it were anything modern needing an electronic key card or anything older and lacking the mechanism, I’d be screwed. But there is a glimmer of hope; seems I’m not all out of luck yet.
A buffed brass rectangle houses a handle in the shape of a small fist and beneath it is a circular disc, within which there is a slim slit, the gateway to a lock that could be picked. If only I knew how.
Think, Kimberley, what would I need to pick a lock?
I scan the room; it isn’t exactly a treasure trove of items that would help me escape. The bed is covered in throws and cushions scrawled across with letters spelling the word ‘love’.
The room has a table in the far corner, champagne flutes, wine glasses and tall tumblers standing to attention, waiting to be the vessel for the lucky couple to drink from. Beneath is a small fridge. I head towards it. Sparkling water, still water, and bottles of white wine, red wine and Prosecco lie, their tops facing towards the glass fridge door.
Well, if I fail miserably, there’s enough alcohol here to sufficiently drink my sorrows away.
Ha! If there are bottles, there must be a bottle opener. It might be the perfect item to help me escape. Not that at this point I’m exactly sure how I’d use it.
A cursory glance, however, tells me that there is no bottle opener. Crouching down, I inspect the contents of the fridge more closely.
Damn. I smack my hand against the fridge door.
They’re all screw tops. No corks, no corkscrew.
I can’t stop myself wondering if this is a health and safety thing, which nearly makes me bellow at the irony of it. Neither health nor safety have been a concern in this house after the Judge took control. Quite the opposite.
I stop myself from being disappointed by the lack of bottle opener. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway; the corkscrew would have been too large to even fit into the lock’s slit. I’m a fool for even thinking it was possible.
What am I going to do? I need to get out of this room.
As a police officer, I never needed to pick a lock. If I was ever presented with a locked door I’d simply order for it to be rammed down. But, unsurprisingly, I don’t have a battering ram or a team to drive it at my disposal. I exhale; I don’t have anything.
‘Stop it,’ I say aloud. I won’t allow myself to give up this early. If my hours are numbered, I refuse to go down without a fight.
But the only frame of reference I have for lock picking is on television or in the movies. What do they do then?
My eyes shoot open. It is so obvious, and simple, and stupid. A hair grip. I’m forced to remember this item particularly because it often so annoys me how the only value women bring to heist films, aside from their bodies, are their hair accessories.
I pat my hands along my head, feeling for the bumpy metal surface of the grip. I ease it out and smile. This innocuous, brown hair accessory that regularly clogs my vacuum cleaner is transformed into the key of my escape.
‘No. Get your hands off me.’
A scream blasts into the room, coming through the speakers embedded in the wall. I jerk up, more alert than ever before. ‘Get off me. Please, please don’t hurt me.’
The voice belongs to Rosalind. The desire to escape intensifies within me. Rosalind is in danger. Serious danger.
I slot my nail into the gap between the grip’s teeth and wrench it open to create a U shape. I use my teeth to peel off the rubber coating at the end of each part of the grip. While the coating helped the grip slide into my hair, something tells me it will inhibit my ability to do this properly. If the lock mechanism is metal, I don’t want it sliding off the rubber.
Armed with my makeshift key, I proceed to the lock. I know that locks are multi-layer mechanisms, so the most important thing will be the positioning of my hair grip. I need to weave it through; I can’t just stab it in. In the movies, they usually jiggle it about.
‘Help me, please, someone, help me,’ screams Rosalind from within the villa. Her voice sounds closer now. My heart thuds and sweat prickles in my armpits. I’m running out of time to save her. And what about the others?
My fingers tremble. I feel them swelling from the increased blood flow surging through my body. Their dexterity is being dampened just as I need them more than ever. I hold the hair grip in my left and dominant hand. I lift it above the lock, pointing it downwards. With my right hand, I guide the hair grip into the lock. Once inside, I lower my hands, attempting to lever the mechanism. Millimetre by millimetre, I edge the hair grip further into the bowels of the keyhole, manoeuvring up and down. I’m unable to tell if it’s making any difference. I’m completely blind to the effects of my work. Dampness collects on my forehead, but I don’t dare spare a hand to wipe the sweat away.
‘Come on,’ I growl. There’s been no scream from Rosalind for several minutes and the rising nausea in my stomach makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. Does her silence mean she’s dead? I lean in closer to the hair grip and keyhole. It is working its way slowly further inside but is it even doing any good?
Then,
suddenly, with a sound like a tongue smacking against teeth, the lock clicks.
‘Oh my God,’ I gasp under my breath. I can’t believe I did it. That it worked. Scrambling to my feet, I grasp the ludicrous fist-shaped handle in my own fist and twist. The newly unlocked door swings open without issue. Ha! I give a small, involuntary bark of laughter. I’m free.
The corridor looms to my left beyond the threshold of this room. And suddenly, I’m hesitant. It’s like when someone has been working their whole life to achieve a goal and then when they finally succeed and get what they want they’re suddenly not sure if they want it after all. Winning my fight against the lock became my focus and what would happen when the door actually opened melted away.
I stand for a moment, hovering at the threshold, the dividing line between a place of safety and security and a place of danger and fear. I can’t help but wonder: What awaits me outside of this room?
Chapter Forty
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Reply to Contact Me form
Message:
Hi Joanna,
Thank you for getting in touch with me. It took great courage for you to reach out. I know my blog is a bit of an acquired taste but it’s an honour to hear how much my words have helped you. I’m so very sorry to hear about the death of your son and I completely understand the anger you are feeling. Losing a loved one is hard at the best of times, but it is almost unbearable if someone else is to blame for their death, if someone else took them away from you.
I have an idea of what I need to do to feel better and it could help you too, if you want to be involved?
Speak soon and stay strong,
JD
Chapter Forty-One
Kimberley
Sunday 27th July, Time Unknown
The door is cool when I wrap my fingers around it and lean outwards. My ears strain for whatever sound they might pick up but there’s nothing. The villa is completely silent. There are no more screams or shouts of pain. The quiet hangs in the air. The silence feels dangerous.
The Islanders Page 19