How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(51)

‘I need to go to the police,’ she eventually says, all the warnings we’ve heard about not washing away evidence, the internal swabs and exams that feel like being violated again ingrained in her, like for all women. ‘While there’s still evidence.’

But I stare at her in horror, a news story from a few years ago suddenly popping into my mind. It was a similar situation on another Greek island. But when the woman reported the rape, she was arrested and jailed. It took months for her family to eventually get her home. She’d been accused of lying. Protected from being identified by media law. But not social media. Tor couldn’t cope. She’s too private. She says being a Black woman living in Chelsea is bad enough.

‘Tor, I don’t think going to the police is the best idea. This isn’t like England. Women aren’t treated brilliantly here.’ I look up the story on my phone and show her. She crumbles even more.

‘So what am I going to do? They can’t get away with this! They’re probably doing this to different women every night.’

‘They won’t get away with this. I promise you.’

I spend the day taking care of Tor as her moods swing between desolate and furious and everything in between. I wash her hair for her in the giant bathtub in the main bathroom, wrap her in fluffy robes and towels, order her favourites from room service and pour her wine. Later, we’re sat out on the terrace, taking in the last of the sun’s rays.

‘I always thought I’d fight back, you know,’ she says, looking out to sea. ‘I didn’t think I’d be one of those women who just accept it.’

‘You were drugged,’ I remind her.

‘But not the second time. I just lay there. I was so scared. All these terrible thoughts were going through my head, like he could kill me and throw me out to sea.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘The boat never actually left the dock. When Archie—’ She chokes on his name. ‘When he’d finished, I got dressed and made a run for it. They were shouting things after me.’ She wipes a tear away.

‘What happened to the other girls?’

‘I have no idea. They didn’t seem to be on the boat when I left.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m scared to go to sleep tonight.’

‘Wait there.’

I come back out a few minutes later with two tiny white pills and a glass of water. Tor looks at me.

‘It’s okay, it’s just some Valium. It’ll help you sleep. And I’ll be right here.’

She swallows the tablets and heads into her room. I lie next to her, holding her tight, until she starts to gently snore. That’s my cue.

An hour later, I’m dressed in a short red sundress and a pair of espadrille wedges. My hair is beach-curly and, thanks to my fresh tan, the only make-up I’m wearing is mascara. I love how getting ready on holiday is just so much easier. Before I leave, through the terrace, not the main foyer, I peek in at Tor, who is still sound asleep. I grab my bag, plus the ice pick from the bar, and head off into the Greek night.





42


MYKONOS PORT, MYKONOS

I march the fifteen-minute walk to the harbour, my heart setting the pace. Lib-er-ty. Lib-er-ty. Lib-er-ty, it says in time to my steps. It’s dark as I make my way through the town centre, but I don’t feel like I even need the cover. Plenty of people see me but there’s nothing that makes me stand out. I’m just another woman, in a beach dress, like hundreds of others. I must remember to tell Tor to take down her Insta posts from the island though. The fewer people who know we were here, the better.

I get to the marina super-quickly. It’s brightly lit, which makes it easy to see the names on the sides of the boats. It’s actually quite a sight, little sailing boats snuggled up next to giant yachts and every single size inbetween. I’ve always loved sailing. We had a yacht when I was younger and those idyllic days just bobbing along on the water, under the sun, are some of my happiest memories. It’s probably nostalgia or false memory syndrome, but I can’t remember my parents arguing when we were on the boat. The housekeeper would make us a delicious hamper of food – or pick one up from Fortnum – and we’d sit on the deck eating and chatting. My mother seemed to come alive with the sea breeze blowing her hair, she looked happy, free. I don’t know what happened to the yacht. I guess it went with her to C?te d’Azur.

Forcing the thoughts from my head, I refocus. I’m not here to sigh at the pretty boats and get all sentimental about a memory I’ve probably made up. I quicken my pace and, after about five minutes, I finally see the word ‘Liberty’ on the side of one of the midsized yachts. I can just about make out three figures on the deck. A bass beat is throbbing so loudly, the mooring shakes. I check the time on my phone, it’s not late. This is their pre-game session. I inhale deeply, the smell of seawater helping to put out the little fire of anxiety that’s been flickering in my belly since I left the hotel. I want to do this, have to do this, but three men is a lot. I have no idea how this is going to play out.

I step up to the prow and shout over the music. ‘Are you having a party up there?’

The music is turned down and someone – a man – peers over the edge at me. My skin prickles as he assesses me, weighing up whether I’m worth inviting aboard or not. I pass the test. He smiles, reminding me of a wolf in a picture book I had as a kid.