Something in the Water(57)

I’m following our plan. The plan to carry on like normal. So here I am. Being normal.

I look out across the grassy wasteland surrounding the council-estate. What I hazard a guess may be called the “communal gardens.” I woke up this morning thinking about the Sharpes. I’ve been trying not to, but they’re lurking in my mind, just out of sight. Flashes of the panic, bubbles in the water. And then two pale waterlogged corpses on stainless steel slabs. Our fault.

I feel as if I’m being watched. I have since we left the island. But more so since yesterday’s news. I scan the bleak buildings and grounds for a source but we appear to be of little interest to the locals. No one is watching. If whoever killed the Sharpes has tracked us down somehow, if they’re following us, they’re not letting on yet. Of course, this feeling of being observed could be something else entirely. I think of the chilled champagne we drank in Bora Bora—was it only a week ago? Champagne sent from the other side of the world. Eddie is interested in me too, isn’t he? Might he have someone following me now that I’m back? Checking up on me? Watching? I let my eyes wander across the complex. There’s a young white guy pacing near the car park, a phone pressed to his ear. A black guy sitting in his work van about to leave. An old lady entering the building opposite, wheelie shopping bag in tow. No one suspicious. No one who looks like a killer. Nobody has found me; I am just a damp woman waiting for someone to answer a buzzer. I look up at the hundreds of windows reflecting gray sky back down onto us. So many windows. So far from the plane at the bottom of the South Pacific Ocean.

I push the buzzer again. A long slow push.

Phil sighs. The camera is fucking heavy. I don’t blame him.

It’s 9 A.M. They should definitely be up by now. I’ve been up since dawn and I can safely say this is not my idea of easing gently back into work. Today is going to be a slog. From the little I’ve seen of Holli I already know this will be exhausting. But in the words of Murakami, the master of the hard slog: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

I press the buzzer again.

“WHAT!? What the fuck do you want? What?” The voice crackles through the metal grate of the entry system, abrupt and aggressive. It’s female, older than Holli, gruffer, huskier. I’d venture a guess we’ve woken up Mrs. Byford.

I hold down the buzzer and speak.

“Hi there, is that Michelle Byford? This is Erin. Erin Roberts. I’m here to see Holli. We’re supposed to be meeting her here at nine? To film?” I hear myself and I flinch inside. I know what people hear when they hear my voice. They hear privilege and condescension and bleeding-heart liberalism.

God, I’m in a funk today. Daniel and Sally Sharpe creep around my head. Get it together, Erin.

Silence. Phil sighs again.

“Oh, right.” The tone has changed, resigned now. “Guess you’d better come up then,” she mutters, annoyed. The door buzzes, clunks, and we push in.

I’ve told Phil what to expect here, but there’s only so much you can relay; it’s more of a general feeling you get from Holli than anything else, her stare, her smile. He’s watched the first interview, so I’m sure he’s picked up on it too. Anyway, he’s been warned: don’t get dragged into anything.

The Byford flat is on the sixth floor and predictably the lift is out of order. I’d be surprised if Phil has the energy to be dragged into anything after lugging the camera up six flights of stairs.

Michelle’s standing out in the communal hallway in furry slippers, powder-blue robe, and a “But first give me coffee” pajamas set, scowling at us. She’s clearly just got out of bed. No sign of Holli. Perhaps she’s still asleep?

Michelle looks exhausted. My notes say that she works full time in a department store. Fifteen years, ever since Holli’s dad left. Not to be rude but shouldn’t she be at work by now?

“Hi, Michelle. Lovely to meet you. Sorry for the early start,” I say, and to my surprise she takes my hand and shakes it.

A distracted smile. She seems worried about something. “I suppose you’d better go ahead and turn that on first.” She gestures to Phil’s camera.

Phil and I share a look and the camera is up on his shoulder. Red light on.

“I just don’t want to say it all twice.” Michelle looks at me and frowns to herself. “You’d better come in. I’ll stick the kettle on.” She shuffles in her pink booties into the linoleum-tiled flat. We follow. I’m starting to get the feeling that Holli isn’t in there.

Michelle busies herself about the narrow kitchen space.

“I’ve got to call the police if anyone comes asking questions, that’s the thing. Do you mind if I quickly call them up now?” She seems embarrassed, a woman forced into following rules she hasn’t signed up for.

I shake my head, I don’t mind. But the word police screams through my head. Police is not a word I wanted or expected to hear today.

“I’m sorry, Michelle, I really have no idea what’s going on here. Has something happened?” I look back at Phil, in case he’s figured it out. Have I missed something?

For a fraction of a second I think she might actually be calling the police because of me. Because of the plane. Because of the Sharpes. But that’s absurd, of course. Michelle doesn’t know. She doesn’t know me from Adam. And any brief impulse I felt yesterday to call the police after finding out about the Sharpes has long since evaporated. Involving the police at this stage would definitely not be a good idea. Michelle holds up her finger, phone to her ear. Wait.