Something in the Water(75)

I don’t know why I choose the plane people of all things to get closer to him. But they’re on my mind. “The plane people. Maybe you’re right, maybe I’m crazy, but I feel like something is closing in on me, Mark, on us. Not just the police. Maybe it’s something I haven’t even thought of yet. I don’t know. I know it sounds stupid and paranoid and I have no evidence to back this feeling up, but I can just sense it all around me. Like it’s just waiting for something. I can’t see it yet, but I can feel it coming….”

I falter, seeing his concerned face. I must sound totally insane. And I know if I feel this way about things, then I should definitely stop all of this—the diamonds, the interviews, everything, like he says. But instead of stopping, I’m just diving deeper and deeper in.

Mark steps back into the bathroom and circles his arms around me; I let my head rest gently against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. He knows I need him.

“They’re not coming for us, Erin. Whoever they are, they’d never be able to find us. And even if they could find us, they already think we’re dead. Honey, they aren’t the ones we should be worried about. We should be worried about the SO15 investigation. And this Patrick character is almost definitely part of DCI Foster’s team. I mean, think about it. If Patrick were related in some way to the bag, then I’m pretty certain the police would have noticed him hanging around by now too, wouldn’t they?”

I nod mutely against his shoulder. He’s right; in a way, DCI Foster might be keeping us safe. Mark places a tender kiss on my forehead and leads me to bed. Magically we’ve come together again. I seem to have fixed the rift. For now.

But as I lie in bed beside him I wonder. Would the police notice someone following me? They didn’t notice a vulnerable young woman being radicalized right under their noses. They haven’t noticed Eddie looking into my life. They haven’t noticed a lot.





My coffee steams in the sharp chill of the interview room. This September has been arctic. The guard in the room with me here in Pentonville looks like an extra from the TV series T. J. Hooker. His physique appears to be ten percent hat and ninety percent barrel chest. Maybe I’m being unfair? He’s definitely more focused this morning than I am. I feel like I’m half asleep, stuck in an extended jet lag. I remember the sky back in Bora Bora, the heat on my limbs, the bright clear days.

I hope I wake up soon.

What if the rest of my life is just a waking dream, trapped here forever? I think of Mark, out there in the cold, somewhere on the bustling streets of London. He’s looking into office spaces for the new firm this morning. It all seems to be becoming a reality now. He’s meeting Hector at a notary later today to sign some paperwork. It’s all getting very exciting.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I decline the call. It’s Phil again. He’s furious we’re dropping Holli from the doc; I emailed him first thing this morning and he’s already called three times. He’s not happy. There’s a missed call from Fred too. He wants to see the footage I’ve got so far. He’s interested. He’ll want to dissect the wedding too, no doubt. It’s pretty rare that a BAFTA-winning, Oscar-nominated director would ever have even a passing interest in a first-time film like mine, but that’s nepotism for you. Or maybe it’s not. I mean, we’re not related; he just gave me my first job, somehow I managed not to fuck it up, and he’s been watching over me ever since. Plus he gave me away. I’d love to give him some of the footage, but of course, SO15 has most of my footage. Explaining that to Fred will take more time than I have right now.

The cage buzzer in the hall rumbles. Unlike the room at Holloway, this one has no door, only an archway leading out into the corridor. I wince at the off-white prison walls and tell myself to perk up. Life could definitely be worse. It could always be worse.

The buzzer sounds again.

I look up and see Eddie Bishop, sixty-nine, handsome, through the archway as he heads down the squeaky linoleum corridor, led by another guard.

Although Eddie’s wearing the same gray marl tracksuit that all the inmates wear, it doesn’t quite hang the same on Eddie. He might as well be wearing one of the three-piece suits I’ve seen him wear in countless research photos. He’s got gravitas. But perhaps I think that because I know his crimes, his history.

He looks like a cockney Cary Grant; God knows how he stays so tanned in prison.

He sees me, gives me a smile. Why are bad boys always so attractive?

I suppose, at the end of the day, if you’re not good-looking you don’t get away with being a bad boy. You just get called a thug.

He pulls out his chair and sits. Here we finally are. Me and Eddie Bishop.

There’re smiles all around. Then T. J. Hooker pipes up.

“You all right, Eddie? Need anything? Water?” His tone is friendly, pally. We’re all friends here.

Eddie turns back, slow, smooth.

“Nah, Jimmy. All good here. Thanks very much.” His voice is cheery. Today’s a good day.

“No problem. Just give us a shout if you need anything.” Jimmy looks to the other guard now, the one who brought Eddie in, and gives him a nod. Both wander through the archway and out into the corridor. “We’ll be down the hall in the break room.” Jimmy’s talking to Eddie, not me. And with that they both disappear from view, their shoes squeaking away, leaving me staring wide-eyed after them.