The Last Resort(40)
She touches the earpiece, wiggles it slightly, trying to see if she can pull it out. But they’d shown that particular option pretty clearly in the presentation – the design of the prototype. The single metal prong is in fact two prongs that spring open once they penetrate the skin, like those special fittings for hanging heavy pictures on thin internal walls. She’d watched a handyman hanging pictures at her parents’ Chelsea penthouse. He’d showed her the spring action of the wall fitting and explained it to her like she was stupid. She’d had an urge to ram it into his forehead, but had to content herself with imagining it instead of doing it.
Most of the time, she only imagined her violent episodes. The champagne flute had been the first one that she’d followed through on, which might explain why it was so vivid in her mind. If the technology does work as they claim, then it makes sense that that’s the memory it was going to project.
Damn them. She should never have come. Her curiosity and her urge to get one up on her fellow influencers had been too strong to ignore – and getting to come along with Giles had sealed it. A fancy trip to a secluded island. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, it seems.
She’s blocked out the sounds of the others now. Hasn’t even looked back to see if they’re following. She’s made her way over the rocks and is almost at the next section of the cliff path. She doesn’t know if this is the official route, but from her memory of where the big house is located, it seems right. She pauses for a moment to catch her breath, realising that she’s been half hiking, half climbing for quite some time. There’s an inlet behind the rocks, another small bay, with a narrow shingled beach in contrast to the sandy bay she’s left behind. Waves are already beginning to lap past the wrack line, seaweed and other debris swirling in the clear water as the retreat of the waves becomes ever smaller.
The tide is coming in.
She turns to look for the others and sees that although they’re still quite far behind, they are following her path. Brenda and Scott are both limping, and the other three are trying to help them along.
The sea is much closer to the tiki hut now.
Amelia will no doubt be trying to keep everyone calm, but she can’t have failed to notice that the sea is much closer to them than it was before.
She thinks about waiting, or going back and offering to help. But, no. She doesn’t know them. She doesn’t owe them anything.
Lucy is clearly wary of her now, after seeing the screening of the party. The others are a little less hostile, but they have definitely seen her in a different light. Even Brenda, who she was sure she’d won over with her inane chatter.
She doesn’t even care about Giles anymore. She thought she would. She truly did think she loved him, for a while at least. But seeing him in full action with those two girls has brought her to her senses.
Enough.
No doubt the others think she’s done him in . . . and right now, she wishes she had.
She scrambles up a jutting section of rocks onto the cliff path, heading towards the shingled inlet. She hauls herself up the final few steps, away from the cliff edge. Loose stones skitter across the narrow path, and she slides in closer still, hugging the bank. There are boulders up ahead, and as she heads towards them something moves in the corner of her eye, her peripheral vision just picking it up. Something in the shingled inlet below, washing in with the incoming tide. She stops walking and peers down. It’s either a plastic bag wrapped around seaweed or a dead fish. A big dead fish. A flash of turquoise and a flash of red under the clear water at the shore.
She keeps staring at it, even after she’s realised what it is. She can’t peel her eyes away from it. There’s a heavy feeling deep in her stomach, and her heart starts to beat a little too fast, bringing a wave of nausea as she catches a strong briny smell from the seaweed below, and that strange off scent that comes from slimy algae around rocks. And something else, although it could be her imagination. A coppery tang, with a sour, rotten undertone. Slithering its way in and out of the inlet, until an incoming wave forces it further. And further. And then it is there, washed up on the rocks.
His face swims into her vision. Beautiful eyes, sensual mouth. Desperate for her, ready to drink her up. Strong arms, pinning her down – now slapping weakly at the shoreline.
‘Giles,’ she says. To herself, because the others are still too far behind, and there’s no way Giles can hear her from down there.
‘Giles.’ She says it again. Then she starts to scream.
Summer 2000
George sits in the den alone, sad that Anne has gone. Hopefully she went straight back to her grandparents’ cottage, and she won’t tell – but you never know what someone is going to do. George always tries to be good. To be friendly and kind and do all the chores as requested. But still Father isn’t happy.
Father wasn’t always so bad.
But as he’s got older, and many of his loyal flock have deserted him – too tired of his old ways – he’s become angry.
Disappointed.
‘Why do they choose the word of the Devil over mine?’ he says. ‘Why do they choose to live their unfulfilled, sinful lives?’
Sometimes he takes the bellows from the fire and beats Mother. Sometimes he goes off for days on end, to stay with another of the mothers. Sometimes he forbids the siblings from playing together, leaving them all alone in their own rooms.