The Guest List(44)
Then he moves a little closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, Aoife. Thank you.’ He leaves his hand there a beat too long, so that I can feel the heat of his palm seeping through my shirt. I am suddenly very aware that it is just the two of us in this big echoing space.
I smile – my politest, most professional smile – and take a small step away. I suppose a man like him is very sure of his sexual power. It reads as charm at first, but underneath there is something darker, more complicated. I don’t think he is actually attracted to me, nothing like that. He put his hand on my shoulder because he can. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. But it felt like a reminder that he is the one in charge, that I am working for him. That I must dance to his tune.
NOW
The wedding night
The search party marches out into the darkness. Instantly the wind assaults them, the screaming rush of it. The flames of the paraffin torches billow and hiss and threaten to extinguish. Their eyes water, their ears ring. They find themselves having to push against the wind as though it were a solid mass, their heads bent low.
The adrenaline is coursing through them, it’s them versus the elements. A feeling remembered from boyhood – deep, unnameable, feral – stirring memories of nights not altogether unlike this. Them against the dark.
They move forward, slowly. The longish tract of land between the Folly and the marquee, hemmed in by the peat bog on either side: this is where they will begin their search. They call out: ‘Is anyone out there?’ and ‘Is anyone hurt?’ and ‘Can you hear us?’
There is no reply. The wind seems to swallow their voices.
‘Maybe we should spread out!’ Femi shouts. ‘Speed up the search.’
‘Are you mad?’ Angus replies. ‘When there’s a bog in either direction? None of us knows where it starts. And especially not in the dark. I’m not – I’m not frightened. But I don’t fancy finding, you know … shit on my own.’
So they remain close together, within touching distance.
‘She must have screamed pretty loud,’ Duncan shouts. ‘That waitress. To be heard over this.’
‘She must have been terrified,’ Angus shouts.
‘You scared, Angus?’
‘No. Fuck off, Duncan. But it’s – it’s really hard to see—’
His words are lost to a particularly vicious gust. In a shower of sparks, two of the big paraffin torches are snuffed out like birthday candles. Their bearers keep the metal supports anyway, holding them out in front like swords.
‘Actually,’ Angus shouts. ‘Maybe I am a bit. Is that so shameful? Maybe I’m not enjoying being out here in a bloody gale, or … or looking forward to what we might find—’
His words are cut off by a panicked cry. They turn, holding their torches aloft to see Pete grasping at the air, the lower half of one leg submerged.
‘Stupid fucker,’ Duncan shouts, ‘must have wandered away from the drier part.’ He’s relieved though, they all are. For a moment they thought Pete had found something.
They haul him out.
‘Jesus,’ Duncan shouts, as Pete, freed, sprawls on hands and knees at their feet, ‘you’re the second person we’ve had to rescue today. Femi and I found Charlie’s wife squealing like a stuck pig earlier in this bloody bog.’
‘The bodies …’ Pete moans, ‘in the bog …’
‘Oh pack it in, Pete,’ Duncan shouts angrily. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ He swings his torch nearer to Pete’s face, turns to the others. ‘Look at his eyes – he’s tripping out of his mind. I knew it. Why did we bring him? He’s a bloody liability.’
They are all relieved when Pete falls silent. No one mentions the bodies again. It is a piece of folklore, they know this. They can dismiss it – albeit less easily than they might in the light of day, when everything felt more familiar. But they can’t dismiss the purpose of their own mission, the possibility of what they may find. There are real dangers out here, the landscape unfamiliar and treacherous in the dark. They are only now beginning to realise it fully. To understand just how unprepared they are.
Earlier that day
JULES
The Bride
I open my eyes. The big day.
I didn’t sleep well last night and when I did I had a strange dream: the ruined chapel crumbling to dust around me as I walked into it. I woke up feeling off, uneasy. A touch of hungover paranoia from a glass too many, no doubt. And I’m sure I can still detect the lingering stench of the seaweed, even though it’s hours since it was removed.
Will moved to the spare room first thing in a nod to tradition, but I find myself rather wishing he were here. No matter. Adrenaline and willpower will carry me through: they’ll have to.
I look over at the dress, hanging from its padded hanger. Its wings of protective tissue dance gently to and fro in some mysterious breeze. I’ve learned by now that there are currents in this place that somehow find their way inside, despite closed doors and shut windows. They eddy and caper through the air, they kiss the back of your neck, they send a prickle down your spine, soft as the touch of fingertips.
Beneath my silk robe I’m wearing the lingerie I picked out for today from Coco de Mer. The most delicate Leavers lace, fine as cobweb, and an appropriately bridal cream. Very traditional, at first glimpse. But the knickers have a row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons all the way through, so that they can be completely opened. Nice, then very naughty. I know Will will enjoy discovering them, later.