The Guest List(88)

WILL


The Groom


I’m washing the cake off my face in the bathroom at the Folly. Getting here was no picnic, even having the lights of the building to follow, because the wind kept trying to blow me off course. But perhaps it’s good to have some space, to clear my thoughts. Jesus, there’s icing in my hair, even up my nose. Jules really went for it. It was humiliating. I looked up afterward and saw my father, watching me. Same expression he’s always worn – like when the first team was announced for the big match and I wasn’t on it. Or when I didn’t get into Oxbridge, or when I got those GCSE results and they were a whisker too perfect. More like a sort of grim satisfaction, like he’d been proven right about me all along. I have never once seen him look proud of me. That in spite of the fact that I’ve only ever tried to better myself, to achieve, as he always told me to. In spite of everything I have achieved.

Jules’s expression when she picked up that slice of cake. Fuck. Has she worked something out? But what? Perhaps she was still just annoyed about the ushers carrying me off like that: the interruption to our evening. I’m sure it was that and nothing more. Or, if needs be, I’m sure I can convince her otherwise.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. It all suddenly feels so fragile. Like the whole thing could come crashing down at any moment. I need to go back there and get a handle on everything. But what to sort out first?

I look up, catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Thank God for this face. It doesn’t show one bit of any of it, the stress of the last couple of hours. It’s my passport. It earns me trust, love. And this is why I know I’ll always win, in the end, over a bloke like Johnno. I wipe one last tiny crumb from the corner of my mouth, smooth my hair. I smile.

And then the lights go out.





NOW


The wedding night


They crouch over the body. Femi – a surgeon in ordinary life, which feels very far away right now – bends down over the prone form, puts his face close to the mouth and listens for any sounds of breathing. It’s futile, really. Even if it were possible to hear anything over the sound of the wind, it is quite clear from the open, cloudy eyes, the gaping mouth, the dark stain of crimson at the chest, that he is very dead.

They are all so focused on the motionless form in front of them that none of them have noticed that they are not alone, none of them glimpsing the figure that has remained shrouded in darkness on the edge of their circle. Now he steps into the light of their torches, looming out of the blackness like some terrible, ancient figure – Old Testament, the personification of vengeance. They don’t even recognise him at first. The first thing they see is all the blood.

He appears to have bathed in it. It covers his shirt front: the garment now more crimson than white. His hands are steeped to the wrists in it. There is blood up his neck, blood crusted along his jaw, as though he has been drinking it.

They stare at him in silent horror.

He is sobbing quietly. He raises his hands towards them and now they catch the glint of metal. So the second thing they see is the knife. If they had time to think about it they might recognise it, the blade. It’s a long, elegant blade with a mother-of-pearl handle, most recently seen slicing through a wedding cake.

Femi is the first to find his voice. ‘Johnno,’ he says, very slowly and carefully. ‘Johnno – it’s all over, mate. Put the knife down.’





Earlier


WILL


The Groom


Fuck. Another power cut. I fumble in my top pocket for my phone, flick on the torch as I step out into the night. It’s really blowing a gale out here. I have to put my head down and lean into it to make any headway. Christ, I hate it when my hair gets messed up by the wind. Not the sort of thing I’d ever admit out loud – it wouldn’t be very on brand for Survive the Night.

When I look up to check the direction I am walking in, I realise that there’s someone coming towards me, visible only by the light of their torch. I must be lit up to them while they remain invisible to me.

‘Who’s there?’ I ask. And then, finally, I can make the shape of them out.

Make her out.

‘Oh,’ I say, in some relief. ‘It’s you.’

‘Hello, Will,’ Aoife says. ‘Got all that cake off?’

‘Yes, just about. What’s going on?’

‘Another power cut,’ she says. ‘Sorry about this. It’s this weather. The forecast didn’t say it would be nearly as bad as this. Our generator can’t keep up with it. It should really have kicked in by now … I was going to see what had happened. Actually – you wouldn’t be able to help me, would you?’

I’d really rather not. I need to get back, there are things to sort out – a wife to placate, a bridesmaid and a best man to … deal with. But I suppose I can’t do any of those things in the dark. So I might as well be of help. ‘Of course,’ I say gallantly. ‘As I said this morning, I’m only too eager to be of assistance.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind. It’s a wee way over here.’ She leads me off the path, round towards the back of the Folly. We’re sheltered from the wind here. And then – odd – she turns to face me, even though we haven’t reached anything that looks like a generator. She’s shining the light in my eyes. I put up a hand. ‘That’s a bit bright,’ I say. I laugh. ‘It feels like I’m at an interrogation.’