Алекс Баркли - I Confess

‘Because I know you didn’t do this,’ she said.

‘So do I!’ said Johnny. ‘That’s not the point! Jesus, Edie. Were you listening to anything I said?’

Edie’s hands trembled. She glanced at Laura, who was staring ahead, jaw set, lips pouting, gaze unwavering.

‘So,’ said Laura, ‘if Edie voted “Yes” — who was the other “No”?’

‘Laura,’ said Patrick. ‘Come on.’

Murph started to count on his fingers. ‘It’s not me, it’s not Clare, obviously. It’s not Patrick.’ He frowned.

‘Murph,’ said Patrick. ‘This isn’t helping.’

‘So it was you, then,’ said Murph. ‘That raised hand was a ruse.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Clare. ‘It was me. I voted “No”.’

Everyone’s heads whipped around to her.

‘You?’ said Laura, straightening in her seat.

‘Yes,’ said Clare.

‘I’ve seen it all now,’ said Laura.

‘I can understand Johnny’s concerns,’ said Clare.

Johnny sat up. ‘Thank you!’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Laura looked at Clare. ‘Are you joking me?’

‘Johnny is right,’ said Clare. ‘If he didn’t do this, like he says, that doesn’t mean the guards won’t come to a different conclusion.’

‘This is an irreversible decision,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m not sure everyone gets that—’

‘Of course we get that,’ said Clare. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Sorry but think of the regrets we might have if it all goes horribly wrong for Johnny and Edie? Or if our lives end up—’

‘Nothing’s going to happen to your life,’ said Laura. ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

‘It’s all very honourable to want to go to the guards,’ said Clare, ‘but you need to know that what happens after that will be completely out of your control. Once the genie is out of the bottle—’

‘There is never just one genie, though, is there?’ said Patrick. ‘What about bottle number two, genie number two? The one that appears a year or two down the line? And then we’ll all be hitting the headlines for covering up a murder. How is that going to play out? How can we justify that? Because, in that case — every single one of us is guilty. It will be obvious that we all agreed to this, that we spoke about it, that we voted on it, and that there was consensus. Otherwise, obviously, someone would have come forward. It means six people made a clinical decision—’

‘It’s hardly clinical,’ said Clare.

‘Well, I’m not seeing a lot of emotion from you,’ said Laura.

‘Excuse me?’ said Clare.

‘Lads, lads, lads,’ said Murph.

They fell into silence.

‘How did he get here?’ said Murph. ‘Terry. Is his van here? He’d hardly have been out walking — a night like tonight.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ said Johnny, ‘but that doesn’t mean it’s not somewhere.’

‘Someone could have seen him drive up,’ said Laura.

‘Of course,’ said Murph, ‘because it’s a busy thoroughfare.’

‘Well, he could easily have texted someone he was heading this way or he’d be held up because he had to stop by the inn.’ Laura paused. ‘Look how that good deed turned out for him.’

‘Everyone knows they don’t go unpunished,’ said Murph. ‘It’s his own tough.’

‘Stop,’ said Laura. ‘And he easily could have texted someone since he got here.’

‘If he had any coverage,’ said Clare. She looked at Johnny. ‘Did he have a mobile with him? Because they’ll be able to trace him pretty accurately with that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Johnny.

‘Well, does he usually have one?’ said Murph.

‘Why are you all acting like you’re figuring out how to cover up a fucking murder?’ said Laura. ‘What was the point of the vote, so?’

‘Not always,’ said Johnny, ignoring her, answering Murph. ‘There’s fuck-all coverage, so we use the walkie-talkies when he’s here. We’ve Wi-Fi in the house, so he might have WhatsApp, but that’s not going to work outside. And it obviously wouldn’t have worked tonight anyway.’

‘The thing about the phone, if we had it,’ said Murph, ‘is that it might have something on it, a text or whatever, that might prove to you’ — he looked at Johnny — ‘that you have nothing to worry about, and we can call the guards and be done with it. Terry could have been in the shit somewhere else and it has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well, I know it has nothing to do with me,’ said Johnny. ‘That’s the whole point.’

Edie stood up. ‘Sorry. I need to breathe.’

Everyone looked at her. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like my husband to excuse me. Because there is one place I can think of to check for Terry’s phone.’

Laura looked at Edie. ‘You do what you want, girl. It’s your house. And your husband.’

Edie walked over to Johnny. He took the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door. ‘Where are you going?’ he said, quietly.

‘Just... checking something,’ said Edie. ‘I’ll be right back.’

Johnny locked the door after her.

‘This is a joke,’ said Laura.

Edie took the stairs down to the basement. She was guided to the boot room by the glow from the emergency wall lights. She threw her heels into one of the slots, pulled on black rain boots, and grabbed a guest raincoat that went down to her knees. She ran into the utility room, and unhooked a set of keys from the rack. She pulled up her hood and paused at the door to look out through the small glass panel. The rain was striking the ground like spears.

She braced herself, opened the door, and went out into the wild night. The wind took her breath away. She paused, her hand to her chest, then ran up the slope towards the front of the inn, struggling to walk in the shifting, rain-soaked gravel.

She glanced into the car park, and saw three cars: hers, Johnny’s, and Patrick’s. She kept walking towards the chapel, nestled in a wishbone gravel path, and took the rear one to the chapel gate. She unlocked it and stepped out on to the narrow side road. She looked right and saw Terry’s van, parked up against the ditch, under a canopy of trees.

Clare shifted in her seat. ‘Johnny’s right about the attention this would bring, not just on the inn, but on all of us personally,’ she said. She stood up. ‘And I don’t know if you can see how we all look, but, to the outside world, we’re going to look like a group of drunk, entitled rich people, partying in a luxury hotel. Definitely drinking, possibly drugs. Some local inconsequential perhaps stumbled on to a secret, something our privileged world didn’t want revealed.’

‘But we’re not “rich people”,’ said Laura.

‘I’m not talking about how we see ourselves,’ said Clare. ‘I’m talking about optics.’

‘What the hell is “optics”?’ said Laura.

‘How this will look to the outside world,’ said Clare. ‘How, for example, you could view tonight, versus how a newspaper would view it based on how their readers would like to see it. The facts: we’re in a luxury inn, recently featured in Condé Nast Traveller — insert quotes from that — owned by a local rugby legend and his glamorous wife, the daughter of wealthy English blow-ins. “Among the guests” were a multi-millionaire hedge fund manager, the former director of nursing of the local hospital, the former sergeant’s daughter, a district court judge, and...’ she turned to Murph.

‘The newly appointed principal of the local secondary school.’

Everyone stared at him.

‘I know,’ said Murph. ‘And you thought the night couldn’t get any more fucked up.’

‘Congratulations?’ said Clare. ‘And so, off the top of my head — the spin on those facts. “Mystery Death at Luxury Inn. Body of fifty-something-year-old male discovered late last night on grounds of luxury inn, luxury, luxury, eye-watering room rates, drunken revellers, former convent, sacrilege, sacrilege, delay in reporting, blunt-force trauma, possible motive, unnamed sources, fractious relationship with owner. Ha, ha, “for all their money”, ha, ha, — misery, misery, entitled, entitled.’