Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

Shit .

“He said one of the porters had mentioned we’d left our bag by the boat. Paco wondered if we got it back in the end. I guess the porter we left it with must have totally misunderstood.”

“What did you do, Mark?” I demand. But I don’t really want to hear the answer. Because if I hear it, it’ll make it real.

“I had to say something. So, I don’t know, I was thinking on my feet. I didn’t, you know, think through the implications or whatever, I just…It just came out.”

I say nothing. I wait.

“I asked Paco what he was talking about and acted confused and then suddenly remembered that the other British couple, the Sharpes I think they were called, had mentioned something about a bag on our hike. Something about finding a bag, or something. The porter must have mixed us up, I told him. I said it was funny that he’d confused us because we’d had a similar problem before, it must be our accents, I said. And he laughed. And we left it at that.”

When he stops speaking, the silence floods the room again. We’re submerged in it.

“And now they’re dead,” I say.

“And now they are dead,” Mark echoes.

We let that and all its implications sink in.

Either the Sharpes had a diving accident or they were killed because someone thought they were us. We might have killed two people.

“Why did you say it?” I ask it with half-hearted intensity, because I know he couldn’t possibly have known this would happen, could he? I would have done the same thing, put on the spot like that, wouldn’t I?

He shakes his head. “I don’t know…I just did.” He rubs his face again and groans.

“Do you think it was them ? Do you think they killed them?”

He drops his hand and stares at me now. Sober, focused.

“Honestly? Honestly, Erin, there’s no way of knowing. But it’s a pretty elaborate way to kill someone. It could definitely have just been an accident. But—and I know this is awful—but if they were murdered, as terrible as that is, nobody will be looking for us now. As awful as that may sound…If it was deliberate—if they did come looking for and then killed ‘the couple that found the bag’—then it’s finished. Isn’t it? The couple is dead. They couldn’t find the missing bag. It’s finished. We’re safe. I made a mistake, definitely, but I’m glad with all my heart it wasn’t us, Erin. I’m glad no one is coming for us.” There’s finality to what he says. He takes my hand in his and I look down at our tightly gripped fists. He’s right. I’m glad it wasn’t us too.

We’re dead. They think we’re dead. And—bizarrely, for just a second—it does make me feel safer.

I’m almost certain we left no trace, but that’s the thing about slipups, isn’t it, you don’t know you’ve made one? I hear what Mark’s saying but in my heart I know, I just know, that they are still looking for us. Maybe we should call the police?

But I don’t say it out loud. Mark has made up his mind: no one is coming for us. He can tell me in a million different ways that it’s over now, but I won’t really hear them. I’ll know they’re coming for a long time yet.

So I don’t pursue it. I let it go. I’ll have to come to his conclusion on my own or not at all.

I nod.

“You’re right,” I say.

He wraps his solid arms around me and pulls me close in the silence of our home.

I press the entry buzzer.

Phil and I are standing outside the entrance of Holli Byford’s council block. Or rather, Holli’s mother’s council block. It’s raining a thin persistent mist that coats our clothes and hair. Not heavy enough for an umbrella but continuous enough to chill me to the bone. I’m still in that delicate post-vacation period right now where I know I’m going to come down with something; it’s just a matter of time. Standing here in the rain might just do it.

I’m following our plan. The plan to carry on like normal. So here I am. Being normal.

I look out across the grassy wasteland surrounding the council-estate. What I hazard a guess may be called the “communal gardens.” I woke up this morning thinking about the Sharpes. I’ve been trying not to, but they’re lurking in my mind, just out of sight. Flashes of the panic, bubbles in the water. And then two pale waterlogged corpses on stainless steel slabs. Our fault.

I feel as if I’m being watched. I have since we left the island. But more so since yesterday’s news. I scan the bleak buildings and grounds for a source but we appear to be of little interest to the locals. No one is watching. If whoever killed the Sharpes has tracked us down somehow, if they’re following us, they’re not letting on yet. Of course, this feeling of being observed could be something else entirely. I think of the chilled champagne we drank in Bora Bora—was it only a week ago? Champagne sent from the other side of the world. Eddie is interested in me too, isn’t he? Might he have someone following me now that I’m back? Checking up on me? Watching? I let my eyes wander across the complex. There’s a young white guy pacing near the car park, a phone pressed to his ear. A black guy sitting in his work van about to leave. An old lady entering the building opposite, wheelie shopping bag in tow. No one suspicious. No one who looks like a killer. Nobody has found me; I am just a damp woman waiting for someone to answer a buzzer. I look up at the hundreds of windows reflecting gray sky back down onto us. So many windows. So far from the plane at the bottom of the South Pacific Ocean.

I push the buzzer again. A long slow push.

Phil sighs. The camera is fucking heavy. I don’t blame him.

It’s 9 A.M. They should definitely be up by now. I’ve been up since dawn and I can safely say this is not my idea of easing gently back into work. Today is going to be a slog. From the little I’ve seen of Holli I already know this will be exhausting. But in the words of Murakami, the master of the hard slog: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

I press the buzzer again.

“WHAT!? What the fuck do you want? What?” The voice crackles through the metal grate of the entry system, abrupt and aggressive. It’s female, older than Holli, gruffer, huskier. I’d venture a guess we’ve woken up Mrs. Byford.

I hold down the buzzer and speak.

“Hi there, is that Michelle Byford? This is Erin. Erin Roberts. I’m here to see Holli. We’re supposed to be meeting her here at nine? To film?” I hear myself and I flinch inside. I know what people hear when they hear my voice. They hear privilege and condescension and bleeding-heart liberalism.

God, I’m in a funk today. Daniel and Sally Sharpe creep around my head. Get it together, Erin.

Silence. Phil sighs again.

“Oh, right.” The tone has changed, resigned now. “Guess you’d better come up then,” she mutters, annoyed. The door buzzes, clunks, and we push in.

I’ve told Phil what to expect here, but there’s only so much you can relay; it’s more of a general feeling you get from Holli than anything else, her stare, her smile. He’s watched the first interview, so I’m sure he’s picked up on it too. Anyway, he’s been warned: don’t get dragged into anything.

The Byford flat is on the sixth floor and predictably the lift is out of order. I’d be surprised if Phil has the energy to be dragged into anything after lugging the camera up six flights of stairs.

Michelle’s standing out in the communal hallway in furry slippers, powder-blue robe, and a “But first give me coffee” pajamas set, scowling at us. She’s clearly just got out of bed. No sign of Holli. Perhaps she’s still asleep?