The Sleepwalkers, page 17
But so many years on she suddenly remembers one new detail. The girl with the buzzcut standing at the bar when she bought the cider, just before. Staring at her and the boy she was with. The boy with no face, and his friend with no head.
The buzzcut girl, Luciana, who became the professor’s star student.
The one she went to for help at the student union the next morning.
The buzzcut girl’s own version of scholarships and glory and travel and tenure somewhere.
So much glory everywhere. Some kind of montage?
And the buzzcut girl with her hair grown long coming to the wedding and saying how nice it was that these two finally married, after dancing together so much at the Freshers’ Ball all those years ago.
Can do a lot with the early scene when the professor fucks her in his sunlit en suite, and then his son comes home from Durham unexpectedly and she makes lunch for them both and serves it in the summer house.
“I’m Richard,” the son says. “Nice to meet you at last, Evelyn.”
October 1st, 2022
Dear Peter,
Here are some sandwiches for your journey, and a flask of the Moroccan mint tea you enjoyed so much last night. I do not have the words to say how sorry I am for what happened to your son and daughter-in-law. If you would like to come back after you have been to Patmos, or if you would like me to arrange further help in finding their bodies, it would be my pleasure. Also, if you would just like to talk some more, you know where I am—I now understand why memories and reflections are so important to you.
As I said to you last night, your son and his wife were such a delightful couple, obviously so close. We had been together that evening—all my beautiful guests sheltering from the storm, laughing and talking. But late that night Richard and Evelyn began to quarrel—just a minor lovers’ tiff, I thought. But Evelyn ran out into the storm, and, although I tried to stop him, Richard followed her. I have asked everyone on the island what they saw that night, and several people did see a beautiful couple on the beach, kissing as lightning flashed so close to them, overhead.
The lightning was particularly fierce that night, Peter, I’m sorry to say. I do hope that the bodies you are going to identify are Richard’s and Evelyn’s, so that you are finally able to bury them and achieve closure.
Love and best wishes,
Isabella
Dear Mister James Border,
You ask me to write secretly about my dream, and to give you in private. I have tried, but I do not like to write—writings disappear here too easy.
You talk to me of love, and how one man can love another, and this I do want.
I will wait for you in the garden tonight as you suggest.
Yours,
Hamza :)
List of images
A young woman, clothed and unclothed
Four young people with ping-pong table, playing
A man and woman having breakfast
A man and woman walking up a staircase
A man and woman asleep in bed
A man wearing running shorts, putting on running shoes
A woman naked on a chaise longue
A man in a bathroom looking at his smartphone. He is naked from the waist down.
A woman looking at her reflection in a freestanding mirror
A man and a woman in mid-argument. She is pointing at the wall.
A man and a woman in bed, naked. A screwdriver rests on the floor.
A woman, shocked, in a hallway
A woman writing a letter at a desk
A man in a shuttered room
A generator with detachable cables
A woman sitting with her back against a wall
Cables in moonlight
A woman, running
December 22nd, 2023
Dear Annabelle,
I’m writing, somewhat belatedly, to thank you for your wedding present. As you can see, I did manage to do some writing in the time that you gifted me, and indeed Richard did some too. So your offering had the desired effect. I’m very grateful. I do hope you read the enclosed documents before you read this letter, because then I think you will understand exactly what happened and why I was not to blame for any of it.
As I type this, the sea outside is hushing and pulling at the sand, and the pohutukawa tree is still in blossom, its gash-pink flowers full of thirsty bees, and its branches home to the brutal mosquitoes that nip at my legs if I sit on the balcony too late in the evening. There’s so much to look at here; I can barely write a sentence before someone walks past with an interesting tattoo or well-worn rucksack, or a tui lands in the branches in front of me and starts performing. Have you ever heard a tui? They are not subtle birds. The tui’s throat appears to have one small white pompom, like a clown’s collar, until it starts to sing; then the little collar opens and it’s more like two fat blobs of whipped cream on a shiny Black Forest gateau. The song is a joyful mess of notes that are too high or too sharp or have too much warble. One moment it sounds like a broken clock, then a cat in heat, then a songbird, then a honking ship. The tui somehow barks out what I feel, all my absurd confusion and muted rage—but also my joy at being released from your awful, awful family.
The tui sings, and then it flies away, just like I did.
So I am not dead; at least, I don’t think so. You have recently declared Richard to be dead, and you even had a funeral for him. Was the body they found really his? You buried it anyway. But I am alive, Annabelle. Perhaps only just, after everything that happened, but I am alive. Although, of course, you’ve known that for a long time now.
We won’t pretend you don’t know where I am. That’s not my reason for writing. I wanted a chance to communicate with you, woman to woman, in the hope that we can come to some peaceful agreement. I don’t even need my whole inheritance at this point. All I want is my share of the joint bank account and the freedom to tell my story without you hounding me forever.
The lawyer I spoke to (just a friend, nothing official) recommended that I not write this letter, but here it is. I want to get the facts down, so you understand my perspective on what happened, and why I, as you put it, “ran away.” I should point out that the main reason for my running away was because I was about to be killed. And I’m sorry, but I can’t explain why I didn’t send help for Richard, except to say that I knew it was too late, and I was scared.
I mean, I heard the actual buzz, Annabelle. It was the most sickening, terrible sound you could possibly imagine. I heard them do it to him—or I was as certain as I could have been at the time—and I couldn’t let them do it to me too, however much you would have preferred that they did.
I’d just finished writing my letter to Richard when Hamza appeared outside the window of our honeymoon suite, the thin white curtain fluttering and making him slighter and more spectral than he already was. He was clutching his arm, which was bleeding. I tried to wake Richard with no success, and then I went after Hamza to try to get him to come inside, but he’d already disappeared into the storm. I’d been soaked through in about ten seconds as I pelted down the stone steps, hissing his name, saying I could only help him if he came to me. Rain was pouring down my face like hysterical tears.
At first it seemed I had no hope of finding him in the dark. I’d run out holding Richard’s phone and I’d managed to switch on the torch, but it barely showed anything except raindrops. But then, through the whooshing and the rush of the downpour, I heard an engine start, and I then saw Hamza running down the driveway and getting into Christos’s car, which was parked near a dripping pomegranate tree. I ran over and banged on the car window. Christos rolled it open.
“Go away,” he yelled into the rain and the wind.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why is Hamza bleeding?”
“Go away,” said Christos again. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble, with your fucking snooping, and your recording?”
“He wanted me to do it!” I said.
It was true. Hamza had seen what I was doing with the phone and had given me a tiny nod and then covered it with the napkin he’d been holding like a fainted creature.
“Right, and look what happened to him as a result,” said Christos.
Sounds of shouting and slamming suddenly came from the house.
“Get in!” hissed Christos, so I did.
He drove too fast on the narrow roads, with the rain and the wind slapping the car like it was a little child. Hamza was shivering in the front seat, blood dripping from the wound on his arm. Christos was shouting at him, calling him fucking stupid, and a fucking waste of space, and soon Hamza started crying. Eventually, Christos pulled off the road and got a first-aid kit out of the glove box. He threw a bandage at Hamza and then drove on, just as manically as before.
“What’s going on?” I asked Christos.
He didn’t say anything; he just accelerated.
I was surprised when we arrived at the airport. If only I’d brought my bags, I thought then, I could have saved myself the very long walk I’d been planning. I had my passport in my belt-bag from where I’d been getting ready to leave after finishing my letter to Richard, and I was still holding Richard’s phone with all his credit cards on it. I probably should have tried to make a run for it then. But I didn’t.
“Happy now?” Christos yelled at Hamza. “Now you can go suck another American dick and maybe get what you really want this time.”
Hamza tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked.
“Let me out,” he said. “For God’s sake, Christos.”
Christos grimaced. “Sure, after I get the password for that file you both recorded.”
“I don’t know it,” said Hamza. “Only she knows.”
“Well, unless she tells me what it is, you’re not going anywhere.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” I said, suddenly afraid. I thought I’d ended up on this bizarre road trip by accident, not on purpose.
“Give me the password,” Christos said to me, “and he can go.”
“Please,” said Hamza, turning to look at me. “They will kill me.”
“Who’ll kill you? What are you talking about?”
“Shut up,” said Christos to Hamza. “One more word and you’re not going anywhere. What’s the name of the app?” he asked me.
I told him, and he immediately started thumbing letters on his phone screen.
“But I can’t just give you my password,” I said. “All my important files are on there.”
“Fine,” said Christos, turning and staring at me. “Then we’re all going back to the Villa Rosa, and I’m going to tell Isabella that you’re both planning to go to the police about her. Then we’ll see what happens.”
“So I’m meant to be scared of Isabella?” I said incredulously. “Um, OK.”
Christos then punched the steering wheel and let out a sort of scream. He reversed the car at speed and did a terrifying three-point turn.
“If you don’t give me the password, I’m a dead man,” he said, wrenching the gearstick back into first. “And if I have to die, I don’t see why I shouldn’t take you both with me.”
He started accelerating toward a tree a few hundred yards away.
I have to say, as a move designed to make someone do what a person wants, I have never seen it equalled.
The tree seemed to be racing toward us, like it was being pushed from the beyond.
“OK!” I shouted, over the horrific sound of the engine. “Fucking hell—stop!”
The car stopped with a loud screech and skidded, just missing the tree.
Everything smelled of burning rubber and carbon monoxide.
So I gave Christos my username and my password.
“But please,” I said after I told him. “Please leave my other files alone, OK? I have so much work on there.”
Christos didn’t reply. He typed the password into his phone.
“Why can’t I log in?” he said. “It’s a fake password. I knew it!”
“The 4G is not good here,” said Hamza. “Please, if you don’t let me go now—”
“You’ll do what?” said Christos.
But neither of them said anything else. Christos turned the car around in silence.
“Are you sure they’ll take you?” said Christos when he’d parked outside the terminal. He suddenly seemed pathetic and deflated. “You look fucking awful.”
“I know the story of the sleepwalkers more than anyone. And not because of what you think.”
“Right.” Christos looked sad. “Just make sure you leave me out of it.”
“You know I will. I said already.”
“How will you pay?”
“It’s a private plane. There is no ticket.”
“Are you sure?”
For someone who’d seemingly just been trying to kill Hamza, Christos was now speaking surprisingly tenderly to him.
“Wait, when exactly is the plane leaving?” I asked Hamza.
He was still trembling. “Soon, they said. Before the storm gets worse.”
“Go,” said Christos, while holding on to Hamza’s arm, so he couldn’t actually move.
Hamza leaned over and gave Christos a kiss, on the lips.
“Goodbye,” he said.
Hamza got out of the car and ran into the tiny terminal building.
“I’ll probably never see him again,” said Christos unhappily.
He started the car. Then he turned off the engine once more.
“God,” he said. “My fucking brain. I still need to delete that file before he downloads it himself. You did give me the right password?”
“I did, yes. Actually,” I said, “I need to nip in to the loo if that’s OK.”
He laughed humorlessly. “Right, so you gave me the wrong password, and now you’re running away? I don’t fucking think so.”
“I don’t have my passport, or any luggage,” I pointed out.
I was lying about the passport of course.
Christos hunched his shoulders. “Well, can you check he’s OK? If he needs cash…” Christos pulled a battered yellow nylon wallet out of his jeans and handed me a wad of euros. “Please. I’m sorry I’m acting so nuts.”
I took the money and went into the terminal. It was eerie and quiet, and appeared to be closed for business. There were no staff; no machines switched on. Debbie and Marcus were sitting there in their coats, playing cards. Debbie was balancing an old-looking tea tray on her lap, and Marcus was putting a four of diamonds onto it.
I walked over to them.
“Room for one more?” I said, jauntier than I felt.
“You wanna get out of here too, doll, huh?” said Debbie unenthusiastically.
That was when I realized that I needed something of a killer line.
“Yeah, well, ever since that bitch tried to screw my husband,” I said, with a complicated smile. “And then the waiter tried to kill me.”
Marcus looked startled, then guffawed.
“You got yourself a seat on the plane,” he said. “I wanna hear all about this.”
“When does it go?” I said.
“Not till tomorrow, sweetie,” said Debbie. “We shoulda stayed longer at Heartbreak Hotel. Thought it’d be good to go tonight. But, you know, weather.”
“None of the other planes’ll even try,” said Marcus. “Good job we brought our own guy.”
“OK, right,” I said. “I just need to go back and get my bags.”
“Why don’t you have your bags?” said Marcus suspiciously. “You were just passing or something?”
“Yeah, kind of. And, um, him?” I said, pointing at Hamza. He was perched on a chair on the other side of the small terminal, hunched over his phone. “He can come too?”
“Oh sweetheart, we’ve already told him no,” said Debbie. She dropped her voice. “We think he might be illegal? He said something about asylum, for goodness’ sake.”
“I think he’s Turkish, though,” I said.
This made no impression on them.
“You’re only going to Athens, right?” I tried. “He’s already in Greece.”
“That’s true, baby,” said Debbie to Marcus. “It is just an internal flight.”
“I can pay for him,” I said. “And me, of course. However much you want.”
I showed them Christos’s cash.
“No, sugar,” said Debbie. “You’re our guest.”
“Well, I really need him to come too,” I said.
“Well…” said Debbie, taking the cash. “OK.”
“Where’s your luggage, though?” asked Marcus.
“Just at the hotel,” I said. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
And then I left before they could say anything else.
Back at the car, Christos was more relaxed.
“OK, I’ve deleted the file,” he said, putting his phone down. “Thank you.”
“They’ll take him,” I said. “But I have to go too. They think he’s a refugee. You need to drive me to the hotel and then bring me back with my luggage.”
“Sure,” said Christos, starting the car. “Let’s go.”
At that point it was all surprisingly civilized. I didn’t believe he was actually dangerous.
“Did you listen to the recording?” Christos asked me as he drove back down toward the road to the Villa Rosa.
“Nope,” I said. “Isabella never gave me back my phone.”
“Oh.”
“What would I have heard?”
He sighed loudly. “You would have heard a lot about a turd on a stick.”
“Sorry?”
“Couple of rich travelers disembark on an island and all the locals go crazy trying to sell them whatever they’ve got, even if it’s only a turd on a stick.”
“Right,” I said.
We pulled up outside the Villa Rosa. The rain was getting worse again, but somewhere beyond the torrents, dawn was beginning to break.
“I’ll be five minutes,” I said.
