If I was enough, then Lewis would have been prepared to let me live.
I wake gradually. My body is splayed out on the soft mattress and cool cotton sheets. I’m disorientated, but calmed by sleep. Except . . .
I remember.
Lewis. Oh, God, Lewis
.
In the darkness, I begin a replay of those awful realisations and—
In the darkness?
But I left all the lights blazing to keep myself awake.
I blink. My eyelids are still heavy and swollen. No, not heavy.
There’s something pressing against them, blocking out the light. It feels soft, like fabric, but heavier than a sheet.
I go to grab whatever it is. But my arms don’t move.
I try again. Too heavy. And then I feel tightness against my wrists.
Someone has tied me up, and put a blindfold over my eyes.
Someone
. . .
‘LEWIS! Lewis, let me go!’
But he doesn’t answer. And I realise something else.
He’s brushing my hair
.
I thought I knew how fear felt, but this is different to anything I’ve ever experienced. A furious energy courses through me, like electrocution. Except electrocution would be over almost
instantly, whereas this is endless torture – the fear making my body convulse, over and over and over . . .
I feel the hairbrush passing from root to tip.
It makes my scalp burn, even though the movement is soft, the rhythm slow.
I’m back in my bedroom, aged six, maybe seven. Mum is brushing my hair before bed, holding on to the hair above any knots, so I can’t feel anything as she teases them out.
Soothing
.
She finishes and moves onto Meggie, who squirms and protests that she’s too old to have someone else brush her hair, that it’s hurting, that she’ll shave all her hair off
and wear a wig. And then, when Mum stops, my sister grabs the brush and holds it up to her mouth like it’s a microphone. She poses in the mirror, all smiles again
.
Ready for her close-up
.
Am I seeing the past because this is the end of my life? Or to give me hope that there is still a way out?
But there isn’t a way out of this. There should have been no way
into
my room either, but . . .
‘Please, Lewis. Tell me what you want.’
Silence, except for the tug of the bristles and the crackle of static as the brush passes through my hair again and again and again.
‘No one needs to know. I can keep secrets. Look at how long it took me to tell you about the Beach.’
Even though he knew everything about it all along
.
I can hear him breathing. It sounds unfamiliar. Sinister. Could it still be Sahara? No, that’s not the sound a woman makes when she breathes. The air catches in his throat, with a low,
ragged hoarseness. It’s a man – the same man whose powerful, perfect kisses made me feel drunk.
I won’t beg.
I won’t grovel.
I think of Zoe pushing open the door to my sister’s bedroom and seeing Meggie, her cheeks blush-pink, her hair spread out on the pillow like a halo of golden light.
The killer brushed Meggie’s hair after she’d died: it can’t have been before, or she’d have found a way to tell me so on the Beach. What does it mean that he’s
brushing mine now, while I’m still alive?
But then I realise I’m clutching at straws – because the Meggie I’ve been talking to for so long on my visits to Soul Beach, the Meggie who told me she remembered
nothing
and didn’t suffer before death, was an invention.
Lewis must have put the words in her mouth. And he was so convincing. He must have understood her completely.
‘Did you love her? I always thought that the person who shared Meggie’s last moments must have loved her so much. Do you want to know why?’
He doesn’t speak but perhaps his breathing has slowed. Could
this
be a way to get through to him?
‘It was because you left her so beautiful. That’s what Zoe told everyone. I think that smothering must be like a deep, deep sleep. Not an act of violence at all.’
Shit
. Am I trying to write my own death warrant? Yet this tactic – of convincing him that I’m on his side, that he is a gentle soul at heart – is the only idea I have
right now. I must keep going, however fake it sounds to me.
‘But what I’ve never understood is why someone who loved her would have cut her life short. She had so much to do. And she wasn’t a selfish person. She might have shared the
good times with you, if you’d found a way of talking to her, a way of explaining how important it was to you. How much she mattered.’
Why isn’t he saying anything?
‘You could have made her understand, Lewis. Just as you made
me
understand, tonight. You made me feel so special. So why did you . . .’
I pause. The strain is making my voice sound wrong – which is dangerous. He has to believe that everything’s OK. The moment he realises it’s not, then . . .
But tears are beginning to soak into my blindfold. He’ll see them, bleeding through the fabric. He’ll realise everything is lost. And then it
will
be over.
My arms are numb from the ties. I try to test them, but I daren’t struggle because he must be able to see every move I make.
His breathing has quickened again. The brushing is less rhythmic and it hurts because he’s pulling harder, as though there’s a tangle he can’t get out.
‘ALICE!’
For a second I wonder why he’s shouting when he’s so close he could simply lean down and whisper in my ear.
‘ALICE! Open the door! It’s really important. ALICE, please!’
It’s Lewis.
Shouting. No,
screaming
, his voice high and shrill with urgency. Instantly recognisable.
Yet his words are muffled.
He’s calling from some distance away.
Not from this room
.
And even as he continues to call out, the breathing in my ear continues. Close. Loud.
Faster and faster.
NO!
I open my mouth to call out to Lewis, even though nothing’s making sense.
And then a hand comes down over my face, pinning me onto the bed and forcing the fist into my mouth so I can’t call out.
As fear passes through me again like a shockwave, I try to understand.
Lewis is outside.
I am inside.
So who the hell is locked in here with me?
‘ALICE,
please wake up!
’
Lewis sounds desperate. But he’s too late.
‘It’s really urgent. It’s about Sahara.’
Sahara!
Of course.
The fist is driven further into my mouth, stretching my lips so much that it feels like the skin is tearing. The brutality of it is more shocking than the pain. How could she do this to another
woman?
Except perhaps she’s barely human at all and only exists now on cunning and base instincts. Even her breathing sounds like an animal’s. But it was enough to fool me into thinking the
killer could have been Lewis, when I was right all along.
Lewis. Oh, Lewis.
He’s innocent
. Despite my terror, there is the tiniest comfort in knowing I wasn’t wrong about him. That the kisses were real.
Something cold touches my throat. I know instantly what it is, even though the blade is not pressing hard enough to break the skin. I nod carefully, to tell her I understand. I won’t move.
I even try to slow my breathing, though it’s so difficult to do that while I am fighting the panic that makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst out of my chest.
‘Alice . . .’
But Lewis’s voice is flatter now, as though he’s already accepted I’m fast asleep and his news will have to wait till I wake.
NO!
I scream inside my head.
Break the door down. Find a way in. There must be a way in, otherwise how did
she
get past the deadlock and the bolts?
And then I realise: Sahara didn’t break in. She was in here waiting for me all the time. I bet she even hid my mobile.
After she disconnected the power
and
the phone line.
She is a true psychopath. I’d always hoped that her crimes were crimes of love, of passion. It didn’t justify them, but at least I could try to make sense of the terrible things
she’d done by imagining she’d acted out of some warped desire to protect my sister.
Yet it takes ruthless planning, not passion, to follow me all the way to Thailand and lay this trap. The power, the silk scarf on Lewis’s bed, the fear she made me feel – and the
need to barricade myself in.
With a serial killer
.
‘I’ll come back in the morning,’ he calls out.
Hope leaves my body, like blood draining into the gutter.
Please, Lewis. If you really are the person I thought you were when we kissed, then you must realise I’m not asleep. You must realise something’s not right
.
But it’s useless.
I’m on my own.
Though I won’t give up. Maybe I can appeal to her feelings for Meggie. She did care about my sister, in her own freakish way.
‘Sahara, I know Meggie meant the world to you. Of the many people she met at uni, you were the first, weren’t you? She was so excited to be your neighbour. Told me about you way
before she mentioned Tim or anyone else.’
It’s true. Though Sahara and I both know what came later: the bickering, the possessiveness, the accusations of stalking.
‘Living next door to her like that must have been fun. Like boarding school books I used to read when I was a kid. Did you read those books, Sahara?’
I know nothing about her childhood, except I think she comes from money. What must have happened to turn her into
this
? Or perhaps she was simply born this way. . .
‘Meggie changed so much in those first few months, you know, Sahara. She grew in confidence. You supported her through
Sing for Your Supper,
which was more stressful than most of
her friends realised. Even though she’d dreamed of being a star, the reality was tougher than she’d imagined.’
Sahara says nothing but her breathing has calmed. And then the knife leaves my throat. Have I got through to her?
Except now she begins to brush my hair again. Goosebumps spread across my body. But if this soothes her, at least it buys me time.
Time for what? No one is coming for me. Not till morning and, by then, surely, this will be over.
‘My sister . . . she was too casual, sometimes. Didn’t always say what should have been said – like how grateful she was to you, Sahara. And I know from my own experiences how
caring you can be. After Meggie died, people were wary of approaching me, as though I’d done something shameful. You reached out to me.’
Of course, now I know why. The suffocating sympathy, the fake distress, the need to lay her claim on my grieving.
And all the time
she
was the one who took away Meggie’s breath. The bitch.
What will Lewis find when he returns? Will I be prettier in death than in life? A weirdly calm part of me is glad I’m wearing this dress, that I hadn’t changed into a crappy t-shirt
for bed. I might make quite a glamorous corpse.
No. As long as he’s in the villa, there
is
hope that I can make it out alive. I have to keep her talking. No one but Sahara knows why she killed my sister. She must want to
explain, otherwise why would she have stayed in touch?
‘Sahara, the burden of not being able to talk to someone must be terrible. Would it help to explain why to me? It’s not like I can tell anyone else now.’
Silence. Have I gone too far? Everything I say risks aggravating her. If she thinks I’ve accepted I’m going to die, perhaps she’ll kill me now.
Hold on. I can hear something else. Harsher breathing. No,
whimpering
.
Something wet falls onto my face. Drop, drop, drop. Tears. She’s crying.
‘Please, Sahara. Talk to me. Make me understand. Surely you can’t feel any worse than you already do?’
The sobbing gets louder. It’s a low growl, like an animal caught in a snare.
‘Sahara . . .’
‘
Shut up!’
The whisper in my ear is angry. She doesn’t sound like herself any more. Perhaps this is what happens before she . . . does what she has to do. She enters
another state, a trance or—
The cold tears are splashing onto me, faster and faster.
I decide to try one final time. There’s nothing to lose.
‘Please, tell me. I might understand.’
The sobs switch instantly to horrible, bitter laughter.
‘Understand.
Understand?
’
Her whisper sounds all wrong. I am trying to work out why when it comes again, louder.
‘How can you possibly understand when you don’t even know who I am, Alice? How could you not know me? I love you. I love you so much.’
The voice isn’t Sahara’s at all. It belongs to a man.
Even before he tears the scarf away from my face, I realise who it is. And I wonder how I could have been so blind for so long.
‘Ade?’
He half smiles, though the tears are still running down his ghostly face. ‘Finally.’
Finally
. Fifteen months of not knowing telescopes into no time at all as I see the face of the man who killed my sister and her soul mate.
A face I’ve seen many times before, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked at it properly. Ade was always the straight man to Sahara’s freak show, the fixer who so
generously arranged for me to talk to Tim before he died. The go-between.
What a horribly effective disguise.
He lies down on the bed next to me, then turns his body so we’re face-to-face. With my arms tied, I have two options: close my swollen eyes or look into his. I look, trying to see what I
should have seen so long ago. The mark of a killer.