And he does have a point. It is a fairly blunt murder weapon, an empty oxygen tank.
“But they, the plane people, if they were there, they probably watched them, Mark. They probably knew the Sharpes couldn’t dive, they might have watched them do their pool training? We don’t know, they must have done this before. Made things look like accidents.” It feels weird saying the Sharpes’ surname out loud. I wish I hadn’t. It hangs in the air of our home, strange and cumbersome. We didn’t really know them, who they were. The idea of them feels odd and unwieldy, these two dead people we shared memories with. Strangers but like us, young, British, on honeymoon. Surrogate us’s. Like us but dead.
I remember them from the resort. We were only on nodding terms. Small talk. Then again they’d only been there three days and we’d already found the bag. We weren’t really paying attention.
Mark breaks the silence.
“I just don’t think someone did this, Erin. I don’t. It’s beyond odd that this has happened, I won’t argue with that, but why didn’t they just kill them? If someone had wanted to kill them? I mean, come on, it’s a bit convoluted, isn’t it, honey? Why not do it in their sleep or poison or—I don’t know! If these people are as rich and as powerful as we think they are, why do it like that? And why the Sharpes? Christ, they don’t even look like us!” He’s completely convinced now.
But one little thing keeps niggling at me.
“Mark. How would they know it was a couple that found the bag?” And then another thought strikes me.
“How would they know to look for a British couple, Mark?!” The fear rises in me. Because, how would they know? Unless we left a trail? Did I miss something? Did I leave some crucial piece of evidence behind?
Mark slowly closes his eyes. He knows why. Oh God. There’s something he hasn’t told me.
“What is it, Mark? Tell me!” I’m not messing around now; I’m up on my feet. I bang on the light switch, flooding the room with light.
He squints up at me, momentarily blinded.
“Sit down, Erin. It’s…it’s fine. Please, honey.” He pats the seat cushion next to him wearily. This is a conversation he never wanted to have. I give him a hard look before sitting down next to him. This had better be good.
He rubs his face and leans back with a deep sigh. “Oh fuck. Okay, here it is. Um, when I went back, at the hotel, in Bora Bora, when I went back to erase the check-in info from their system–slash–look for your earring, er…” He blows out hard through his mouth. “Shit. I ran into the watersports guy.” He looks at me.
“Paco?” I say.
He nods. “Yeah. He asked if we’d got our bag back.”
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.