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?
Michelle looks exhausted. My notes say that she works full time in a department store. Fifteen years, ever since Holli’s dad left. Not to be rude but shouldn’t she be at work by now?
“Hi, Michelle. Lovely to meet you. Sorry for the early start,” I say, and to my surprise she takes my hand and shakes it.
A distracted smile. She seems worried about something. “I suppose you’d better go ahead and turn that on first.” She gestures to Phil’s camera.
Phil and I share a look and the camera is up on his shoulder. Red light on.
“I just don’t want to say it all twice.” Michelle looks at me and frowns to herself. “You’d better come in. I’ll stick the kettle on.” She shuffles in her pink booties into the linoleum-tiled flat. We follow. I’m starting to get the feeling that Holli isn’t in there.
Michelle busies herself about the narrow kitchen space.
“I’ve got to call the police if anyone comes asking questions, that’s the thing. Do you mind if I quickly call them up now?” She seems embarrassed, a woman forced into following rules she hasn’t signed up for.
I shake my head, I don’t mind. But the word police screams through my head. Police is not a word I wanted or expected to hear today.
“I’m sorry, Michelle, I really have no idea what’s going on here. Has something happened?” I look back at Phil, in case he’s figured it out. Have I missed something?
For a fraction of a second I think she might actually be calling the police because of me. Because of the plane. Because of the Sharpes. But that’s absurd, of course. Michelle doesn’t know. She doesn’t know me from Adam. And any brief impulse I felt yesterday to call the police after finding out about the Sharpes has long since evaporated. Involving the police at this stage would definitely not be a good idea. Michelle holds up her finger, phone to her ear. Wait.
“Hi there, it’s Michelle Byford. Can I speak to Andy, please?” There’s another pause as we all wait, suspended, like the stale cigarette smoke in the kitchen air. “Thanks. Hello. Hi, Andy, yes, good, thanks. No, no, I haven’t, no, nothing like that, but I’ve got some people here in the flat now asking about Holli. No, no, nothing like that. Yes, yes, I know.” She laughs nervously. “No, they’re from the prison charity. They interviewed Holli in prison for a film. Yes. Erin, yes…”
My eyes shoot to Phil at the mention of my name. This police officer she’s talking to knows me. He knows of me. What the fuck is going on? Michelle holds up a finger, wait.
“Yes, and a man…” She doesn’t know Phil’s name. We skipped that formality.
“Phil,” Phil supplies. “The cameraman.” Pithy as ever.
“Phil, the cameraman. Yes, yes, I’ll tell them, one second, right…here in ten, fifteen, okay, one second.” She holds the phone away from her face and addresses us. “Andy says would you mind waiting ten, fifteen minutes and he’ll swing by? He wants to ask you a couple of questions if he can?”
I look back at Phil; he shrugs.
“Sure,” I answer.
What else can I do? Say no? No, I’m afraid I can’t actually stay to talk to the police, Michelle, because I’ve just stolen two million dollars and maybe caused the deaths of two innocent people. I think my only move here is to just stay. Stay and try to act normal. “Sure” just about covers it.
First day back at work and I’m already being questioned by the police. My stomach rolls.
Michelle puts the phone back up to her ear and addresses Andy. It’s becoming clear to me what’s going on here; I credit myself that much. I’m guessing Holli’s skipped parole. That’s what it will be, something like that, but for some reason my palms are sweating.
Michelle continues into the phone. “Andy, yes, yes, that’s all fine. They’ll be here. No, no, I don’t think they do. Of course. Of course I will. Yes. Okay then. See you soon. Okay then. Bye.” She hangs up and smiles down at the inanimate phone. At Andy, I’d imagine, in an office somewhere.
Phil and I wait. Finally she looks up.
“Sorry. Sorry about that. Coffee?” She flicks on the kettle and it roars to life, recently boiled. “Okay, right, sorry. I suppose you’ve guessed that Holli’s not here?” Michelle looks between us, businesslike. We have.
She nods. “Yeah. She left yesterday. Just disappeared. I took her some toast in bed in the morning but she wasn’t there. We’ve been looking since; we don’t know where she is at the moment. Police are working on it. Andy’s heading up the search right now. It’s—” She breaks off and stares out the grimy double-glazed window above her sink. The kettle clicks off and bubbles to silence next to her. She snaps back into the room and smiles.
“Let’s have a sit-down, shall we?”
She places the coffee mugs down with ceremony onto the pine fold-leaf table and we sit.
Phil continues to film her as she sips her steaming mug. According to the mug’s inscription, “Coffee makes my day more beautiful.” I do hope so; it doesn’t seem to be going well so far, for any of us.
I peer down at the gray-brown stew before me, pellets of undissolved coffee still clinging for dear life to the white ceramic of my mug.
Shit. This is not a good situation. I could really do with not being here right now. I think of the bag hidden in our attic. And guilt, like the first domino, starts to topple one mistake into another. I need to center myself. I need to lock this feeling down before Andy, the policeman, gets here.
And where the hell is Holli?
Michelle sets her mug down carefully with two hands and explains.