The Fury

“After all, that’s what he grew you for, isn’t it, Elliot? A strong adult body, to look after him and his interests? To take care of him, protect him? You were meant to liberate him—but ended up becoming his jailer.”

Strange, that. Hearing a truth you’ve always known, in your heart, but never put into words. Then one day, someone comes along and spells it out for you—This is your life—here it is, take a look. Whether you hear it is up to you.

But I heard it. I heard it loud and clear.

A terrified child trapped inside my mind. A child who won’t go away.

Suddenly it all made sense. All the uneasy feelings I experienced on the street, or in social situations, or if I had to disagree with someone, or assert myself—the queasiness in my stomach, fear of eye contact—this had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the here and now. They were old feelings that were displaced in time. They belonged to a little boy long ago, who was once so afraid, under attack, and unable to defend himself.

I thought I had left him behind me, years ago. I thought I was running my life. But I was wrong. I was still being run by a frightened child. A child who couldn’t tell the difference between the present and the past—and, like an unwitting time traveler, was forever stumbling between them.

Mariana was right: I had better take the kid out of my head—and sit him on my lap, instead.

It would be much safer for both of us.



* * *



Character is fate. Remember that, for later.

Remember the kid, too.

And I don’t just mean the kid in me, but the kid in you.

“I know telling you to love yourself is a big ask,” Mariana used to say. “But learning to love, or, at least, have compassion for, the child you once were, is a big step in the right direction.”

You might laugh at that. You might roll your eyes. You might think it sounds Californian, and self-indulgent, full of self-pity. You may say you’re made of stronger stuff. Possibly, you are. But let me tell you something, my friend: self-derision is merely a defense against feeling pain. If you laugh at yourself, how will you ever take yourself seriously? How will you ever feel everything you went through?

Once I saw the kid in me, I started seeing kids in other people—all dressed as adults, playacting at being grown-up. But I saw through the performances now, to the frightened children beneath. And when you think of someone as a child, it’s impossible for you to feel hatred. Compassion arises, and—

You’re such a hypocrite, Elliot. Such a damn liar.

That’s what Lana would say, right now—if she were looking over my shoulder, reading this. She’d laugh—and call me out on my bullshit:

What about Jason? Lana would say. Where’s your compassion for him?

Good point. Where is my compassion for Jason?

Have I been unfair? Misrepresenting him? Twisting the truth, deliberately making him unlikable?

Possibly. I suspect my empathy for Jason will forever be limited. I can’t see beyond his terrible actions. I can’t see into the heart of the man—all the things he endured as a kid; the bad things, the indignities; the cruelties that made him believe the only way to succeed in life was to be selfish, ruthless, a liar, and a cheat.

That’s what Jason thought being a man was. But Jason wasn’t a man.

He was just a kid, playing make-believe.

And kids shouldn’t play with guns.





13





Bang, bang, bang.

I woke up with a fright. What the hell was that noise?

It sounded like gunfire. What time was it? I checked my watch. Ten A.M.

Another gunshot.

I sat up in bed, alarmed. Then I heard Jason outside, swearing with annoyance, as he missed yet another bird.

It was Jason, hunting, that’s all.

I sank back in bed with a groan. Jesus, I thought. What a way to wake up.

And so, we come to the day of the murder.

What can I say about that terrible day? Truthfully, if I had known how it would end, and the horrors it would bring, I would never have got out of bed.

As it was, I must confess that I slept soundly, troubled by no bad dreams, no premonitions of what lay in wait.

I always slept well on Aura. The island was so quiet. So peaceful. No drunks or garbage trucks to disturb your sleep. No, it took Jason, with a gun, to do that.

I got out of bed, the cold stone slabs on the floor waking up my feet. I made my way to the window and threw open the curtains. Sunlight flooded in. I looked out at the clear blue sky, the orderly rows of tall green pine trees, and the blue-and-silver olive trees, pink spring flowers, and clouds of yellow butterflies. I listened for a moment to a chorus of cicadas and birdsong; breathing in the heavy scents of earth, sand, and sea. It was glorious. I couldn’t help but smile.

I decided to do a little work before going downstairs. I always felt inspired when I was on the island. So I sat at the desk and opened my notebook. I sketched out some ideas for a drama I was working on.

Then I had a quick shower and went downstairs. The strong smell of coffee beckoned me to the kitchen, where a fresh pot was on the stove. I poured myself a cup.

No sign of the others. I wondered where they were.

Then, looking out of the window, I noticed Leo and Lana outside. They were hard at work in the garden.

Aided by Nikos, Leo was digging up a plot of earth in an old flower bed. Nikos was doing most of the work, exerting himself. His vest was drenched with sweat. Lana was crouched nearby, picking cherry tomatoes, collecting them in a wicker basket.

I poured myself another cup of coffee. Then I went to join them.



* * *



I left the house and made my way down the uneven stone steps to the lower level. As I walked past the walled orchard, I glanced inside, at the rows of peach and apple trees. They had white and pink blossoms on their branches, and tiny yellow flowers growing among the roots.

Spring, it seemed, yet to arrive in England, was in full bloom on Aura.

“Good morning,” I said, as I reached Leo and Lana.

“Elliot, darling. Here”—Lana popped a cherry tomato into my mouth—“something sweet to start the day off.”

“Am I not sweet enough?” I chuckled, my mouth full.

“Almost. Not quite.”

“Mmm.” The tomato was indeed sweet and delicious. I took another from Lana’s basket. “What’s going on?”

“We’re planting a new vegetable garden. Our new project.”

“What’s wrong with the old one?”

“This is for Leo. He needs his own plot.” Lana smiled at me with a hint of amusement. “He’s vegan now, you know.”

“Ah.” I smiled back. “You did mention it, yes.”

“We’re going to grow everything.” Leo gestured enthusiastically at the dug-up earth.

“Almost everything.” Lana smiled.

“Kale and cauliflower, broccoli, spinach, carrots, and radishes … what else?”

“Potatoes,” Lana said. “So we can stop stealing Nikos’s. They were so delicious last night, by the way. Thank you.”

She directed this at Nikos with a smile. He waved away the compliment, embarrassed.

“Room for a little marijuana?” I asked.

“No.” Leo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Lana winked at me. “We’ll see.”

I glanced in the direction of the summerhouse. “Where’s madam?”

“Still asleep.”

“And Jason?”

Before Lana could reply, the answer came—a loud gunshot. And then another shot—from just behind the house.

I jumped out of my skin. “Jesus.”

“Sorry,” Lana said. “It’s Jason.”

“Shooting people?”

“Just pigeons, so far.”

“It’s murder.” Leo pulled a face. “It’s an act of violence. It’s disgusting and offensive. It’s gross.”

Lana’s voice took on a patient but strained quality, making me think they’d had this discussion before. “Well, darling, I know that—but he enjoys it—and we do eat everything he kills, so it doesn’t go to waste.”

“I don’t eat it. I’d rather starve.”

Wisely, Lana changed the subject. She touched Leo’s arm and gave him a pleading look. “Leo, can you perform a miracle and raise the dead? Remind Kate the picnic was all her idea, will you? Agathi has put so much work into it. She’s been cooking all morning.”

Leo sighed. He stabbed his spade in the earth. He didn’t look thrilled about the assignment. “Niko, we’ll finish up later, all right?”

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