“Kate,” Lana said in a low voice. “Stop this. Now.”
The two women stared at each other for a moment. Lana’s eyes said that she’d had enough. To my surprise, the intervention succeeded; Kate unwillingly backed down.
Then Kate made a sudden movement—and for a split second I thought she was about to lunge at me or Lana across the table, or something crazy like that—but she didn’t.
She stood up, jerkily, unsteady on her feet. “I’m—I need the bathroom.”
“Going to powder your nose?” I asked.
Kate didn’t reply. She stalked off.
I glanced at Lana. “What the hell’s the matter with her?”
“I don’t know.” Lana shrugged. “She’s drunk.”
“That’s not all she is. Don’t worry, I have a feeling she’ll come back from the bathroom in a much better mood.”
But I was wrong. Kate returned to the table in a much worse state. She was high, clearly, agitated, spoiling for a fight—not just with me—any of us would do.
Leo and Jason wisely kept their heads low and ate fast. They wanted to go as soon as possible. But the courses kept coming, a seemingly endless number, so I concentrated on the food.
I suspect I was the only one who enjoyed the meal. Lana just picked at her plate. Kate didn’t touch a thing—she smoked and drank, glowering around the table malevolently. After a long uncomfortable silence, Lana tried deflecting Kate with a compliment:
“I love that scarf you’re wearing. Such a deep red.”
“It’s a shawl.” Kate threw it over her shoulder, contemptuously, then told a long, grandiose story about how the shawl was made for her by an orphan she sponsored in Bangladesh, to thank Kate for putting her through school. “It’s not fashion, so I know you’d never touch it—but I love it.”
“Actually, I think it’s rather beautiful.” Lana reached out and fingered the end of it. “Such delicate work. She’s very talented.”
“She’s clever, more importantly. She’s going to be a doctor.”
“Thanks to you. You are wonderful, Kate.”
This attempt to pacify Kate was like buttering up a grumpy child—Oh, you are clever, well done—and it was clumsy of Lana. But I could tell she was rattled by this sudden change in Kate. We all were.
If I had to select one moment that weekend when it all went wrong, it was there, at the restaurant. An indefinable line was crossed, somehow—and we sailed from a place of normality, into uncharted territory: into a dark, friendless no-man’s-land, from which there was no safe return.
The whole time we were sitting there, I could hear the wind, wailing on the water. It was picking up speed; tablecloths were flapping; candles blowing out. Below us, waves buffeted the seawall.
We’d better go soon, I thought. Or we’ll have trouble getting back.
I took hold of my white linen napkin with my right hand—and dangled it over the edge of the wall, above the water. I opened my fingers and let it go—
The napkin was snatched from my fingers by the wind. It danced in the night sky for a moment.
Then it was swallowed by the darkness.
19
As Agathi predicted, the wind was worse on the way back.
The speedboat lurched over huge black waves while the wind spat salty sea spray at us. The journey seemed to take forever. When we finally got back to the house, we were drenched and badly shaken up.
Ever the gentleman, Leo found towels for everyone. As we dried ourselves off, Jason made a feeble attempt to end the evening. A preemptive strike, you might say. Honestly, he should have known better. Any attempts to “manage” Kate, to send her to bed like a naughty child, were doomed to failure. Kate wasn’t the type of person to be managed.
“How about we call it a night?” Jason said. “I’m knackered.”
“Not yet,” Kate said. “I’m having a nightcap first.”
“Haven’t you had enough?”
“No. That boat ride completely sobered me up. I need another drink.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Me, too. A double anything, please.”
I wandered outside through the French windows, onto the veranda. It was shielded from the worst of the wind by the stone wall surrounding it.
We used the veranda a lot: it had various couches, coffee tables, a firepit, and a barbecue. I flicked on the firepit and used the flame to spark the end of my joint—which I had rolled in the hope of repeating last night’s merriment. Alas, how far away that seemed now. Like a different lifetime.
Leo followed me outside. He nodded at the joint. “Can I have some?”
I was a little surprised at the request. He didn’t drink alcohol and I assumed he didn’t approve of marijuana. I considered it.
“Hmm. I suppose you’re old enough.”
“I’m nearly eighteen. All my friends smoke. It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t tell your mother.” I handed him the joint. I nodded at Kate in the living room. “I wouldn’t stick around if I were you. Unless you fancy a ringside seat.”
Leo nodded. He brought the end of the joint to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment. Then he slowly exhaled, managing not to cough, which impressed me. He handed me the joint.
Then, without another word, Leo turned and walked down the stone steps, away from the house.
Sensible chap, I thought. Braving the gale was infinitely safer than putting up with Kate’s current mood. Even so, he should watch his step.
“Be careful,” I yelled after him. “The wind is really picking up.”
Leo didn’t reply. He just kept walking.
20
Leo walked toward the water, to watch the waves, as the wind attacked the coastline. He followed the winding path down to the beach.
The joint was hitting him now. He could feel his senses heighten. A delicious tingling feeling. Although Leo disapproved of alcohol—after all, he had spent his childhood witnessing its worst effects on his mother’s friends—he had become curious about weed. His drama teacher at school, Jeff, whom Leo deeply admired, said that getting stoned was good for an actor.
“It unlocks chambers in the mind,” Jeff said. “Weed opens doors into rooms that should be explored.”
This sounded intriguing—creative and inspiring. Leo hadn’t tried it only because he hadn’t had the opportunity. He was lying when he said all his friends smoked. Leo didn’t have that many friends, and the ones he did have were as responsible and rule abiding as he was. I was the only reprobate in his life.
Wicked Uncle Elliot. Jolly good, glad to oblige.
Sadly, what Leo was experiencing now, after a drag on the joint, he couldn’t describe as revelatory. He felt mellow and enjoyed the sensation of the wind rushing between his fingers and through his hair. But nothing else, nothing profound or spiritual.
Leo took his shoes off and left them on the sand. He walked barefoot in the swirling surf, with the wind whistling in his ears.
He lost track of time as he walked—it seemed to disappear, as if blown away by the gale. He felt oddly peaceful; at one with the wind and the waves churning up the sea.
Then, suddenly, a dark cloud blew in front of the moon, lingering there. Everything was thrown into shadow. As if the lights had been turned off.
Leo sensed something behind him. A pair of eyes, on the back of his head—and a creeping, crawling sensation on the back of his neck, making him shudder.
He spun around—but couldn’t see anyone. Only the empty beach—and the black trees, shivering in the wind. No one was there. He was about to turn away—when he saw it.
It was straight ahead, at the back of the beach, in the shadows of the trees. What was it? It didn’t look entirely human. Leo peered, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was it an animal of some kind? The legs were the legs of a goat, or something like that—but it was standing upright. And on its head … were they horns?