“Wake him up,” Kate said.
Nikos’s foot nudged me again, harder this time. I opened my eyes, and the world came into focus. I was lying on the ground, on my side. I pulled myself up to a sitting position and gingerly touched the side of my head—feeling for any sign of a bullet wound.
“Relax,” said Kate. “They’re blanks.” She threw the gun to the ground. “It’s a prop gun.”
Ah, I thought. Of course.
Kate was an actress, not a murderer. I should have known.
Judging by the look on his face, Jason was even more surprised than I was that I was still breathing.
“What the fuck—?” Jason stared at Kate, incredulous. “What is going on?”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. She wouldn’t let me.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
Kate was about to reply, then fell silent—as she glimpsed Lana on the beach. Jason followed Kate’s gaze, and he stared, open-mouthed, aghast, as Lana walked across the sand to the jetty. She was holding Leo’s hand. Behind them, the sun was rising, and the sky was streaked with red.
Lana and Leo climbed up the jetty steps. They joined the others.
“Lana?” Jason said. “What the fuck—? What is this—?”
Lana ignored Jason, as if he hadn’t spoken. She took hold of Kate’s hand and clasped it. They stared at each other for a second.
Then they turned and faced me.
They were standing in a line—all of them—like actors in a curtain call. Lana, Kate, Agathi, Nikos, Leo. Only Jason stood to one side, out of place, confused. Even I had a better understanding of what had happened than he did.
In fact, I understood all too well.
I got to my feet, with some difficulty. I clapped, sarcastically, three times. I tried to speak—but my mouth filled with blood. I spat the blood on the ground. I tried again—it wasn’t easy with a broken jaw. All I could manage was one word:
“Why?”
In response, Lana produced my notebook. “You shouldn’t leave this lying around.” She threw it at me, hard, hitting me in the chest.
“I thought you were different,” she said. “I thought you were my friend. You’re no one’s friend. You’re nothing.”
I didn’t recognize Lana. She sounded like a different person. Hard, ruthless. She looked at me with hatred—there’s no other word to describe that look.
“Lana, please—”
“Stay away from me,” she said. “Stay away from my family. If I see you again, ever, you’re going to jail.”
She turned to Agathi: “Get him the fuck off the island.”
Then Lana turned to go. And Jason reached out, to touch her. She batted away his hand, like it revolted her. Without looking back, she went down the steps. She walked alone across the sand.
There was a momentary pause. Then the mood abruptly changed. Leo broke the silence with a sudden peal of laughter—high-pitched, childish laughter.
He was pointing at me and laughing. “Look. He pissed himself. What a freak.”
Kate laughed and took Leo’s arm. She gave it a squeeze. “Come on, love. Let’s go.”
They walked over to the steps. “Your acting was amazing,” Leo said. “You were so real. I want to be an actor, too.”
“I know. Your mother told me. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Will you teach me?”
“I can certainly give you a few tips.” Kate smiled. “Of course, the most important thing is to have a good audience.”
She threw me one last look of triumph. Then she turned and walked down the steps. Leo followed. And so did the others.
They made their way, in a procession, across the sand. Kate and Leo were first, and a little behind them, Nikos supported Agathi with his arm. Jason trailed behind them, his head bent forward, his fists clenched in anger.
I could hear Kate and Leo talking as they walked away.
“I don’t know about you,” Kate was saying, “but I think this calls for a celebratory drink. How about a very expensive bottle of bubbly?”
“Good idea. Maybe I’ll even have a glass.”
“Oh, Leo.” Kate kissed his cheek. “There is hope for you, after all.”
As they walked farther off, their voices faded—but I could still hear Leo’s childish laughter.
It echoed in my head.
* * *
If I had any sense, I’d stop now. I’d pay for your drinks and hastily stagger out of this bar—leaving you with a cautionary tale; and no forwarding address. I’d get out of town quick—before I said something I shouldn’t.
But I must go on—I have no choice. This has been looming over me from the start, casting its shadow on me, ever since I first sat down to tell you this story.
You see, my portrait is not complete. Not yet. It needs a few details filled in. A few final brushstrokes here and there, to finish it.
Strange, I used that word—portrait.
I suppose it is a portrait. But of whom?
Initially, I thought it was a portrait of Lana. But now, I’m beginning to suspect it’s of me. Which is a frightening thought. It’s not something I wish to look at, this hideous rendering of myself.
But we must confront it together one last time, you and I—to finish this tale.
I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.
6
It was dawn. I was alone on the jetty.
I was in a lot of pain. I didn’t know what hurt the most—my aching lower back, where Nikos hit me with the gun; my cracked ribs; or my throbbing jaw. I winced as I lurched down the steps, onto the beach.
I didn’t know where I was going—I had nowhere to go. So I just hobbled along the sand, beside the surf.
As I walked, I tried to make sense of what had taken place.
Suffice to say, my plan hadn’t worked out as I had hoped. In my version, Lana and I would be together now, at the house, waiting for the police to arrive. I would be comforting her—explaining that Jason’s death was an unfortunate, even tragic, accident.
I had no idea things would get so out of hand, I would say to Lana, fighting tears. That Kate would actually take a gun and use it. I’d tell Lana I would never get over the terrible sight I had witnessed—of Kate repeatedly shooting Jason on the beach, in a wild drunken rage.
That would be my story, and I’d stick to it.
Kate might tell a different tale to mine—but it would be my word against hers. That would be all that was left now—words, recollections, accusations, suggestions, all blowing in the wind. Nothing real. Nothing tangible. The police and, more important, Lana would believe me over Kate—who had, after all, just murdered Lana’s husband in cold blood.
“I feel so guilty,” I would say. “It’s all my fault—”
“No,” Lana would reply. “It’s mine. I never should have agreed to this crazy idea.”
“I talked you into it—I’ll never forgive myself, never—”
And so on—we would comfort each other, each taking the blame. We would be distraught; but we would recover. We would be united, she and I—united in our guilt. We’d live happily ever after.
That’s how it was supposed to end.
Except Lana saw my notebook.
Which was unfortunate—it read badly, I can see that. Words written in anger, ideas taken out of context, private fantasies not meant to be seen—certainly not by Lana.
If only she had woken me up, right then, when she found it. If she had confronted me, I could have explained it all. I could have made her understand. But she didn’t give me that chance.
Why not? Surely she had discovered equally terrible things about Kate over the past few days? Yet Lana found it within herself to forgive her. Why not me?
I imagine it was Kate who came up with the idea. Like me, she was always having bright ideas. How they must have enjoyed scripting it, then rehearsing their performances. How they must have laughed at me, the whole time—watching me make a fool of myself on the island. Allowing me to presume I was the author of this play—when I was just its audience.
How could Lana do this to me? I didn’t understand how she could be so cruel. This punishment far exceeded my crime. I had been humiliated, terrified, stripped of all dignity, all humanity—reduced to nothing but snot and tears: to a kid sniveling in the dirt.