The metallic, coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. Pain roars through my ears. My head feels as though an ax has been buried in it. I’m slung over someone’s back. A person gasping for breath from the exertion of carrying me. A man moving with a labored yet urgent stride on a woodland path. Tangled leaves whisper above. Branches rustle overhead. Twigs crunch beneath feet. I close my eyes again before he places me down on my back. The earthy smell of foliage fills my nostrils. Marshy ground squelches next to my ears. Water laps nearby, merely a yard or so away.
I hear footsteps receding. I wonder if I should pull myself up. Take to my heels at once. But I’m clearly part of some heinous, dastardly plan. One I intend to unravel. I’m certain the man will come back for me.
So I wait.
Wait.
And wait.
Muffled footsteps again, several minutes later. I slam my eyelids shut, pretending to be dead. The man yanks my torso up from the ground. Places something over my shoulders. It feels like a coat. A damned heavy one, too, as if it had been weighted with lead ingots. It drags my shoulders and chest down.
He gives me a shove.
One hard enough to roll me sideways into hell. I crash into the water like a brick. Inky, liquid darkness swallows me.
The river’s cold.
Fucking freezing.
But the icy water slices into my skull like a scalpel and kicks my brain into hyperdrive. Dulls the throbbing pain in my head for a few seconds. Makes me see everything with crystal clarity, including what to do next. I struggle with the coat’s pockets, tipping out some of the pebbles in them. I propel myself forward, using the slight current to help me. Through the arctic, murky hell that engulfs me. As far away as possible from where I first landed with a soft splash. Keeping my entire body below the surface, without showing even a single wisp of hair.
Air.
I need air.
I fucking need air.
My lungs are killing me.
But I should keep swimming.
I need to surface.
I fucking do.
I. Need. Air.
I swim up. A single, desperate gulp. Permitting only my lips to emerge from the water. Hoping I’ve gone far enough. Praying he can’t see me in the darkness.
Stick your head back down, Sophia.
Keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Oh, God. This is ridiculous.
Swim, Sophia, swim.
Keep moving with the current. Keep going downstream.
Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.
I’m exhausted. I’m dying.
This is fucking killing me.
I can’t swim anymore.
I think I’ve gone far enough.
I splash my way to the riverbank. A tree root protrudes into the water; I seize it with desperate fingers. I haul myself onto solid land, water streaming from my clothes. Teeth rattling, hands trembling. Eyes stinging from the water. I collapse facedown onto mud, a spent and sodden force.
Grit and damp earth seep into my mouth. The sickly sweet taste of mold and rotted leaves.
I lift my head with a groan, peering around. I’m surrounded by drooping willows, their thick leaves blotting out the moon and stars. A boggy riverside path snakes ahead into darkness. The current must have carried me as far as the Paradise nature reserve. I drag my body up from the mud; the ground shifts and undulates for several disconcerting moments. I stagger through the dark copse, past twisted trees tapering upwards. Their gnarled, leafy fingers tug at my clothes as I crunch my way back to the car.
I must look like a soggy vision from hell. I hope I don’t meet anyone. It’ll be a disaster if I do.
Move faster, Sophia.
Bloody hell. A woman is walking her puppy at the far end of Grantchester Meadows. Do not freeze. Do not tremble. Just keep walking. Pretend everything’s normal.
The woman turns into Marlowe Road with her dog. Thank heavens.
My Fiat’s still in the pull-off area. Its ignition key is wedged in the pocket of my trousers. I get in and rev up the engine. I shoot down the winding country road leading to Coton, shivering in my wet clothes. A hare darts out of my way, its eyes wide and bright. I pull into the peacock-infested driveway and kill the engine before letting myself in through the front door.
Aggie’s snorting a line on the black marble kitchen counter next to a half-empty bottle of absinthe. This must be why she isn’t falling off her high stool. Even though her soaked doppelganger is sauntering towards her with a wide grin.
Grumpy little Khrushchev hisses at me. Tries to sharpen his claws on my foot. But Aggie doesn’t even blink. I suppose one sees mirror images of oneself all the time if one survives on coke. Even if there aren’t any mirrors around.
“Hello, Aggie,” I say, smile growing wider.
I stride up to her. Positioning my body on her right.
My arm is tensed. Ready.
She ignores me in favor of the second line of coke. Laid out on that kitchen counter.
Why am I not surprised?
I swing my arm.
The rolled-up ￡50 note in her hand flutters to the ground.
I’m tempted to stand over her unconscious body and tell her in the most solemn voice I can muster:
I’ve waited years for this moment. Because I remember. I remember every single fucking thing you did to me. Like what happened when I dropped by this kitchen on the afternoon of the Trinity May Ball. I’d wanted to retrieve Mum’s pink diamond necklace and earrings so that I could impress the young man who was walking me there. After all, I had loved him. I thought I could make him feel the same way about me.
That afternoon, I climbed the stairs to Mum’s old bedroom only to discover that the set had vanished.
And so I ran down here to confront you. You were sitting at the kitchen counter, flipping through Cartier’s summer catalog. Your rosebud mouth was pursed up in an air of chronic dissatisfaction.
“Where are Mum’s diamonds?” I said.
You merely threw me a silent, knowing smile.
“Zey are mine now.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “They were Mum’s.”
“Your ma’s dead.”
“You have no right to take them.”
“She doesn’t need zem anymore.”
I gritted my teeth and said:
“Hand them over. I want to wear them tonight.”
“Zey von’t look good on you,” you said, smirking at me. “Not good at all. Not viz zat ugly leetle face of yours.”
I raised my palm to wipe that smirk off your face, only to be stopped in my tracks by your next words:
“Don’t mess viz me, Annie. Because your pa listens to me, not you. And if I tell him you are still secretly frowing up your food in ze toilet, he’s going to be so, so angry.”
“How did you know that-—”
“He’ll insist zat you move back in here so he can keep a careful eye on you. Zis vill be a reel shame after you worked so hard to move out in ze first place. Eez a fact, no?”
“But—”
“Maybe even cut off your allow-ance while he’s at it.”
“You horrible—”
“We’ll be one big happy famil-ee again. You’ll like zat, von’t you?”
Somehow your flat, dead tone made your threats twice as menacing.
I didn’t get Mum’s pink diamond jewelry set that afternoon.