Page 77 of Deep Blue Lies

SEVENTY-SIX

I spend most of the next day in my room.

It’s nice in some ways to be here. The bathroom is big and light, and the bed is three times the size of the one in my cell of an apartment bedroom.

Mum comes in every now and then. Her room is next door to mine, and there’s a door that links the two.

Mostly she wants to check up on me, and she gives me some pills too, they’re only mild sedatives but they help me relax a little.

I can see she’s also sorting things out.

It turns out that Imogen really didn’t have many other friends, at least not the sort who can organise the repatriation of a body out of Greece.

Mum has to decide whether Imogen would want her funeral in England, or America where she’s originally from, and in the end she decides that probably the UK is more appropriate, because that’s where she’s lived for the last twenty years.

Mum’s good at this stuff – she always has been.

“Are you hungry, darling?” She surprises me now as I’m sat by the window, looking out on the pool. I shake my head.

“You should eat. You have to eat.”

I think about protesting that I ate some salad at lunch, but I’m tired.

“The funeral is set for Monday. Clapham crematorium. I fear there won’t be many people there. ”

I glance at her, the words make it seem real. I picture a giant hall, with a coffin at the front and dozens of empty pews. It’s so sad.

“So I’d like us to attend. I think she’d like that.”

The image in my head persists a moment, then dissolves as I try to place myself there.

“In London?”

“Mmmm.”

I can still see the hotel’s swimming pool out of the window, aquamarine under a deep blue sky.

“But how will we get there?”

“I’ve reserved some flights. Tomorrow evening.”

I get a jolt of something at this. Finality? Something like that.

“Poor Imogen is travelling on a different flight, this evening.” Whatever I was thinking is pushed away by this new thought.

Imogen – this woman I’ve sort-of-known my whole life, this woman who wanted to talk to me.

This woman whose life I tried to save. She’s gone.

She’s in a box, somewhere on the island – presumably – and she’s going to be loaded into the hold of a plane.

She’ll just be lying there, a few feet under where the alive passengers are sitting, completely unaware there’s a dead body underneath them.

It’s such a strange thought. Reality is so strange, when you suddenly see it from a different angle.

“Do you have your passport?”

I give a little shake, refocusing on the question she’s just asked. “What?”

“Your passport? I need it to finish the flight booking. And we’ll need to collect the rest of your things from that apartment you were renting.”

Her words wash over me. I hear them, but they don’t connect. There’s something else though, something trying to push into my consciousness. “Did they do a post mortem?”

“What?”

“A post mortem, did the hospital do one?”

Mum’s voice is cool. “No. There was no need.”

“Why not? ”

She looks at me strangely, and I try to hold on to wherever this thought came from. It seems important, even though I can’t exactly say why.

“Because she died of a heart attack.” She softens her face. “Following complications of her brain injury. It was expected.”

I nod. “Mmmm,” thinking, and then making the connection “But she was attacked. On the beach someone tried to kill her. Shouldn’t they look into it, at least?”

It looks as if Mum’s going to answer, but then she just shrugs her shoulders.

“I don’t know, darling. They’ve decided they don’t need one, and I think we should trust them to know what’s best. It means we can spare Imogen from the extended trauma of it. And we should be grateful for that. We can close this horrible chapter as soon as possible.”

“But… it’s not a trauma though, is it? A post mortem, I mean. She won’t know about it. And wouldn’t she want to be sure? That it was Albanians who killed her, and not someone else?”

Mum smiles at me soothingly. “Who else could it be, darling?” I try to think again, getting my mind to show me the suspects I still have. But I can’t get any of them to focus.

“What were those tablets you gave me?” I say instead.

She looks startled, almost irritated. “Ativan. I told you. It’s just a little something to help with the shock.”

“They’re making me drowsy.”

“They’re meant to. So you can sleep.” She looks at me, her head on one side.

“Perhaps it would help if you got out of the room? You could have a swim – the pool’s lovely, and you could borrow my bikini.

” She smiles brightly at the idea, and I look away.

She’s proud that her bikini fits me. I know it, and I sense she’s going to mention it now, make some joke perhaps about how Imogen’s wouldn’t because it would be too big.

The joke repulses me, even though she doesn’t even say it.

Of course she doesn’t. I’m the repulsive one for even thinking of it.

“I don’t want to swim,” I say .

“Well that’s fine. I was only offering.”

“What’s Ativan ?” I ask.

The irritation’s back. “It’s a very mild sedative.”

I don’t answer her, but I remember now, I remember from my classes. It’s a benzodiazepine. Did they say it was mild? I don’t remember.

“I might just have a sleep.”

Mum softens again. “OK, well that’s a good idea. But just for a couple of hours. I do need you to go and clear out your things from that apartment. At least collect your passport, we can always replace the rest of your things when we’re home.”

I blink at her. The attraction of the big, comfortable bed is almost magnetic, pulling me towards its soft pillow. I nod.

“OK, have a sleep, darling. I’ll wake you in a while.”