Page 18 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

I glide slowly, silently, through the forest. Thin slivers of moonlight seep through the branches, providing just enough light to see.

Its white glow is ethereal, ghostlike, and my body melts into it.

I’m almost invisible as I move from tree to tree, calm, as though in a trance. But my mind is focused.

Searching for prey.

I drop my hand to my side, run my fingers over the cold metal of my dagger. A thrill surges in my chest, then ebbs away, leaving the smoking heat of a snuffed-out candle in my belly.

A dark shadow appears in the distance. I stop, crouch down, listen. But the sound of rustling fades, then disappears. Some might think it a lucky escape for whatever animal has moved away, a wild boar or perhaps a wolf, but I know that’s not the case. Surviving was its destiny.

Just like mine is to hunt.

I straighten out my limbs but hesitate before moving again. I can hear something. Not the hushed crackle of leaves under an animal’s step, but the faintest whisper of feathers. A bird. I look up. A soft glint of moonlight flickers down. There it is.

An eagle owl.

Perched high in a tree, its brown and tan feathers merging with the bark, but its fiery eyes vivid against the night sky.

I stare at the regal creature, knowing instinctively that I must kill it. It lifts its wings in protest, revealing the pure white feathers underneath. But it won’t intimidate me.

I walk to the tree, reach for the lowest branch, pull myself up. The tree is tall. Perhaps fifty metres. But I’m not scared of falling. Branch by branch, I climb, the twigs and rough bark that scratch at me leaving no mark.

Whoo-whoo. Whoo-whoo.

The owl is warning the forest of a predator. But it doesn’t fly away. It thinks it’s got the power to repel me. It doesn’t understand how much stronger I am.

I climb.

Finally, I reach its height. Our eyes catch. The owl tries to challenge me with its stare, but I hold its gaze and the energy shifts. I feel my dominance, and I know the owl senses it too. The imminent danger it faces. It lifts its huge wings, preparing to soar away.

But I’m too quick.

I grab my dagger, thrust it hard into the owl’s chest, straight through its heart. The wings flare, then drop. Snowy feathers become stained by red, sticky blood as life seeps away.

I look at the owl’s lifeless face, wanting to bask in the glory of my conquest.

But it’s changed. The bird’s features have gone.

Replaced by a human face.

One so familiar that it hits me like a lightning bolt.

I scream. My heart hammers in my chest. I rub frantically at my eyelids, trying to erase what I’ve just seen, but that final image is too strong, so I whip my eyes open instead.

Try to adjust to reality. Light and darkness merge, blurring my vision.

Think, Frankie! I flail around with my arms, looking for clues.

I find a door handle. A steering wheel. Of course, I’m in the car.

I stare at the view through the windscreen.

Concrete pillars and lines of cars on asphalt. Faded strip lighting.

The airport car park.

I remember now, how tired I felt, driving up the M3 from Lymington in the dead of night.

And how relieved I was to finally arrive without falling asleep at the wheel, or veering off into a field and smashing into a tree.

But the relief must have relaxed me so much that I fell asleep before getting out of the car.

And then I had the dream. The mazzeri dream.

And I saw Lola’s face on a dying eagle owl.

The mazzeri legend goes that the person you see in your dream, their face imprinted on the animal you’ve killed, will die in real life soon after. It’s a stupid fable – a Corsican myth – and of course I don’t believe it.

I’ve never believed it, not really. What happened twenty-one years ago was just a coincidence. And it happening on the 31st of July – the darkest night according to the mazzeri legend – means nothing. Now, more than ever, I need to remember that.

I slam my hand against hard plastic. But if I know the mazzeri thing is all bullshit, why the hell won’t it leave me alone?

When I had that first mazzeri dream in Corsica, it wasn’t exactly a surprise – with the terrible trauma I was going through at the time, and Salvo’s raspy voice like a worm wriggling into my brain, including my dad in his twisted claims, of course it would come while I slept.

After all, that’s what nightmares are – subconscious fears making their presence known.

But then the dream came true, and not even going back to England could help me escape that fact.

Some nights I couldn’t erase the dead faces of my friends from behind my eyelids, and sleep evaded me completely.

But on others, I became so exhausted that I sank under, and then suffered that terrible dream again.

Me hunting in Corsican forests, always with a weapon, always killing wild animals.

And always seeing the face of someone I knew.

I couldn’t bear it. That’s why I started drinking heavily, and staying up all night partying.

I found that catching a few chemically deadened hours, when I blacked out rather than slept, helped keep the nightmare away.

But I could never repress it when the anniversaries got closer.

To most Corsicans, the mazzeri legend is a cool story to spook kids and tourists, but to some old-timers – people like Salvo – it’s unquestionably real.

And he believed I was one of them, a mazzera.

I know it’s not true. Not possible. But the bitter irony is that I did play a part in my friends’ deaths.

And so, when my insomnia is at its worst, and I’m half-dead with tiredness, the two things get mixed up in my head and I start talking crazy.

It’s why I’ve been sectioned twice – I tell people, usually medical professionals, that I can predict death, and they class me as delusional – without realising what a relief their diagnosis is to me.

But now I have seen my daughter’s face on my prey.

The person whom I love most in the world, whom I am supposed to protect.

Except, of course the dream would come for me now.

Knowing Lola is in Corsica. And at Hotel Paoli, meeting Anna and Raphael.

These are the reasons why I had a mazzeri dream, not because it was ordained by some dark witchcraft.

The mazzeri legend is nothing more than Corsican cult history and I need to let it go.

Lola is not going to die.

I push open the car door and step into the stifling air of the multistorey car park. I collect my holdall from the boot, hoist it over one shoulder, and slam the door. Then I look for the sign to departures and head inside.