Page 33 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

The sky is inky black, the air cool against my skin.

I walk towards the forest. My feet are bare, but I feel no pain from the sharp stones or rough foliage underfoot.

A cloud moves, exposing the full moon, its white light casting an ethereal glow, until the sky changes again, and darkness sweeps back over.

I walk deeper into the forest.

I’m here to hunt, I think, with a sudden, overpowering burst of desire.

To kill.

I slide my open palms down from my hip bones. There it is. The sheath, protecting the weapon hanging heavy against my leg. I curl my fingers around the knife’s handle, grip hard. I close my eyes, imagine slaughtering an animal, feel a quiver of anticipation in my chest.

There’s rustling between the trees. My eyelids flick up, just in time to see the deer. Small, and beautiful. Perfect prey.

Except I have the wrong weapon. To kill with a knife, I need to catch the deer, and that isn’t possible. It will outrun me.

Except I know, deep inside, that it won’t.

I edge closer. Even in this dense forest, my footsteps are soundless. The deer knows I’m near; it can smell me. But it doesn’t move. As though it understands, accepts its fate.

Our eyes catch and I don’t hesitate. I grab the knife, lift it high, sink it into the deer’s chest. The animal whimpers, drops to its knees. Its head lolls, life ebbing away, then falls onto its side.

I wait. I don’t know what for, but I remain still.

The deer rears back up, gasping for breath. The moon reappears, lighting up its desperate face.

Not a deer’s face.

I sway on my heels, lose my balance, fall backwards. But the image remains vivid behind my eyes. The leaves feel softer now, the air warmer. But I can’t lie here. I need to get away from the forest, away from what I’ve done. Who I’ve killed.

I open my eyes. I’m hot, sticky with sweat. My heart is pumping too fast.

What the fuck?

It took me ages to get to sleep, even after being awake for a full thirty-six hours. And now this.

A lurch of nausea rises as the image reignites, me sinking the knife into the deer’s warm body, all the blood spilling out. Then I see Izzy’s lifeless face again. Not Archie, like Salvo said. But my friend who’s still alive.

A surge of adrenaline grabs me, and I push up to sitting. I look at Izzy across the room. She’s lying on her side, fast asleep, her shoulder lifting and dropping with each breath. The sight calms me a bit, but not enough to erase the memory of that dream.

I need some air.

I climb out of bed – quietly so I don’t disturb Izzy – and tiptoe out of the room. My feet are bare, just like in the dream. A shiver grabs hold of me, and my eyes prick with tears. It was just a stupid nightmare, so why am I so freaked out?

This is Salvo’s fault for spouting nonsense. Archie’s fault for leaving me in the most brutal way possible. This summer was supposed to be fun but it’s turned into hell.

I stumble down to the beach, needing the soft whoosh of the sea. But as I fold onto the cool sand, Salvo’s words come back to me. Francesca, did you know that your father was a mazzere?

But that’s bullshit. Lies. The mazzeri legend is just a Corsican fable, a stupid story. No one can foresee someone’s death, awake or asleep.

Of course it’s no surprise that I had a nightmare that reflects the mazzeri story after Salvo’s crazy claims this morning. This has nothing to do with prophesying Izzy’s death, and everything to do with my trauma at Archie’s suicide.

I look at my watch. But when I realise it’s the early hours of 31st July, another wave of dread sets in. According to the legend, tonight is the darkest night for the mazzeri. A load of mazzeri warriors fight through the night as July becomes August.

But it’s all crazy. A fantasy story. And I am not crazy.

I hear a noise. I whip my head around, away from the sea. ‘Hello?’ I call out. No one responds, but the sound continues. A snuffling noise. Like someone crying.

I push to standing and walk towards it. The sky is clear, but the shadowy moonlight makes me feel uneasy. My eyes fall onto a dark shape underneath a sun lounger. I crouch down. ‘Patrick?’ I whisper. ‘What are you doing under there?’

Raw fear spreads across the child’s face and he wriggles backwards.

I’ve seen Raphael and Anna’s son around the hotel enough times to recognise him, but have never spoken to him.

It’s natural for him to be wary of me. ‘I’m Frankie,’ I say gently.

‘I work on the water-ski boat with Dom – you might have seen me around.’

Recognition edges onto his face and he shuffles a bit closer, but he still doesn’t speak.

‘It’s very late for you to be out of bed,’ I go on. ‘Does your mummy know you’re here?’

‘Don’t tell her,’ Patrick whispers. ‘I ran away. I don’t want to go back.’

I nod, even though I don’t have a clue what to do. My experience of kids is teaching them to bend their knees and straighten their arms. ‘Why don’t you want to go back?’ I ask, playing for time.

‘Mama and Papa. They’re shouting. Really loud. I don’t like it.’

It’s hard to believe that Anna is capable of arguing with anyone, and especially Raphael, but I guess it’s been a stressful day. ‘What are they shouting about?’ I ask.

‘Someone called Izzy,’ Patrick says solemnly.

‘Izzy?’ I repeat, not hiding my surprise.

Patrick shrugs. ‘I heard them say the name.’

I sit back on my haunches. Why would Anna and Raphael be arguing about Izzy? Could the gossip about them sleeping together be true?

‘Grandpa was there too, for a while,’ Patrick goes on. ‘I think he was cross as well but I’m not sure.’ Patrick’s little voice breaks. ‘My grandpa never shouts.’

I imagine a quietly seething Salvo skulking along the beach and feel an urge to be back in my bedroom, behind a locked door.

‘You know, Patrick, it’s pretty late,’ I say.

‘And I bet you’re getting cold under there.

’ Patrick hugs his knees into his chest and looks down at his feet.

‘How about I take you home,’ I coax. ‘If your parents are still shouting, I promise I’ll make them stop. ’

‘Are you sure?’ Patrick asks.

‘Oh yes, I have magic powers.’ I regret the words as soon as they’re out, the images of hunting they conjure up, but I manage to smile, just.

Patrick sighs and wriggles out from under the sun lounger. ‘Okay, as long as you tell Mama and Papa not to be mad with me.’

‘It’s a deal.’ I reach for Patrick’s hand, and together we walk towards his home on the edge of the hotel complex.

It’s quiet when we arrive, no voices spilling out, and I knock softly on the door. After a minute, Anna opens it. She looks perfect, as usual. The only sign that anything’s wrong is that she’s fully dressed at three in the morning.

‘Frankie?’ Then her eyeline dips and her pitch rises. ‘Patrick?’ She crouches down to her son’s level, pulls him into her arms, then looks up at me. ‘What going on?’

‘I found him on the beach,’ I say. ‘I brought him home.’

‘What was he doing on the beach?’ But her face grows even paler than usual as she processes why he might have run away. ‘Actually, never mind. Thank you for bringing him home.’ She starts to close her front door, but then she pauses, takes in my pyjamas. ‘What were you doing out at this time?’

‘Me? Well, I couldn’t sleep. It’s been … a lot.’

Her face tightens. ‘Of course. I’m sorry about Archie.’

I nod. ‘I was with him, in the evening before he … I feel like I let him down.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Frankie,’ Anna says. Her tone is firmer than I would have expected and it causes a mad urge to tell her everything. What Jack did, how upset Archie was when he found out. That Jack’s crime must have played a part in his suicide. But I promised Archie not to tell a soul.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur instead.

‘Most things in life are beyond our control – you’ll find that out soon enough. But now I need to get Patrick into bed.’

I nod, take a step backwards.

‘Look after yourself, Frankie.’

Then she closes the door, and I’m left wondering why her words land on me like a heavy blanket of dread.