Page 48 of Someone in the Water

Lola

Lola feels a line of sweat drip down the centre of her back. It’s approaching midday and the sun is bearing down on them. But she doesn’t care about the heat. She is with Patrick in a beautiful, secluded part of Corsica with the whole afternoon stretching out ahead of them.

‘What’s that over there?’ She points at a crumbling stone structure, one and a half walls with holes for windows and a doorway.

‘One of Porto Vecchio’s many ruins,’ Patrick says, smiling.

‘If I had to sum up Corsican history in one word, it would be invasion. Everyone has wanted this little island – the Greeks, the Romans, the Genoese, the French; even Mussolini tried his luck. I don’t know whether Corsicans are brave or stupid, but they fought them every time.

Some are still fighting for independence from the French.

They’ve never won, but that doesn’t stop them trying. ’

‘I guess that’s impressive?’ Lola says. After parking the car on a dusty side road, they walked through some woodland, and onto a steep path that took them above the treeline. They’re now on a flat stretch of grassland with boulders ahead of them and distant views of the sea below.

‘It made them tough, for sure. Although some might say too tough.’

‘What do you mean?’

He blinks, smiles. ‘You know what a vendetta is, right?’

Lola nods. ‘When someone hates another person and wants payback for whatever they’ve done to them.’

‘Officially, it’s a blood feud. You do something bad to my kin, and I’ll kill someone in yours.’

A gust of wind swirls around Lola’s shoulders as the word ‘kill’ hangs in the air. ‘I guess that’s what I meant,’ she mumbles.

‘Well, Corsica is famous for its vendettas,’ Patrick goes on. ‘And they can last through multiple generations. For centuries, Corsicans considered it their duty to avenge any wrongdoing. There’s even a specific type of knife for it – it’s called a vendetta corse .’

‘I hope you don’t have one of those,’ Lola says, pretending she’s joking. They’ve reached the boulders, and she plants her feet carefully. Last night everyone was talking about a deadly Corsican folklore, and now it’s vendettas. So much for Corsica’s French nickname, L’?le de Beauté.

Patrick smiles but doesn’t answer her question. ‘Do you need a hand?’

Lola shakes her head and moves on to the next boulder. It’s smooth but sturdy, and she silently swears at herself for hesitating. It’s not like Izzy’s death had anything to do with Corsican vendettas after all.

But it could be linked to another element of Corsican culture, she thinks as she speeds up. If Salvo was involved with the mafia like his brother, maybe Izzy saw something she shouldn’t have and got killed for it. And at least if Salvo’s the bad guy, it means they’re not in any danger now.

‘Will there be any other family members at Salvo’s memorial on Thursday?’ she asks, digging for clues.

‘No, I don’t think so. He’s got four nephews, my dad’s cousins. But they live in Marseille, and they were only here last week for the funeral.’

‘Four brothers, wow.’

‘Yeah. I was told that their dad was desperate for a daughter so kept trying. But it wasn’t to be.’

‘That’s your grandfather’s brother, right? Did you know him well?’

‘No, I never met him. He died when I was little.’

Lola wishes she could see Patrick’s face, but he’s ahead of her and she can only see his back, the almond tan of his neck against the white T-shirt. ‘That’s sad,’ she says. ‘How did he die?’

Patrick doesn’t speak for a few moments and Lola worries that she’s blown it.

But then he coughs and starts talking. ‘He was shot. The thing is, my uncle was involved with some bad people. Mafia. So yeah, he died when I was five, but I doubt I’d have met him even if he hadn’t.

My grandpa hated everything to do with the mafia, so he always kept us well away from Uncle Jean. ’

‘Oh, right.’ Lola doesn’t know whether to feel pleased that Patrick has no criminal influences, or disappointed that she might have to cross Salvo off her list of suspects.

‘Anyway, it’s not far now,’ Patrick continues. ‘Once we get over these rocks, the path takes us down to a footbridge, and we can access the beach from there.’

They clamber over the final boulders and pause to look at the view.

They’re high up now and the wind is swirling.

Lola holds her flying hair back from her face.

The sea looks magical, a mass of sparkles as the sun hits the crest of every wave.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘And you’re right about it being remote.

I see now why you get the beach to yourself most of the time. ’

‘One of the benefits of being born here, I guess. Salvo used to bring me here before he moved away. We’d bring fishing nets and look for crabs in the rocks.’

‘I bet you missed him when he left. Why did he go?’

Patrick looks out to sea. ‘He grew up in Sartène, but I’m not sure why he went back there when he did.’

Lola thinks about the article she read, how it said the hotel was passed to Salvo by his mother. ‘He still owned the hotel though?’

Patrick sighs, then eyes the footpath. ‘Part-owned it, with my dad. I think they fell out over something, probably to do with business. My father wanted to modernise everything while my grandfather was a traditionalist. It’s not a great combination.’

The path is wide enough for two now and Lola falls in step beside him. ‘Did you go and stay with your grandparents in Sartène?’

‘Yeah, in the school holidays. In fact, I was packed off there for most of the summer break for about ten years running.’

‘That must have been fun?’

Patrick falls quiet again, as though he’s considering the question. ‘It was good to get away from here. But Salvo had changed by then, at least that’s how it felt. He worked such long hours on the vineyard, like it was some kind of penance.’ He blinks. ‘I wish I’d known then what I know now.’

‘And what’s that?’ Lola probes.

Patrick looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay?’

Lola’s cheeks flare. Why is she prying? Salvo’s only been dead a couple of weeks. ‘Of course.’

Patrick smiles his thanks. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing ahead.

‘There’s the bridge. Beach is just the other side.

Come on.’ He starts walking again and after a second of hesitation, Lola follows.

She needs to forget about Izzy, and who might have killed her, for a while.

She’s here to enjoy a picnic with the most gorgeous man she’s ever met.

‘Coming,’ she calls out, then picks up her pace to catch up.

They cross the wooden bridge over an inlet of water and finally arrive at the beach.

And it’s worth the journey. It’s a small cove, formed by rocks and lined with yellow and lilac flowered shrubs.

The sand is soft and white, and the stretch of water in front of the beach is glistening bright aquamarine in the sunshine.

‘This is amazing,’ Lola murmurs as Patrick unstraps a picnic blanket from his backpack and lays it out on the sand.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, kneeling down over his bag. ‘Because I brought loads.’

Lola smiles, nods, and drops down next to him.

She watches him pull out a collection of fresh foods.

Then he takes a knife from a separate pocket of his bag and starts slicing the cucumber and tomato.

It reminds her of the knife he mentioned – vendetta corse – and she wonders how Corsican Patrick feels.

He’s lived here all his life, but his mother is English, and Lola can’t imagine Anna has much time for Corsican traditions.

Lola pulls off a hunk of bread and rips it open with her fingernails.

She fills it with a soft cheese that she remembers is called Brocciu, a local goat’s cheese, and shoves in some salad.

‘My grandfather is Corsican,’ she says, suddenly realising they have that in common – a mix of Corsican and English blood.

‘Oh really?’ Patrick looks surprised for a second, then his face settles. ‘On your mum’s side?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you’re officially half as crazy as me then?’

Lola starts to laugh, but then she thinks about her mum, and how she’s spent time on a psychiatric ward. Her face drops.

‘What’s wrong?’ Patrick asks. ‘I don’t really think you’re crazy, you know.’

Lola shakes her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that my mum has struggled with her mental health over the years and …’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry. And you’re right, it’s not something to laugh about.’ He falls quiet for a moment. ‘That must have been tough for you.’

Lola shrugs. ‘Not really. I was sheltered from it mostly. But that’s why Mum takes herself off for a few weeks every summer, just in case she loses it again.’

‘Why the summer?’

‘I think it’s to do with Izzy’s death. She gets nightmares, and insomnia, and it all spirals, I guess. It means she misses my birthday, but her mental health is more important.’

Patrick leans over, pushes a strand of Lola’s hair away from her eyes. His face is only a few centimetres away from hers, and Lola can feel the electric charge sparking in the trapped air between them. ‘She’s lucky to have you,’ he murmurs.

Then he leans further, closing the gap.