Page 50 of Someone in the Water

Lola

Lola puts down her newly charged phone and sucks on the straw. Keeps sucking until her nostrils burn with carbon dioxide gas. She can’t believe this used to be her mum’s staple drink; it tastes like rocket fuel.

‘Another Long Island iced tea?’ the barman asks. Not Patrick, but a young man with blonde hair cropped so short that he looks bald until his stubble catches in the overhead light.

‘Sure, why not.’ She probably shouldn’t be drinking. Not now she knows someone’s sending menacing notes to her mum. Threatening to kill them both. But that conversation on the beach, it was a lot. A little numbness is required.

While she hates to admit it, when she thought she was solving a two-decade-old crime, it was almost fun.

Playing the detective, cracking a cold case like she was leading a Netflix docu-drama.

But things are different now. She might be in real danger, and more than that, so might her mum.

The woman who has lived in the shadow of a crime for more than half her life.

Un, deux, trois, quatre . Does the fact it was written in French mean anything?

Is it more likely to be Raphael than Jack or Dom or Anna because he’s a native French speaker?

But they’ve all been living in French-speaking Corsica for years, and anyway, everyone over five knows those numbers.

It doesn’t tell her anything. The only thing she knows for sure is that it’s not Salvo because he’s dead.

And for some reason that makes her feel relieved – Patrick’s beloved grandfather being innocent.

The barman slides the potent drink towards her, and she sucks on the new straw.

She had such an amazing day with Patrick.

The picnic, the remote location, the sea lapping into rock pools; it was all perfect.

They ate and swam, chatted and made out.

How can that have only been a few hours ago?

Now she’s scared, half-drunk, and grappling with what to do next.

Of course she should go home – her mum is desperate to, and there is clearly a risk here.

But that means leaving Patrick, the man she is falling for hard.

And it also means that whoever wrote the notes will have won.

And possibly got away with double murder.

But also, possibly not. The notes are just words. It could all be fake news, some fantasist’s bullshit.

She stirs her drink with the straw, then swallows another large mouthful.

She has sailed in winds other people consider dangerous, swam in rivers with stronger currents than most swimmers would tackle.

She’s been flung around the sea on a mono-ski at fifty kilometres an hour.

Is she really going to be scared off by a couple of notes and a mystery scribe?

She’s so lost in her thoughts that when a hand lands on her arm, she jumps, her thighs smashing against the underside of the bar.

‘Shit, sorry,’ Patrick says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘No, it’s my fault,’ she says. ‘I was … someplace else.’

Patrick nods. ‘Want another drink?’

‘Sure. But maybe a glass of wine this time, otherwise you’ll be carrying me out.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind that.’ He smiles, and his eyes shine, and despite everything, Lola smiles back, but it’s a weaker one than he deserves.

‘Hey, Vincent, can I get two glasses of rosé?’ he calls out.

They watch in silence as the barman prepares their drinks, then when he puts the glasses in front of them, Patrick clinks his against Lola’s.

‘Listen, is everything okay?’ Patrick asks. ‘You look …’

‘I’m fine,’ Lola interrupts. She knows she sounds abrupt and winces slightly, but Patrick nods.

‘I texted you a couple of times.’

‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’ Why is she being so short with him? Whatever the truth is about what happened twenty-one years ago, none of it is Patrick’s fault. She looks down at her hands in her lap, and with a swell of horror, realises that she’s about to cry.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Patrick asks gently.

She nods, but jams her lips together. She loves that he’s picked up on her fragile mood. But also, his thoughtfulness has brought her tears even closer to the surface.

‘Come on, let’s go.’ Patrick curls his fingers around hers, then leads her past the swimming pool and onto the sand.

He sinks down, pulling her with him. Lola wonders if he’s going to kiss her, and if he does, whether she’ll return it.

Whether his touch can make her forget about the notes, or even that one of his parents could have written them.

But instead, he pulls his trainers off and waits for her to do the same.

When they’re both barefoot, he pulls her up again and guides her down to the water’s edge.

Lola digs her toes into the cold sand.

‘I don’t want to pry, but if something’s wrong, I hope you feel you can trust me with it,’ Patrick says quietly. ‘I saw your mum earlier and she looked upset too. I want to help.’

Lola stares out to sea. The sun has disappeared behind the mountains, but it’s casting a fiery pink glow across the sky and the colourful light is reflecting on the rippling waves.

She wants to confide in Patrick. She needs to talk to someone, and at least there’s no way he could have been involved in Izzy’s death.

But he is also Raphael and Anna’s son. If she tells him about the notes, will he talk to them?

Where would his loyalties lie? He has nothing good to say about his father, but blood is thicker than water – isn’t that how the saying goes?

‘Do you believe in the mazzeri legend?’ she hears herself asking. Patrick was close to his grandfather. Maybe he can explain why Salvo insisted that her mum was a mazzera.

Patrick shifts his face towards her. ‘You mean the folklore about dream hunters?’

‘I heard your grandfather believed in it.’

‘Yes, that’s true. Salvo was a proud Corsican who was born during the ravages of wartime. He had a lot of respect for many aspects of our culture including the mazzeri. But what’s that got to do with whatever’s upset you?’

Lola sighs. ‘Salvo told my mum that she was mazzeri, back in 2004.’

Patrick’s eyes widen. ‘What? Why did he think that?’

Lola sinks onto the sand and draws her knees up to her chin. She senses Patrick drop down next to her. ‘I think he thought she’d inherited it from my grandfather. But it freaked my mum out. And then she had one of those dreams about Izzy,’ she admits in a whisper. ‘The night before Izzy died.’

‘Wow.’ Patrick stares out to sea, as still as a mannequin.

‘But it’s just a fantasy story, isn’t it? Like Stranger Things or The Gruffalo ?’

Patrick turns towards her. ‘Of course it is. Corsicans love their gruesome stories, but there’s no actual truth to it.’

‘And Izzy dying the next night is just a coincidence, right?’

‘One hundred per cent. You can’t cause someone’s death by dreaming about it.’ He looks at her quizzically. ‘But you know that, so why are you so worried about this?’

Lola blinks. The tears are threatening again. Without speaking, Patrick shuffles towards her and she feels breathless in the rising heat between their bodies. ‘Mum had the dream about me too,’ she finally whispers. ‘The night before she flew out here.’

She feels Patrick’s torso stiffen. ‘You need to forget about it,’ he says. ‘The mazzeri aren’t real. You’re not going to die.’

Is this when she tells him about the notes? Explains that her life might actually be in danger in the real world? She feels his arm wrap around her shoulder and leans in. ‘Are you sure?’ she chooses instead. Maybe this is all she really wants. Reassurance.

He picks up a strand of her hair and moves it behind her ear. ‘Yes I’m sure. Because while you’re here, with me, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.’