Page 8 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

There’s shouting. Silhouettes of men. I stare into the distance, but I can’t make out where the sea ends, and the night sky begins.

The only clue comes from the weak moonlight, drifting between clouds, streaking the water.

I shift my gaze closer. Who is on the beach with me?

They’re both silent, sleeping. But I can’t see their faces.

Now I can hear a distant droning sound. Is that a boat?

I jerk awake. Blink. My neck is twisted and stiff, my cheek stuck to the tabletop.

Sunlight floods through the window, and my laptop screen is black in front of me – asleep or out of power.

I’m in The Wolf Den, I remember. And the droning noise is my phone buzzing. I grab it, arch my back to sit up.

‘Hello?’ I say, my voice thick with sleep.

‘Mum? Thank God! Why did you take so long to answer?’

Lola is in trouble. That is as clear as an air-raid siren blaring in my ears.

I suck in a breath and hold it as I swipe the mouse on my laptop to bring it to life.

It’s connected to my phone – something Lola set up for me – and it lists six missed calls and two voicemails from a mobile number I don’t recognise.

The missed calls were all made between six thirty and seven thirty, and I curse my body, my mind, for keeping me awake all night and then sending me into the deepest sleep at dawn.

‘I’m … I’m sorry, I’m here now,’ I stutter. ‘But what’s happened? Why aren’t you calling from your own phone?’

‘I was mugged last night,’ Lola says, her voice jittery. ‘He didn’t hurt me, but he took my phone, and my belt bag, which had my money and passport inside, and my room key. I slept on the beach, and—’

‘You slept on the beach?’ I interrupt, my pitch rising. ‘Why didn’t you go back to your apartment? Where are your friends?’

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. I become aware of my own breathing. Like a rush of wind. ‘Lola?’

‘I’m not in Ayia Napa with the others,’ she finally whispers.

Something heavy drops into my belly and my spine curves. ‘What? Where are you?’

‘I’m in Corsica.’

I gasp. I can’t help it. I think I might have a panic attack, but I mustn’t. I need to stay in control. I push myself out of the chair and stride outside. The deck is already bathed in sunshine, and I try to use the brightness to steady me.

‘Mum? Are you okay?’

‘What are you doing there?’ I ask, managing to keep my voice steady, which is a miracle.

‘Um, I’m sorry, I wanted to find out more about where Grandpa came from. But you knew that, didn’t you? I’ve been asking to come here for years.’

I close my eyes. ‘I told you before,’ I say, slowly, with as much authority as I can muster. ‘I have no interest in going to Corsica, and neither should you.’

‘But that’s not true.’

Her words are spoken quietly, but they hit like a slap.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask carefully.

‘I know that you spent time in Corsica,’ she says. ‘In the summer of 2004. That you worked at Hotel Paoli.’

‘No,’ I whisper. Not a denial, just horror that she has found out. ‘How do you know?’

‘I found some postcards in Grams’ workshop.’

For a second, I’m back there – sitting on my bed, scrawling a postcard to my mum, Izzy doing a handstand against the wall as she waits for me to finish.

I shake the image away. ‘You need to come home,’ I say, silently pleading that Mum destroyed that final postcard, that Lola doesn’t know how my time in Corsica ended. ‘You can’t stay there.’

‘I know something really bad happened to you here.’

My face crumples and I sink down until my legs reach the warm decking. ‘Please, Lola. You don’t know anything, not really. If you come home, I can explain.’

Lola sniffs, and I suddenly realise that she’s crying too.

‘I want to, Mum,’ she whispers. ‘After everything that’s happened.

But how can I? I don’t have my phone, my passport, any money.

My backpack is at the Airbnb, but no one is answering the door.

And I’m scared to keep going back to that neighbourhood on my own after what happened last night. I don’t know what to do.’

Neither do I. The urge to get Lola out of Corsica is so powerful that I can’t think straight. What are you supposed to do if you lose your passport? Is there a British consulate in Corsica? How can I get money to Lola if she can’t access her accounts?

Then I open my eyes as another thought jolts in. ‘If you’re not at your accommodation, where are you? And whose phone are you using?’ I check the small screen. ‘The number looks like a landline?’

Maybe it’s the silence. Or maybe it’s true that mothers and daughters can communicate without speech. But either way, I know where Lola is calling from before she says the words. Although when they crash out of her mouth, I’m still not ready for them.

‘I’m at Hotel Paoli, Mum.’

‘And who … who let you use the phone?’

‘The lady behind reception. She’s English. Anna. She said she remembered you.’

I scrape my lip with my teeth until I taste blood.

Anna. Of course she remembers me. People hold on much tighter to the bad memories.

And nothing could be worse than what happened that summer.

But I can’t let Lola hear about it from Anna, or her husband Raphael.

It doesn’t surprise me that they still run the hotel – it’s a family business, and family loyalty is everything in Corsica – but I never thought I’d have to worry about keeping Lola away from them.

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘Like what?’

I lick blood off my lip. ‘Have you spoken to the police? Reported the mugging?’

‘No. I … I don’t know how. I don’t know where the police station is.’ Lola suddenly sounds so young, a child trying to navigate an adult world.

Just how I felt all those years ago.

I close my eyes and remember. Sitting in a hard plastic chair, opposite that police officer with his bushy moustache and withering expression.

Being forced to relive the worst moment of my life, only forty-eight hours after the tragic incident that I thought would hold that title forever.

Will Lola have to go to the same place? Sit in the same chair?

‘Maybe Anna could take me. She wants to help.’

‘I’m coming out to Corsica.’ The words are out before my brain catches up. But it’s the right decision. It doesn’t matter that I’m petrified about going back – protecting Lola comes first. But from what? I shake the stupid mystical fears from my head.

‘Really?’

‘It’s not fair for you to deal with this on your own. I’ll get a flight out as soon as I can. And if Anna wants to help, see if you can stay at the hotel until I arrive … but please, don’t talk to anyone.’

‘What happened here, Mum? What are you so scared of?’

My head is throbbing, and my eyes sting with tears. ‘I’ll explain everything when I get there,’ I lie.