Chapter 19 Miles
Miles
Miles opens his eyes, and it takes a second or two for him to remember where he is.
At the same time, there’s an assault on his body: deep nausea, eyelids of sandpaper, a head full of rocks.
A proper hangover. He hasn’t had one of these for a long time.
Miles lies still, unready to move, staring vacantly towards the window.
The room is dark, but a white glow around the edges of the curtains says the sun has been up for some time.
A glass of water stands on the bedside table, but it’s too much effort to reach for it.
He closes his eyes. Maybe he can slip back into sleep.
He lies, his head pulsing, and memories of the previous day start to splice together, disjointed fragments slowly interweaving to form a narrative.
They were at that bar all afternoon, weren’t they, and then there was a restaurant – Thai, he thinks – and then another place, not quite a nightclub but there was neon and a dance floor, and—
Suddenly the picture cuts to black. His body tenses, rigid. Something crawling up his bare calf. Someone. Someone in the bed with him. He turns over, and there she is.
‘Good morning, Miles.’
He blinks. ‘Jessie.’
She’s smiling, lying relaxed on her side, ice-blonde hair fanned across the white pillow.
Her make-up has bled slightly, leaving inky flecks of black under her eyes.
Jessie is unnervingly comfortable in the silence, her smile unfaltering as they lie staring at each other.
It’s a closed smile that thins her lips and pulls a dimple deep into her cheek.
Miles rubs his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten-thirty.’
‘Oh.’ Ten-thirty. He’s slept for a long time. Or has he? He can’t remember what time they came back here.
‘I’ve been awake so long,’ she says. ‘You were dead to the world; I didn’t want to wake you. You talk in your sleep – did you know that?’
He has been known to do that. Complete gibberish, normally. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything too offensive.’
She laughs. ‘I couldn’t make it out. And, believe me, I tried. Something about China, maybe?’
He rolls his eyes around, in thought. ‘We had a layover in Hong Kong – that’s probably it.’
‘Right,’ Jessie says. ‘You seem to have gotten over your jet lag, anyway. It’s a gorgeous day out there. We’re going down to the beach. Do you want to join us?’
The way she talks is strangely relaxed, like they’ve known each other for years. Miles hesitates. ‘Maybe, yeah.’
Jessie slides out of bed and stoops to pick up her clothes that are scattered on the floor. ‘Polly’s coming. Faith, too.’
‘Okay. I’ll let the boys know and we’ll come down and meet you.’
‘Cool. We need to enjoy the sun while we can,’ Jessie says. She turns her back to him and fastens her bra. ‘I’ve seen the weather report for the next few days, and it sucks.’
We need to enjoy the sun while we can. WE. Is she talking like they’re a couple already? That’s a bit keen. Jessie slips on her dress, still facing away, and Miles quickly averts his eyes as she turns to face him. She picks her phone up off the bed. ‘I’ll take your number.’
Miles lists the digits, and she taps them in.
She continues to thumb her phone, then pauses and looks at him. ‘What’s your surname, Miles?’
‘D—’ He stops. He’s not ready for this. His real name would serve up some truly horrifying internet search results. ‘It’s Davis.’
She lowers her eyebrows. ‘Miles Davis? Like the trumpet guy?’
Oh no. You idiot. ‘Yep. My parents are big fans of, er . . . jazz.’
‘Cool. But they didn’t have to take it out on you.
’ She slips her phone into her bag, kneels on the bed, leans over and jabs him in the shoulder, stinging the muscle with her knuckles.
‘Just kidding!’ She leans closer and kisses him on the mouth, as easily as if they were married.
‘See you soon,’ Jessie says, cheerfully, waving as she leaves.
Miles waits until the door closes behind her, then turns on to his side and closes his eyes. He’s done well there – Jessie is some girl; there’s no denying it. And she seems very into him. On the other hand, she was eager to leave just then – what was that about?
Miles lies there, allowing more images of last night to form in his mind.
Now it’s coming back. He has a hazy recollection of leaving the dance floor to get a round of drinks, and Jessie turning up next to him at the bar.
She asked him if he wanted to go outside for a cigarette, and then, when it transpired that neither of them had any – or even smoked – whether he’d like to walk down to the beach.
An image of her forms clearly. She was even more stunning down there, by the lake, her large round eyes shimmering like the still surface of the water in the silver moonlight.
He can’t remember exactly how they decided on going back to his hotel room, but he has no doubt it was her idea – she was making all the moves, that’s for sure.
He smiles as more of the memory crystallises in his mind: she was so loud, in a good way – fun, laughing easily at everything he said.
All that aside, things didn’t progress very far physically; he’s still wearing his underwear as proof of that.
After everything that’s happened, he’s been instinctively wary of putting himself in a potentially compromising position, and they wouldn’t have ended up here together if she hadn’t taken the lead.
Miles dozes for a while. Maybe thirty minutes later, he opens his eyes and grabs his phone off the bedside table.
A long list of notifications covers the screen: news alerts, messages, emails.
Three missed calls from George. Miles thumbs through the alerts and is relieved to see no mention of his name in any of them.
That’s the third day in a row he’s been out of the news; maybe it really is starting to blow over. Finally.
He looks through his messages. They’re not important; there’s one from his bank and two from George, asking where he disappeared to last night.
There’s little point in replying to that now – George is most likely still furious.
Besides, Miles’s memories of what happened are vague.
Instead, he taps out a message to the WhatsApp group: Heading down to the beach. See you there.
Then he opens his emails, and his smile drops.
He stares at the list. A tingle of anger, like a needle pressing at his skin.
All the emails that have come in overnight are spam, including one from ‘Caira Kennedy’.
Here we go again. He opens the email and forwards it to Lewin; this is for the police to worry about, not him.
Miles has been expecting another of these emails, but even so, it’s infuriating that there are trolls who still won’t leave him alone.
Again, the email is blank except for an audio attachment.
And, again, he can’t resist. Hi Miles, begins the AI-generated Caira voice.
I hope you’re enjoying New Zealand. This is not over.
Miles tosses the phone. He won’t be giving it any more thought.
That’s what they’re trying to achieve, to torment him. But he won’t allow it.
Miles hauls himself out of bed and lumbers unsteadily into the bathroom.
He cranks the shower on and steps in through the glass door into a heavy, scalding blast of water.
This is not over. Why are those words repeating on him?
It’s the voice – that artificial ghost – that makes it hard to ignore.
It’s quite clever, really, he begrudgingly admits.
I hope you’re enjoying New Zealand. Yes, he is enjoying New Zealand, thanks very much, although he’s sorely regretting the fact it’s been reported in the media so that every freak with a vendetta against him knows where he is.
At least whoever is sending these emails is a long way away; this latest one was sent at 4.
06 a.m. – a clear sign it originated from a different time zone.
They’re in Britain, still – of course they are.
No troll would be insane enough to travel to the other side of the world to hammer their point home.
All he has to do to escape this person is ignore them.
Miles steps out of the shower, towels himself dry and dresses for the beach – shorts, sandals, T-shirt – and heads out to the lifts.
He reaches the lobby, and the slap of sandals echoes as he crosses the white-tiled floor towards the exit.
Outside, he pauses underneath the portico and pulls his shades down from his head before stepping out into the full glare of the sun.
It’s noon, and the midday rays toast his face and arms with a dry heat.
The lake is a wavering mirror to the trees and mountains.
Miles hears the trill of birds and faint hiss of traffic.
And he hears . . . something else. A faint clicking sound, rapid – like the shuffling of cards.
He looks around. The noise has stopped. What was that?
The rattling of some foreign creature? A sprinkler system?
A bird? Did he imagine it? He listens carefully, but there’s nothing.
Just the sound of a car as it pulls out from the neat line of parked vehicles along the far side of the street and drives slowly west, disappearing behind the trees.