Chapter 38
I know I’m right when I see his face go puce. He screams and lunges at me, but Kimmy grabs his arm and pulls him back. ‘We’re so close, baby. Almost in the clear. Don’t lose it now.’
This is the best chance I’m going to get. I have to trust that Becca knows it too, that she’ll play her part.
With all her attention fixed on placating Euan, Kimmy lets the shotgun dip a fraction; she’s not looking at me.
This is my moment.
‘I’m going to need you to jump in the water,’ I whisper to Jameson.
‘What?’
‘Trust me. I’m not going to let you drown. But you need to jump now.’
And then I spring at Kimmy, leading with a kick to the head. She topples backwards into the snowbank, and I hurl myself after her, just as a shot blasts through the air and a splash sounds behind me.
*
There’s a second shot and the sound is brutal, ripping apart the night. I don’t know in which order those sounds came – shots-then-splash or splash-then-shots.
It matters, like it matters who pulled their trigger first.
It matters as much as the moment I fell asleep on the dock while my mother climbed into that canoe.
My ears ring, and I can’t hear anything for several seconds. I fight to get Kimmy under control beneath me, all the while thinking: Jameson, Jameson, Jameson …
‘I’ve got her, Eilish.’ Becca lands in the snow beside me in a graceful bound. Her eyes are fever-bright, but she’s fast and fierce. ‘Help Jameson.’
I can’t think about it, or I won’t be able to do it. I remember the pool yesterday, how easy it was to jump in and save Alex when I thought he was drowning. This is different. I’m more in my head. More scared than I’ve ever been.
But I’m not about to leave someone else I love to drown. I made him a promise.
I sprint onto the jetty, leaping over Euan who is face down on the ice, a slick of red seeping from beneath his prone body.
I force my legs to move. I need warm muscles, and I need to be ready for the shock of the cold.
I push off the slippery end of the jetty and into water that feels like needles being jabbed into every inch of me, inside and out.
I force my eyes open, fight the panic and will my heart to beat.
Beneath the water, the world stills. All is murky and grey, the water dense and deep, holding its secrets close, lying in wait to claim me, to draw me to its heart forever.
Not today.
I see him.
He’s swimming with legs only as best he can. He’s got a strong kick and he manages to break the surface, but already I can see how the cold is sapping his energy. His legs flail, losing power. I have seconds to do this, or we’ll both die.
I push towards him, use my momentum to grab hold and tow him with all my might towards the bank. Jameson relaxes in my grip and kicks his legs, helping.
Having knocked Kimmy out cold with a rock to the head, Becca now leans over the edge.
Between us we manage to manoeuvre Jameson up and onto the snow, but I’ve got nothing left.
I lose my grip on the slippy edge and start to sink.
Becca grabs my wrist, her grip bruising.
She helps me up and I collapse inelegantly in a snow drift.
Jameson is lying beside me, his face turned towards mine, eyes closed. His hands are still bound behind his back, and Becca kneels beside him and makes short work of the knots. His eyes flutter open and land on me. They’re the only warmth in the universe in that moment.
I’m so cold. My heart beats valiantly, trying to get sluggish, half-frozen blood to my extremities, my fading brain. ‘You trusted me,’ I say, and Jameson smiles, his teeth chattering.
‘Always.’
*
We have to move quickly; we’re not safe yet.
The cold could still claim Jameson or me before we make it back to Tarnmore.
Becca is a machine – I’ve never been more impressed with anyone in my life.
She uses the rope that bound Jameson to tie Kimmy’s hands behind her in a knot so tight I worry it might cut off the blood to her hands.
The blow to the head knocked her only briefly unconscious, and she’s now awake, groggy but ranting about how the rope is too tight.
Of course, she wanted to blow my head off with a shotgun and stage my suicide, after murdering the man I love and setting fire to a historic building containing what’s left of my friend group, so my empathy is limited. If she loses a hand, that’s fine with me.
Euan is dead. Becca shot him in the head. Like a sniper, lying in the snow, with perfect aim and no flicker of hesitation, she shot the man she thought she was in love with to save me and Jameson.
She checks Euan for a pulse, pronounces him gone, and calmly proceeds to drag his coat off his cooling body.
She makes Jameson put on the coat in place of his own sodden one.
‘There’s no point in all this if you die too.
’ Then she gives her jacket to me – she’s wearing about fifteen layers, so she won’t freeze.
Kimmy sobs and keens as we march her back towards the forest, leaving Euan’s body behind on the jetty.
Jameson carries both shotguns, broken, over one arm, and Becca keeps her rifle in hand, daring Kimmy to try anything. Apparently, she took it out the gun cabinet earlier for protection (against me?) stashed it in her room and forgot to put it back.
Kimmy is prudent enough, concussed enough and traumatised enough from watching her lover’s brains splatter the snow to require no further inducement to behave.
‘Are you all right, Bex?’ I ask, slanting an awed look at Becca as we slip between the trees.
I don’t know how she’s keeping it together.
We’re walking fast, trying to keep mine and Jameson’s body temperatures up and get home to a roaring fire and some – preferably undrugged – coffee and booze to heat us from the inside.
She nods, her mouth set in a thin line, but doesn’t speak.
She’s in for a world of hurt, later, when the shock erodes.
When she hears the full story, the extent of Euan’s perfidy.
So far she knows he drugged her and tied her up, splashed petrol about her beloved Tarnmore, and tried to make Jameson and me walk the plank at gunpoint.
But she doesn’t know why.
Still, she’ll tackle it like she tackles everything – head on, all-in. She won’t hide from her pain for years, suppressing her desire to properly live.
And I won’t either. Not this time.
Jameson keeps shooting looks at me, checking I’m okay, still in one piece. Still here.
I am.
I’m not going to crumble, and I’m not going to run away.
*
When we reach Tarnmore, the relief is profound.
I stumble through the gate with Jameson.
We don’t have another kilometre in our legs.
The house towers, solemn and snow-veiled, with no idea how close it came to burning to the ground.
‘Leo was still totally out when I left,’ Becca says.
‘Greedy guts had more of the hot chocolate than anyone else and I’m pretty sure he sneaked an extra shot of whisky into his. ’
I think of the dark, cold rooms, the corridors Jameson and I slunk along, knowing a killer was on our tail, the petrol cans upended over soft furnishings and antique furniture. ‘Anyone else think the cottage is a better bet?’
Becca suppresses a shiver. ‘He’s everywhere, in the cottage.’ Then she taps her head, drops her fingers to rest over her heart. ‘But he’s everywhere in here too.’
‘We need to be practical, Bex. The cottage is a lot smaller and easier to heat, and presumably not doused in petrol—’
She drags out a sigh. ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll wake Leo. You guys take Kimmy back and get a fire going. Take turns in the shower; someone has to watch over her.’
My cheeks heat at the thought of us not taking turns in the shower.
I glance at Kimmy. She seems totally broken, but Becca’s right; it’s best to be careful.
We separate: Becca striding doggedly towards the big house, and Jameson and I towing Kimmy between us to the cottage. I push open the door. The lights are on, and the air is warmed by central heating. There’s electricity. Which means the outage at the big house was deliberate.
Like the landline and Wi-Fi – the lines cut, not brought down in the storm.
And the destroyed phones.
The cottage has low ceilings and ash beams. Becca’s decor is as minimalist as she said – one main room combines kitchen, dining room and living area.
It’s small, but no expense has been spared in kitting it out.
There’s a feature wall painted smoke-blue, and long, low-slung navy sofas.
Everything else is crisp – white and chrome.
Jameson shoves Kimmy into a dining chair and she slumps, burying her head in her arms. I go to the fireplace.
The remainders of a fire fill the pot-bellied stove, and when I open the door, I see half-burned fragments of paper among the charred logs.
‘Jameson,’ I say, and begin to pull them out. I heap the remnants of John Metcalfe’s life story on to the stone surround.
‘The police will want to see those,’ Jameson says, coming to crouch beside me. He’s shivering violently; I can feel the tremors running through him. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and brings out Leo’s phone, rescued from the snowdrift where I threw it to save it from the loch. ‘This too.’
He sheds his coat, despite the chill, and hangs it on the back of a chair. I kindle a fire in the cleaned grate, use a firelighter to get a good blaze going. ‘You can take the first shower,’ I tell Jameson, resting on my heels.
‘No. You go.’ He smiles at me and my heart melts.
Kimmy looks up malevolently. ‘You two are sickening.’
‘Our definitions of sickening may differ slightly,’ I snap. ‘Your weird murder-romance, for example.’
‘Johnny and I were in love,’ Kimmy says. ‘And that bitch Becca killed him.’
‘That bitch saved our lives, prevented a miscarriage of justice and the travesty you’d planned to cover your tracks. Tarnmore would have been ash by morning, if you’d had your way.’
She sighs. ‘It’s only a house. And so what if Eilish died and took the blame for Gen’s and Alex’s murders? It’s not like she’s got much of a life to lose anyway.’
‘That’s enough,’ Jameson snaps, but I put out a hand to quiet him.
‘She’s not worth it.’ I straighten up, my knees stiff with cold.
Kimmy is wrong – I do have a life worth living, and I’m going to appreciate it all the more once I get back to it.
Plus, I have a feeling it’s about to get even more worthwhile, if the promise in Jameson’s expression is anything to go by. ‘I’ll be quick in the shower.’
I emerge from the bathroom after blasting myself with hot water that sparks fresh needles of pain all over my body.
I dry myself roughly on a big, white towel, and pull on clothes scavenged from Becca’s bedroom closet: yoga pants and a loose-weave sweater, a pair of chunky socks.
I hurry back into the living room, relieved to find Kimmy sitting in the chair where I left her, Jameson standing in front of the fire keeping watch. ‘Your turn,’ I tell him.
He puts a hand on my shoulder as he passes me, and our eyes meet. There’s so much to discuss. I don’t know if this is for real or just a product of the strange, stressful hours. ‘Don’t let her move a muscle,’ he says. ‘Do you want the rifle?’
We left the guns, ammunition removed, in the porch.
I shudder. ‘No.’
Jameson’s lips twitch. ‘Right enough, you’ve got other weapons at your disposal. She moves, you kick her in the head again. I must say, I enjoyed seeing you kick someone’s ass as much as I thought I would. Maybe more.’ He grins.
Kimmy gives a strained growl and I can’t help but smile back.
I take up position before the flames, towelling off my hair and keeping my eyes trained on the slumped form at the table.
I don’t move while Jameson showers. I listen to the sound of the water running, the crepitating fire and … I listen more closely – what’s that dripping noise?
It takes me a moment to realise it’s the sound of snow melting.
Finally.
Jameson comes out the shower, rubbing a towel over his shorn hair, another draped around his neck. The house is warming and he’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweats that must belong to Euan. My eyes are drawn to the smooth ridges of his abs.
‘Oh put some clothes on,’ Kimmy says. Her face is ravaged – make-up smeared, eyes wild with grief, mouth contorted in a snarl.
‘I’d prefer to wear as few of his clothes as possible,’ Jameson answers calmly, and winks at me. He picks up a blanket folded over the back of one of the sofas – grey to match the wall – and drapes it around his shoulders. He lays out his own clothes to dry before the fire.
Then he sits, cross-legged, in front of the flames and holds out an arm to me.
I slip beneath the blanket and into the impossible force field of warmth around him.
I’ve no idea how he’s managed to thaw out so fast; I still feel cold to my core.
I coorie into Jameson’s chest and he folds the fleecy blanket around us both.
We sit there for several moments, while the snow melts and the fire burns, and Kimmy cries piteously.
The door of the cottage flies open, rebounding off the wall. Leo roars, ‘Where is she?’
I hear Becca’s answering protest – ‘Leo … Take it easy.’
He comes in like a raging bull. Staggering still from the effects of the sedative, but awake and very angry.
His hair is mussed, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, his handsome mouth set in a thin, furious line.
He stares down at Kimmy, his anger under control now, and deeply intimidating.
‘What the fuck? You were fucking cheating on me.’
Ah Leo. Always got his priorities straight.