Rule Two
Stick to Your Story
‘SHIT.’ THE VOICE that breaks the silence is Fatima’s, surprising me with her vehemence. ‘Shit.’
Kate lets the paper fall and I snatch it up, my eyes darting across the page. Police have been called to identify remains found on the north bank of the Reach at Salten…
My hand is shaking so hard that I can hardly read, and disjointed phrases jumble together as I scan the page. Police spokesperson confirmed … human skeletal remains … unnamed witness … poor state of preservation … forensic examination … locals shocked … area closed to the public …
‘Have they …’ Thea falters, uncharacteristically, and starts again. ‘Do they know …’
She stops.
‘Do they know who it is?’ I finish for her, my voice hard and brittle, looking at Kate who sits with her head bowed beneath the weight of our questions. The paper in my hand trembles, making a sound like leaves falling. ‘The body?’
Kate shakes her head, but she doesn’t need to say the words I know we are all thinking: Not yet …
‘It’s just a bone. It might be completely unconnected, right?’ Thea says, but then her face twists. ‘Fuck, who am I kidding? Shit!’ She slams her fist, the one holding the glass, down onto the table and the glass breaks, shards skittering everywhere.
‘Oh, Thee,’ Kate says, her voice very low.
‘Stop being a bloody drama queen, Thee,’ Fatima says angrily. She goes to the sink to get a cloth and a brush. ‘Did you cut yourself?’ she throws back over her shoulder.
Thea shakes her head, her face white, but she lets Fatima examine her hand, wiping away the dregs of wine with a tea towel. As Fatima pushes back Thea’s sleeve I see what the moonlight outside hid – the trace of white scars on her inner arm, long-healed but still visible, and I can’t stop myself from flinching and looking away, remembering when those cuts were fresh and raw.
‘You idiot,’ Fatima says, but her touch, as she brushes the shards of glass from Thea’s palm, is gentle, and there is a tremor in her voice.
‘I can’t do this,’ Thea says, shaking her head, and I realise for the first time how drunk she is, just holding it together well. ‘Not again, not now. Even rumours – casinos are fucking strict, do you guys realise that? And if the police get involved …’ There is a crack in her voice, the sound of a sob trying to rise to the surface. ‘Shit, I could lose my gaming licence. I might never work again.’
‘Look, we’re all in the same boat,’ Fatima says. ‘You think people want a GP with questions like that hanging over their head? Or a lawyer?’ She jerks her head at me. ‘Isa and I have got just as much to lose as you.’
She doesn’t mention Kate. She doesn’t have to.
‘So what do we do?’ Thea asks at last. She looks from me, to Kate, to Fatima. ‘Shit. Why the hell did you bring us down here?’
‘Because you had a right to know,’ Kate says. Her voice shakes. ‘And because I couldn’t think of a safer way to tell you.’
‘We need to do what we should have done years ago,’ Fatima says vehemently. ‘Get our story straight before they question us.’
‘The story is what it always has been,’ Kate says. She pulls the newspaper away from me and folds it so she can’t see the headline, scoring the page with her nails. Her hands are trembling. ‘The story is, we know nothing. We saw nothing. There’s nothing we can do except stick to that – we can’t change our account.’
‘I mean what do we do now?’ Thea’s voice rises. ‘Do we stay? Go? Fatima has the car, after all. There’s nothing keeping us here.’
‘You stay,’ Kate says, and her voice has that quality that I remember so well – an absolute finality that was impossible to argue with. ‘You stay, because as far as everyone’s concerned, you came down for the dinner tomorrow night.’
‘What?’ Thea frowns, and I remember for the first time that the others don’t know about this. ‘What dinner?’
‘The alumnae dinner.’
‘But, we’re not invited,’ Fatima says. ‘Surely they wouldn’t let us back? Not after what happened?’
Kate shrugs, and for answer, she goes to the corkboard beside the sink, and pulls out a pin securing four stiff white invitations, returning with the cards in her hand.
‘Apparently they would,’ she says, holding them out.
The Salten House Old Girls’ Association invites
................................................
to the Alumnae Summer Ball.
In the space on each card is scrawled our names, handwritten in navy-blue fountain pen.
Kate Atagon
Fatima Chaudhry (née Qureshy)
Thea West
Isa Wilde
Kate holds them, fanned like playing cards, as though inviting us to take one, make a bet.
But I am not looking at the names, or the embossed gilt lettering of the text itself. I am looking at the hole, stabbed through each card by the pin holding them to the corkboard. And I am thinking that, however much we struggled to be free, this is how it always ends, the four of us, skewered together by the past.