SOMETIMES, WHEN I wake in the night, the sound of a shovel grating on shale in my dreams, I still cannot believe it. I have spent so long running from the memories, pushing them away, drowning them in drink and routine and everyday life.
How. The word rings in my ears. How did you bring yourself to do it? How did you ever think this was right? How could you think what you did was the solution to Kate’s terrible situation?
And most of all, how have you coped, living with this knowledge, living with the memory of that panicked, drunken stupidity?
But back then it was a different word that reverberated in my head all that night as we smoked and drank and cried on Kate’s sofa, holding her in our arms as the moon rose and the tide washed away the evidence of what we’d done.
Why.
Why had Ambrose done it?
We found out the next morning.
We had planned to stay the rest of the weekend, to look after Kate, keep her company in her grief, but when the clock that hung between the long windows showed four, she stubbed out her cigarette, and wiped her tears.
‘You should go back.’
‘What?’ Fatima looked up from her glass. ‘Kate, no.’
‘No, you should go. You’ve not signed out, and anyway, it’s better that you’re not … that you have …’
She stopped. But we knew what she meant, and that she was right, and as dawn began to break over the marshes we set out, shaking and nauseous with wine and shock, our muscles still aching, but our hearts aching harder at the sight of Kate, huddled white and sleepless in the corner of the sofa as we left.
It was a Saturday, which meant that when we crawled under our blankets, drawing the curtains against the bright morning light, I didn’t bother to set my alarm. There was no roll call at Saturday breakfast, no one checked us in and out, and it was quite acceptable to skip it and go straight in for lunch, or make toast in the senior common room, with the toaster that was one of the privileges of being in the fifth.
Today, though, we didn’t get a chance to sleep in. The knock came early, quickly followed by the scrape of Miss Weatherby’s staff key in our bedroom lock, and Fatima and I were still prone beneath our red felt blankets, blinking and dazed as she strode into the room, pulling back the curtains.
She said nothing, but her shrewd eyes took it all in – the sand-spattered jeans lying on the chair where I’d left them, the sandals clagged with mud from the salt marsh, the red wine stains on our lips and the unmistakable cherry-ripe scent of alcohol leaching out through the skin of two hung-over teenagers …
In the bed across from mine Fatima was struggling upright, raking hair out of her face, blinking in the cruelly bright light. I looked from her to Miss Weatherby, feeling my heart begin to thump in my chest. Something was wrong.
‘What’s going on?’ Fatima asked. Her voice cracked a little on the last syllable, and I could feel her worry rising in pitch with mine. Miss Weatherby shook her head.
‘My office, ten minutes,’ she said shortly. Then she turned on her heel and left Fatima and me staring at each other, terrified but silent as unspoken questions passed between us.
We dressed in record time, though my fingers were shaking with a mix of fear and hangover as I tried to button my top. There was no time for a shower, but both Fatima and I splashed water on our faces and brushed our teeth, me hoping to mask the worst of the cigarettes on my breath, trying not to retch as the brush slipped in my trembling fingers, making me gag.
At last, after what felt like an impossibly long time, we were ready, and we slipped out of our bedroom. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest that for a moment I almost didn’t hear the footsteps from above. Thea was hurrying down the stairs, her face white, her nails bitten to blood.
‘Weatherby?’ she asked, and Fatima nodded, her eyes dark pools of fear. ‘What d’you –’ Thea began.
But we were on the landing now, and a passing crowd of first years looked at us curiously, wondering perhaps what we were doing up so early with our pale faces and trembling hands.
Fatima shook her head, a kind of sickness in her expression, and we hurried on, the clock in the main hallway striking nine just as we reached Miss Weatherby’s office door.
We should have got our stories straight, I thought desperately, but there was no time now. Even though none of us had knocked, it was exactly ten minutes since we’d been summoned, and we could hear noises coming from behind the door – Miss Weatherby gathering up her pens, pushing back her chair …
My hands were cold and shaking with adrenaline, and beside me I could see Fatima looking as if she was about to be sick – or pass out.
Thea had a look of grim determination, like someone going into battle.
‘Volunteer nothing,’ she hissed as the door handle began to turn. ‘Understand? Yes/no answers. We know nothing about Am—’
And then the door swung open and we were ushered inside.