Wednesday, 2 November
‘Shall we ask at the bar first, or jumpstart your car?’ Jack said, dropping down gears as they arrived at La Fábrica. It was just after seven, and the car park was already rammed.
Isla was relieved that any talk of the wedding, and her keeping things from him, had disappeared after the shock of the night before, and Jack seemed focused on supporting her.
‘Let’s try to find the waitress,’ she said, unclipping her seatbelt. ‘Get it over with.’
‘I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding,’ Jack said, getting out of the car.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I just need to be sure, that’s all.’
Even though Jack had found the article, Isla still couldn’t get Carl Jeffery out of her head. Someone had called the restaurant and asked the staff to give her a message. She needed to know who it was. Felt her sanity depended on what the person had said. What they sounded like.
The restaurant was heaving, and a waiter in black trousers and a crisp white shirt stood near the entrance, a book open on a stand in front of him.
‘Table for two?’ he asked with a smile, as they approached.
Jack shook his head. ‘No thanks, mate. We’re looking for one of your waitresses. She was here last night, and we’d like to talk to her.’
‘We have a lot of staff,’ the waiter said, as Isla scanned the area, searching for the woman who’d spoken to her the night before. ‘Could you be more specific?’
‘She gave me a message last night,’ she said. ‘Told me my boyfriend had called saying I should walk home.’ Her eyes flicked from Jack to the waiter. She knew she wasn’t explaining herself very well.
‘OK.’ The waiter’s eyebrows furrowed.
‘It’s important we speak to her,’ she went on, running her finger over the band on her wrist. ‘It was a lie, you see.’ She hadn’t really noticed it last night, but now the place felt far too crowded. And although the food tasted good when she was with Roxanne, now the spicy smells made her queasy.
‘O-K,’ the waiter repeated, but with more emphasis. He tilted his head, and screwed up his face. ‘Sorry, I confess, I’m a tad confused.’
‘One of the waitresses told me to go home last night,’ Isla said, the noise making her head throb. ‘But I should have waited for Jack, because it couldn’t have been him. Do you see? But Jack hadn’t called. His car was OK.’ She was talking way too fast, her phrasing clipped. ‘And when I walked home, someone followed me. Or I think they did.’
‘The bottom line is,’ Jack cut in, taking Isla’s hand and squeezing, ‘I didn’t call the restaurant. We think someone called here pretending to me. We just need to speak . . . ’
A deliberate cough came from behind them, and Isla and Jack turned to see a middle-aged couple, tight-lipped with impatience.
‘I won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ the waiter said, peering round Jack and Isla.
‘We’ve booked a table,’ the man said. ‘We’d like to be seated, please.’
‘I’ll be with you shortly.’ The waiter threw them a forced smile, and sucked in a sigh. He glanced over his shoulder into the busy restaurant, and then back at Isla and Jack. ‘We’ve got about a dozen staff on tonight, but they’re pretty much a different bunch than last night, I’m afraid. What did this phantom waitress look like?’
Isla looked at Jack. Was the waiter being sarcastic? Did he think she was crazy? ‘About forty, I think,’ she said, realising she could barely bring the woman to mind.
‘Hair colour?’
‘Mmm . . . ’ She touched her own hair. ‘I’m not sure, brownish.’
‘Maybe we should go somewhere else,’ the man behind said, sounding irritated.
‘Excuse me,’ the waiter said to Isla, as he grabbed two oversized menus. He beckoned the couple forward, and escorted them into the restaurant.
‘This is a waste of time, Jack,’ Isla said, as the waiter disappeared. ‘I’m not even sure I’d know her if I saw her.’ She paused. ‘And what can she really tell us? In fact, maybe I imagined someone behind me in the park. Or maybe it was someone innocently walking their dog, or something.’ Tears were close to the surface.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. It was as though he didn’t know what to say.
Isla gave the restaurant one last sweep with her eyes. It didn’t matter that Jack had found the article saying Carl Jeffery was still locked up. He was still haunting her – just as he had six years ago. ‘Let’s get my car sorted,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’
Once they were on the road, she followed in the wake of Jack’s tail-lights, eyes darting from the pavements either side of her – imagining Carl there, lurking behind every tree and in every shadow – and back to the small red light on the dashboard that told her all the doors were firmly locked. He couldn’t get in. She was safe – for now.
Six years ago
Isla had been working in the bar the day she heard Bronwyn was dead. She hadn’t known it was her feisty friend. Not then. Not at that moment when the news grabbed her attention.
It had been a long day. Rowdy between seven and nine, but now it had quietened down, and the TV above the bar boomed out over the low muffled chatter of stalwart punters. Isla had been talking for the last ten minutes with a relatively sober Ernie, sipping a glass of wine he’d bought her, when news of the death was broadcast.
Isla’s skin prickled at its close proximity. Less than a mile from the hostel.
‘What’s a young sheila want to go and top herself for?’ Ernie said, banging down an empty glass. ‘Stick another schooner in there, Isla, would ya, love?’ He sighed. ‘Life’s so fucked up, and my missus wonders why I drink.’
Robotically, Isla filled his glass and handed it over, her eyes fixed on the screen.
‘The young woman was found hanging from a tree, like an ancient execution,’ the newsreader, a woman in her thirties, was saying. She was at the scene, holding a mic, dense forest all around her. ‘Although police say there are no suspicious circumstances at this point.’ It was clear the news channel thought otherwise.
Isla grabbed the remote control. ‘Let’s put something more cheerful on, shall we?’ she said, flicking through the channels, and landing on a repeat of Neighbours. ‘That’s better,’ she said, but she couldn’t get the thought of the woman out of her head. What would drive someone to take their own life? Didn’t she have anyone to turn to? A friend? Family? She brushed away a tear. She couldn’t begin to imagine being so desperate. But then her life was pretty good. She was one of the lucky ones.
It was Carl who later told Isla it was Bronwyn. The police had contacted him. His details were in her backpack.
‘I should have known,’ he said, through tears, as they sat in the corner of the bar. ‘Abused by her father, she told me. Never really came to terms with it. The signs were there. Just wish I hadn’t missed it.’ He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. Seeming different. Genuine. Gone were the charms, the flirting. It seemed the shock of Bronwyn’s death had stripped away the fake layer.
And Isla cried too, sobbed until her stomach hurt, before covering her mouth with her hand, attempting to quieten her emotions. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, the helplessness of being that friend who Bronwyn had never turned to biting into her.
‘We were never serious,’ Carl said after a while. ‘But close, if you know what I mean – had fun. I had no idea she was so desperate.’ A tear rolled down his face, out of place on his tanned cheek. ‘No idea at all.’
She took his hand and squeezed, her fingers damp from dashing away her own tears.
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Carl,’ she said, as another heavy tear dripped off her chin. ‘Neither of us could have known.’
The following day Isla had headed into the woodland behind the hostel, the sun hot on her back. It was as she was taking a photograph of a Blue Triangle butterfly that she spotted Carl in the distance. He was taking a photograph too.
‘Hey,’ she called, but he didn’t seem to hear her. So she made her way towards him, her footfalls crunching on the dry fauna. ‘Hey,’ she said again as she approached, and he looked up.
‘Isla,’ he said, with a smile that brightened his eyes. ‘It’s great to see you. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. My emotions were all over the place. I still can’t …’
‘No, nor me,’ she said, biting back her own emotions. She nodded towards his camera. ‘I didn’t know you were into photography.’
‘Yeah, have been for years. I find it therapeutic.’
‘Me too,’ she said, her eyes wide, pleased to find someone else who shared her passion. She looked over her shoulder. ‘I was taking a few photos of butterflies.’
He smiled. ‘You like butterflies, Isla?’
‘Love them.’ She nodded. ‘There’s just something amazing about them, don’t you think? They’re like fairies.’
‘Well, I’d never seen them like that, but OK.’ He laughed. ‘I tend to think of the butterfly effect when I see one.’
‘The smallest step can change everything.’
‘Yeah, something like that.’ He smiled. ‘I read that the tiny flutter of a butterfly’s wing can cause pandemonium on the other side of the world.’ He paused, looking almost shy. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight? Ignore me if you think my timing is out.’
She wasn’t sure. Bronwyn’s death was so fresh in her mind. But wouldn’t she want them both to be happy? To find comfort in each other? After all she had been heading off to New Zealand. It was over between them. The smallest step could change everything.
‘No worries,’ he said, seeming to pick up on her delay. He aimed his camera at a Sacred Ibis.
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
He turned and met her eye. ‘Yeah? That’s great. I’ll pick you up at seven, Butterfly Girl.’