Isla
Sunday, 13 November
Floating between asleep and awake, Isla could see Millie and her parents racing along a beach by the sea, young and carefree, the sun beaming down on them, making them appear haloed. She was there too, blonde hair in a high ponytail swinging to and fro. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with The Spice Girls on the front, and star-shaped sunglasses, and snatching glances over her shoulder, her little legs giving it everything as she darted across the golden sand. Giggling.
Her family were letting her win.
Mum?
They dissipated, like dandelion clocks floating on the air, up into a cloudless sky and beyond. Gone. Leaving Isla suspended in real time, unable to open her eyes, a pain in her arm, as if a giant dragonfly had stung her, over and over – her limbs left lifeless, heavy.
Hello.
The sensation in her neck and throat was intolerable. She’d only felt it once before. The day Carl Jeffery tightened a rope around her neck, intending to string her up. Why could she feel it now? Was it real?
Hello.
But she knew there was nobody there in the simmering orange behind her eyelids.
She’d dipped in and out several times now, attempting to grab on to what was real and what was not, only to drift back into what felt like a fantasy – a dystopian world where she knew people, but didn’t know herself.
A door opened with a creak and soft footfalls approached.
Where am I?
What’s happened?
Thoughts scrambled and tangled, as whoever it was moved to her side. She felt moisture on her dry lips – soothing.
‘Isla, can you hear me?’ The voice, a whisper, was barely audible. She couldn’t even make out if it was male or female.
A brief memory of travelling through darkness on a chairlift, liquid greens zigzagging the night sky, came and went.
A cold hand touched her arm. She flinched inside, but knew she didn’t move.
The voice continued, fading further, words muffled. Isla was losing the connection. Drifting deeper into her thoughts.
Is any of this real?
Six years ago
Carl tightened the rope, his eyes wild. A hint of a smile twisting his lips.
Darkness called to Isla, as consciousness drained from her body.
I should have known.
Bronwyn had told her he’d acted weird when she tried to leave. Said she thought someone was watching her. He’d killed her, hadn’t he? Pieces slotted into place. ‘Bronwyn was abused by her father,’ he’d said. ‘A happy childhood brought up by two mums,’ she’d said.
Why hadn’t Isla taken it in? Seen him for who he was? The need for comfort after Bronwyn’s death had blinkered her. She’d been a fool.
He slackened the rope and she gasped, tears creeping from the corners of her eyes like tiny bubbles of pain. ‘Please,’ she tried to say, but words wouldn’t form.
‘Are you crying because you wish you’d tried harder, Isla? I mean we could have been so good together.’ He screwed up his face, and moved so he was inches from her face. ‘But you’re all the same, aren’t you?’ he said, breath hot on her skin. ‘Bronwyn. Clare. Sophie. Mother. Too full of your own importance, doing exactly what you want without a care for anyone.’
She went to try and talk again, but her throat closed in pain. ‘I . . . ’ was all she could say.
‘The police contacted me again about Bronwyn’s death.’ He moved back slightly and smirked, hands clenching the rope. ‘They have doubts about me. I may have to take off.’ He stroked her cheek with the rough rope. His once handsome face contorted, ugly – evil pumping through his veins. ‘After I’ve dealt with you, of course.’
Something inside her, as she lay under the weight of him, gathered momentum. And, like a defeated army that somehow finds strength for one last battle, she lifted her hand, grabbed his testicles and twisted.
Shock and pain radiated across his face. Yelling, he fell backwards, letting go of the rope to grab himself between his legs and cracking his head on the wall.
Isla scrambled to her feet, the rope still wound around her neck. She stumbled into the kitchen, her eyes flicking over the worktop, and grabbed a knife.
He was behind her in moments, and she turned to see his face purple with rage, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he yelled, dripping with sweat as he grabbed the rope and dragged her painfully towards him like the evil owner of a disobedient dog. ‘You deserve what’s coming to you.’
He cried out when she plunged in the knife. His scream told of immense agony as she tugged the blade free from his flesh. He gripped his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers, his stare frozen.
With his free hand he grabbed her wrist, and twisted. ‘Bitch,’ he spat.
Her body shook as she plunged the knife into him again. His drop to the floor was heavy, his cry ear-splitting.
‘For Bronwyn,’ she whispered, through the ache in her throat, as the knife tumbled from her hand and bounced three times across the wooden floorboards.