Long Weekend

I needn’t have run so fast - by the time I reach the bar, there’s a congregation awaiting me. My muffled scream had done its job and caught the attention of my fellow holiday-makers.

Stephen is standing with Penny in the bar, their necks craning as they try to get a good look around the resort. Robert appeared looking ruffled and red in the face. The reason for this is soon revealed as Sam appears just behind him. Only Robert Castro could find his libido the day after seeing a dead body.

My feet slow as a sense of safety descends upon me. These people will help me. They’ll restrain Michael until the police get here. Then I can at least stop worrying about every shadow, knowing that the perpetrator is taken care of. He all but admitted to killing Lucas during his ramblings, if nothing else, he at least gave away his motive. And it was exactly as I thought. He killed Lucas because he knew Michael was a bad man. That’s what Michael had told me after all. That he was a bad man.

“Help,” I gasp, despite knowing my words won’t make it to them. The adrenaline that had driven me in this direction, away from Michael and his threats, was fading. Shock was setting in. My mind ripped like a spilt bag of rice. Pieces, words, memories scattering around me. No longer making sense when seen from a distance. Despite the heat of the rising sun, I feel cold. So very cold.

It feels as though the world exists on the other side of a window and I’m just observing. Watching with interest as Robert, Penny and Stephen move towards me. Sam rolls her eyes in the background and continues to stand by the bar. Busying herself by tidying up the glassware we’d left behind. Four glasses now, not three. She must have joined Robert for a drink before they disappeared together for some fun.

Will Stephen have noticed? Will she be in trouble? I hope not. The girl might not like me but I knew how persuasive Robert could be, and she must be feeling some level of shock at what had happened to Lucas. We all were in some form or another. For all I know she’d been a fan of his. She seemed around the right age for it.

Robert is standing in front of me now, his hand passing through the barrier around me. It feels sluggish on my shoulder. Penny steps through the glass surrounding the world and places her hand on my other shoulder. Between the two, I can feel them supporting my body weight. At least I assume they are. I know I’m not anymore. My feet want to move. They’re desperate to move, but I’ve lost the ability to tell them to do so. I’m stuck in this moment as a chill takes over my blood.

I need to pull myself together. I have to lead them to Michael before he breaks out. What if he escapes and finds Fiona? She’s still out in the resort. Alone.

“Emma? Emma, are you okay?” Robert asks, placing his hands gently on my face. I’ve dreamt of staring into his eyes so many times, but not like this. Never like this.

“Fiona.” I sigh. Robert’s face falls in sadness. He thinks something bad has happened. “We have to warn her.” He recovers his composure and nods at me, speaking words I can’t quite hear. It’s like his mouth is working slower than his vocal chords.

“Michael. You have to help me. Michael is a bad man. Bad man.” I need to keep talking. Talking will help me push back against the shock, because that’s what’s happening to me. I’m going into shock. I’ve watched enough medical dramas to recognise the symptoms.

Dad used to joke that I was the family's GP when another one of my home diagnoses matched their actual doctor’s decision. Maybe I should have gone into medicine. No, that wouldn’t have made any sense for me. I don’t like blood. Don’t like death.

I remember her body hanging in the living room. A bottle of wine dropped to the floor. A dinner date I should never have delayed. Her legs swinging in a non-existent breeze.

Dad’s heart attack when I was twenty-two. Christmas dinner smeared across the carpet as we performed first aid under the guidance of the emergency services operator. The paramedics treading sprouts out of the front door as they wheeled him to the ambulance. Mum never cooked sprouts again, didn’t matter really, none of us ate them.

Lucas. Lucas dying in an impossible situation. The empty floor around him. No chair. There was no chair.

Michaels’s confession. His threat. His skin upon mine. The look of fear in his eyes.

“What happened?” Stephen’s voice is firm, and it’s the first thing to break through the fog that had descended upon me the moment I’d realised I was safe.

“Michael killed Lucas.” I say, sure of his guilt based on the interaction we’d just had. He may not have said as much but perhaps when they’d medicated him out of whatever frenzy he was in, he’d be able to give some answers. Give closure to Lucas’s family and friends.

Penny’s hand falls from my shoulder, but Roberts’s remains firm. He looks around us, assessing the area for danger. No longer questioning my paranoia.

“Where is he?” he asks, a protective growl in his voice I’d heard often on screen.

“I locked him in a cabin.” I nearly laugh at my reply. It seems so ludicrous for me, Emma, to have locked a murderer in a cabin using a pool cleaning rod. It had happened though. I could still feel the shadow of the metal bar in the grip of my hand as I shoved it under the handle.

“Show us,” demands Stephen and I oblige, wordlessly leading them toward the pool.

The first thing I notice as the pathway winds towards it is the open cabin door. The pole is lying discarded in the bushes nearby. He’s escaped. Terror replaces shock and I grip onto Robert’s arm, wanting to pull him back from the path we’ve set ourselves on. Michael could hide anywhere right now, ready to pounce. Ready to take his revenge on me for discovering the truth and locking him away.

The second thing I notice as we round the corner and see the pool is how beautifully the tails of Michael's jacket look as they float in the water. They’re moving in unison with him, like beautiful grey wings. I watch them peacefully enjoying themselves until suddenly they are thrashing around, disturbed from their relaxing float in the sun by Robert and Stephen diving into the pool.

They pull Michael from the water and throw him onto his back. His face is colourless and his eyes are wide open, staring up at the sun. You really shouldn’t stare directly at the sun, it’s so bad for your eyesight.

Robert is shouting at Michael, with all manner of expletives, explaining how he doesn’t get to die. He doesn’t get to escape like this. I watch him and it’s almost like I’m sitting in a cinema at thirteen, watching him play the hero in some long-forgotten blockbuster.

Fiona suddenly enters the screen, stage right. Standing just behind Robert as he beats on Michael’s chest, hand covering her mouth in shock. Penny’s just beside me and I can hear Sam’s footsteps following us up the path. She kept her distance, wanting to seem aloof and uninterested, but nobody could ignore the frustration in Robert’s cries. The screen is descending around the world once again. I’m trapped behind it, unable to process anything.

Robert leans back from Michael, soaked to the bone and exhausted. He shakes his head at Stephen and the two of them stare down at Michael’s body. Because that’s what he is now. A body. A body that escaped justice.

Stephen leans forward and straightens Michael’s jacket in an attempt at respect. As he does so, something catches his attention. He reaches inside the lapel and pulls out a plastic bag. Even from here, I can see the white powder. Drugs.

“This weekend is cursed,” mutters Penny, her voice cutting through the numbness around me.

Drugs? There were drugs in Michael’s jacket? I mean, that would explain a lot. It would explain why he was behaving in such a manic way. It would explain how he came to drown in the pool.

“What a terrible accident.” sighs Sam.

Yes. Drugs would explain a lot of things. Except for two things running through my mind.

Michael was staunchly anti-drugs. His parents had been killed by a strung-out driver when he was twenty-two, and since then he’d campaigned tirelessly to make the streets cleaner of addiction. It’s one of the few things he ever spoke about that I believed in.

There’s never been even a whiff of a scandal about him regarding drugs. In fact, when it was found that drugs were being consumed in the House of Commons, he was front and centre of the debate calling for those caught to lose their jobs- even some prominent members of his own party. He had no sympathy or loyalty at that moment, he just wanted the guilty parties punished.

No, drugs and Michael don’t make sense. The only way it would make sense would be if he were the finest actor the world had ever seen, and I’ve watched enough of his debates where he’s covering a lie to know that isn’t the case.

The second thing that drugs couldn’t explain was Michael’s jacket. He wasn’t wearing one when I locked him in the cabin. The temperature was already balmy and he would have had no need for it. Besides, a grey suit jacket would have looked ridiculous with his chino shorts and bright shirt. I would have noticed the fashion faux-pau. The only answer would be if he had escaped, made his way back to his villa, and had chosen a formal jacket to wear back to the pool for a little drug-fuelled swim No. It didn’t make any sense.

My eyes flick over to the pole thrown to the side in the bushes. There isn’t a dent or a bend to be seen. It’s as pristine as when I used it to lock Michael in the cabin. If he had broken out, he would have had to snap the pole. It should be underneath the open door, at least in half. Instead, it’s been thrown off to the left, far away from the door.

Michael didn’t do drugs. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. He couldn’t have broken free. It was all a series of impossibilities. The only explanation for the scene before me was that it was staged.