Long Weekend

At times during that weekend, I'd even felt some level of terror - and I was the mastermind behind it. I always knew how it was all going to end, but that didn't stop me from being genuinely afraid once or twice. One of those times had been near the end of the ordeal, when she'd pointed the gun at me.

I was so certain she'd seen through my façade, seen the truth about the situation before her. I was ready to strike before she did, not that she noticed. She'd never handled a gun in her life, that much was clear from her stance. She at least held the gun in two hands but her foot position was all wrong. She stood with her feet planted horizontally when really, had she adopted the Weaver stance I was a fan of, she should have been distributing her weight on her forward foot. When she'd fired the warning shot, I was certain she'd pulled a muscle in her shoulder. I'd longed to step forward and correct her stance, to show her how she was doing it incorrectly, but that would have been a misjudgment. That would have given the game away.

So instead I'd been forced to bite my tongue as I watched the woman I was fascinated with making rookie errors. She was braver than I gave her credit for. Not smarter though. She still fell for my lies.

I'm sure she'd give anything to go back in time to that moment. To make a different decision. To put a bullet in my brain as I had in Stephen's. Those regrets of hers will fade though, when she realises I've given her everything she wanted. Her notebook is on the New York Times best-seller list, it has been for weeks. It was Oprah's top pick - all things I know that Emma once dreamed about, because she wrote about it in her notebook, before she started telling the story of that long weekend. The first dozen pages are full of her hopes and dreams and it’s through them that I’ve gotten to know her on a deeper level.

Of course I read it.

I'd watched her bury it in the rocks and as soon as she was apprehended from that blasted tunnel, I'd picked it out, sat down with a glass of wine and read it front page to back. She was a talented writer, a little harsh in her character assessment at times, but I knew she created something special. A new legacy for the two of us. I wasn't a fan of some elements of her tale of our weekend together, but I left them in there because they made the story more engaging. They help humanise her to the public, and I would hate for the public to see her as ‘one of us.’ She deserves better than that.

She'd been right. I had been toying with her the few times I'd walked past her hiding place. I'd known where she was all along. Always had. I wasn't going to let anything bad happen to her, which is why I had her dragged, kicking and screaming, from the tunnel. If I hadn't, she most likely would have drowned, having underestimated the speed at which the tide can turn out here. I sedated her and we sat together on the beach, waiting for my boat to arrive. It had been a wonderful moment. It would have been really romantic if she hadn't been drooling from the multiple shots it had taken to keep her still. The time for romance will come though.

When she's ready to listen, I'll explain everything to her properly. I'm not wasting my story on someone who doesn't care to hear it. I'll tell her how I was left with no choice. Because that's the truth. My family's legacy was crushing to live up to. My father’s ever-present shadow was so enormous it prevented me from blossoming to my full potential. He still insists on accompanying me to every large-scale event, a way to show a united front.

No matter how hard I worked, I would never be allowed to leave the hamster wheel. I was the face of our family and everything relied on me, my successes, and my reputation. I'd be trapped in that position until the day I died, and what kind of life is that?

Over the years, to keep things running as they should, I'd made too many promises to the wrong kinds of people - people who would also never accept my retirement. No. I had no choice. This was the only way out, the only way to guarantee my freedom.

If I'd been the only one to 'die' that weekend, it would have sparked suspicion in the minds of those I'd rather not cross. It would have been too convenient a tale for them to swallow. They would have carried my scent in their hearts and hunted me like a fox. I had to think bigger than that. My plan had to be flawless, unquestionable, and tragic. And everything had been set in place, everything had been perfect. Until Emma's arrival. She's been an anomaly I hadn't planned for.

An innocent trapped in a web of the rich and lawless insects around her. I wasn't going to spill her blood just to achieve my aims. I do have morals, you know.

The others who died are of no great loss to the world. Some of them had committed actual legal crimes, others were guilty of crossing moral lines, and a few I just couldn't stand. Either way, their deaths will not keep me up at night.

What had kept me up at night, however, had been the ache in my jaw from the missing teeth the back alley dentist had pulled the week before my trip. That had hurt. It had almost felt a waste to throw them into the pyre with the bodies after all the pain they had caused me. But each time my jaw ached, I reminded myself that they were a small price to pay for a bigger picture. My freedom.

I'd relished my time on the island. Enjoying the game a little too much at times. Planting red herrings where I was able.

I'd trashed Lucas's room after he'd been killed, making sure to add Penny's name onto one of the pieces of paper scattered artfully on the floor. I’d relished the moment, really enjoying destroying his life's work after the fight he’d put up. Having seen how much he’d drunk, and slipping a few crushed sleeping pills into one of his beverages, I’d expected it to be an easy kill. But boy did that man have fight left in him. I guess that’s what happens when you feel righteous about something. Thankfully at the time we found his body, nobody noticed the scratches I’d left on his arms as I’d lashed out at him, determined to wrap the noose around his neck. I almost blew my cover though when I tidied away the stool I’d used to tie him to the beam. Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me to do so. It was my only mistake from that weekend, but in the end, it turned into an enjoyable one. Listening to Emma as she waxed lyrical about it being evidence of foul play was thrilling.

Killing Michael had been fun. I’d splattered red paint around his room after drugging his coffee. It only helped escalate his paranoia, he believed it was blood. Placing the drugs inside his jacket pocket had been a stroke of genius, I’d nearly congratulated myself out loud as we held him under the water. Politicians and drugs - it was such a cliche. I’d watched as the oxygen bubbles grew smaller and smaller until finally he was gone.

My favourite move though, was planting one of Lucas's notebooks in Penny's bedroom. I knew she'd read it. How could she not? I'd expected her to let the cat out of the bag sooner than she had, but still, it had been delicious to witness when she eventually cracked and let her knowledge of what Lucas had been up to slip. I had hoped somebody else would have noticed it on her bedside, but nobody useful had.

Taking Penny’s body with us had been a stroke of genius inspired by Emma’s notebook. She’d been so passionately sure of herself when it came to distrusting Penny that I couldn’t resist. Readers seem to have gone along with her theory for the most part so I made the right decision. We sailed for two straight days before I finally threw Penny’s body overboard. I watched as it sank into the ocean, never to be discovered. Emma unwittingly gave me the perfect scapegoat for my crimes.

I’d had to rely on my exterior assistant when it came to shooting the young chef and slicing Sam’s throat. It was too enjoyable being amongst the victims at that time, feeding off their fear gave me a high I worry I’ll be chasing for the rest of my life. A window left open gave them the perfect opportunity to climb in and do what needed to be done. I’d snuck up and written the list of names though when everyone was asleep. The team that was supposed to be keeping watch alongside me didn’t have the staying power I did. It took me ten minutes to write our names and five minutes to carefully retrieve Emma’s camera and take the picture. What can I say? I was quite proud of my penmanship and I wanted to escalate the terror felt by those around me.

Stephen had grown quite tiresome as the days wore on. Shooting him in the head was both about self-preservation and because I wanted him to shut up. All weekend he'd been bickering with me about the plan, changing his mind at moments he really ought not to have. He'd known all along that the rest of his team was going to be murdered and yet he still had the audacity to want to radio them and warn them after he'd explicitly agreed to this term at the beginning of our agreement.

Thankfully, he'd been stopped though. That would have been a nightmare. Besides, other than Sam, he had no real connection to any of them. Just a bunch of snowflakes he'd met in various forums that wanted their shot at 'eating the rich'. God, I hate that phrase. It's just so distasteful. Why not just say kill the rich? Surely it has the same level of poetry as that clunky motto.

So when Stephen had wanted to radio his team, he'd meant it. That's when I knew for certain that he had to go. We'd had a quick chat after that and I'd promised him a bonus when the weekend was through. That managed to calm him somewhat, at least for a while. But then, when we were in the clearing, he had to go and run his mouth. The death of Sam had been harder on him than he'd expected and he wanted me to stop. He wanted us to stop right before the finish line. That wasn't going to happen so I shot him as he stomped away.

The fight over the gun before Emma arrived had been unfortunate, but I'd misjudged my childhood friend. Hadn't been expecting their reflexes to be quite as sharp as they were. Still, it didn't matter. Emma was so conflicted between our stories that she couldn't make a decision. Then she dropped the gun and ran, leaving me with a chance to take care of business.

My only regret over that weekend was that I didn't get a chance to kill Rebecca Marsh. She'd been the one I'd been most looking forward to dealing with. Her death would have been one of the personal ones rather than one of the moral ones. The only sin she'd ever been guilty of, as far as I could tell, had been her birth. She was the product of an affair between our parents, you see. A constant reminder that my father didn't love my mother as he ought to.

I've met Rebecca countless times throughout my life, both at public and private functions, and never once has she hinted at her lineage. No thinly veiled references to our shared bloodline so I assume she doesn't know. You might argue that it's not her fault she was born, that she didn't make our parents sleep together. But it wasn't my fault that my father didn't love us enough to stay loyal to our family. She should never have existed. The universe had not planned on Rebecca Marsh's presence and I would simply have been reapplying order to the chaos her birth had caused. Yes, leaving her alive would always be my biggest regret. But I guess now that I have my freedom I can always clean up that mess another time.

Confronting my father about my half-sister had been the last conversation we'd had before his 'accident,' before he became too old to keep up the work he loved so much, the work that I stepped in to take over. He apologised relentlessly, but it had meant nothing. My mother didn't even know the truth, and I made sure to keep it that way. Not out of loyalty to him, but out of love for her. She didn't need to experience the same betrayal I had.

I've lived in my father's shadow for the last two decades. I'm done protecting his legacy, though, done continuing his 'good work'. It's time for me to live my own life on my terms, away from my family name and all it means to the world.

Emma will grow to understand all of this. I know she will. You can't fake a connection like the one we'd had on the island. The few conversations we'd shared had been genuine, I was sure of it. She was a kind soul. She'd shown me compassion and empathy. I needed that in my life.

If the slaughter had never happened, I know she'd have fallen in love with me. I know she would. I saw the care in her eyes when she lowered the gun and chose to believe me. She wanted to believe me. Because she cared about me.

"Netflix is going to adapt the book, you know?" I say.

She finally turns to look at me. Her eyes are bloodshot and there are dark bags under them. I must pick her up some sleeping pills when we next dock. She needs the rest. Her hair is weighed down with grease. It no longer frames her face perfectly, and her roots are overgrown. I wonder if any of the crew knows anything about styling. Perhaps I can learn to box-dye her hair for her. I think she'd suit a lighter brunette this time. The colour she arrived on the island with didn't suit her in my eyes. She's losing weight rapidly despite the meals that the chef prepares for her. I make sure she always eats the same meal that I do - I want her to become accustomed to the life I'm providing for her. As I've said, I'm not a monster.

The room smells of rotten food and body odour, and I hate to admit it, but these visits are getting harder for me every day.

In the beginning, when we first set sail, I couldn't get enough of her company. I'd come down here and read, not bothered by the silence or disdain emanating from her. I knew it would pass. I'd hoped it would.

Maybe I was wrong though. Maybe she isn't the girl I thought she was. I'd give her one more week before I made my final decision on the matter.

With a sigh I sit down on the armchair in her room, trying to pretend I don’t hear the way her chains jangle as she makes the effort to roll over and turn her back on me. Not interested in my company or conversation.

I'll give it one last try for today and then come back in the morning. Maybe by then she'll have finally changed her attitude. I know this next sentence will get her attention. She always pays attention when I mention their name - she can’t resist.

I have to admit, the pain on her face when I do so almost makes up for the jealousy I felt when she didn’t choose me that first night after the meal.

I can’t say I blame her. I wasn’t blind to my friend's beauty, I’d just always assumed my charm would beat it. Still, every couple makes mistakes.

Granted, not everyone has to read about their partner's holiday fling in quite such graphic detail, but I’ll get past it. One day, all of this will be a funny anecdote we tell our friends. A saucy aside Emma can tell the girls over brunch as they gasp at her dabble into lesbianism. Just a small paragraph in the grand stage show of our lives together.

So, when I ask her my last question for the day, although I know it will upset her, it is with hope that one day we can be more upbeat when we look back on the people we lost and left behind that weekend.