Page 75 of Deep Blue Lies
Heading back to Alythos. I always knew this day would come.
I speak with Hans next. I’m working the next three afternoons, but if I can move those times I could meet her at the airport – I sense she’d like that – but he says no. The island is getting busier now. But when I text Imogen to say I can’t meet her she says not to worry, she never expected me to. In the end we arrange to meet the day after she arrives, when I don’t have to work – she says it might be better that way anyhow, to give her a chance to settle herself. Whatever that means.
But the next two days drag. It’s just hard to be in the same space as people who are happy and enjoying their holidays, when I’m not here for that. And when I’m also not part of the group of people who are working hard and playing hard. I’m here on my own, private mission, and it’s kind of lonely. Even if I am about to finally learn the truth. Whatever itmight be.
Sophia is the only person who seems to understand. In fairness, she’s the only person I’ve shared all of this with. Or at least, almost all of it. I still haven’t told her about my suspicion that she might actually be Mandy Paul and Jason Wright’s baby. But I do wonder if this is part of the secret that Imogen is going to share. And that’s kind of a heavy thought too.
On the afternoon of her arrival, I can’t help but look up in the sky. I’m clearing glasses at the time, in Bar Sunset. From there you can see the planes circling above Skalios Bay as they come in to land at Panachoria. I don’t know if it’s actually her plane of course. But I see one, the orange livery of EasyJet clearly visible in the vivid blue sky. I stop what I’m doing to watch. From here, Panachoria is hidden behind the mountains that make up the spine of Alythos, so from my angle it looks as if the plane is flyingintothe mountain. And when it disappears it’s easy to convince yourself that actually it’s crashed, and everything she knows, everything she’s going to tell me, has just blown up in a fiery ball of flame. But, of course, it hasn’t. I check on my phone the airport’s arrivals page, which updates a couple of minutes later to say the London flight has landed. And then I get another text from Imogen.
Landed! Now I need a taxi. And a ferry! We’ll arrange a place to meet when I’ve settled in!
SIXTY-FIVE
Do you know the Trikremnos Coves?
This is the only message I wake up to the day we’re due to meet. I don’t – know it, I mean – but I look it up and see there’s a little trio of beaches between Skalio and Kastria, near to where Imogen is staying. I text back saying I’ve seen it, and a few minutes later I get a long reply:
I remember it from when I worked here. It’s very beautiful. Three tiny perfect coves. It’s not as quiet as I remember it, because now there’s a cafe on the first beach, but if you keep going it’s quieter, and there’s a wonderful flat rock in the final beach. It’s lovely in the sun. I think it’s a good place to talk. Can you be there at eleven?
My fingers toy with the phone for a few moments before I reply. I guess it sounds like a good idea, but I sort of hoped that Sophia could come with me. Except she can’t, because she has to work this morning. And if I try to push it later, then I have to be at the Bar Sunset. I puff out my cheeks, but tap out a reply:
OK. Seeyou there.
Then I text Sophia, asking if she minds me borrowing her moped again. Then I have a shower, not really caring when the hot water runs out and I just stand there in the not-quite-cold of the water from the pipes.
At ten I walk down to the dive centre. I’m not able to speak properly with Sophia, she’s busy handing out wetsuits to a group of Germans. But she tosses me the moped key and tells me good luck. And then when I’m back outside strapping on the helmet she comes out and makes me promise to tell her everything, unless it’s too horrible and I don’t want to. She leans in and gives me a hug, and I can smell the peach-perfume of the shampoo she uses. I don’t want to let her go.
It’s only ten minutes on the moped, which seems easier to drive this time, I guess I’m practised now. Soon I reach a rough parking area, with steps that lead down through some scrubland. At the bottom I can see the yellow of the sand and a sliver of water – vivid turquoise and inviting. I take off the helmet and check my watch. Ten fifty. I try to calm my nerves. I don’t really understandwhyI’m so nervous. I’ve known this woman for years, she’s not at all scary, not really. She’s just really odd. But maybe what she’s going to tell me will be frightening.
I hesitate about whether to leave Sophia’s helmet dangling from the handlebars or carry it with me. It’s quite isolated here, and I don’t want someone to steal it. So in the end I carry it as I set off down the steps.
They’re uneven, stones cut roughly into the earth, worn smooth by years of use. Dry grass and thyme brush against my ankles as I descend, and the scent of sun-baked herbs fills the air.
From the bottom, the cove is truly stunning – a perfect crescent of golden sand, the sea curling gently at its edge. There’s a handful of people, a couple lying on towels, a man standing in the shallows in bright red speedos. A little wooden cafe sits off to the side, its terrace shaded by a straw awning.
Her message said she’d wait in the third cove by the flat rock, so I keep walking.
Thecliffs here extend like fingers, cutting the beach into three. The rock is tall but narrow, almost like a curtain that conceals the next little bay beyond, but there’s plenty of beach extending beyond it to step around into the next bay. And here there’s only two people, lying on towels under a sun umbrella and lazily kissing each other. They stop when they see me, glaring as if they want me to turn back. I don’t, crossing in front of them around the next finger of cliff into the final bay.
And straight away I sense something’s not right.
The first clue is the towel, floral patterned and scrunched into the sand at the bottom of this big flat rock that comes out of nowhere in the middle of the beach. It looks like someone’s stood on the towel, twisting it, driving it deep into the sand. There’s a bag too, but upside down, the contents spilling out.
I hesitate, then step closer, looking around, but there’s nothing else here. And then my heart stops. There’sissomething else. Protruding from the other side of the rock, on the beach beyond it. It’s a foot. A bare human foot.
For a second, my mind refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Stupidly I call out her name, but obviously she doesn’t move. I can see that the angle of the foot is all wrong. But still, I have to force myself forward, feeling the blood pumping through my head. Every step I take reveals more of her – pale calves, a white flowery dress, wet in places – I don’t know what with, but sand has stuck to it. Her arm is draped across her belly.
I feel my throat tighten.
No, no, no.
I drop Sophia’s helmet onto the sand with a thud and stumble forward, my knees hitting the ground beside her.
“Imogen?”
My voice wobbles as I reach out, my hands hovering over her shoulder, over her arm, not quite daring to touch her. Her hair is tangled, dark strands plastered to her cheek, her neck. But it’s her head that’s the most horrible of all. A wound on the back, seeping fresh blood into her hair and onto the ground, where it sinks at once. Like the very essence of her is disappearing into the sand around her.
