Page 25 of Lair

In no time at all I’m back in that hateful, gleaming spa again. I polish away Emmie’s smeary handprint on the wall mirrors, taking my time, knowing any vigorous exertion will end in me projectile vomiting all over that beautiful glass. When I’m done I step back, taking in my work. The person reflected back at me is swaying, sheened in sweat, tendrils of flyaway hair sticking to her temples.

I’ll be fine. Whoever that is will be fine.

S’all good.

After a while it comes to me: It’s been a long time, and they haven’t come out of the snow room yet. No one stays in a snow room that long. Three minutes, tops? Hasn’t it been ten already?

I should check on them.

I shuffle to the door. The distance is only a few yards, but it telescopes claustrophobically before me. How am I to get there without hurling all over my shoes? But, magically, I do. I swing the outer glass door wide and it bumps me in the ass as I stagger through. I plunk my forehead on the huge wooden inner door. “Mr. Voper?” I call. I’m the most unenthusiastic babysitter ever. “Do you need anything?”

Please. Just shout at me. Tell me I’m interrupting the best blowjob you’ve ever had.

But he doesn’t. Only silence greets me. Groaning, I haul open the door.

I fully expect to see Emmie crouching before him, for the worst image ever to be scorched onto my retinas. But I don’t.

Instead I see a pair of bare legs poking around the corner in that L-shaped winter wonderland.

My brow furrows. “Emmie?” I call, softly, searing cold diving into my lungs. I shuffle forward, my breath fogging in the air. I must know something is wrong by now, because I don’t call again.

My legs do not buckle when I see it. It is laid out all very clearly before me, as if it were a tableau to be admired. Emmie’s splayed body, her wide, surprised but drunken-looking eyes. Her throat torn open as if by some beast. The blood, the great red shock of it, gleaming down her breasts and in the obscene whiteness of all that snow.

Emmie, don’t worry. You’ll be famous now.

You’ve been taken care of.

I make it outside the snow room before I’m on my knees and am violently sick. I’m crying, I’m sobbing up dribbles of puke. I wipe my mouth and fumble for my crew radio. “Mrs. Colding,” I rasp. “Mrs. Colding. Get down here, please.” And there she is, like a mirage. How is all this happening so fast? Her face is very white as I point. And I tell her. I tell her the fact that is splitting my world in two. Emmie. In there. Dead.

Why don’t you go see?

Mrs. Colding’s brows pinch together. She looks at the puddle of vomit before me and seems to come to some conclusion, kneels and touches my shoulder. And that’s when she tells me something that sends the blood shocking into my ears.

Emmie left the boat.

I stare. I blink. It is impossible. “What?” I hoarse. My voice is jarring, loud and bright to my ears.

Mrs. Colding nods. “Jason got her a cab in port just a few minutes ago. She... had an argument with Mr. Voper. She’s gone.”

Alive.

I look about. The other stews have gathered in the passageway behind, Thea foremost among them, all with naked worry stamped on their faces. The wild edge to my squawk in the radio must have brought them all running.

I shake my head. “No. That... that can’t be...” I push to my feet and brush past Mrs. Colding’s outstretched arms to the snow room. And she’s right: There’s no body there. No blood staining the snow. No murder.

What did I see?

I back away, whirling. Everywhere, concerned faces. Everywhere, disbelief. Are you okay, Aurora? Everything all right?

No. No, everything is not all right. How can it be, when I am questioning my reality?

“But, I saw it,” I splutter. “She was right there...”

And then Mrs. Colding is there, gripping my shoulders. Her words shear through the black silence that is vibrating around me. “You said you were feeling unwell?”

I swallow, feeling cornered. “Food... food poisoning...” I mutter, and the words bring on another wave of nausea.

“Well that’s just it, then, isn’t it?” Mrs. Colding encourages. There’s a jauntiness to her tone now, of almost relief. A problem has been solved, a sane solution presented.

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