His words are making the memories sharper, the images more alive in her mind. She can see them all now, sitting in a circle in Posh Guy’s living room, the furniture pushed back, red wine stains and crushed crisps on the carpet. She can picture some faces in the circle now: Simon, three places down to her left. Gil right across from her, with Megan separated from him by a loud girl wearing a pink feather boa who had passed out halfway through the game and just lay sprawled on the floor between them.
As she sorts through the images and sounds of that night, one thing strikes her.
But what about Megan? I don’t remember her having that much to drink, not at first. And then, of course, he ruined it.
He?
Your friend. Gil.
It goes quiet for a moment or two. Maybe she said the wrong thing. Simon and Gil have been friends since they were at school together. They’re an unlikely pairing, and she’s never understood how their friendship started and why it’s so strong.
What do you think he did?he asks.
I don’t just think it. I saw him. He picked up the last king,didn’t he? Which meant he had to drink the whole cup, and it was full of all sorts of things by then.
She remembers little about the game, but she remembers that cup, shuddering each time another drink was added. It had been a mixture of spirits, wine, cider and even Baileys, which had curdled and made it look like liquid brains. A real toxic brew.
He gave it to Meg.
Simon, as expected, is doggedly loyal.
I don’t think that’s exactly how it happened.
I know she swiped the cup from him, but it wouldn’t have been hard to stop hershe counters.
You think what happened next was his fault?
Partly. Like you said, I had asked you both to help me keep an eye on Megan, and there he was, doing exactly the opposite.
She lies on her bunk, the little reading light glowing against the wall, and remembers the hoots and shouts and laughter that erupted in the circle when tiny Megan downed that whole cup in one go. It chills her now to think of it.
At the timeshe typesit didn’t seem like enough alcohol to cause any real problems. Nothing more than a dry throat in the night, a headache in the morning. I’d seen her drink a lot more and not black out.
I thought the same. But that was before we knew she’d taken other things as well.
She sits and absorbs that silently for a moment or two. There were so many things she would have done differently if she’d known everything. But there’s something still niggling her. A little detail that won’t leave her alone.
Has that game got another name?
I think it’s got a few.
Like?
Ring of Fire. Waterfall.
No. Neither of them is the one she recalls – or more accurately, doesn’t recall – from that night. She frowns, trying to think harder, trying to pull the elusive phrase from her alcohol-fogged memory bank.
Her phone buzzes once more just as the words form on her lips.
Circle of Death.
Ah, yes. That was the one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Present Day
‘Where am I?’
