He laughs and hands me my glass of wine.
“Here, this’ll help.”
I take a big glug of wine and the choking sensation eases, but I’m immediately hit by a head rush. My tummy flips as I close my eyes and try to regulate the feeling. My head spins as though I’m trapped on a Waltzer, swivelled round and round without any way off. My cheeks are hot and my mouth suddenly fills with saliva.
“I don’t feel good.” I lean forward in my chair and gasp for breath. The world is twisting around me, the outside lights dancing across my vision. I take a deep breath but can’t get any air.
“Faye, are you okay?” His silhouette emerges in my eyeline, splintered into three.
“Yes, I’ll… be fine.” I say as I stagger up from my seat and lurch forward.
“You’re not.” His hand is on my back, weighing me down. “Let me help you.”
I need to get inside, away from him. I don’t want him to see me like this.
“No, I just need to…”
“Come here.” His voice sounds distant.
I lean on him, helpless in his arms, my head spinning and my stomach lurching. Then, before I know it, I’m bent double, throwing up over my patio, Alistair’s shadow looming over my cowering body.
CHAPTER 23
THE GRAVEDIGGER
She’s calling him again. He rolls his eyes but he can’t keep ignoring her. He pulls over to answer the phone.
“Darling,” he says smoothly.
“Is it done?”
“No,” he admits.
A long silence stretches between them. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. He scans the coastline path as he waits for her to speak.
“Why the fuck not?”
She’s seething, he hears it in her voice, like every word is pushed out between her teeth. Her anger reminds him that she’s the only person he’s ever met who matches the dark part of himself. The part that he spent so long trying to hide.
“She puked up the pills and ran away while I was digging the grave.”
“And you couldn’t catch her?” she snaps.
“I did catch her but there was a struggle. I fell and got knocked out.”
She starts to laugh. “What? Are you serious? Of all the incompetent, useless?—”
“Do not speak to me like that,” he warns. “Don’tfuckwith me.”
She’s quiet. He remembers moments with her from the past. The way her hair fell over her face. The low-cut dresses she wore.
“Do you still have the knife I gave you?” he asks. “I have mine.”
“The penknife? Yeah, I always carry it. You know that. Why?”
He hears the metallic shush of the knife opening.
“Because we may need to use it. I have an idea.”
