The Other Side of the Door, Nicci French [new reading .TXT] 📗

by the water’s edge, where little ripples ran over the stones.

‘That’s what I was remembering.’ Sonia pointed to her left. I could just make out the steep concrete sides of the reservoir wall.

‘We can’t get the car there.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So it’s no good.’

‘We have to think of something else.’

‘What?’

‘Give me a moment.’

‘We could drive the car somewhere else. Push it off a cliff.’

‘Which cliff?’

‘I don’t know. Cornwall? They have cliffs in Cornwall, don’t they?’

‘You want us to drive to Cornwall?’

‘It’s an idea anyway.’

‘It’ll be light by the time we get there.’

‘We could drive there, find somewhere, wait until nighttime and then do it.’

‘I don’t think that sounds like a good idea at all.’

‘What, then?’

‘We have to do this now, Bonnie. And here.’

‘We can’t. You’ve just said so. If we tried, it would just get stuck with the water up to its sills and then where would we be?’

‘We can’t push the car in. Maybe that would be riskier anyway.’

‘Riskier than what?’

‘Than just putting it in the water.’

‘You mean the body?’

Sonia crouched down, twitched the tarpaulin off one of the boats and craned to peer underneath. ‘There’s a pair of oars.’

‘I don’t like this.’

‘We could put it in the boat, row out and push it in there.’

‘You think?’

‘We’d have to weigh it down first.’ She looked around. ‘There are stones and bits of rubble.’

I sat down on the shore. The inky water glinted and slapped and a sharp breeze stung my cheeks. I put my head on my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs. If I could make myself very, very small, perhaps I could disappear. ‘I’m not sure I can do this.’

‘It’s too late for that, Bonnie,’ Sonia said, with a hissing urgency. ‘If you can’t do it for yourself, you’re going to have to do it for me. You got me into this.’

‘You’re right.’ I stood up again. ‘Sorry. Tell me what to do.’

I walked along the shore, picking up rubble and large stones, then returned to Sonia who had turned over a small boat. ‘Help me drag this to the shore,’ she said.

Together we pulled it along the shingle until its bow was nosing the water.

‘Now the body.’

Pulling it out of the boot was even harder than getting it in. We had to haul it by the arms. The rug slid off and there was no way of escaping him: how the head bumped and lolled, the legs splayed, the weight of him. I kept my eyes half shut, or sometimes closed them entirely, pulling and jerking blindly. At last he tumbled out and lay at our feet. Without saying anything, Sonia and I took an arm each and dragged him over the gravel.

‘How are we going to get it in?’

‘If we lean the boat over, we can roll it in, I think.’

We tipped it onto its side, then stood on the rim to keep it steady and manoeuvred the body until it was draped half over the edge, head in the bottom and legs still on the shore. The body slithered and then collapsed inside. He was face down now. I couldn’t see his eyes any more, just the side of his head and his bloodily matted hair, the havoc of his splayed limbs. Bile rose in my throat and I turned away.

‘The rocks,’ said Sonia.

I handed her a piece of rubble, then reached for another and another and another. I tried not to look at her. Finally she stood up. ‘That should do it,’ she said.

I put the oars into the rowlocks, then we both took off our shoes, rolled up our trousers and pushed the boat out. It was hard at first for it was heavy now and the bottom scratched against the gravel. We waded forward, up to our calves in the cool water, trying to force it along. My jeans were wet and water splashed up onto my shirt. Then I felt the boat floating free in the water and we clambered in at the back. It rocked violently.

‘One oar each,’ said Sonia.

We sat side by side with the dead bulk of him between us, his arms reaching out, his legs twisted over each other, and rowed in a clumsy and hopeless way, out of synch with each other. The boat seemed scarcely to move. It bobbed and wavered along the shore and only bit by bit did we make any headway out into the open water. It was very quiet: the only sounds were our laboured breathing and the splash of our oars. There was a half-moon, low in the sky, leaving a messy reflection on the surface of the water. But it was dark enough so that we wouldn’t be visible from the shore.

‘This must be all right,’ said Sonia at last. ‘It should be deep here.’

‘How do we do it?’

‘We push it over the edge, head first, maybe.’

I looked at her in the moonlight. Locks of her hair had escaped and lay across her face, which was pale and set in an expression of determination, and I knew that I had to do this. I nodded.

‘Pull it around a bit,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ll try to keep the boat steady.’

She sat on the other side of the boat and put her feet against the body, pushing it away from her. I took the shoulders and tugged. The boat rocked violently. I set my teeth and jerked him forward some more. The boat heeled, water sloshing over the edge, and Sonia inadvertently cried out in alarm as I dived towards the middle to keep us from slithering into the water. I fell on top of him, huddled for a moment with my head on his shoulder.

‘You’ll have us in,’ Sonia gasped.

‘It’s not working. I can’t shift him enough.’

‘Ease him over the back.’

Together we pulled him up the boat. Now his arms were hanging over the stern. We tugged some more and now his bashed head was there too. The boat heaved from side to side. What if it tipped over? There