the flat. I hid myself to one side of the sitting-room window and kept watch, a glass of wine or whisky constantly to hand.
By evening, as darkness fell, my head swam. I didn’t bother eating, just refilled my glass and staggered back to my vantage point. So far, there’d been no sign of him.
I checked again. I couldn’t see his car. I ran my eye along the wall to the bus stop. It was deserted.
I closed my eyes and buried my head in my hands. I felt exhausted, dizzy and very sick.
Don’t do this, I’d written to Ralph, time after time.
Stop it. I love you. Don’t destroy yourself!
I’d thought I could save him. How wrong I’d been. I’d been the one to kill him, in the end.
I held out a hand, trying to steady it, watching it shake. Who was destroying herself now?
I was getting drunk. It was late. I should go to bed. But I was afraid to. The nights were so dark, so long, so bleak, even with a tablet or two.
How had I ever thought I could kill someone and get away with it? They were coming for me. Tonight or tomorrow or another day, who knew when. They’d find out, sooner or later.
I started to cry. Alcoholic sobbing, slobbery and pathetic. Oh, Ralph, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to—
My phone pinged. I sat up. Listened. It pinged a second time. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my jumper and shook myself, then crawled, hands and knees, across the carpet to see.
Miss me? Come to the boathouse. I’m here. Waiting.
My hands shook as I opened the car door, slid into the seat and turned the key in the ignition. I adjusted the rear-view mirror and blinked at myself, ran a hand down my flushed face and tucked stray, damp hair behind my ears.
I’d had too much to drink. I knew that. I wasn’t safe. But what else could I do? This was it. After all this waiting, all this pain, this was a chance to find out the truth, to see at last who was tormenting me. My stomach knotted.
I lowered the windows and swung out into the road, drinking in the warm evening air. The streets were quiet. I hummed to myself as I drove, trying to stay calm. My mind was racing.
By the time I reached the car park at the back of the line of boathouses, I was close to tears. I was befuddled and drowsy with wine but spiked too with adrenalin. I had to do this. I had to know who had summoned me here and why.
I was also frightened to move. I switched off the engine and sat in the car, thinking about Ralph, feeling the cool, salty breeze blow into the car from the sea, listening to the steady rhythm of waves bursting onto the shingle, then rattling loose stones as they drew them back into the water.
My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and stared, stupid with tiredness.
Number withheld.
I hesitated, heart thumping, then pressed to answer.
For a moment, silence. Breathing.
‘Hello?’
‘I can see you.’ The voice was so low, it was almost a whisper. A man’s voice.
‘Who is this?’
He spoke so softly, I could barely hear. ‘So soon forgotten? Oh, Laura.’
My heart seemed to stop. Who was this? It sounded like him, like Ralph, but how could it be? I clutched the phone, pressing it closer to my ear, shaking.
The voice whispered, ‘You look lovely, Laura.’
I twisted round in my seat, trying to see if anyone was watching me. Nothing but shadows, silvery with streaks of moonlight across the shingle, thickening to utter blackness along the side of each boathouse.
‘Where are you?’ I pulled open the car door and spilled out. The earth was soft under my rubber-soled shoes. I stood, lost, turning and looking round for him. ‘Is it you? Ralph?’
He sighed. In the background, the sound of the waves shaking handfuls of dry bones. Was he here then? Was he really here? It was impossible.
‘I’m waiting. Come to me. Come to the boathouse.’
I stuttered: ‘Are you there?’ Silence. I ached to see him, to touch him. ‘Ralph? Don’t go!’
The line went dead. I let out a cry of frustration, then fumbled to switch on my phone’s torch and picked my way, stumbling, onto the grassy verge, over a lip of rocks and down between two buildings onto the open shingle. Away from the shelter of the row of boathouses, the