rid of all evidence. Flushing condoms wasn’t enough.
So I took the damp bath sheet, laid it on the bedroom floor, and placed all the equipment we’d used in the centre. My hands began to tremble as the reality of my situation kicked in. The sound of sirens and of people moving on the floors below made me fear someone would come galloping up the stairs of the tower any second. What would I do? There’s nowhere to run in a turret room. You can only fly or fall. I drew the corners of the towel together and twisted them to form a bundle. No, no good. It would come undone. Keep calm, Lana. Don’t panic. Think.
I grabbed the polka-dot scarf from the contents and used it to secure the towel, making an enormous Dick-Whittington knapsack. Metal clanked against metal as I stood, cupping the lumpy package. The Clejuso handcuffs weighed a ton. I glanced about for somewhere to stash the item but figured the outcome would be worse if I was rumbled for having concealed something that could be construed as evidence.
I dressed quickly in a denim skirt and pastel-striped sun top, whisked a brush through my hair, cleaned my teeth and flicked on some lippy and mascara. Awkward in sandals and clutching the handrail, I clomped down the spiral staircase with my bundle and then along the west wing corridor to the room my friend, Nicki, was sharing with her partner, Ian. They’d been looking out for me since the start of the weekend, aware I’d arrived on my own and might appreciate the support. Plus, they were a broad-minded couple, which was going to help immensely.
Nicki was making coffee in a cafetiere. Ian was showering. Their room, larger than mine, was tidy and fresh, sunlight glossing the frame of a chintzy four-poster bed. The open windows gave on to a view of the gravel driveway sweeping around the striped lawns to the front of the house. As I moved deeper into the room, I saw blue flashing lights winking in the morning’s glare. The bright day, with its intimations of hope and joy, didn’t suit the dark events unfolding.
Nicki didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked if she’d store some bondage gear. I gave a brief rundown of the story, omitting the detail about the damp towel. Her main concern was for my emotional and psychological welfare. She understood my fear that the police, often mistrustful of non-mainstream sexualities, might get twitchy if they knew they were dealing with the death of a man whose proclivities were on the kinky side. And we agreed if the tabloids got hold of a story like this they’d be all over us, spewing out their judgemental adjectives: sick, twisted, perverse. I didn’t want to be part of that narrative.
‘I don’t see why they’d want to search the room though,’ said Nicki. ‘He died in the pool, didn’t he? Just a tragic accident from the sounds of it. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Tears burned my eyes because I felt as if I had.
‘Hey, c’mere. Give us a hug.’ Nicki stepped towards me, arms outstretched.
I stepped back in alarm, my hand raised. ‘Don’t, Nick. Please.’ I blinked rapidly and dashed away a single tear. ‘If anyone’s kind to me, I don’t think I could … I just need to hold it together here. Sorry. Don’t be nice to me, please.’ I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, creating pain to distract me from pain.
Nicki folded her arms, frowning. ‘Well, OK then, bitch. Have I told you how dreadful your hair’s looking these days?’
A noise came out of my mouth, half laugh, half sob. ‘Thanks, hun. Don’t mention this to anyone, will you? That I was with him last night.’
‘No, course not. Not if you don’t want me to.’
I returned outside in search of Sol as a new wave of sirens became audible. In the pale morning sunlight, people sat on benches and walls, or stood in small groups. Some people held each other in casual, supportive embraces, looking numb and bored. Some were chatting, some smoking. Medics in high-visibility jackets and
So I took the damp bath sheet, laid it on the bedroom floor, and placed all the equipment we’d used in the centre. My hands began to tremble as the reality of my situation kicked in. The sound of sirens and of people moving on the floors below made me fear someone would come galloping up the stairs of the tower any second. What would I do? There’s nowhere to run in a turret room. You can only fly or fall. I drew the corners of the towel together and twisted them to form a bundle. No, no good. It would come undone. Keep calm, Lana. Don’t panic. Think.
I grabbed the polka-dot scarf from the contents and used it to secure the towel, making an enormous Dick-Whittington knapsack. Metal clanked against metal as I stood, cupping the lumpy package. The Clejuso handcuffs weighed a ton. I glanced about for somewhere to stash the item but figured the outcome would be worse if I was rumbled for having concealed something that could be construed as evidence.
I dressed quickly in a denim skirt and pastel-striped sun top, whisked a brush through my hair, cleaned my teeth and flicked on some lippy and mascara. Awkward in sandals and clutching the handrail, I clomped down the spiral staircase with my bundle and then along the west wing corridor to the room my friend, Nicki, was sharing with her partner, Ian. They’d been looking out for me since the start of the weekend, aware I’d arrived on my own and might appreciate the support. Plus, they were a broad-minded couple, which was going to help immensely.
Nicki was making coffee in a cafetiere. Ian was showering. Their room, larger than mine, was tidy and fresh, sunlight glossing the frame of a chintzy four-poster bed. The open windows gave on to a view of the gravel driveway sweeping around the striped lawns to the front of the house. As I moved deeper into the room, I saw blue flashing lights winking in the morning’s glare. The bright day, with its intimations of hope and joy, didn’t suit the dark events unfolding.
Nicki didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked if she’d store some bondage gear. I gave a brief rundown of the story, omitting the detail about the damp towel. Her main concern was for my emotional and psychological welfare. She understood my fear that the police, often mistrustful of non-mainstream sexualities, might get twitchy if they knew they were dealing with the death of a man whose proclivities were on the kinky side. And we agreed if the tabloids got hold of a story like this they’d be all over us, spewing out their judgemental adjectives: sick, twisted, perverse. I didn’t want to be part of that narrative.
‘I don’t see why they’d want to search the room though,’ said Nicki. ‘He died in the pool, didn’t he? Just a tragic accident from the sounds of it. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Tears burned my eyes because I felt as if I had.
‘Hey, c’mere. Give us a hug.’ Nicki stepped towards me, arms outstretched.
I stepped back in alarm, my hand raised. ‘Don’t, Nick. Please.’ I blinked rapidly and dashed away a single tear. ‘If anyone’s kind to me, I don’t think I could … I just need to hold it together here. Sorry. Don’t be nice to me, please.’ I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, creating pain to distract me from pain.
Nicki folded her arms, frowning. ‘Well, OK then, bitch. Have I told you how dreadful your hair’s looking these days?’
A noise came out of my mouth, half laugh, half sob. ‘Thanks, hun. Don’t mention this to anyone, will you? That I was with him last night.’
‘No, course not. Not if you don’t want me to.’
I returned outside in search of Sol as a new wave of sirens became audible. In the pale morning sunlight, people sat on benches and walls, or stood in small groups. Some people held each other in casual, supportive embraces, looking numb and bored. Some were chatting, some smoking. Medics in high-visibility jackets and
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