The party dragged on until the beer had gone. The guests stumbled away from 215 Caldwell Street, their first—but not last—time hoping they remembered the way back to their temporary homes, while the house’s newest residents made the shorter trip to their bedrooms upstairs. Except Lorna, who, that night, never left her bedroom.
They woke the next morning to the sound of crinkling aluminum cans and the smell of bacon. When they opened their doors, little presents—Oreos, tea, Pringles—wrapped in brown paper greeted them, each with the same typed note on blue stationery.
Don’t be fooled. The day’s not done.
Happy Wednesday’s just begun!
They cracked their sleep-crusted eyes and stumbled downstairs.
That’s where they saw him for the first time.
Backlit by the morning light, a tall, lanky outline was cleaning up their mess, cooking enough bacon to feed an army. A camera hung around his neck. When he noticed them, he waved the spatula, flinging drops of grease onto the wall.
“Oh! Sorry.” He winced. “I hope you don’t mind? I got in this morning. You were all sleeping, so I thought I’d cook us some breakfast?”
Almost every sentence ended like a question, as if he were always asking for permission, even when giving his name.
“I’m Callum? You found your notes! Sorry, I didn’t know what each of you liked? Happy Wednesday’s something a teacher of mine did for us in sixth form. You know, keep us motivated to get through the week? I thought it’d be a nice way to introduce myself? It’s lame, isn’t it? Sorry.” He held out the pan. “You guys want some rashers?”
They did. And as they ate, they got to know one another better, the awkwardness of being strangers melting away as Callum filled any gaps in the conversation with a funny anecdote. That morning, he became the glue that held them together.
Nine months later, Callum would stumble down the stairs, slamming his knee so hard on the bottom step it would leave a bruise. It would be the most drunk he had ever been in his life, or ever would be, for his life would only last a few minutes more. But he wouldn’t know that, just like he wouldn’t know there would be someone watching him as he made his way to the house phone. That he would be watched as he put his hand on the receiver. That he would be heard as he muttered, “I’m gonna do it. Got to. Have to. Have to turn them in. It’s wrong. What we did is wrong.”
And someone—someone who had been sitting at that wobbly table nine months prior, sharing that crispy, greasy bacon—would come forward as he picked up the receiver, and would ask him, “What are you doing, Callum?”
2
Lorna
Hollis eyed them up in turn, like he was running through a checklist in his mind of what they each should look like in order to confirm they were who he thought they were. Unlike the rest of them, he wore his age well, his stocky body a better fit for a man in his forties than a boy of nineteen. Lorna was trying to reconcile the grown man in front of her with the young man she once knew when Hollis turned his analytical gaze on her, and there he was. The Hollis she remembered. The look of a troubled boy out of his depth, trying his best, wanting only to do what was right.
“Lorna.” He spoke her name as if brushing the dust off a long-forgotten book. “What the fuck is going on?”
She couldn’t tell if the question was meant for her. Her clarity had vanished the moment Ellie entered the dining room, and it hadn’t come back upon the appearance of Oliver and Maeve. No less than five minutes ago, she knew Hollis’s arrival was imminent, but that had done nothing to lessen the shock of actually seeing him. Of having all four of them in the room with her. If his question was for her, she couldn’t answer it. She would do what Lorna had always done. Stand back quietly and let the others hash it out.
Hollis slammed a whisky bottle down on the nearest table. The bang echoed through the room.
“I said, what is going on? What are you all doing here?”
“We . . . we don’t know,” Maeve offered. Yes, of course Maeve would go first. Try to smooth things over. “We were trying to figure that out when you . . .”
And of course Maeve would utterly fail.
“Trying to figure it out? You mean this is all a surprise to you? None of you knew the others would be here? Well, that’s complete and utter shit. Go on then. Which of you was it? Who put this together?”
Oliver leaned forward, going for one of his chummy “man to man” speeches. “Hollis, mate—”
Speeches that Hollis had never fallen for. “I am not your mate!”
Like Lorna, Ellie knew talk was useless, but unlike Lorna, the tension showed in her body. She rocked back and forth in her chair like a branch caught in the wind. Lorna couldn’t help but remember how quickly that dry branch could catch fire.
“That’s it. I’m going.” Hollis spoke so softly that only Lorna, who was standing closest, could hear.
She did nothing to stop him as he picked up the whisky bottle.
Maeve—always interfering Maeve—asked, “What did you say?”
“I said I’m leaving!”
His intention was what shook Lorna. The house felt more dangerous with him here, with them gathered altogether, yet also safer. Hollis’s presence, his clarity over the danger they were in, returned to her the strength she thought she’d lost, that had been drained first by Ellie, then Oliver, then Maeve. Hollis could leave, but Lorna needed him. By the time she spoke, he was already at the door.
“Hollis, you can’t,” Lorna said. “There’s no place else to go on the island, and Mr. Caskie told us the road might wash away in the storm.”
“And the last ferry’s already left,” Maeve added.
“Oh, leave it, Lorna.” Oliver kicked his feet up on the chair. “Let him run. It’s what he’s good at. I mean, I’m surprised he’s stuck around this long. It’s been, what? At least five minutes.”
Hollis re-gripped the neck of the bottle and removed his free hand from the doorknob. “What would you have me do? Stay for a drink? Or seven? How many have you already tucked away, Oliver? By the slur of your speech I’d say at least five. That’s a healthy belly you’ve put on, too. It can hold, what, at least half a dozen more? You know, I’m glad you’re sitting there smoking all casual-like while several mounds of shit are clearly hitting the fan. I’m not sure I would’ve recognized you otherwise. Getting your haircare tips from Prince Charles nowadays?”
“Really, Hollis. Insults?” Oliver said. “Can’t we at least try to be adults about this?”
“I don’t know what this is, but I have to say, that advice is rich coming from the person who coined the nickname ‘Hunt the Cunt.’”
Ellie gasped.
“Oh, you didn’t know that, Ellie?” Hollis asked as Oliver’s face went red.
“I always assumed it was Maeve,” she said.
“I may have said it, but I didn’t start it,” Maeve said. “And I didn’t even say it that often! I swear.”
Maeve apologizing, Ellie feigning ignorance, Hollis and Oliver fighting. How quickly they’d each fallen into their old roles, herself included. Good ol’ Lorna—keeping silent, trying not to let them draw her into their argument. But it didn’t take long for them to fling questions her way. She had blocked out the conversation after Maeve’s comment and didn’t know which direction the argument had gone when Hollis asked, “What about you, Lorna? Anything to add?”