Backwards Into Hell

Part Three: Everybody Dies

Abigail's Diary

Sunday 31st October

Just as I expected, the Police arrived the next day. Two of them turned up in a slick black car: an intimidating, overly-serious detective and a nervous new recruit.

I watched from the window with a strong cup of coffee as the cruiser pulled up. It was no use running. I was still weak, having eaten no more than a Werther's Original yesterday and a bowl of cornflakes just an hour earlier. I hadn't slept well either. Every time I closed my eyes, I was in that tent, peeling back the sleeping bag.

I sat in Sam's old-fashioned chair as the Detective slammed the car door and donned a long brown coat. She walked confidently up the path and her colleague followed her like a lost dog.

I turned to Sam, who stood pensively in the doorway.

'I'd best leave you to it,' he said with an awkward nod before walking deeper into the house and I remarked I hadn't seen his wife in a few days. She was always working, sleeping, or out with friends. I'd scarcely believe she existed if I hadn't met her on the plane.

While Sam's presence would have been a comfort, it made sense for him to be wary. From what he'd told me, his loan business didn't sound exceptionally legal.

Finally, the doorbell rang. I slid out of the chair and stood on shaky, sore legs. It took me a while to reach the door and when I opened it, my stomach stirred.

'Abigail Jones?'

I nodded. The detective was young, wearing a black hijab and thick eyeliner, and upon hearing her voice, I instantly felt better. She was a Northener—maybe not from Lancashire, but damn close.

The man next to her jittered. He looked barely eighteen—too young for a murder investigation.

'Can we come in?'

I led them to the living room. It was the most spacious part of the house, and there were plenty of big windows to jump out of.

'Right,' she began, sitting on the white sofa. 'I'm Detective Sumra, and this is Constable Carlton. Is it alright if we ask you some questions?'

I nodded again. 'Do...' I cleared my throat. 'Do you want a cup of tea?'

The pair of them accepted. By their dark eyebags, they'd had a long night.

I retreated to the kitchen and rested my forehead against the counter, head throbbing with stress.

This was dangerous, sure, but they hadn't arrested me yet. That meant one of two things: they didn't have enough evidence, or they wanted me for something else. If they were willing to let the trespassing slide (which is really all I did), what else did they want to know?

I made up two cups of tea and decided to tell them the truth. Well, most of it, anyway.

Handing them their drinks, I sat opposite them on the old chair. However, it wasn't as comfortable as it looked and a small plume of dust flurried into the air as I sat.

They pretended not to notice.

Sumra brought out a notepad and a neat pen while Carlton's eyes darted around the room, taking everything in.

'Could I ask for your whereabouts on the night of the twenty-ninth?' said Sumra.

The twenty-ninth. It was the thirty-first that day, so they were asking about the night of the murder.

No point in lying.

'I was in camp.'

She raised her eyebrows, surprised by my candour. Carlton still said nothing, and I wondered why he was there. When Sumra didn't say anything either, I felt compelled to continue.

'I know I wasn't meant to be there. But it's just—' I squeezed my fingers together— 'Caleb could turn up at any moment, you know? And if he does...'

'You want to be there. I understand.' She gave me a soft smile. 'No one is going to prosecute you for that.'

My chest heaved in embarrassing relief before she continued.

'Did anyone else know you were in camp?'

'John. He... he helped me back in.'

'Ah,' she said that in a way that made me think I'd gotten him in more trouble. 'And what did you do while you were there?'

'I hid. After John left, I stayed in my tent.'

'Did you go outside at all?'

I swallowed. Did she notice?

'No. I didn't want to be found.'

'You didn't think to contact any other friends there?'

I hesitated. It wasn't right to lie, but if I didn't, they'd link me to the crime scene.

'I was planning to find Sapphire later, but when I woke up...' My throat caught again, but the Detective didn't finish my sentence that time. 'She was dead.'

The questions continued for a while, and I was careful not to trip myself up. Sumra gathered information about every day I'd been on the Island, focusing on John and The Lodge. And, as the interview came to an end, it seemed like I was going to get away with it—not that I had done anything wrong.

Eventually, Sumra was satisfied.

'Thank you for being so open with us.' She was still poised to write in her book. 'Who exactly is it you're staying with? This isn't your house.' She said this with a clear distaste for Sam's mismatched decor.

'It's a friend's.'

'An old friend?'

Heat came to my cheeks. 'Actually, I met him on the plane here.'

Again she raised her eyebrows. It was a facial expression I could see her practising in the mirror.

'Is he in?'

I nodded. 'He's in his room.'

'Does anyone else live here?'

'His wife, but she's working.'

With a decisive tap of her pen against her notepad, The Detective stood up, strode down the hall and rapped on Sam's door.

We waited. When there was no answer, we exchanged a look. Sumra then glanced to Carlton, who kept a few feet behind us.

'Sam?' I called over Sumra's shoulder.

'Hello? Sir? We need to speak with you.'

We waited a few more moments, ears strained to listen, but there was nothing.

'Could you open the door?' Sumra asked me.

When this was happening, I didn't notice how strange it was of her to ask, but there must be a law that stopped her from bursting in. My presence was just a convenient loophole.

I pulled the handle and the door swung open in the breeze. We walked in together, saw the room empty, and my stomach tornadoed. What if something terrible had happened?

Why wasn't Sam there?

The room was similar to the rest of the house: chunky Ikea furniture inter-spaced with period pieces. It was tidy, Sam's bed still made, but the French windows at the back were wide open and the curtains drifted in the wind as Sumra dashed out of the house.

She found nothing outside, because Sam was gone.