This isn’t real.
I suck in a bloodcurdling scream, as without warning, the bloody letters burst into flames.
Fire! Fire!
But the police officer, who continues to watch me with interest, doesn’t appear to see a thing.
I am not going mad. I’m in shock, I’m tired, and I’ve been through a traumatic experience.
So why is it so hot?
I feel the warm glow against my body, feel it scorch my skin.
“Please! You’ve got to let me out!”
“Just keep breathing in and out.”
I concentrate on breathing into the bag, inflating and deflating it as I try to stem the panic. To my surprise, it actually helps. The sickness in the pit of my stomach eases and the flaming letters stop dancing around in front of me. I watch as they slide, one by one, to the floor, disappearing in a grey puff of smoke.
“Better?”
“Yes, thanks.” I shiver, cold now the flames have gone out. “I think I’d better go and lie down for a bit.”
“OK – there’s a call button if you need anything.”
He turns to leave, presumably to deal with another inmate further down the hall who’s been shouting obscenities all the while.
“Don’t worry, love – it won’t be forever. They can only detain you for 24 hours, then they’ll either have to charge you, or let you go.”
These words bring little comfort. What if they charge me? What then? Will I have to go to court? And then – the thought explodes in my head – prison?
Is this how I’m going to spend the rest of my life – stuck in a stinking cell, blamed for a crime I didn’t commit, for a reason I don’t even understand?
I lie down and let my eyelids droop as the world whizzes around me. How did Alicia and Jody plan something so complex, so elaborate? Did they set up a criminal organisation just to frame me? Why go to so much trouble, when I could so easily have died in the fire? Was this their back-up plan, just in case I survived? How could they be so evil, so calculating? What terrible thing did I do to them to make them hate me so much?
I cast my mind back, as I’ve done so many times over the last few months, to that summer at Camp Windylake. I try to remember Alicia and Jody, but there were so many young campers and so many play leaders. I remember there was a group of little girls who were particularly keen on the arts and crafts tent, which I ran. They would hang on every word I said. Some of them even tried to dress like me, clonking around in their big sisters’ high heels and carrying little handbags. Kate and I thought it was hilarious at the time. But what if Alicia was one of those little girls? And if so, how did childish adoration turn to such deadly hate?
I try to remember Jody, but I really can’t. Julio has had so many girlfriends, each one completely different from the last. At first, I used to try to make friends with them, but after a while I learned not to grow too attached. It would all be over in a matter of weeks, if not days and then he’d be on to the next. It was different with Kate, of course – she was my best friend first and still is – no thanks to my brother.
My thoughts return to my overwhelming guilt about Holly. Despite Kate, despite everything, I can’t help liking her. Can’t help hoping that against all the odds, things might work out between her and Julio. But how terribly I’ve failed her! Why couldn’t I convince the police she’s in trouble? They have the resources to find her. They could trace her car and her phone. They could arrest Alicia and Jody and take them in for questioning. This would all go so differently, if only I had the police on my side.
As my breathing becomes more steady and rhythmic, I am transported back to a time when everything was so much simpler. When I was eighteen and carefree and I worked as a play leader at Camp Windylake.
I am in the arts and crafts tent, clearing up after a messy day’s play, washing down paint-splattered tables and picking dried glue out of my hair, when a small child appears at my side.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there!” I exclaim. I find her sudden presence a little unnerving.
“Did you want something?” I prompt, when she says nothing.
“Are you going to put those in the kiln now?” she asks, pointing at the day’s assorted pottery creations.
“Yes, but shouldn’t you be getting to dinner?”
“I want to watch.”
She looks up at me with eyes as round as saucers as I load the clay into the hot oven. Her face is pallid and ghostly. No wonder the other kids call her Wednesday Adams. In fact, if I’m honest, so do most of the play leaders – just not to her face.
She’s a very odd little girl, full of strange ways and tall stories. One time I heard her boasting to the others that she can drink any of them under the table, including the boys. Not a claim that she’d be likely to have to put to the test – she’s only ten, after all.
Towards the end of the summer, I ask the children to paint pictures of their families – a task they take up with relish. Wednesday’s initial outline is really rather good. She draws her dad, her big brother, her big sister and herself, all smiling and standing in front of a large square house. No mum, I notice – rumour has it, she died in a house fire when Wednesday was just a baby.
But the next time I look, the painting is streaked with red paint – they’re all still smiling, but they have red in their hair and on their faces, even their clothes are streaked with red. At first I think she’s had an accident with the red paint, but as I watch, she dips the brush in again and adds red streaks to the roof and the windows. This strikes me as rather peculiar but then, the little boy opposite has painted a robotic dog, and his family car appears to be a space rocket. So I just put it down to the children’s over active imaginations and tuck it to the back of my mind.
On the last day of camp, Wednesday approaches me with a rather solemn expression on her face.
“Isabel, can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” I say, patting the stool next to me for her to sit down. She does not do so. Instead, she fiddles awkwardly with her plastic apron. So I sit there expectantly, waiting to hear what she’s got to say. Wondering what kind of yarn she’s going to spin.
I am distracted by the sound of keys in the lock. A female police officer throws back the cell door.
“Please come with me.”
I try to tune her out, fight to stay in the dream. Except, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. I’m on the verge of remembering something – something crucial. But it’s no use, the police officer’s voice cuts right through to my consciousness. I sit up and blink.
Alicia is little Wednesday Adams!
That’s why I didn’t remember her. I didn’t know her as Alicia. Nobody called her by her real name. But what was it she wanted to talk to me about that day at camp? It was something important, I know it was. Oh, why can’t I remember?
I get up and follow the police officer.
“Why have I been sent for?” I ask, as she leads me through the maze of corridors. “Have they made a decision?”
“I don’t know,” she says, striding so fast I struggle to keep up with her. “They just asked me to come and get you.”
“Do you think they’re going to charge me?”
“I really don’t know – I don’t know the details of your case.”
“You haven’t heard anything?”