Now, in the dark, stinking house with the smells of death and vomit in her nostrils, Cat closed her eyes tight, trying to push the memory back into her head. She fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt, squeezing her hands into fists. Digging her nails into her palms, protecting herself from breaking the skin by pressing them through the fabric. Tristan might have planted the seed, but she was the one who had let it grow.
Paul was watching her. Reading her mind. His voice was like stone. ‘So what was the plan, by the way? Before it all caved in. Are you going to tell me?’
She swallowed. Should she tell him the truth? Possibly, but not right now. The longer they left Tristan, the harder it was going to be for them to get rid of him. And they had to get rid of him. This was the only part of the new plan that she was formulating fast in her head that would make any sense.
‘I’ll tell you everything. I promise. But you need to help me out here. We need to get rid of Tristan. There’s a waterfall nearby. If we can just—’
Paul started laughing. A cold, harsh laugh that lacked any humour. ‘Can you hear yourself, Cat? What the hell are you talking about? I’ve just said – the only way out of this is to tell the truth—’
‘You suggested I blame Ginny’s death on Tristan. That’s not the truth.’
‘That is the truth though. Isn’t it? This was all Tristan’s idea.’ He waved his arms around the room, the breeze causing the candles to flicker. ‘You didn’t even know where this place was. I heard you, remember?’ He stopped talking. Dropped his arms back to his sides. ‘Unless . . . No. You weren’t bluffing, were you? Did you plan to dupe him?’ He looked up at the ceiling, then back to her. ‘Is there someone upstairs? That man from earlier . . . ?’
It was Cat’s turn to laugh. ‘Now who’s being ridiculous? There’s no one upstairs. Tristan checked.’ She looked towards the kitchen. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Maybe I should just check again . . .’
She grabbed his arm, pulling him towards her. ‘I need you to trust me on this, Paul. If the last few months have been anything to go by, I think you should start listening to some advice that might get you out of a tricky situation.’
He stared at her, but said nothing. She knew she had him. She always managed to maintain the upper hand with him, in the end. He was weak. That was why he’d got himself into a mess, and that was why he needed her to help him. And that was why he was going to do exactly what she said.
‘Thank you.’ She knelt down and started to empty Tristan’s pockets. The map was still inside the plastic wallet. She took the lanyard and hung it around her neck. She grabbed whatever else was in there and threw it into the top of his rucksack, kicking it out of the way. Blood was starting to pool underneath Tristan’s body. There would probably be blood spatter all over the room, but it was too dark to see, and she couldn’t think about that right now.
She turned to Paul, who was standing in front of the window, watching her. His body was silhouetted by the candles, but around the side of him, she could make out a change in the light through the dirty window.
‘We don’t have much time. Hikers will start to climb up here at sunrise. We need to sort this out before then.’ She took her torch out of her pocket. ‘This is all we’ve got. But I don’t think it’s far.’ She slid the torch into the plastic wallet beside the map and turned it upside down, twisting the neck-cord to force the wallet to lie flatter; the torch pointing slightly ahead, instead of straight to her feet.
Paul sighed. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’ He opened the door wide before walking over to her. ‘I’ll take the top end. It’ll be heavier. You face front with the torch beam. Hold his legs either side of you like you’re carrying a stretcher.’
She crouched down at Tristan’s feet, looping her arms under his calves, trying to support them in the crooks of her elbows. Paul grunted as he lifted Tristan up behind her, and she was glad she couldn’t see Tristan’s dead face anymore. Her biceps burned as she took the weight. So much more than she’d expected. She looked out into the woods. The pitch-dark from before had started to lighten to a thick reddish-brown. Where there had been nothing before, shadows of the trees now appeared in front of her. The torch swung out as she stepped down out of the cottage and on to the path.
Somewhere to the right, the waterfall battered down; a comforting cacophony. They walked slowly, staying on the path, following the sound. The noise of the water mostly drowned out Paul’s heavy breathing behind her. They didn’t speak. She tried not to think, either, about what they were doing. About what they had done. Husband and wife. Murderers.