But I must go on—I have no choice. This has been looming over me from the start, casting its shadow on me, ever since I first sat down to tell you this story.
You see, my portrait is not complete. Not yet. It needs a few details filled in. A few final brushstrokes here and there, to finish it.
Strange, I used that word—portrait.
I suppose it is a portrait. But of whom?
Initially, I thought it was a portrait of Lana. But now, I’m beginning to suspect it’s of me. Which is a frightening thought. It’s not something I wish to look at, this hideous rendering of myself.
But we must confront it together one last time, you and I—to finish this tale.
I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.
6
It was dawn. I was alone on the jetty.
I was in a lot of pain. I didn’t know what hurt the most—my aching lower back, where Nikos hit me with the gun; my cracked ribs; or my throbbing jaw. I winced as I lurched down the steps, onto the beach.
I didn’t know where I was going—I had nowhere to go. So I just hobbled along the sand, beside the surf.
As I walked, I tried to make sense of what had taken place.
Suffice to say, my plan hadn’t worked out as I had hoped. In my version, Lana and I would be together now, at the house, waiting for the police to arrive. I would be comforting her—explaining that Jason’s death was an unfortunate, even tragic, accident.
I had no idea things would get so out of hand, I would say to Lana, fighting tears. That Kate would actually take a gun and use it. I’d tell Lana I would never get over the terrible sight I had witnessed—of Kate repeatedly shooting Jason on the beach, in a wild drunken rage.
That would be my story, and I’d stick to it.
Kate might tell a different tale to mine—but it would be my word against hers. That would be all that was left now—words, recollections, accusations, suggestions, all blowing in the wind. Nothing real. Nothing tangible. The police and, more important, Lana would believe me over Kate—who had, after all, just murdered Lana’s husband in cold blood.
“I feel so guilty,” I would say. “It’s all my fault—”
“No,” Lana would reply. “It’s mine. I never should have agreed to this crazy idea.”
“I talked you into it—I’ll never forgive myself, never—”
And so on—we would comfort each other, each taking the blame. We would be distraught; but we would recover. We would be united, she and I—united in our guilt. We’d live happily ever after.
That’s how it was supposed to end.
Except Lana saw my notebook.
Which was unfortunate—it read badly, I can see that. Words written in anger, ideas taken out of context, private fantasies not meant to be seen—certainly not by Lana.
If only she had woken me up, right then, when she found it. If she had confronted me, I could have explained it all. I could have made her understand. But she didn’t give me that chance.
Why not? Surely she had discovered equally terrible things about Kate over the past few days? Yet Lana found it within herself to forgive her. Why not me?
I imagine it was Kate who came up with the idea. Like me, she was always having bright ideas. How they must have enjoyed scripting it, then rehearsing their performances. How they must have laughed at me, the whole time—watching me make a fool of myself on the island. Allowing me to presume I was the author of this play—when I was just its audience.
How could Lana do this to me? I didn’t understand how she could be so cruel. This punishment far exceeded my crime. I had been humiliated, terrified, stripped of all dignity, all humanity—reduced to nothing but snot and tears: to a kid sniveling in the dirt.
So much for friendship. So much for love.
As I walked, I felt increasingly angry. I felt as if I were back at school. Bullied. Abused. Except this time, there was no hope of escape. No future happiness with Lana to look forward to. I was trapped here, for eternity.
Without realizing it, I found myself back at the ruin. I was standing in the circle of broken columns.
The ruin was eerie and desolate in the dawn light. Along with the dawn had come the wasps.
Wasps were everywhere, suddenly, swarming in the air around me, like a black mist. Wasps, crawling all over the marble columns, crawling on the ground. They were crawling over my hand, as I thrust it into the rosemary bush. Wasps crawled over the gun, as I pulled it out.
I was about to walk away, when I saw something that made me freeze.
They say the wind drives you mad. And that must be what happened to me—I must have been driven momentarily insane. For I was witnessing something that couldn’t possibly be real.