“So you don’t know. He’s in serious trouble. Lana found out he set up something like seventeen different company accounts, all in her name, in private banks all around the world. He’s been moving his clients’ money around, using her like a washing machine—like a fucking laundry.”

  I bristled with indignation as I said this. I could see Kate taking it all in, weighing it up, weighing me up, working out whether to believe a word I said. I must say, my performance was pretty good—presumably because most of what I said was true. Jason was a crook. And I didn’t think for one second that Kate didn’t know this.

  “That’s bullshit,” she said, feebly.

  But she didn’t object further, so I went on, emboldened.

  “Jason is about to be caught—if he hasn’t been already. He’ll be going away for a long time, I imagine. Unless someone bails him out. He needs money very badly—”

  Kate laughed. “You think he killed Lana for money? You’re wrong—Jason wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t kill her.”

  “I know he wouldn’t.”

  Kate stared at me, annoyed. “Then what are you saying?”

  I spoke slowly, patiently, as if to a child. “She was wearing your shawl, Kate.”

  A slight pause. She stared at me. “What?”

  “That’s why Jason followed her to the ruin. Because he thought she was you.”

  Kate stared at me, silent. She had suddenly gone pale.

  “It’s true. Jason didn’t mean to shoot Lana. He meant to shoot you.”

  Kate shook her head violently. “You’re sick … you’re fucking sick.”

  “Don’t you understand? He’s going to frame Nikos—now he’s made sure Nikos can’t defend himself. I warned you not to make Jason choose between you. Lana was too valuable for him to give up. Whereas you … are expendable.”

  As I said this, I could see the change in Kate’s eyes. A kind of pained recognition—that word, expendable, it chimed with something deep within her, an old feeling, from long ago—a feeling that she wasn’t important; not special in any way; not loved.

  She grabbed the back of the chair—like she was going to throw it at me. But she needed it to steady herself. She held on to it, looking like she might faint.

  “I need to find Jason,” she whispered.

  “What? Haven’t you heard a single word I said?”

  “I need to find him.”

  Suddenly determined, she went to the door.

  I blocked her path. “Kate, stop—”

  “Get out of my way. I need to find him.”

  “Wait.” I reached into my pocket. “Here—”

  I pulled out the revolver. I held it out to her.

  “Take it.”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it, in Jason’s study—where he hid all the guns.” I pressed the gun into her hands. “Take it.”

  “No.”

  “Take it. Act like an idiot if you must—but take this with you. Please.”

  Kate stared at me, for a second. Then she made a decision.

  She took the revolver.

  I smiled. I stood aside and let her pass.

  7

  Gripping the gun, Kate walked out of the summerhouse. She went along the path in the direction of the coast—toward the beach, and the jetty—in search of Jason.

  I waited for a moment. Then I followed.

  I felt nervous as I walked along the path. I had butterflies in my stomach, the way you do on a first night. It felt thrilling to have done all this: written this drama, not with pen and paper, for fictional characters on a stage—but for real people, in a real place. All of them, performing in a play they had no idea they were in.

  In a way, it was Art. I really believed that.

  As I approached the beach, I could see the wind was calming down. Soon the fury would have blown itself out, leaving destruction in its wake. I looked around for Kate. Sure enough, she was up ahead, making her way across the sand toward the jetty—where Jason was waiting.

  What would happen now? I knew the answer to that. I could predict the future as surely as if I had written it in my notebook. Which, in fact, I had.

  Kate would climb up the stone steps to the jetty. Jason would see the gun in her hand. And being Jason, he would demand Kate hand it over to him.

  The question was, given what I had just told Kate—all the doubts about him that I had planted in her mind—would she give Jason the gun?

  More important, now that I had put a loaded gun in Kate’s hand … would she use it?

  Soon, we would know the answer to the question I posed that night Lana came over, and I stayed up writing until dawn. Would I be able to contrive Jason’s death without pulling the trigger myself?

  I felt confident that my plan had every chance of working. Particularly as Kate played so completely into my hands. She was volatile at the best of times; and right now, she was also terrified, highly emotional, and inebriated. There was every possibility that Kate might allow her feelings to overcome her. If I were a betting man, I’d say the odds were damn good.

  I took up my position by the tall pines, at the end of the beach. Near enough to have a good view, but not close enough to be seen; safely hidden in the shadows. My own private theater.

  Suddenly, I had a last-minute attack of nerves. Every playwright experiences this at some point, you know; an eleventh-hour panic. A fear that the story won’t come together. Have I done enough? Will the structure hold?

  It’s imperative to refrain from tinkering at this late stage. Many a great work of art has been ruined by the artist’s inability to stop tampering with it. Many a criminal venture, too, no doubt.

  I had to trust in the work I had already done. What happened next was beyond my control. It was in the actors’ hands now; I was merely a spectator.

  So, I settled in to watch the show.

  8

  Kate walked across the beach, and over to the jetty. She slowly climbed up the stone steps. Jason was standing alone on the platform. They stood face-to-face.

  There was silence for a second. Jason spoke first, giving her a cautious look.

  “Are you alone? Where are the others?”

  Kate didn’t reply. She just stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes.

  Jason watched her. He seemed uneasy, no doubt sensing something was wrong. “Kate. Are you okay?”

  Kate shook her head. She didn’t speak for a second. She gestured at the speedboat, moored below them. “Can we just go? Get the fuck out of here—”

  “No. The police will be here soon. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. Please, let’s just go now—”

  “What’s that?” Jason was staring at the gun in her hand. He spoke in a sharper tone. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “I found it.”

  “Where? Give it to me.”

  Jason stepped toward her, holding out his hand. Kate took a slight step back—an involuntary movement; but it opened up a chasm between them.

  Jason frowned. “Give me the gun. I know how to use it, you don’t.” And then: “Katie, come on. It’s me.”

  For a second, Kate believed in his authority—but then she saw his hand was trembling. She realized Jason was as scared as she was.

  Jason had every reason to be scared. Kate was out of control, clearly; he had to handle her somehow. He had to calm her down and bring her to a more rational state. He needed to reassure her; persuade her to give him the gun. So he took a calculated risk.

  “I love you,” he said.

  It was obvious, from the look on her face, that this gamble failed. Kate’s expression hardened. “Liar.”

  And that instant I had been praying for arrived. A suspension of disbelief; a kind of theatrical alchemy—call it what you will. Illusion became truth in Kate’s mind. In her imagination, the idea that Jason was not to be trusted took hold. For the first time since knowing him, she felt afraid of him.

  This was made worse when Jason tried again, with more force.

  “Give me the gun, Kate.”

  “No.”

  “Kate—”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “What?” Jason stared at her, incredulous. “What?”

  “Did you kill Lana?” Kate went on, quickly. “Elliot said you killed her—by mistake. He said—you meant to kill me.”

  “What?” Jason groaned. “He’s insane. That’s a lie.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is!” He made a movement toward her. “Give me the gun.”

  “No.” Kate raised the gun. “Stop.”

  She pointed the gun at him. She was shaking so much, it took both her hands to keep it steady.

  Jason took another step toward her. “Listen to me. Elliot is a liar. Do you know how much she has left him? Millions. Think about it—who do you trust, Kate? Me or him?”

  Jason sounded so upset, so impassioned, so genuine, Kate found herself wanting to trust him. But it was too late. She didn’t trust him.

  “Keep away from me, Jason. I mean it. Keep back.”

  “Give me the gun. Now.”

  “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

  But he kept moving toward her, step by step.

  “Jason, stop.”

  He kept coming closer.

  “Stop.”

  He kept walking. He held out his hand. “Give it to me. It’s me, for Christ’s sake. It’s Jason.”

  But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Jason, not anymore—it wasn’t the person she had known and loved. As if in a nightmare, he had transformed from a lover into a monster.

  Then he made a sudden lunge toward her—

  And Kate’s finger squeezed the trigger. She fired.

  But she missed. And Jason kept coming.… Kate fired again—

  And again …

  And again.

  Finally, she hit her mark. Jason collapsed, and he tumbled down the jetty steps. He lay there, motionless … bleeding to death on the sand.

  * * *

  I wish I could end the story there.

  Smashing ending, isn’t it? It has everything you need: a man, a woman, a gun, a beach, moonlight. Hollywood would love it.

  But I can’t end the story like that.

  Why not? Because it isn’t true, unfortunately. That’s not what happened. It’s just a figment of my imagination. It’s what I hoped would happen— it’s the scene I sketched out in my notebook.

  But it’s only fiction, I’m afraid.

  Real life turned out somewhat differently.

  9

  As I stood there, in the shadows, watching Kate climb the jetty steps, I had the first unpleasant inkling that reality was diverging from my plans for it.

  I felt a small, sharp jab in my back. I quickly turned around.

  Nikos was there, standing behind me. He was holding a gun on me, which he prodded me with again. Harder this time.

  When I saw it was him, I felt annoyed, rather than concerned.

  “Back off. Don’t point that fucking thing at me. I thought Jason told you to stay in your cottage.”

  Nikos ignored my words. He stared at me, suspiciously. “We find the others.” He gestured for me to walk. “Go.”

  He nodded at the beach—in the direction of the jetty, and Jason and Kate. I immediately felt alarmed.

  “No,” I said, quickly. “Not that way. Not a good idea.”

  “Go.” Nikos jabbed me again with the gun. “Now.”

  “No, listen. The police are coming. We need to find Leo and Agathi.” I went on, slowly and emphatically, so he’d understand: “You and me, we go back to the house. And we find them. Okay?”

  I went to point him in the right direction. But as soon as my hand moved, his gun was dug deep into my chest. He pressed it hard between my ribs. I could feel my heart thudding against it. Nikos wasn’t fucking around.

  He nodded again at the jetty. “Go. Now—”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down.”

  Seeing I had no choice, I accepted my fate with a sigh. Like a sulky child, I walked down onto the beach.

  As we crossed the sand, Nikos kept close behind me, digging the gun into my back. He was suspicious of me, and rightly so. How stupid of me to let him catch me, lurking in the bushes, spying on Kate and Jason. It didn’t look good; and now I’d have to talk my way out of it—and it wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to improvise, which wasn’t my strong suit.

  Damn him, I thought. He’s ruining everything.

  We reached the jetty steps. I stopped, unwilling to go on. I felt the gun pressing in my back, forcing me up, step by step … until I stood there, on the stone platform. I came face-to-face with Kate and Jason.

  Kate was still holding the gun, I noticed—and Jason didn’t seem to object, so perhaps I had been wrong about that. Kate looked from me to Nikos, with a look of disbelief mingled with revulsion.

  She turned to Jason. “He said Nikos was dead. He said you killed him.”

  “What?” Jason looked stunned. “What?”

  “Elliot said you killed him—like you killed Lana.”

  Jason gasped. “What the fuck?”

  “What a snake you are, Elliot.” Kate turned to me. “What a fucking snake. I keep expecting you to hiss. Why don’t you hiss? Ssssssssssssss—”

  “Kate, please stop. I can explain—”

  I was about to begin to talk myself out of it—when, over Jason’s shoulder, I saw someone on the beach. My heart sank. It was Agathi. She was hurrying over to us.

  Now, it was all over. My entire house of cards was about to collapse around me in a heap. Nothing I could do now but resign myself to it.

  While I waited for Agathi to reach us, I turned my attention to Kate and Jason—who were talking about me as if I weren’t there. Which was disconcerting, to say the least.

  I have often heard other writers describe their characters as “getting away from them,” behaving independently, with “a life of their own.” I used to scorn this idea, roll my eyes at the pretension of it. But now, to my amazement, I was experiencing it myself. I kept wanting to interrupt them—to say, No, no, you’re not meant to be saying that and This shouldn’t be happening. But it was happening. This was reality, not a play. And it was not going as I’d planned.

  “He’s trying to frame you,” Kate said. “Lana left him millions of pounds. Did you know that?”

  “No.” Jason looked furious. “I did not.”

  Agathi appeared at the top of the steps. She gave us all a frightened look. “What’s going on?”

  “We know who shot Lana,” Kate said.

  “Who?” Agathi looked confused.

  Kate pointed at me with the gun. “Elliot.”

  10

  We stood there on the jetty, staring at one another. We remained in silence for a second. The only sounds were the wind wailing and the waves crashing around us.

  Behind Agathi’s eyes, I could see her thinking hard, working out her next move. She spoke cautiously.

  “Why would Elliot do that?”

  “Money,” said Kate. “He’s broke, Lana told me. She said she left him a fortune.”

  This was the one possibility I had never considered: that I might end up as the prime suspect.

  The irony was not lost on me. It took an effort to keep a straight face. I pulled myself together and presented them with a grave expression.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I am guilty of many things—but murdering Lana is not one of them.”

  I gave Agathi a defiant look. Go on, I thought. Spill the beans, I bet you’re dying to tell them it’s all a charade.

  But Agathi remained silent. And a hopeful thought suddenly occurred to me. Was it possible that Lana had succeeded in winning her over? Might Agathi play along, after all? Might she help me turn this around?

  Meanwhile Kate was talking, in a low, excited voice:

  “Elliot killed her. He can’t get away with this. He can’t, he can’t—”

  “He won’t,” said Jason. “The police—”

  “Fuck the police. He’ll talk his way out of it. He can’t get away with it, Jason. We cannot let him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about justice. He killed Lana.”

  “You want to shoot him? Go ahead. Be my fucking guest.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  There was a slight pause. This had gone far enough, I decided. I didn’t like where it was heading; particularly as Kate was waving a loaded gun around. Things might easily get out of hand. So, very reluctantly, I felt compelled to end it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” I held up my hands. “I hate to spoil the surprise. But I’m afraid this isn’t real. This whole evening is a hoax. Lana isn’t dead. It’s just a joke.”

  Jason looked at me with disgust. “You’re fucked in the head, mate.”

  So he didn’t believe me—which was, in a way, a tremendous compliment.

  I smiled. “Fine. Ask Agathi, if you don’t believe me. She’ll tell you.” I glanced at her. “Go on. Tell them.”

  Agathi met my gaze, unblinking. “Tell them what?”

  I frowned. “Tell them the truth. Tell them Lana’s alive—”

  Agathi spat in my face. “Murderer.”

  I gasped, stunned. “Agathi—”

  “You killed her.” Agathi crossed herself. “May God forgive you.”

  I was incredulous—and furious. I wiped my face. “What the fuck are you playing at? Stop it, now. Tell them the truth!”

  But Agathi just stared at me with an insolent look.

  So I controlled my anger and turned to Jason. “Come on. Let’s go back to the house. You’ll find Lana, alive and well—knocking back vodka, smoking Kate’s fags, and—”

  Jason punched me in the face. His fist connected with my jaw. The blow sent me staggering backward.

  I took a moment to steady myself. My hand went to my throbbing, aching jaw. The pain was intense. It hurt to speak.

  “I think you broke my jaw.… Fuck.”

  “I’m just getting started, mate,” he said, grimly.