Oh Matilda: Who Bloody Killed Her? Chapter 5

Maya needs a drink. McCredden needs to get a grip. Historical fiction author Emma Harcourt is about to take our progressive novel in a dark new direction.

 

This is ‘summer reading’ like nothing you’ve read before: a diverse field of writers collaborating on a novel that will captivate you through summer.

Each author had just three days to write their chapter, with complete freedom over story and style; it’s fast, fun and very funny.

Tune in over the summer to see how the story unfolds.

Today, Emma Harcourt continues the story with Chapter Five.

By Emma Harcourt

“Tampering with the evidence!” Champion exclaimed as he leapt across the room to within an inch of where McCredden stood, glass in hand. “First to the body, yet again. That makes you my prime suspect, twice.” He thrust the phone into his face.

“Christ, you’re an idiot.” McCredden rounded on Champion. “Didn’t you hear me; we are all doomed.”

“But who’s next?”

McCredden breathed slowly; ignore him. He put the glass back down beside Dario’s body, trying not to look into his death stare as he laid his hands across the dead man’s eyes and closed the lids. A line of dribble oozed from the side of his slack mouth. It had already left a damp patch on the poor sod’s crushed linen shirt. Whatever was in that top pocket would be wet through, he thought pragmatically, spying the remnants of what looked like a receipt. Horrible way to go.

Champion was circling. He moved around the body with calculated delight. “A second death, and another murder within the space of 12 hours.” He spoke into his phone. “The victim dropped like a ripe coconut; his downfall a deadly cocktail. The bitterest of pills to swallow.” He stopped beside McCredden and paused a moment, before continuing. “Could ‘murderer’ be Hollywood actor John McCredden’s most convincing role yet?”

Any response was momentarily stalled by the clipped efficiency of assistant director, Zoe, who’d walked over to join Champion beside the body. “How big is the meat locker?” she asked to no one in particular. She was inspecting the body with a look of distaste.

“Big enough,” Champion answered with a smirk.

Something in McCredden snapped. He turned on his director and swung at him. A left hook, not his best, but rage, frustration, fear took over. He missed and planted his feet more firmly, readying for a second punch. Champion ducked and sidestepped the blow.

Then McCredden felt someone grab him by the shoulder.

“Pull yourself together, Johnny.” Maya leant in close and spoke in a soft voice that only he could hear. The smell of her perfume killed off the last unsavoury hint of bitter almonds that tickled his nostril hairs. “I need a drink,” she said with purpose and inclined her head towards the bar. It was enough. What was he thinking?

He shook his head at Champion and stalked away. He’d not lost his temper like that for at least twenty years. Not since the chat show incident of ’94 when he’d overindulged in the green room prior to going on live TV and what he thought was a controlled reaction to the interviewer’s suggestion he’d been the reason that Van Damme flick had flopped, had in fact involved him stumbling towards the startled host in a drunken rush and punching out at that perfect set of white teeth. He’d missed, of course, and fallen heavily. Ever since, McCredden had used the breathing technique of his Stanislavski training to dispel his rage, and never did live TV again. Only this island was getting under his skin.

Pull it together, old boy, he told himself. This is murder we’re talking about and everyone’s in danger; no need to make new enemies. He expected to see De Kock behind the bar; he needed a drink too, only hadn’t that been the murder weapon?

Maya reached across the bar and grabbed a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. She poured elegantly. “I know you’re not the killer.” Her smile was disarming.

He held out his open palms. “Always the gentleman, through and through,” he answered, watching her movements closely.

She laughed, a throaty, unapologetic delight of a sound. “It’s got nothing to do with manners. You simply don’t have the balls for it. I should know.”

McCredden flushed and without thinking, threw back the shot she handed him. He immediately tried to spit it back into the glass, only he’d always been a fast swallower and very little was left. ”How do I know you’re not the killer?” You’re handing me a drink in the bar where a man just dropped dead.”

“Tequila can’t kill you.”

“I suppose you’d know.”

“Careful now,” she crooned as she downed her own glass.

He looked at her sideways, what was she playing at? Beyond the windows, the light was fading. Angry hues of orange and puce fought in vain to be seen against the heavy rain clouds. The island was renowned for its sunsets, but not this night.

McCredden turned his attention back to the room. He still couldn’t see De Kock. “Anyone know what’s happened to our barman?”

There was a flurry of movement as the gathered few shifted nervously. Champion held his phone aloft and did a sweep of the room. Engelbrecht and Kamikaze Kev shrugged their shoulders. Greer moved towards where Mother sat, as though De Kock might be hiding behind her chair. Zoe counted their numbers. “We are down to 8,” she whispered to Champion, pressing her hands together tightly. “What now?”

He frowned and didn’t answer then walked purposefully to the back of the bar where he looked around before disappearing. From within the storeroom they heard him shout. “There’s a door here, De Kock must have slipped out while we were all distracted by dead Dario. That solves the mystery then, over too soon.” He reappeared, carrying two bottles of champagne. “I did find the stock of French bubbly.” He handed a bottle to Maya before opening the other bottle. “Might as well enjoy ourselves.” The pressure nudged the cork til it popped right across the room and rolled to a stop by the doors.

As if on cue, they flung wide and there stood De Kock, wet through, the wind flapping his kaki shirt while a plastic pool chair barrelled past him on the wave of the storm’s force. He held out his arms and Greer screamed. Zoe hurried to her side.

“Where on earth did you go?” Champion shouted to be heard above the din of rain and crashing waves. “For God’s sake, shut those doors.”

Only the assistant manager didn’t do as he was ordered. He stood still, panting heavily while water slid down his chin. “Boobies are falling from the sky.”

They all saw what he meant. In his arms he held a dead bird. He lifted the bird’s neck and let it fall. “It’s a booby apocalypse.”

The others rushed to the windows on the beach side of the bar from where the view of manicured lawns stretched away to a line of white sand, no longer pristine. Debris was strewn from end to end; palm fronds, coconut cups, tree branches, and dumped across the grass were mounds of brown – dead birds, a whole flock of boobies grounded by the storm.

“And so it continues.” Champion moved amongst them gleefully, recording the grim expressions on the faces of his cast and crew, more disturbed by the sight of all those dead birds than the body behind them. McCredden watched from his stool at the bar, all anger gone. This was no joke, even the birds were falling from the sky. He flexed his fingers and drew them into a crossed web. Clearly someone with more than a wit of intelligence and a podcast to finish had to take on the investigation of these murders. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll need a pen, a notebook and access to all of your schedules.” He turned to the bedraggled assistant manager. “Can you handle that, De Kock?”

For app readers, swipe to the Summer Novel section to find all chapters or click to read Chapter One, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 or Chapter 4

Emma Harcourt is the author of The Shanghai Wife and has just finished writing her second novel. A journalist in London in a former life, she now lives in Sydney near the beach, wrangling three kids and a passion for historical fiction.

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Twitter: @emma_harcourt

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Website: emmaharcourt.com