No one moves for a couple of seconds, and then Daisy tries to get up, but Al grabs the back of her vest and reaches for the knife. As she wraps her hand around Daisy’s wrist, Daisy twists round and swipes at her, scraping her nails along the soft flesh of Al’s cheek. Al winces but doesn’t let go of her wrist. They twist and grapple above me, pulling at each other’s clothes, pinching, scratching and thumping as the knife flashes through the air.

“Stop it!” I scream as Daisy grabs a handful of Al’s hair and jerks her head back. At the sound of my voice, Daisy looks round. Her grip on Al loosens and, as I watch, Al lets go of her wrist and, using all her strength, pushes Daisy off me and over the cliff.

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

However hard I try, I cannot close the disconnect in my brain between what I just saw and what I feel. What I saw was my best friend of seven years plummet to her death. What I feel is that none of this is real. Not the icy early morning wind on my face, not the stained and torn dress fluttering around my thighs, not the burn on my hand or the whip lashes on my back.

There is a part of me, the part floundering around in the disconnect trying to make sense of it all, that believes all I need to do is take a step off the cliff and I’ll wake up in my bed back in London. My head will hurt from a wild night out clubbing, having consumed too many vodka and Cokes and not enough water, and my phone will be bleeping with half a dozen messages from Daisy, joking about the things we said and did the night before. And I’ll sip at the water beside my bed and I’ll read the messages, and then I’ll swing my legs from under the duvet and pad into my kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. And while the kettle is boiling, I’ll sigh at the thought of my regular Sunday phone call to my mother, and the pile of laundry I can’t bring myself to tackle, and the prospect of another sweaty Monday morning tube ride to the job I hate. And as the kettle boils, I’ll fight the urge to run, to pack a bag and just go. Start again somewhere else: be myself, whoever that may be …

“Emma, stop!” Al screams, yanking me away from the edge by the back of my dress. “What the hell are you doing?”

The haze in front of my eyes clears and her face zooms sharply into view.

“Emma!” She thumps me in the chest with her closed hand.

“I wasn’t … I wasn’t going to jump … I …”

“Emma! What’s the matter with you?”

“I just … I can’t …”