Undone by Kristina Lloyd Page A

tranquil and relaxed, as if solitude were his preference. The night was startlingly quiet and fragile. When he inhaled, I could hear the crackle of cigarette paper as the edges burned.
    I wonder how long it will be before I experience such peace again.

Part 2
    Thursday 3rd July
    The paramedics arrived first, calm, kind and efficient as they humped kit from their van and set to work on Misha, despite the apparent futility of doing so. We were ushered away, questions unanswered. ‘Who found him?’ ‘Will he be OK?’ ‘Wasn’t the poolhouse out of order?’
    Half-dressed people clustered in the grounds, some distraught, others baffled, while Rose and her friends talked to the emergency services. I wondered whether to inform them that the dead man had spent the night in my bed along with some other guy I barely knew, but the fact seemed irrelevant.
    When I learned the police wouldn’t arrive for some time, and that the medics wanted people to stay put till then, I slipped away. I needed to dress and urgently talk to Sol. Surely the commotion had woken him?
    It seemed to have done, but only just. In my earlier haste, I’d left the door of my turret room open. Sol sat naked on the bed edge, knees splayed, his head in one hand, fingers clawed into his dark, tousled hair. He looked up as I entered, giving me a pained, hung-over smile. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw rough with stubble, and damn – inappropriate, I know – he looked beautiful: exhausted and bold, as if he’d been to hell and back for unknown, heroic purposes.
    ‘They found Misha dead in the pool,’ I said.
    That roused him. He stiffened, eyes alert. ‘Say again?’
    ‘Ambulance is here,’ I said. ‘Police are on their way. I saw him lying there. He’s … he’s dead.’
    Sol stood. He had an early-morning semi that I couldn’t help but notice. He glanced around the room, searching wildly. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, back to the wall as he stepped into them, going commando. ‘Holy fuck, he’s dead? You sure?’ he asked, buttoning up. His stomach was practically flat, jeans resting low on his hips, hair on his belly trailing down in a line.
    ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘Please. There’s nothing you can do.’
    He buckled his belt. ‘I need to see what’s happening.’
    ‘Nothing’s happening. They’re trying to resuscitate him but … People are hanging around, just waiting. Everyone’s sort of numb and shocked.’
    He punched his arms into his T-shirt and shook out his hair, although it barely moved.
    ‘When did he leave the room?’ he asked. ‘Any idea? Did you see him? Hear him?’
    ‘No, you?’
    ‘Nothing, no.’
    He sat on the bed, fastening his big, battered trainers.
    ‘I think they’re trying to keep people in the garden till the cops arrive,’ I said. ‘Don’t stay down there.’
    ‘I’ll be back in ten.’
    I twisted in flustered half-circles. ‘OK,’ I said, trying to reassure myself. ‘I’m going to get dressed and tidy the room. They might want to question us.’
    ‘Why? What about?’
    The harsh, demanding tone got to me and I snapped. ‘Because we were the last people to fuck him!’
    Sol stabbed his fingers into his hair. ‘OK, I need to think.’
    I seized my knickers from the floor and tossed them into the en suite. Sol grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checked it, and stuffed it in his front pocket.
    ‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Let’s stay calm, eh?’ He edged past me, snatched his cigarettes from the window ledge and made for the bedroom door. But he doubled back before he left, returning to me. His dark brown hair stood in a skew-whiff quiff and his tennis injury hung like an obscene berry on his lip. He gave me a brief kiss on the cheek, his hand on my hip. He smelled of sleep and his bristled jaw scratched. We hadn’t kissed during sex because of his wound. I wondered if we ever would.
    ‘You cool about last night, Cha Cha?’ he asked, poised to dart off.
    The