CHLOE

I never meant for any of this to happen. When I woke from the nightmare last night and realised what my mind had been keeping from me all this time, I can't begin to describe the level of my own self-loathing. I sat on the sand in front of the tent and watched the sun rise slowly over the sea, all the time hoping, wishing, praying that my dream was exactly that: a dream. I squeezed my eyes shut and delved into the furthest corners of my memory; it was incredible just how much detail I could remember. And once I accepted that I was the killer, not Harry, the solution was obvious: I needed to tell the truth.

This whole escapade was my fault. Harry needn't have fled, he had nothing to fear. He said himself, he was only going to lie low for a few days. But he continued running because I told him Chris was dead, and he believed he, Harry, was to blame. He believed himself a murderer when the real culprit was under his nose the entire time, suffering from some sort of inexplicable temporary memory loss.

As I sat on the sand, running everything over in my mind, I began to realise the true extent of the consequences of everyone learning the truth. Not only would I have to explain everything to the police but I would have to face trial, and then prison, all alone. Harry would obviously face some sort of custodial sentence for his part in the attack, and possibly for perverting the course of justice, theft of the car and theft of Chris' drug money. But even with his prior record it is unlikely he would be locked up for a significant length of time, as long as he behaved himself and enrolled in a rehabilitation programme to deal with the issues of his past. Then he would be free to start his life again and be a father to Dylan like he always wanted, and I know deep in my heart he would be able to win Sofía round if he tried hard enough. 

My own life would take a very different path. After prison, I would have to start all over again too. With a murder conviction I would struggle to find a job, get a flat, make friends, start a relationship (although the idea of falling in love with anyone other than Harry seems incomprehensible right now). I would have no one to support me, no one to help me get back on my feet, no one to turn to when it all got too much. 

I considered running. For about thirty seconds I allowed myself to stray down the path of cowardice; to imagine the rest of my life on the run, all alone, never having to face up to what I had done. But ultimately, running away would mean allowing Harry to continue to be the main suspect. Running away would mean wondering for the rest of my life what happened to him, whether or not he got his life back on track, whether or not he had been convicted of murder when the real culprit walked free. And I couldn't let him take the blame for something he hadn't done. I love him too much.

I waited until the sun rose to get dressed. I chose the dress I wore on the night we first kissed, the night our relationship changed forever. I wanted him to look at me and remember that there was something he liked about me once, because I had no idea how he would react once I had told him the truth. He might hate me, he might be furious, he might never want anything to do with me ever again. The last option is likely anyway, once he reconciles with Sofía: I can't imagine she would want me hanging around him after knowing we had been intimately close, and he had shared his deepest secrets with me and only me. But I couldn't bear him hating me, and the dress was my only way of softening the blow of the truth.

Once the sun was fully up I retrieved Harry's iPhone from the pocket of his bag and carried it up to the cliff top. I intended calling the police straight away, but the longer I hesitated the harder it became, and selfishly I just wanted to look at him one last time, and he at me, before he learned the truth and the police turned up and carted us both away. When he finally came to find me it was so much harder to face him than I imagined. Not telling him straight away meant lying by omission, and above anything else I despise liars and cowards. Knowing I would only have a small window of time to make the call, I sent him to collect the rest of our things from the beach on his own, and as soon as he was out of sight I switched on the phone and with trembling hands; made the call before I could change my mind. Once I started talking to the operator I found I couldn't stop. The story poured out of me, like poison out of a wound, and I barely heard her telling me the police were on their way and to stay where I was, so great was my relief. 

I hadn't predicted Harry's reaction. I foolishly thought he would be accepting of the arrival of the police, given that we had all but decided last night we would turn ourselves in. But he was furious that I had called them; perhaps he wanted to do it on his own terms. I also hadn't predicted my own gut-wrenching fear at the sight of the white cars tearing down the road past the lighthouse towards us. I allowed my own naiveté to lull me into a false sense of security, thinking the worst part was over once I had confessed. I was so preoccupied with having unburdened myself that I hadn't even considered the drama of the arrest, or the relinquishing of control after so many weeks of setting the pace, calling the shots, simply running.

Old habits died hard. I allowed my own fear and cowardice to take over, careering across the cliff top through the undergrowth, stupidly trying to outrun the very people I had called to collect me: the same people, I realised, who had come to take my freedom, lock me up, hold me accountable for what I have done. The whole story would come out, I realised with sickening horror: my history with Chris; the way I allowed him to treat me; my desperation to be liked, to fit in, to have friends. Everyone on the estate would know; I would be laughed at, ridiculed, despised worse than ever. I would have no one.

Dangling over the edge of a cliff, my hands burning from the friction against the rotten fence post, I confessed my part in it all to Harry. There was shouting, clinging, crying, trembling. Harry was so angry at me for running, and as I at last blurted out the truth after all this time, all he could do was laugh. He didn't believe me, he thought I had lost my mind, gone crazy, slipped into insanity. I stared into his eyes, explaining the details that only I knew, waiting for that moment when realisation dawned, watching his expression change as it all fell into place and finally, incomprehensibly, made sense.

I thought he would be furious. I thought he would hate me. I was so afraid of his reaction but when it came, it was nothing like I imagined. He was gentle, he was kind, he told me everything would be OK. He believed me when I told him I hadn't remembered until now; he knew me well enough to understand that I never would have hurt him knowingly, because I love him. He had faith in me, just like I have in him. 

And now as we are hanging here helplessly, our fate in the hands of the emergency services as they arrive in the beach car park, their sirens deafening us, their shouts electrifying the atmosphere, I need to tell him that he will be OK, too. I need him to understand that in a few short seconds, his whole future has changed. His life stretches out before him: a road with endless forks, opportunities limitless, a chance to make something of himself.

I make him promise not to waste this second chance, to grab life with both hands and live it to the full, making the most of anything and everything that comes his way. I say this because I know my own future is bleak, and I more than anyone understand just how the whole world can change in the blink of an eye. I know he is strong enough to be the person he wants to be; the person he deserves to be. 

The firemen seem to be taking forever to reach us with their ladder. Their shouted conversation blends into a buzz of hysteria, along with the crackle of the police radios and the shrieks of a handful of onlookers who can't believe the scene unfolding in front of them. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. My arms are tired, so tired from supporting my own weight for this long. My palms are burning, blisters no doubt forming as they rub against the crumbling wood. 

Just as I am starting to give up hope I feel a jolt as the post we are clinging to moves a couple of inches. My first thought is that they have begun to drag us to safety, and we're going to be alright, until I dart a glance upwards. The base of the post is beginning to lift out of the dry, parched earth from the immense weight we are bearing down upon it. I know I can't hold on much longer, but the way this wooden stake in the ground is slowly giving up, it appears it won't matter anyway. In a matter of seconds it is going to flick up in the air out of the ground and we will be hurled to our deaths. This ancient, rotten piece of wood cannot hold us both.

And that is the moment everything becomes clear. It cannot hold us both. But it might hold one of us. I can see the fear in Harry's eyes. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me. My memory loss, my childhood, my fear, have brought us to this exact spot, and put us into this situation. I can't let Harry die as a result of my mistakes. I can't be responsible for his death as well as Chris'. Harry has a family, a son, a reason to survive. He has people who need him; people whose lives will be irrevocably altered if he never comes home. I have nothing and no one. The solution is obvious.

It takes me a few seconds to work up the courage. I want to say goodbye, I need to say goodbye, but there isn't time. If I don't do it now I am sentencing us both to death. 

I beg him not to forget me. He realises a second too late what I am going to do. 

He screams at me, apparently beside himself, but all I can do is tell him I love him - I need him to know that I love him more than life itself, and that it is for him that I am doing this; for him, for his broken childhood, for his recovery, for his chance at being the father to his son that he himself never had - and gaze one last time into those heavenly green eyes, right into his damaged, vulnerable soul, before I loosen my last hold on life.

The sense of freedom is incredible, almost euphoric. I am flying, soaring through the air, unburdened and cleansed by my confession to the people that matter, and for the first time in my life I am doing something worthwhile: I am saving Harry, and in doing so I am giving him another chance to turn his life around after almost destroying it with my own pusillanimity. 

I hear Harry's anguished cries above, followed by his profession of love. I feel a rush of adoration for him so powerful it takes my breath away. The commotion on the clifftop melts into oblivion until all I can hear is the sound of the waves crashing to shore, the seagulls calling overhead. Those three glorious words have given me the inner strength I needed not to be afraid of what awaits me on the other side. 

I am finally free. 

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Two more chapters to go ❤❤