by Karen Swan
Jed put the steering wheel in full lock and turned them out of the landing area, the other car following just behind on the bumpy track. Tara liked the way her hair lifted off her neck as they drove fast through the trees. It felt so good to be outside again. Over twelve hours had been spent in state-of-the-art, climate-controlled air-conditioned spaces but this felt like the luxury, cutting through the night, below the stars, towards the sea.
She glanced at Jed in the mirror, looking for changes in her childhood friend, but any differences were as subtly evolved as the forest’s – he still had the same heavy eyebrows and black hair worn long and shaggy, an ever-ready smile that dominated his broad face. He was a little heavier, but no grey hairs yet. His father had owned the bar and row of huts set along the fringes of the beach when they first started coming here, gradually expanding his operations to include surf hire and bike rental too, local tours and expeditions.
Everything she and Miles had done, Jed had done with them – as a friend, but as a mentor too. He was seven years older than her – old enough to look after them, still young enough to be fun. And he had been fun! He knew the area intimately and had grown up doing all the things they now learned as adventurers – he kept them safe as they dived the reef, taught them what to look for as they learned to track ocelots. Father and son had proved their loyalty as well as friendship over the years and had become the Tremains’ gatekeepers on Costa Rican soil – they fixed whatever needed fixing, did the helicopter pickups, organized moonlit treks, put extras of her favourite papayas in the fruit bowl. And once the conservation project had swung into action, Jed’s father had been rewarded with a senior role in the running of it, tasked with co-ordinating the rangers who ran the midline between the biologists, ecologists and the local communities.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Jed’s dark eyes met hers briefly in the mirror. He smiled back at her warmly, her old friend.
‘Hey! Was that a jaguar?’ Zac asked excitedly, twisting in his seat beside her. ‘Did you see that, Twig?’
She shook her head apologetically. ‘Afraid not.’
‘I just saw a pair of, like, yellow eyes, between the trees.’
Tara looked back but, even if it had been there, the creature was already lost in the trees. Like putting a foot in the river, the rainforest never stood still.
‘Sorry to disappoint but it was a margay, more likely,’ Jed said over the wind, glancing at Zac in the mirror. ‘The jags don’t come this close to the coast.’
Zac sat forward in his seat, gripping the back of Miles’s headrest. ‘Shame. I’d love to see one.’
‘Well then, we can arrange that for you, for sure.’
‘Really? You could find me a jaguar, just like that?’
‘They’re getting harder to find but we know their most common routes. It’s just about knowing where to look, and being patient.’
Miles twisted back to look at his husband. ‘I keep telling you – whatever you want, Jed can make it happen. He’s the man.’
Jed kept his gaze dead ahead. They were approaching the junction where the track met the single main road. ‘Of course. Nothing’s a problem. Whatever you need.’
Jed looked in both directions and pulled out. Tara knew they were only a few minutes from the town and that soon the strains of music would become audible and her holiday would begin.
They accelerated, Jed’s eyes flicking quickly between the road and the rear-view mirror as they picked up speed. He was watching someone behind them, his eyes instinctively narrowing to slits as a dazzling brightness suddenly washed over their vehicle. She glanced around to see the beam of headlights from the other Jeep. Only it wasn’t the other Jeep – these were higher up, and advancing fast.
Too fast.
She looked back at Jed, seeing how his grip had tightened around the wheel, hearing the engine growl as he pushed his foot flatter to the floor. They sped up so that her hair blew about her face, making it hard to see anything clearly.
But the other vehicle was still gaining on them, catching them up. What was happening?
‘Jed?’ she asked, a tremor in her voice that made even Miles turn around. As if in response, the lights behind were flicked to full beam and he winced, automatically raising his arms to his face.
‘What the fuck?’ her brother cried.
The vehicle behind honked loudly and insistently, bearing down with frightening speed and compressing the distance between them to just a few metres. Tara gasped, unable to process what was happening. The lights were blinding. In the space of mere moments they had gone from holiday vibes to being run off the road. They would hit the trees! She screamed as she saw the truck get to within six feet of the back of them, before it suddenly, violently, swerved. In the next instant, it was overtaking them so closely that the truck’s running board missed the side of the jeep by mere inches.
‘Holy shit!’ Zac yelled, his eyes wide and mouth open wider as the truck sped past and into the distance. ‘Who the hell was that?’
In her panic, Tara had clocked nothing but the set profiles of two men in hats in the front seats. Jed was quiet for a moment, his grip still tight around the wheel so that his knuckles blanched. ‘No one. Just some local fools,’ he said finally, in his calm, steady voice. ‘Not everyone here knows how to drive properly.’
‘That’s putting it lightly,’ Miles muttered, looking and sounding shaken.
But Tara, watching him still in the mirror, saw how Jed had looked away before speaking. One of the clearest signs he was lying. All doctors were trained to read the clues by which people give themselves away, in preparation for dealing with the teenage girls who would swear blind they were virgins even as they heard their baby’s heartbeat on the monitor, to winkle out the abusive partner speaking on behalf of a ‘shy’ patient . . . Why would he lie about who those people were? And why had they tried to run him off the road?
Everyone was quiet now, their initial excitement at being here suddenly diminished by the unsettling incident. Jed turned on the radio, the songs drifting into the night as they sat in uneasy silence.
Within minutes they were coming into Puerto Viejo, long-familiar wooden shacks lining the road, brightly painted signs advertising beers or beans and rice bowls, craft stands shuttered up for the night, bars dimly lit with hanging lanterns, surfboards outside hire shops stacked in storage racks like whale ribs, ready for the first dawn riders . . .
Over the wind, Tara could hear reggae beats, glimpsed people seated on rickety chairs and smiling at them with easy hospitality as they sped through the small town. It had only six streets in total, which was precisely why her family loved it here. Low-key and off the well-heeled track, its isolation had been almost entirely protected until 1979 when the road had been built, opening it up to the rest of the country somewhat. But progress had been slow – electricity had only come in 1986, and internet (such as it was) in 2006. As teenagers she and Miles had been appalled by the slow broadband speeds, but now . . . it was the perfect place to be. Refuge. Escape. She had come to the edge of the world. She had always liked it here because in this tiny pocket she was invisible, her family insignificant; but now she felt unaccountable too. Suddenly Helen McPherson and the Miller case felt very far away. If she tried really hard, she thought she might be able to believe that they weren’t real. That it had never even happened . . .
Jed turned down one of the streets and she caught her first glimpse of the sea, lying in heavy, inky quietude. The moon was waxing, perhaps two or three nights off fullness and throwing a milky haze onto its surface. She caught a splash as something breached before disappearing again, the waves gently hushing onto the shelved black sand beach. Palm tree fronds hung like splayed fingers, large boulders dotted along the cove with sculptural frequency.
Jed pulled up outside their digs, a short run of heavily weathered, brightly painted huts right on the beach. Blue, yellow, red, green, they were flimsier than most sheds and yet for her, they were a home. The cruci
ble of her childhood happiness, their imperfection and sense of gentle decay were strangely reassuring; their long-standing presence suggesting things didn’t always collapse in a storm of dust.
‘Yes!’ Miles swung himself out of the car before Jed had even cut the engine and tipped his face to the sky. He kicked off his shoes and ran onto the beach, burrowing his feet into the cool sand.
Zac joined him, standing with his hands on his hips as they looked out to sea. ‘Never gets old, does—’
‘What the hell was going on back there?’
The anger in the man’s voice made them all turn and Tara was startled to see Rory marching across the sand towards Jed, looking like he was going to beat ten bells out of him.
‘You racing that truck like that? They could have been killed!’
‘Whoa!’ Miles interjected, physically inserting himself between the two men as Rory bore down upon Jed. He had to press hard against Rory’s chest to stop him from grabbing him. ‘Mate, it’s all cool. It wasn’t Jed’s fault.’
But Rory wouldn’t be appeased. ‘That driver—!’
‘Was a fucking idiot. Yes, we know. Jed wasn’t racing the guy. But he handled it. We’re fine.’ Miles swept an arm round to where Tara was standing. ‘Look, she’s fine.’
Rory, his eyes ablaze, stared at her, his chest heaving with emotion.
‘I’m fine,’ she repeated, somewhat amazed by his reaction. The incident had frightened her too, but it had all been over in ten seconds. Exactly how bad had it looked from where they were sitting?
‘Fine? You know they had guns?’ Rory asked, looking from her to Jed again, accusation in his eyes.
Guns? Even Miles and Zac looked concerned by that.
Jed was quiet for a moment. ‘Yes. But as I told Miles and Tara, I know who they are, and I will deal with it. Nothing would have happened . . . They just like to puff their chests, that is all.’
‘Who are they?’ Miles asked.
‘Just some guys who work on a ranch round here. Hoodlums. They like to believe they own the place.’
Miles gave a short laugh, his hands on his hips. ‘Well, if that’s the game they want to play . . .’
Jed gave a small smile. ‘Exactly.’ He looked at Rory. ‘Please do not worry. I will deal with it.’
Tara went over to her boyfriend and put her hand on his arm. ‘Listen to Jed, he knows what he’s talking about.’
There was a reluctant silence, the men seemingly speaking without words. Something about the ranchers’ show of strength signalled a message she seemingly didn’t quite get; a machismo thing that had rattled Jed and Rory’s cages.
Tugging Rory by the arm, she started walking over the sand again. ‘Let’s just leave it now and go to bed. We’re all tired. It’s been a long journey and we need to sleep.’
‘But—’
‘Come on. Let’s sleep. Red hut for us, yes Jed?’
Jed nodded, never taking his eyes off Rory. The new man was but a guest of the Tremains; he didn’t get to throw his weight around like that.
Reluctantly, Rory allowed himself to be pulled away, but he continued muttering under his breath. ‘That was fucking ridiculous . . . You didn’t have to watch. From where we were, that truck was going to ram you off the road.’
‘It must have just been perspective,’ she fibbed, reaching for her bag from the back of the Jeep. ‘It didn’t feel that bad to us. Really.’ She saw the astonishment in his eyes. ‘But I’m sorry, it must have been horrid for you.’
‘It was. You didn’t have to see it. Poor Jimmy screamed.’
She winced at that. ‘I really am sorry.’ She wasn’t quite sure why she was apologizing – it wasn’t any more her fault than Jed’s. ‘Come on, we’re in here.’
She pushed on the latch and opened the door to the red cabin. It was the second of four and had always been hers. Miles was always in the green one next door; her father had the yellow one flanking her far side and the blue one was kept free in case of guests (although in all those years as kids, they had never invited anyone along; they liked keeping it for themselves, a cherished secret).
Rory stopped in the doorway.
‘Like it?’ she asked, hoisting up her bag and setting it on its side on an upended banana crate.
‘It’s very . . . basic.’
‘Well yes, I told you that. Rustic vibes.’ She unzipped the bag, desperate to find her toothbrush.
He peered around the minimal space. ‘I thought when you said basic you meant . . . no spa, no Sky package. Not . . .’ His eyes fell to the colonial fan on the ceiling, the mosquito net hanging over the bed. ‘No air con.’
She stopped what she was doing and scanned the room with a fresh gaze. A loosely woven rattan lampshade dangled from the centre point of the apex roof; a long-forgotten beer can nestled in the crux of the rafters, where the roof met the walls. The space was small but felt spacious on account of there being no furniture apart from the 1970s cane bed, which had peacock-tail head and footboards and was dressed with faded turquoise cotton sheets that were years old and as soft as hankies. Clothes had to be hung from the hooks nailed along the walls and, if you wanted to sit, you just sat on the bed. Some old wooden Coke boxes had been set on their sides and stacked three high to form a type of console, which was at least useful as somewhere to set down a book, or glass or phone; and on the wall, as a solitary nod towards decoration, there was a brightly painted 1950s kitsch oil of a pneumatic woman in an off-the-shoulder red dress.
Tara had been sleeping in this room since she was nine years old and that painting had been hanging there even then. To her pre-pubescent self, the woman’s glamour and obvious sex appeal had been enthralling. She would stare at her for hours wondering, wishing, hoping that she too would one day look like that: seductive, enigmatic, alluring, dangerous. But standing here now, the only thought in her mind was trying to work out exactly when (and why) she had gone from desperately wanting to look like that woman, to desperately not. And how sad that was, because it illustrated as a fine point that every last vestige and wish of the person – child – she had once been, had vanished. No trace remained.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll grow on you,’ she said, patting his stomach as she passed him into the bathroom. She kicked the door to.
‘Is there even hot running water?’ he called through.
She hesitated as she sat on the loo. ‘. . . There’s running water,’ she conceded. ‘But don’t worry, everything’s hot around you instead.’
She flushed, washed her hands, began brushing her teeth.
Rory walked through a few moments later, stripped down to his boxers. He stopped at the sight of the tiny space. ‘Please tell me there’s a shower?’
‘Of course . . . Outside.’
His shoulders slumped. It was half one in the morning.
‘Relax. Shower in the morning. We just need to sleep.’
Rory began splashing cold water over his face. He looked at his reflection in the light of the exposed bulb. Bags pouched beneath his eyes; the light flattered neither of them. ‘Jesus.’
Tara stripped off as she walked back into the bedroom, collapsing into the bed naked.
Rory pulled the mosquito net closed around them and slid down the sheets beside her. She lay still as he fussed with the pillows, punching them into fluffiness and turning them over. They were finally here, back in the land she loved, on the holiday she had been dreaming of – the one that was going to be filled with lots of sun, sand, sea and sex. But not just yet. Right now, all she wanted was sleep.
‘How’s your headache?’ he asked, his voice already growing thick with incipient unconsciousness as he allowed his limbs to become heavy.
‘Still there.’
‘Need a Nurofen?’
She was quiet for a moment as her thoughts caught up with her again. ‘No, I think I’ll be fine. I can sleep through it.’
But she didn’t close her eyes, too scared of what she might see behind her eyelids. She wa
tched the ceiling fan whirr and spin. He watched her from one open eye.
‘Hols mentioned you had a patient die?’ he asked after a moment.
Her hair rustled on the pillow as she turned to face him. ‘Did she?’
‘Asked if you were all right. I had to tell her I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘No, I . . .’ She gave a tiny shrug as it settled on her again, the memory like a rock on her chest. ‘There wasn’t much time; we had the awards thing straight after.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes.’
‘We could have cancelled.’
‘Hardly. Not when I was a recipient.’
She felt his hand find hers under the sheet and squeeze it. ‘Well, I guess that explains the raid on the Medoc.’
She fell still. ‘Her name was Lucy. She was four.’
She heard his breathing halt . . . then resume again. ‘Shit, that’s hard. What happened?’
She squeezed her eyes shut, not even wanting to say the words. ‘She’d been beaten up by her parents, was admitted just before seven. I did a routine splenectomy. It all went fine. Then in the afternoon, she crashed. I opened her up again . . .’ Here her voice snagged.
He was watching her now, in the dark, sensing calamity.
‘A blade from one of the scalpels from the earlier surgery had . . . slipped out. It embedded in her large intestinal tract.’
He could guess the rest of this story.
‘There were multiple incisions. We couldn’t close them up in time. She bled out on the table. Four sixteen p.m.’
‘Ta . . .’ But there was nothing he could say to make it better.
‘There’s going to be an investigation,’ she said after a pause.
He hesitated. ‘Well, that’s routine, I guess. But nothing for you to worry about.’
‘How can you say that? I should have checked the sharps count. I should have double-checked.’ She blinked back at him in the darkness.
‘Ta, stop right there.’ His voice was suddenly firm. Calming. ‘This is not your fault, you hear me? You did everything you could. But sometimes, even in spite of your best efforts, you’re going to lose a few.’
