Swimming with Sharks

by Anna Legat

  She must have circumnavigated the island several times over – she keeps seeing the same trees and hideaways with the same people slumped on the same beach chairs. But she cannot stop. She glances at the apathetic ocean – another speedboat shoots across. The one that carried Mishka away from her must be long gone. It may be in Colombo by now. He may be boarding the plane back to Russia. Or Finland. Or wherever the hell he has come from.

  On the pier a matchstick figure cuts a familiar sight. Amy. She is in the same place she was yesterday. Has she been there all night? Daft question. It is only polite to acknowledge her, to wave, even if you don’t care and don’t want to speak to anyone. Manners will never desert Nicola, even if everything and everyone else does. She waves. Amy responds in a half-hearted way: her hand goes up but not her arm, a tiny quiver of the wrist – that’s all. Surprising, coming from the jovial Amy. Her body language is altogether despondent: her shoulders are dropped, her back curved; she is gazing at her feet. Nicola cannot ignore these signals. She breaks from her course and goes to Amy.

  ‘You all right?’

  Amy gazes at her and manages a feeble smile. ‘Come, sit with me,’ she asks and Nicola settles next to her and, like her, dips her feet in the water. Amy makes little waves with her dangling feet; Nicola does the same. They sit like that for a while without speaking. Nicola likes this companionable silence. She has someone to share her misery with though there is no need for words and windy explanations. She couldn’t put it into words if she tried. She can’t even put her misery into thoughts! Such a mess in her head! Bewilderment. Every thought, every emotion, every understanding shattered into tiny pieces.

  Chaos.

  In the deceptively shallow water the sandy bottom seems to be ankle deep and it feels like she could touch with her toes the occasional fish that passes by. A strange fish sails beneath: ugly, shapeless, puffed up. More or less how Nicola feels. The fish heads into the deeper ocean. It soon disappears. It is followed by a shark: one of those innocuous small sharks, but magnified by the prism of water and highlighted by the sunlight that penetrates the depths. It is a magnificent creature. Will the shark savage the fish? Will anyone care? It is such an ugly fish.

  Amy rests her head on Nicola’s shoulder. That makes her slightly uncomfortable. What if Sarah sees it and gets the wrong end of the stick? But she can’t bring herself to withdraw her shoulder because she can tell Amy seeks comfort and solace. Why would Nicola want to withdraw that from her? She could do with some solace herself, though she wouldn’t dream of asking for it.

  ‘I’m leaving Sarah,’ Amy says.

  It is beyond Nicola to understand that statement, but she nods and says, ‘I see.’

  ‘You probably think I’m a callous cow.’

  ‘I don’t think that –’

  Amy lifts her head from Nicola’s shoulder and turns to face her. Her eyes are puffy, her skin patchy. ‘You’re thinking: why? This is our honeymoon! Just got married! So many years of waiting for this to happen, so much grief, so many alienated people, tears, dramas! And at last we’re here – we’re married!’ She draws her fist to her lips as if she wants to muffle her words, ‘I’m thinking the same. I don’t know why I’m leaving Sarah. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.’

  Simple: wake up in the morning, look out the window when you’re telling her – don’t look into her eyes – and say it: ‘I’m leaving today.’ Nicola won’t say it out loud. It’d be cruel. She is bitter, but she won’t be cruel.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asks.

  ‘We ran our course. I knew it before we tied the knot but I had to do it for her. She’s lived for it the past few years! How could I tell her it was over?’

  ‘How can you tell her now?’

  ‘I don’t know! But I must. I must do it now – today, before we go back home. Or I’ll go bonkers. The thing is I won’t be able to tell her why, and she’ll ask. I don’t know why! I don’t know how it came to it, but this is where I am. I don’t love her. I don’t want to be in it. She suffocates me.’

  ‘I think she knows,’ Nicola realises. She can see now how protective Sarah is over Amy. It’s not protectiveness – it is insecurity. She doesn’t trust her. She does suffocate her because she knows she is about to lose her.

  ‘She knows? She can’t know.’ Amy shakes her head. ‘We just got married! How could she possibly suspect what goes on in my sick mind?’

  ‘Because … well, I don’t know … It’s hard to put your finger on it.’ Nicola observes another fish – two of them, two of the same kind; orange, and snappy in movement. ‘Well … I think I do know. Because she doesn’t strike me like she’s happy. She doesn’t look happy. She looks – she acts – anxious, gloomy, dark … Because, I think, she knows. Though maybe I’m wrong. What do I know? I don’t know Sarah, I didn’t know her when she was happy – that’s if she isn’t happy any more, which –’

  ‘She knows!’ Amy grabs Nicola’s wrist. ‘You’re right, she knows! God, she does know! Oh God, poor Sarah … How long has she known? It must’ve been torture …’

  ‘How long have you been feeling like that?’

  ‘Years …’

  ‘You’ll still have to tell her. Because she knows but she doesn’t believe.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell her. Tonight. Take her out of her misery. Thank you.’ Amy hugs her. Her arms are tight around Nicola’s neck. It feels awkward but there is so much neediness in that hug that Nicola has to reciprocate it. It comforts her too. That human contact, the warmth of another’s body, that vulnerability, that closeness – Nicola needs it too.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting?’

  They draw their arms away from each other as if on cue. How long has Sarah been standing there, listening and watching? She doesn’t look hurt, or anxious. She looks angry.

  Nicola couldn’t bring herself to go to dinner. She doesn’t feel hungry, but even if she did she couldn’t face the buzz, the affection and the happiness of all those tables-for-two. Her legs wouldn’t carry her there. The swelling in her ankle has returned anyway, and the skin is peeling off the soles of her feet. She is picking on it. The TV is playing with more of the same weather forecast and exchange rates are flashing before her eyes, carrying no meaning.

  There is a knock on the door. Loud and clear. No one has ever knocked on her door here. She knows. She beams. She always knew: Mishka and his practical jokes! The rascal that he is! He has never left! He just … He will pay for this mischief, she tells herself as she dashes to the door, though she knows that he won’t. She has already forgiven him.

  Day Nine

  It is the ninth day today. Detective Sergeant Gillian Marsh has been living on the edge: getting no sleep, jumping at every telephone ring, and following the Six O’Clock News for any sign of cataclysms, abductions or acts of international terrorism. Eight days ago her daughter went globe-trotting: Thailand, Australia, South Africa – in that order. Forty days of living on adrenalin and crackers, then back home –with, Gillian hopes, life lessons learned vicariously through other people’s misfortunes. Forty days – like The Flood …

  Tara is not alone, she has a friend with her, but that is of little consolation. Both girls are only eighteen and have not seen much of the world outside the sleepy safety of Sexton’s Canning. Although Tara was born in South Africa she does not remember any of its perils. Tara had only been four years old when her parents’ marriage fell apart amidst tears, the spittle of angry words and clenched fists. And South Africa was not a place for a single mother with a little girl in tow. Gillian returned home with her tail between her legs. Her parents were delighted. Tara’s father Deon, on the other hand, declared the move a personal insult and withdrew into silence. Then, out of nowhere, three years ago, he got in touch: his second marriage in tatters, another ex-wife on the run, and a teenage son in a boarding school somewhere in Somerset.

  Deon wants to get to know his daughter. It is his right – who is Gillian to argue? For years, she has be
en feeling guilty for depriving Tara of a father. Those days are gone.

  It was great when Deon came to visit and met Tara. They hit it off straight away, father and daughter, like two peas in a pod. But Gillian knew the day would come when Tara would want to go and see her father on his turf. She had hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. Her prayers had not been answered. Tara decided to run to her dad as soon as she turned eighteen. There was no stopping her. She is a foolhardy girl, Gillian knows, and her friend Sasha is bad news. It is their gap year. They are adults, and they do as they please.

  Gillian is in for forty long days of sheer dread.

  She will keep herself busy. The other option is to go mad with worry. For the past eight days she has been mulling over the mortal dangers her daughter is facing: human traffickers, tsunamis, food poisoning, AIDS-infected syringes buried in sand, sharks and enraged elephants. Gillian will try her best to put such things out of her mind. Next week she is going to London: three weeks of training. She has been putting it off, citing the demands of single parenthood, but with Tara gone she has run out of excuses. Her promotion to the rank of detective inspector has been hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles. She will have to let it fall.

  Her desk is the windmill of her mind, with the sawdust of closed but undocumented casework threatening to suffocate her. She will have to deal with it in the next two days. Anything would be better than her single-finger typing. She often thinks of the keyboard as her personal punchbag. It is a battered old thing, but indestructible if you consider the amount of coffee spilled over it and the flurry of invectives thrown at it, all in vain.

  Any distraction from her worst fears and even worse desk jobs is a good distraction, so when PC Miller ushers in an elderly couple, who in loud tandem demand to speak to someone in authority, Gillian is at hand to lend a sympathetic ear.

  ‘She told us she’d be back yesterday, lunchtime.’

  ‘Did she say lunchtime, dear?’

  ‘She did. She said by lunchtime, actually. The plane, she said, was landing at 8.40 at Heathrow, Terminal Four. I have taken it all down. Flight number, the date, the time … I’ve got it here.’ Mrs Devonshire’s bird-claw hand submits a notepad bearing the flight details recorded in immaculate cursive handwriting. ‘If you could take a copy. I’d like my notebook back, please.

  ‘The problem, you see, is that Miss Eagles knows we’re going away tomorrow. We told her straight away when she came to ask if we’d look after Fritz. We said, it’s fine, we don’t mind taking care of Fritz, but we’ll be off on Monday morning. How fortunate, she said, that I’ll be back before you leave, otherwise I’d have to take Fritz to a cattery. He wouldn’t like that, I said. Eunice would never part with him. Eunice, you understand, was Miss Eagles’ aunt. Sadly, she passed away last year. We’ve always been good friends with Eunice. We’ve been neighbours for forty years. Miss Eagles moved into Eunice’s cottage, what … would you say five months ago, dear? Maybe four … I lose count.’

  ‘She told us to call her Nicola,’ Mr Devonshire gazes pleadingly at his wife. He has a narrow face with pale, arched brows that give him a look of permanent bewilderment.

  ‘We couldn’t, dear, not right away … We’ve only known her for five minutes. Well, I couldn’t anyway. You can call her what you like, though I simply wouldn’t go as far as using her first name … I’m particular that way. Anyway, we don’t want to bore the police with details.’ At this point Mrs Devonshire’s attention returns to Gillian. ‘As I was saying, Miss Eagles was very excited about her holiday. She’s never been to the Maldives, she said. Neither have we, I told her, small world! We had a giggle, didn’t we dear?’

  Mr Devonshire nods agreement and pats his wife’s hand with affection. Gillian is copying the details from the notebook: a flight from Colombo, UL4016, lands 8.40 a.m., Saturday, 7th February, mob: 0785291022 …

  ‘Have you tried calling her on her mobile? She left you her number.’

  ‘Well, no!’ Mrs Devonshire looks horrified. ‘The cost is prohibitive even if she weren’t abroad – which she may well be, considering that she isn’t here, don’t you think? We thought the police should be making the telephone calls, especially the ones abroad … We are pensioners, and like I said, we’ve only known her for five minutes …’

  ‘We wouldn’t want to intrude on her privacy.’

  ‘No. But we are leaving tomorrow. We’ve had a holiday home booked for months. The same holiday home we book every year. We go every year, you understand, without fail. We couldn’t cancel if we wanted. It just wouldn’t do! On the other hand, we simply can’t walk away from it, can we dear? We owe it to dear old Eunice, don’t we, to look after that girl.’

  Gillian feels a cold sweat run down her spine. She is thinking of Tara. What a bad idea it was to let her go. God, what a damn stupid idea!

  ‘How old is Miss Eagles?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t know, do we dear? We wouldn’t dream of asking. She isn’t a spring chicken. I don’t want to sound rude, you understand, but she’s … what I call beyond the childbearing age.’

  ‘A bit frumpy, lots of layers on her, like a sheepdog,’ Mr Devonshire adds with surprising competence. ‘Late thirties. Tallish. Mid-built. Brown hair, sort of – wiry and bouncy. Pleasant manner …’

  ‘Dear, you’re talking of her as if she were dead! She may still be alive, just … delayed, or detained somewhere. I dare not speculate …’ Mrs Devonshire covers her mouth, stifling a gasp. ‘Though I’d say she’s more in her forties, early forties – that’s what I mean by beyond the childbearing age. It takes a woman to know these things. Does her age have any bearing on her disappearance?’

  ‘No, not that I know of. It’s just that you called her a girl.’

  Mr Devonshire smiles. ‘If you were our age …’

  ‘Let’s not detract from the matter at hand, dear. You see, Miss Eagles is missing. We are going away tomorrow, and that leaves us with the small problem of Fritz.’

  ‘Fritz?’

  ‘Fritz, the cat. We’ve been looking after him, didn’t you hear me? He used to belong to Eunice, and when she passed away Miss Eagles took over, very kindly – she could’ve sent him to an animal shelter.’

  ‘Most people would …’

  ‘Now, we’ve been looking after him in her absence. Not much trouble, wet food at night and cat biscuits for breakfast. Quite a pleasure looking after old Fritz, isn’t it dear?’

  Mr Devonshire smiles at the idea of old Fritz. ‘So it is.’

  ‘But now, since we’re going away, we can’t leave Fritz on his own until Miss Eagles’ return, can we? What, if the worst comes to the worst and she doesn’t return? I know we shouldn’t be thinking on those lines, but we can’t take that risk – we can’t leave Fritz alone. We couldn’t do that to dear old Eunice, could we?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t.’

  ‘Now, where is he, dear?’

  ‘I left him with the officer on duty, at the Reception Desk downstairs.’

  ‘So there! Fritz is at the Reception Desk. Please, bear in mind that he is not used to being confined. He’s a free-spirited young man.’

  ‘You mean the cat? You left the cat with PC Miller downstairs?’

  ‘We couldn’t leave him all on his own in an empty house to fend for himself, could we?’ There is unmistakable admonishment in Mrs Devonshire’s tone. ‘His owner has gone missing. We are reporting her missing, do you understand? You are the person in authority, are you not?’

  Gillian agrees and assures the old lady that steps will be taken to track down Fritz’s owner. She shows the elderly duo out and waits for them to say their goodbyes to Fritz, who is yowling in his cage, much to PC Miller’s dismay. Gillian shakes her head, silently prohibiting the constable from querying the animal’s presence at the station.

  On the step outside Sexton’s Canning Police Station, Mr Devonshire grabs hold of Gillian’s hand and presses a large key into it. ‘It’s to the cottage. We’re leaving first thing
tomorrow morning, but I will be putting a note in the door for Nicola to contact you for the key and the cat, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, not at all. We’ll look after Fritz.’ This probably breaks every rule in the book, Gillian thought, but what do you say to an elderly couple expecting your help? Direct them to the nearest RSPCA?

  ‘That’s good.’ He shuffles away, his head leaning towards his left shoulder. He catches up with his wife at a red estate car – she is already strapped into the passenger seat, ready to go. They have a brief exchange and, hurriedly, Mr Devonshire waves to Gillian to wait. He shuffles back, this time with a page from Mrs Devonshire’s precious notebook. ‘Our telephone number in France. As soon as you know what’s happened to Nicola, let us know, will you? We promised Eunice we’d look after the girl.’

  And then you promised the girl you’d look after the cat. Gillian smiles but says nothing out loud other than to wish the old man a good holiday, and not to worry – she will be in touch.

  A call to Nicola Eagles’ mobile renders no results; Gillian is taken straight to voicemail. A polite female voice, sweet but expressionless, says: ‘Hi, I can’t take your call, but please do leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  Gillian introduces herself and asks Miss Eagles to contact Sexton’s Canning Police with regards to her cat as well as her whereabouts.

  ‘They’re not bad people,’ Gillian informs PC Miller.

  He shrugs. He is a dog person himself. ‘What do you want me to do with the cat?’

  ‘Keep it here for now. Someone will pick it up. Looks like the owner is delayed.’

  ‘Scarface won’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll make a few inquiries. It’s probably the flight. The owner’s due back from holiday, or rather was due back – yesterday. Missed the flight would be my guess.’

  ‘We aren’t an animal shelter.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like Scarface. Have a heart … Look at him, isn’t he cute! His name’s Fritz.’