The Far Side of the Sun

by Kate Furnivall

  “Ella!” Dan shouted, and pulled her to her feet. “Run!”

  Ella. He called her Ella. She started to laugh as she dashed through the rain.

  He darted to the shelter of the nearest tree, dragging her with him, because the car stood fifty yards away up a track. But already they were soaked to the skin. Lightning forked through the sky, slashing it apart, and they huddled against the slick trunk, where Dan held her close, as if he feared the horizontal force of the rain would wash her away.

  She wasn’t sure which came first. Afterward she tried to remember but couldn’t. Her fingers sliding between the buttons of his sodden shirt or his hand cradling the back of her head and drawing her to him. It didn’t matter. His lips came down fiercely on hers, his breath hot on her wet face, and something streaked through her that felt like red-hot wires. Burning her flesh, scorching the soft skin of her thighs until the throbbing between them was relentless.

  “Hush,” he murmured, and kissed the rain off her eyelids. He ran his palm over her lips, reshaping them. “Hush,” he said again, and only then did she realize she was hauling air in and out of her lungs with the sound of bellows, stoking the fire that was raging inside her. He stripped off her blouse and licked the rain off her nipples until she slid her hand inside his waistband and whispered, “Let me touch you.”

  She undid his button flies and touched him, held him, caressed him in ways she had never caressed Reggie. Dan peeled off their clothes until they were both naked in the stinging rain and he took her, standing up against the tree, her back raked by the bark as he thrust inside her. It wasn’t gentle. She didn’t want it gentle. It was a rough ravenous seizing of her body. He opened her up and filled all the cold and empty spaces inside her with a heat that burned right through her.

  As he drove into her, her fingers tore at the hard muscles of his back, and when the final explosion of release came, she screamed. Screamed her heart out, startling a pair of pigeons from the shelter of their branch. Dan’s head jerked back for a moment, alarmed, but when he saw her expression he laughed, a soft affectionate sound that she held on to.

  Afterward they sat on the sodden earth, his back against the tree, Ella between his legs, her back against his chest. She could feel his lungs rise and fall, and she matched hers to his. He bent to kiss the nape of her neck and cradled her naked breast in his hand, protecting it from the rain. Time passed. She had no idea how much or how quickly. All that mattered was that she could feel his body against hers, sense the weight of his head resting against hers. She did not think of Reggie. Or Bradenham House. Or how she would live after this moment. Instead she continued the conversation about his work, as if it had not been interrupted.

  “So Colonel Lindop has a lot of trouble on his hands at the moment.”

  “Yes. Everyone at the station is extremely busy.”

  “I bet you can’t wait to get back there.”

  He didn’t respond at first but his arm tightened around her. “There’s work to be done on the murder case.”

  “What is happening about it? Has it been written off as a crime of social unrest?”

  “We’re investigating all possibilities.”

  He liked talking about his work. She could hear it in his voice.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we are looking at it as a possible robbery because his wallet is missing, unless the girl is lying about it and stole it herself. Or it could be a racial attack, or even the work of a panicked prostitute, it seems.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have a gut feeling that this involves far more than a small-time thief.”

  “Really. Why is that?”

  “Because someone is trying to shut it down too quickly.”

  “Who do you think that someone is?”

  She was sure he would say Sir Harry Oates, but she was wrong. His answer sent a shiver through her.

  “Our governor,” he said quietly, as though even out here in the green wilderness his words were only for her.

  “The Duke of Windsor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on earth do you think that?”

  “He wants no trouble here. In case it reflects badly on his governorship.”

  “Well, you can see his point. Tidy the whole messy business away without much fuss. It’s not as if Morrell was a Bahamian, so maybe it would be better to tuck it under a convenient carpet to stop bad publicity for the island.”

  His legs squeezed her tight between them and she knew she had annoyed him.

  “We are policemen, Ella. Colonel Lindop has to face up to all sorts of unpleasant political pressures, but first and foremost he is a policeman. He wants to see the law enforced and justice done.”

  She stroked the wet curls on his thigh to soothe him. “That’s good to know.”

  She meant it. She didn’t want the Reggies of this world to win with their distorted logic and their bending of straight lines.

  “What we need,” Dan continued, “is to find out where Morrell spent that evening. What he did and who spoke to him. You’ve not heard anything, have you?”

  “Me?” Ella fixed her eyes on a large black beetle that was scurrying through the layers of rotting leaf mold. Raindrops exploded like bombs on its black shiny back, knocking it off course, but it wouldn’t give up. “No, of course not. Why should I?”

  “Those parties you go to are a hotbed of rumors, aren’t they?” He shrugged. “We’ve put out requests for information with Morrell’s photograph in the press, but no one has come forward yet.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit gently. “People are frightened to get involved.”

  “Is that what we are, Dan? Involved.”

  In answer he wrapped his fist in the wet strands of her hair and pulled her head backward, so that he could see her face. His own was flushed, his brows drawn down over his gray eyes as he studied her features intently.

  “Ella, I am involved.” He shook his head, spraying water, and brought his face down to hers. “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  His mouth closed on her lips and trailed down her throat, his hand still tight in her hair. And then Ella did something she never thought she would ever do to a man. She begged. Her hand slid between their bodies to nestle at his groin among the dense hairs, and as her fingers found him hard and hot, she begged, “Please, Dan, please.” As the words tumbled out of her mouth she was disgusted with herself, but still they kept coming. “Please, please, please.”

  This time he set her on all fours, her knees sinking into the sodden soil, the rain drumming on her back, and he entered her from behind. Like a bitch. A dirty bitch, Reggie would say. Her husband would never dream of degrading a woman that way, but it didn’t seem to her like degradation. Ella could feel Dan inside her, deep and demanding, and suddenly she never wanted to be parted from this moment. Because nothing that was waiting for her in the future could ever come close to this. This overwhelming sense of being alive.

  * * *

  Ella thought Dan would drive her straight home but he didn’t.

  “You need to wash away the dirt and dry off before you let Emerald catch sight of you.”

  He smiled when he said it, his eyes lingering with amusement on her mud-streaked cheeks and hands. She had dragged on her wet clothes in the teeming rain but knew she looked a total wreck. She couldn’t understand why she would be mortified if Reggie ever saw her looking so slovenly, yet didn’t mind a scrap that Dan should gaze at her and laugh.

  He drove her to his house. By the time they reached the city the clouds had finished venting their spleen. The rain had stopped and the sky brightened, so that when he parked outside his house the sun put in an appearance once more, and steam came rising from the bonnet of the car and drifting up from the paveme
nts. A mangrove cuckoo flew overhead, flashing its long black-and-white tail with all the bravado of a pirate’s flag. There was something so normal and reassuring about it all that it was hard to believe that what had taken place on the picnic was real. Yet Ella climbed out of the car in a hurry, followed at Dan’s heel up the front path, and stepped into his house.

  It was a narrow hallway with strongly masculine striped wallpaper and a staircase ahead that was covered in a red stair carpet. It took her completely by surprise, it was so vivid. It set the hallway on fire. The moment Dan closed the door behind them he took her in his arms and kissed her, then carried her upstairs to the bathroom, where he ran a bath and sponged her all over. He took his time, gently soaping and rinsing the dirt off each part of her.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, when he had dried her and wrapped her in his dressing gown. He went to hang her wet clothes in the sun.

  Here. She was in his bedroom. More stylish than in her nocturnal imaginings. She moved slowly around it while he was gone, tracking her fingertips along the walnut dressing table and his ivory clothes brush, peering into his wardrobe at the neat and orderly row of shirts and suits. She leaned into its musky darkness and breathed in the smell of him in there. By the time Dan returned to the bedroom she had brushed her hair with his hairbrush, lit a cigarette from the pack in his bedside drawer, inhaled the scent of his pillow, and perched herself cross-legged in the middle of his single bed. It was more years than she cared to remember since she had been in a single bed. It felt small and intimate. Her heart was kicking in anticipation. The inside of her mouth felt dry and prickly.

  But when he entered the room, something was different. She could see the change in him the moment she looked up at his tall figure. He had his policeman face on. His mouth had lost the looseness that she loved when he was looking at her, and had taken on a determined firmness that was unfamiliar. This is how he must be at the police station but she didn’t want him to be like that with her. Not here. Not now.

  “Ella,” he said, refraining from sitting on the bed, “will you tell me what you know about Sir Harry Oakes?”

  “Dan”—she lowered her lashes—“do you have your police handcuffs nearby?”

  Chapter 39

  Dodie

  “I have to go back to work tomorrow,” Dodie announced.

  “Too soon.”

  “If I stay away any longer I’ll lose my job.”

  Flynn skimmed a shell into the surf and watched a wave devour it. They were waiting till dark on a beach and their gaze followed the delicate sandpipers bobbing along the shoreline like ingenious clockwork toys. A warship was steaming out of the harbor with young men bound for battle, its gray menace looming over the peaceful scene, changing the mood on the beach. The war seemed to permeate everything. But out to sea a fishing boat was chugging eastward to the wharf, a cloud of seagulls pursuing it with shrill cries, and a pleasure boat sliced through the waves, showing off its speed with a carefree ease that made Dodie wonder how anyone could live like that. Carefree. Weightless. Racing with the wind. It was a life she could only guess at.

  “Dodie, stay here.” Flynn’s bare foot touched hers in the sand. “I’m asking you. Please, stay here. I’ll come back for you. I’ll always come back for you.”

  She leaned her body against his and felt his muscles respond the way they always did when she touched him, with small vibrations. As if she created an electric shock within him, one he had no power to control. They were seated on the sand, Flynn’s arm around her, forcing her to rest rather than swim. She was content to sit here with him, waiting for darkness to fall and watching the vast blue canvas of the sky turn vermilion and bleed into the sea, so that it looked as if a thousand men had died in it.

  “I can’t, Flynn.”

  “You will be no good to me.”

  She smiled and leaned her cheek on his shoulder. “You’ll have to put up with that.”

  “Stay here.”

  “Only if you do.”

  He turned suddenly and cradled her face between his hands. “Goddammit, Dodie, I have to go.”

  “Then goddammit, Flynn, so do I.”

  * * *

  “This is the one.”

  Dodie didn’t ask how Flynn knew. The hairs on her neck rose as he took from his pocket what looked like a set of small metal spikes and inserted first one and then another in the lock. She heard a click. Her tongue was so dry it stuck to her teeth.

  The building was pitch dark. They had approached it from the direction of the wharf, where the wind rattled the masts of the boats at anchor, covering the sound of their footsteps. Bay Street was too well lit to risk entering through the front door and there were restaurants where laughter spilled out into the night from the open windows, too much chance of being seen.

  So they had made their way along the parallel road that skirted the dockside and ducked down one of the numerous alleyways that connected it to Bay Street. Somewhere behind a shutter a piano was playing. Halfway up the alley Flynn had halted in front of a door set into a high wall. Dodie felt like a thief. Knew she looked like a thief. She was constantly casting glances over her shoulder in every direction. She couldn’t stop herself, despite the fact that there was no moon yet and the darkness was as solid as a coal face.

  The door opened into a small yard. Flynn headed straight across to a set of wooden stairs that Dodie couldn’t see until she cracked her shin on them, and she knew then that he’d been here before. Of course. This was his world. Stealth. Darkness. Sliding spikes into doors. Knowing what lay around each corner. She touched his hand and immediately felt steadier. He led her in silence up to the next story, where he performed his magic on another locked door and suddenly they were inside the building. It smelled of floor polish. She hadn’t noticed that when they were here before, but now her senses were heightened. She could taste the blackness, see the threads of the night.

  “Dodie,” Flynn said in a whisper, “stay close.”

  She didn’t need telling. They crossed the reception area, where desks and old-fashioned armchairs loomed at them out of the blackness, and Flynn guided her with an unerring sense of direction to an office door that was locked. Dodie heard a jangle of the spikes once more, a click, and a faint grunt of satisfaction from Flynn.

  They were in.

  * * *

  Dodie went through the desk drawers. She had no scruples about doing so and that shocked her. She was beginning to understand how effortless it could be to step into a world where right and wrong were just empty words with no meaning and no relevance. What she was doing was illegal and yet she carried right on doing it. As she lifted Harold Christie’s desk diary from his drawer, she was horrified by the brazenness of the act, but it didn’t stop her laying it out flat in front of her and sifting through its pages to the day of Morrell’s murder.

  Light from the streetlamps on Bay Street flounced into the office, sliced into slats of mustard yellow by the jalousie blinds, just enough for Dodie to read the black scrawl: 9 a.m. Tennis with Duke. 12:30 lunch Yacht Club. The afternoon was taken up with meetings with three different banks but his evening sounded more entertaining: 8 p.m. Cinema—In Which We Serve. Dodie felt a kick of frustration. She’d hoped for more.

  “Anything?” Flynn asked in an undertone.

  “Not yet.”

  He was standing in front of the portrait of George VI. He seemed more of a stranger to her in these shadowy surroundings, focused on the job he was here to do. He was running fingers around the frame of the picture.

  “It could be wired,” he had explained earlier.

  It was why they were here.

  “Did you see Christie’s eyes?” he’d asked as soon as Christie had ushered them out of his office. “He couldn’t keep them off your king.” He chuckled at her baffled expression. “He’s either a crazy royalist or”—he’d touched her chin to reassur
e her—“. . . or he has something hidden behind that fancy picture.”

  Now he carefully lifted it down to the floor. He was right. Behind it was a safe set in the wall. He worked fast and in total silence. He put his ear to the safe and with infinite patience commenced turning the dial, listening intently for the tumblers. Dodie didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t turn a page. But she listened hard. A sudden beam of light in the room made her jump. It came from the headlamps of a late-night car on Bay Street and swept over Flynn, but he didn’t flinch.

  Ten minutes. That’s all, by the luminous clock on the desk. It felt like ten hours. Dodie’s teeth hurt, she’d clenched them so tight. She knew when the click came by the sudden release of tension in Flynn’s body. He looked round at her, slats of light across his face, and grinned at her.

  “Geronimo!”

  He worked quickly. He swung open the safe door, for a split second shone a flashlight into its interior, and leaving three cash boxes behind, he scooped out a bundle of folders. He gave half to Dodie and they crouched on the floor away from the window, riffling through their contents by the light of the torch. Most proved to be contracts for the sale of private houses, a couple of factories, a hotel, change of ownership on an inherited orchard.

  “Nothing,” Dodie hissed.

  “Patience.”

  It was right at the bottom. A contract for the sale of a large tract of land and shoreline called Portman Cay at the western end of New Providence Island. They scoured through its legal terminology, extracted the map which pinpointed its position, and hunted out the names of the vendor and purchaser. A Mr. Michael Ryan and Mr. Alan Leggaty.

  “Do you know the names?” he whispered.

  Dodie shook her head. “New to me. To you too?”

  He nodded, glanced one last time at the map, and flicked off his flashlight. The sudden darkness felt threatening. Dodie quickly put the folders back in order and had just turned to ask Flynn whether there were any more of them in the safe when an abrupt noise made her freeze. Fear sucked the air out of her. It was the door.