by AJ Kirby
Mark was content to sit back and listen to the commotion which was unfolding around him. He was sitting in a bustling fisherman’s café by the large commercial port, sitting surrounded by smiling faces and loud chatter. Something was about to happen, he sensed the anticipation in the air. Suddenly, Stella grasped him on the arm; she was always touching him.
‘Mark; the dancing is about to begin! You will see the real Mauritius now!’
Since his near-collapse in the market, the big black woman, Stella, seemed to have adopted Mark. Maybe she was giving him his money’s-worth after she had finally accepted his note, but he sensed that she was simply happy to have him around. He was so interested in everything. He had hung around at her market-stall for most of the afternoon; chewing sugar cane, whose properties helped to revitalise him. She had then offered to take him to a café to sample ‘real Mauritian cooking’ and he had been only too happy to accept. At that point he had nowhere else to go. They had been joined around their rickety table by a group of fishermen who supplied the fish for Stella’s stall, and they accepted him immediately, without question. Had she told them about his money? Mark somehow doubted it.
Mark barely spared a thought for Danny and Chris, the company of these simple people was somehow making him feel more alive in the now. Their lustful enjoyment of the salted dry fish – ‘Sonouk’, he’d been told it was called - and the octopus stew; their pride in showing off their culture, began to awaken long-dead desires to live by the sea, to feel its powerful freedom crash over him. For the first time in years, he began to hope; maybe there was light at the end of his long, dark tunnel of depression. None of these people had money, Mark thought, and yet they were happy. They never strained to discover what might be, if only they had their special monetary key to allow them access to what was behind the doors which were closed to them. They would never be tempted to see what was behind those doors as he had been… Perhaps they saw no doors.
Almost unconsciously, on his dazed walk around the streets of the capital, he’d noted that there was hardly a proliferation of security cameras. Of course, there were some, by the banks or the hotels, but were these to give the westerners the same sense of security to which they were accustomed? Or was the lack of cameras because there was nothing to watch?
Mark was shaken out of his contemplation by the beginnings of some music, blaring unevenly through speakers which were tacked onto the lamp-posts outside the café. Stella began clapping her hands excitedly, and he noticed that the previously boisterous fishermen, sat back on their chairs in reverential silence.
A long-winded drum roll began, and then through the long-ribboned fly netting on the café door, a girl danced out to tumultuous applause. She was draped in flowing, golden silk, and she moved as though she was a trick of the light. It was as though his brain had been slowed, and what he saw were the trails of a thousand shooting stars floating in front of his eyes. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
‘This is the traditional dance of Mauritius; the Sega,’ whispered Stella. ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’
Mark, who had barely left his native north east of England before, thought that the Sega was an old computer games console. Whatever it was though, he became addicted to that particular game that night. When he saw the spinning, whirling, breathless flight of the golden plumed bird, he knew that he saw the glittering reflection of millions of stars.
Then the dance rose into a frenzied climax, and the girl lay, breathing heavily on the floor, recreating the stillness of death. Somehow Mark understood that the dance told the story of life, of the fleeting glimpses we all see of happiness, before we are spun away and into the next chapter. He drained his glass of brandy and stared into space, overwhelmed. There were scenes of his life which he would never forget; his father lying prone in the hospital bed with his mother kneeling, praying by his side; the crimson red wound in Callum Burr’s head; the white sands of the Beach; the dancing lights. The milieu told the story of his life, just as the dance had; somehow within it lay the answers to his pleading questions about forgiveness, reconciliation and regret.
Then he felt another tug at his sleeve, and he turned, expecting to see Stella offering him yet another brandy, but the face that met his was not Stella’s. It was the small, dark-skinned face of the dancer; her eyes were still dancing, sparkling like a precious stone. She looked hard into his eyes, drawing deeply at his overflowing waterfall of guilt.
‘You have a sadness in your eyes,’ she said, softly. ‘Whatever you have done can be undone with time. You just have to want it, here.’
She took his hand and guided it to his heart.
‘Pardon me, I don’t know what you mean, like’ said Mark, disorientated, withdrawing his hand quickly.
‘I have seen such pain before; usually it’s in the eyes of soldiers who have been forced to fight a battle they do not believe in. Is that the same with you?’
One of the fishermen had vacated his seat next to Mark, and the dancing girl had promptly sat down it.
‘Erm… Again, I’m not exactly sure what you mean… that was a beautiful dance by the way,’ Mark nervously restricted his eyes to quick, furtive glances at the wondrous woman next to him.
‘I am Mauritia, pleased to meet you,’ her voice was like her dancing, quick sudden movements followed by long, stretching vowels. The way she said her name was beautiful to Mark. He looked over at her again, smiling sheepishly.
‘I’m Mark; I’m from England, I am English, I am Mark Birch, after the birch tree,’ he said, nonsensically.
‘That is very nice Mark, now what are you so sad about, would you like me to read your palm?’
Suddenly Mark thought he saw her plan. She was probably some kind of swindler who knew about the notes in his pocket; that was surely the only reason she was entertaining him for so long. But then she burst out laughing. It was not the sweet tinkling laugh he’d expected, but a deep, wheezing belly laugh.
‘I am sorry, I’m joking with you, Mark, and I have no idea how to read palms! I was trying to cheer you up. You did look sad though’ she said. She was slapping her thigh now, enjoying her own joke.
Mark was mystified, but wanted to keep talking to this woman for as long as he possibly could. She had a spirit, a natural goodness, which shone through her every word. Oh, come on, who was Mark kidding, she was also absolutely stunning.
‘Very funny… Tell me about yourself. How did you learn to dance like that?’
Mauritia proceeded to tell Mark the story of her life. In great detail she described her ancestry; her father’s side of the family were Hindu. They had been transported from India by the British when they colonised both countries. When Mauritius became independent in 1968, many had decided to leave and travel back to India, or follow the mythical path to the streets paved with gold in London. Her father’s family had long since become Mauritians rather than Indians, and had decided to remain, to build a new life for themselves. They had formed a small fishing enterprise which was still going strong today. Mauritia described the beauty of seeing the flotilla of small boats setting out at first light to catch their food.
‘My father met my mother after seeing her dance,’ continued Maurita. Mark’s cheeks reddened at the implication, but he remained in rapt silence. ‘She was descended from Chinese merchants who traded in the Indian Ocean. Her side of the family settled on the South of the island when they fell in love with it two centuries ago.’
Ah, Mark thought, that’s where she gets such strange but attractive features. He had never seen anyone quite like her before.
‘The two sides of the family now share a love of the simple life of fishing, eating, drinking, family time… it is almost like one of your western ideas of a hippy commune!’
Mark was completely taken aback; not only was this beautiful woman deigning to spend her whole evening talking to him, she was also making little jokes to try to impress him. When Mark didn’t laugh, though, she began to sulkily play with a ringlet
in her flowing, curly hair and looked downcast. Mark tried to be upbeat, and offered to get her a drink, suddenly, embarrassingly, he realised that they’d been sitting there for about an hour and he’d not even offered her one.
When he returned from the bar, Mauritia was there at the table, waiting; he’d almost expected her to have slipped away in his absence. He placed her drink on the table, and sensing it was his time to talk, he commented: ‘I think I could love this place too. I feel somehow freer here; I feel as though I was almost fated to be here, tonight, talking to you.’
He was at once embarrassed at his show of emotion; he’d never expressed his feelings in such a way before. But Mauritia eased away his discomfort.
‘I was named after the island because my parents loved it so much. But Mark, you must tell me more about yourself, why do you feel fated to be here?’
‘I don’t know; I just feel as though I’ve never been properly alive before tonight. I’ve been walking around in a trance. It’s as though I had to strip away all of the things which held me back before I could realise what I wanted most of all in the world. Fate threw up the circumstances which brought me here…’
Later, in bed, Mauritia resumed the conversation; they had been inseparable all night, and when the café had finally closed, she had gently led him by the hand and onto the deck of one of the small fishing boats on the harbour. He had ignored the whistling and cat-calls from Stella and the group of fishermen as he’d made his exit; this was what he wanted more than anything in the world.
‘Do you believe in fate or free will Mark? Is it fate or merely coincidence that we meet?’ She traced her fingers across the livid bruise on his ankle. ‘Does the physical, measurable bruise on your ankle matter more to people than a warm feeling you might get for doing something good for someone? Do the things that happen occur for a reason, or do they just happen?’
The fishing boat gently moved up and down in concert with the waves in the harbour; Mark had never felt so at peace.
‘The things I have done do count, Mauritia, but only with you can I sense any hope of reprieve.’
He’d told her about the murder, he couldn’t stop himself. Mauritia treated the knowledge with a worldly calm.
‘You were grieving, you lost your father. You tried to do something good for your mother but fate meant that someone got hurt; you had to have something to measure what you gain against what it has cost… In the end, we are judged on what we learn, rather than what we do.’
Predator
The next flight to Mauritius which Jim Hunter had been able to book himself onto had meant a wait of two days. He almost couldn’t sleep; the thrill of the chase was on him, and he’d had his first scent of his prey. The two days which he’d had were days in which he constantly battled with himself over whether he should hand his hard-earned information over to the police or whether he should go it alone. So many times, he’d had the phone handset in his hands, ready to dial the familiar number at West Yorkshire Police, but every time, he’d eventually carefully replaced it with a sigh.
The two days also gave Jim time to start formulating his plan for once he got there. He had never been involved in any police work on foreign shores, and therefore had no idea what to expect. He needed someone who knew the island, somebody to act as his guide. Luckily he had this part of the plan sewn up pretty quickly. He remembered that when he’d been seeing Ruth Sharp a few years back, she’d had to leave on a field trip; some research mission which had taken her away from him for over a month. Suddenly it had flashed into his mind where she’d gone; Mauritius!
It all came flooding back; she’d told him all about it. As a part of her University research, she’d been a part of some pretty pioneering exploration into the DNA of extinct animals - all Jurassic Park kind of stuff, as Hunter remembered thinking - her idea had been to try to grow a new Dodo. Mauritius had been the Dodo’s traditional homeland, and she had told him that as the bird was still celebrated there; many places had kept full skeletons, feathers and even preserved bodily organs. She’d been out there for six or seven weeks working on the project until the protests from locals who believed her work to be unnatural had driven her home.
Jim picked up the phone, and for the second time in a week, dialled the number for her laboratory.
‘Jim; to what do I owe the pressure? More Private Eye work?’ Ruth answered, Jim could hear her still juggling some typing and rearranging something on her desk as she spoke.
‘Actually, it’s something far more interesting, but I can’t talk about it on the phone. Can we meet?’
Hunter and Ruth Sharp met for lunch at the Eldon, a modest pub close to the university. Jim found himself at the pub almost an hour before Ruth was due to arrive; he had unconsciously set his internal clock wrongly. Ever since his taste for police work and for investigation and for solving puzzles had returned, so had an almost unquenchable thirst. Over the past few days, he had found himself lingering outside pub doorways, squashing his face against off-licence windows and even rooting around in his cupboards, looking for nothing in particular. The Eldon had been one of his old haunts, and as he stepped over the threshold, he smelled that old familiar smell which fitted him like a well-worn slipper. It was a mixture of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and wood; it smelled delightful to Jim.
The same old barman met him with a welcoming smile, his hand already reaching for the bitter tap. Jim bit his lip, and shook his head.
‘I’m off it, Brian,’ he forced himself to say. ‘Just here for the food today…’
‘DI Hunter; well I never,’ the careworn barman laughed, wiping away some of the spilled bitter on his hand with one of the bar towels. ‘You used to hate the Johnny-Come-Latelys that only came in the boozer for food. “Perfectly good restaurants and cafés for that”, I remember you saying.’
‘It’s not DI any more either,’ sighed Jim. He was sick of having to define himself by what he was not; he was not a Policeman any more, he was not an drinker any more. As soon as most of his old friends heard those two things, they ran out of anything else to say to him.
‘What do you want to drink then?’ asked the barman uneasily.
‘Just give me a tonic water for now please Bri.’
But as Brian had reached over to grab one of those small glass bottles of tonic water which are pointless if not an accompaniment to the main course, the main drink, Jim caught a smirk of delight on the barman’s face.
‘Stick a gin in there too,’ Hunter snarled.
‘Sure?’ asked Brian, almost arrogantly; evidently he loved being witness to this decisive moment in the former DI’s life.
‘Just fucking do your job,’ Hunter shouted, before taking a seat on one of the stools by the bar.
Only people who drink have a legitimate reason to sit on bar stools, and Hunter was part of that club again. He handed over his cash, and closed his eyes as he took his first taste of alcohol for twelve months… and it tasted foul. The gin was so sharp, so cheaply metallic; the tonic was sickeningly bitter. He downed the entire contents of the glass in two swigs, and then tapped his hand on the bitter pump; already he had crossed the point of no return.
Ruth Sharp arrived early; so early that her arrival cut into Jim’s serious drinking time. He stared at her, annoyed, as he realised his impromptu drinking session was over.
‘Off the wagon?’ she chided as she approached. She looked good, still in her long white coat, but long shapely legs showed underneath. Her hair was in her familiar pony-tail, but she wasn’t wearing glasses any more.
‘Just for today, Ruth, it’s been twelve months. Where are your glasses?’
‘One of the benefits of working at the cutting edge of research, and meeting with eminent professors, is the fact that you can take advantage of new developments in technology. This is something called laser eye surgery, heard of it?’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ chimed Hunter, mirthlessly. ‘Look, talking about research, that’s why I’m here…’
&nb
sp; ‘At least make a girl feel a little bit wanted before you cut to the chase Jim,’ joked Ruth Sharp. ‘What is it you’re after, the DNA strain which makes you an alcoholic? We’re working on that at the moment. We could soon eradicate people like you.’
She was still joking, but there was a chilling tone to her voice.
‘Actually, it is DNA I wanted to talk to you about in a roundabout way,’ said Jim, handing her the obligatory vodka and lemonade which she drank by the bucket-load without ever seeming to get drunk. ‘Come on, let’s sit down and we can talk properly, away from Brian’s big ears.’
Jim led them to a table in the pub’s front room which was divided from the bar by a partition wall. He knew that this small act of rebellion would really annoy Brian behind the bar. He took with him two menus, but knew very well that in this kind of mood neither of them would be ordering any food.
‘Ruth, this work I’m doing; can I tell you the truth about it?’ Jim said, pleadingly, twisting his pint of bitter round and round in his hands. ‘It’s not private investigation work as you’d know it; it’s not looking into extra-marital affairs. It’s something else…’
Ruth cut him short. ‘Jim, I know; I can tell by that gleam in your eyes that it’s not only the drinking which you’ve gone back to; you’re investigating a big case again, aren’t you. It’s Edison’s Printers isn’t it?’
