From Nemesis Island

by Christine Mustchin

  ‘Well you asked.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s not like you. You usually shut me up in no uncertain terms when I try to go on about anything medical.’

  ‘I guess it’s because I’ve got things medical on my mind at the moment.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope.’

  ‘It’s not personal. It’s work.’

  ‘Oh I see.’

  ‘I’ve been approached by a cosmetic surgeon who practises abroad, Dr Zachion. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No, no reason to have.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s looking for someone to handle his PR and marketing in England.’

  ‘Well that’s a new one for you I imagine.’

  ‘Too right. Looks like it could be quite complicated.’

  ‘That’s the way it is with medicine these days, especially if he’s from overseas. What sort of cosmetic surgery does he do?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Well, good luck. If you need any advice just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks. Now let’s get back to the fun. Shouldn’t mix business and pleasure.’

  They joined the others. People were now taking turns at the coffee table where rows of white powder had been carefully laid out. Several lines of the coke had already disappeared. Fi was bending over the coffee table, ready to snort a line. Trish watched the charade. Their voices had become loud and shrill with the overconfidence of the drugs and alcohol.

  ‘Come on Trish – next line is yours. No one to stop you tonight.’

  ‘Dick would be furious,’ she countered with a smile.

  She usually abstained when he was around, or at least seemed to. She knew he didn’t approve. He’d smoked a bit of pot at university, but now he’d even given up tobacco. It was one of his quirks not to take drugs in any form: something he had in common with David.

  ‘Out of sight out of mind,’ thought Trish, as the drug hit her nostrils. An odd indulgence never hurt anyone, she rationalised. She never used more than one line.

  ‘Dick not here to keep you away from the stuff?’ David peered over Trish’s shoulder as yet more lines of powder were laid out. It was a rhetorical question.

  ‘You’ll ruin your nasal septum, Trish.’

  ‘Oh come on, I don’t use it that much.’

  ‘If you can’t give it up then go easy. I’d hate to see a pretty nose ruined.’

  ‘Don’t be a bore, David.’

  ‘Can’t help it. Abstinence is an occupational hazard you know.’

  Trish flashed him one of her inviting smiles and touched his arm lightly. ‘Now give me a kiss, medicine man.’

  She never could resist flirting with him. It was always the same on coke, and not just for his good looks; there was something about his being a GP that she found attractive. Their exchanges never amounted to anything. Trish was a serial monogamist and faithful to Dick. Her mobile bleeped. She flicked it open and after a moment let out a short laugh.

  ‘Dick’s bored. There’s been a delay. He’s got nothing to do and he’s hating it. An easy assignment in the Adriatic sun and he’s still not happy.’

  ‘Who’d be a journalist?’ said David, planting a platonic kiss on her cheek and leaving her to tap out a rapid reply to the text.

  She sent the message, a meagre consolation for both of them. Dick was bored; she needed sex. She would bet that he did too. It was the lynch pin of their relationship; the excitement that kept the irritations of monogamy at bay and made it possible for her to tolerate what had become Dick’s constant untidy presence within the order of her personal space. Somehow he had moved in with her without a word being said. His own flat was rarely used now. For a moment she saw him as he climbed into bed, turning on his back, waiting for her. She could almost feel him enter her. She stifled the need that swept through her. That would have to wait. An involuntary moistness betrayed her self-control. She would book a flight on-line that night. Sorted.

  3

  Richard picked up his mobile and sent a text to Trish: an edited lament. The small screen shone into the dimness of the room. The single bedside lamp gave out only a meagre light and the overhead bulb was equally weak. Facilities were basic. Air conditioning would have been good. The air in the room was thick and close. The ceiling fan whirred ineffectively and the window was closed against mosquitoes. Pity there were no other hotels in the town. He waited a few moments but there was no reply from Trish. He opened up his email account and called up his buddie list. Dougie was on-line. Well done, mate. Words tripped across the small screen.

  ‘Hi, Doug. What’s doing? Hot and bored here.’

  A reply came back instantly.

  ‘Hey yer old Pom. ISQ with me. No promo yet. Still stuck at desk. Warm and wet here. Weather’s sticky too!’

  ‘Least you’re busy. It’s pretty dead here.’

  ‘Thought it was going to be a quick trip?’

  ‘Me too. Been a delay though.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘Thought I could use the time to write a travel article on the place. You know the sort of thing – undiscovered spot, ripe for the picking. Standard supplement stuff.’

  ‘Not working out then?’

  ‘You’re not kidding.’

  ‘Not got an angle yet?’

  ‘Not a hope. It’s a beautiful place but that’s about it really. Difficult when you don’t speak the lingo too.’

  ‘You need a distraction. What about a chick? That should take your mind off things.’

  ‘Not a hope.’

  ‘No joy then?’

  ‘Got the girl back home remember?’

  ‘And….?’

  ‘Leave it out, mate.’

  ‘Well, I’m off for a toss. See yer.’

  Richard left Dougie’s last words flickering at him for a while then signed off. Trish would have hated it. Ghastly bloke-speak she called it. He shrugged, suddenly aware of the sweat that was making his clothes unpleasantly damp. The heat in the room was becoming unbearable. Richard ran cold water into the basin in the small en-suite and plunged in his arms. He lent his face forward and clumsily splashed water about his head. Better but not enough. It made the rest of his body feel hotter. He stripped off his clothes. A cold shower would do the trick. His phone bleeped and he picked it up standing naked and oppressed by the heat while he scanned Trish’s text message. As he read, he saw her image, could almost feel her breath, the touch of her skin, the wetness when he slid inside her. He made no effort to stop his response and followed Dougie’s example: two reasons to have a shower now. The cool water dribbled feebly over him, slowly washing away his semen and sweat. He let the air dry his skin and felt the heat returning. He was restless. He opened the windows. The shutters were still barred. He pushed them open, too hot to care about insects. The air was still and expectant. The faint scent of ozone drifted in. He dressed and left the hotel. At least you could breathe a little in the streets. A dog barked. Behind shutters little could be heard from the houses; a raised voice at an open door, a TV turned up loud, but in the streets nothing. The port was not far. He walked along the small harbour wall. It reached into the sea. A soft breeze played once or twice across his forehead. There was barely a sound. Nothing could be seen of the island at night, only the increasing blackness of the water stretching towards it. He wanted his skin to feel that water. He stood, eyes fixed on the dark ripples. A hand gripped his shoulder. He shuddered, his throat tight with fear. He turned ready to fight.

  ‘Forgive me if I startled you but few contemplate the sea like that without desperate motive. It is dangerous at this point.’ The priest released his hold.

  Richard smiled. ‘I needed to cool down, Father. My hotel room is unbearable. The water did look inviting but not in that way.’

  The priest smiled in turn. ‘I am always looking for distress. The sea is a great escape from the woes of the world. It has taken quite a number in the past. ‘

  Richard saw his error. No one walks alone at night in
a town like this. Nothing good would follow. Only a priest could pass unremarked.

  ‘Sorry to alarm you, but I’m quite happy with life. No intention of bowing out just yet. Waiting around’s not easy in this heat though.’

  ‘It’s unseasonal, but a storm will clear it soon. God’s cycle, you know. Be patient. He has answers beyond the limits of man.’

  The priest smiled again. Together they walked back in silence along the harbour wall towards the quayside. A stronger, cooler wind began to rock the fishing boats at their moorings and the sea began to stir behind them.

  4

  Joseph lit another of the many Turkish cigarettes he’d smoked that day and inhaled deeply. He felt the familiar pain in his lungs. He ignored it and restrained a cough. He detested weakness. It was time to decide. He looked at the girl. She lay prone across the bed. Her naked body was unharmed. She appeared to sleep. Her serenity angered him. He reached for his belt to show his wrath then lowered his hand. What good would it do? The failure and rancour were his alone. Punishing her wouldn’t erase it. Instead he seized her long red hair and sharply lifted up her head. She would at least know his displeasure. She turned to face him. The velvet choker around her neck moved rapidly with her breathing.

  ‘Chief,’ she murmured submissively.

  His eyes narrowed in spite at hearing the word. He hadn’t taken her well. The last should always be the best, especially for a chief. He stood up. She came to him and brushed her fingers lightly through his silver grey hair.

  ‘Joseph,’ she whispered.

  The word fuelled his anger. The reminder of his foreign name, and a Biblical one at that, was ill timed. He felt suffocated.

  He pushed her away.

  ‘Didn’t I please you today?’ There was no point in replying.

  ‘Go and get ready,’ he ordered and suppressed another cough. ‘I’ve finished with you.’

  She had been his for three months. It was time for her to join the other girls for their final night. Tomorrow he would welcome the next group and chose a new girl for himself. He watched her leave the room and poured a glass of champagne. The vintage was good; restorative. The memory of his mediocrity was a risk he couldn’t take. He had a reputation to preserve. Once gone, she could talk. He had no choice. She must not leave the island. He knew her fate. He left the details to others.

  Through the window the sky was still clear. Across the gardens a slim and solitary figure appeared. Her long dark hair was damp. It framed a delicate face. Lit from behind by the dipping sun, he could see the outline of her body beneath her sarong. She moved gently and gracefully. She appeared unconcerned to be alone and unafraid of apprehension. Was she breaking a rule? Perhaps. For once he didn’t care. She looked exquisite. Even from a distance she aroused him. She was exceptional. He willed her not to reach the building but the entrance swallowed her, and she was gone. He had no doubts. He needed to possess her. Tomorrow she would be his.

  The reception was underway when the chief entered. It held no joys for him. He picked up a glass of champagne and watched the girls. They were, without exception, attractive and elegant in their evening dresses. They were his investment. They had been well groomed for this. Men were circling the girls, drinking, smoking, talking. More girls than men. Drugs were banned. The guys were young and, without exception, of muscular build – his clients usually sent their bodyguards. A perk of the job no doubt, but it was mainly for discretion. He never knew the names of the wealthy, powerful men who bought the girls. He only dealt with their representatives.

  He coughed loudly, despite himself, and waived away his own bodyguard. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. He sat down with his drink and picked at the canapés. Through the door, conversations buzzed across the dining tables reaching his ears as a gentle hum. Its constancy was a good sign. He never joined them. He watched, as was his custom, until the girls withdrew to change. He saw, for the last time, the girl he had dismissed: her figure unmistakable in a silver dress. His gaze lingered a moment on her long red hair and then she was gone. She wouldn’t be back. The others returned, ready for the night ahead. The chief took up his place in front of the two-way mirrors of the side rooms for the regular ritual: the men trying out the girls before making their choice. He watched now with little of the vicarious pleasure of the past. He moved from mirror to mirror, following the dumb sex shows and scrutinising each coupling. For just an instant he felt a pang of envy, and then he turned away. The girl in the garden promised more. He knew her name now, Kia. Tomorrow he would have her. For the moment, though, he had business to attend to.

  5

  It was a room they rarely entered. Kia had seen it once before on the day of her arrival. Today it was different. Only some of them were there. They had been chosen to go on to the next phase. Yesterday’s beating had been the transition; now the programme could begin in earnest. She guessed what was to come and shuddered. She pulled the long blue velvet cloak tightly around her. Like all the girls in the room, it was all that covered her nakedness. She looked around her. There they all sat, on elegant Louis XV chairs, like expectant courtesans. The chief was to speak to them. He entered with a deliberate step and took up his place facing them on the raised dais. He let the silence linger for a while. Then he positioned his hands carefully on the table in front of him and, for a moment, Kia thought he swayed forward a little. She noticed the hint of darkness beneath his eyes. She waited for him to speak, but his words never reached her.

  Instead arms gripped her from both sides and led her away. She walked quickly keeping pace with the two men who held her firmly until they thrust her into a small dark room. They sat her roughly on a hard upright chair and abruptly left her. The door closed, a lock clicked and she saw nothing. Her heartbeat was the only sound to reach her. She could not tell if she were hot or cold. Her senses seemed to fail her. A dim light began to reach her eyes from a small window high in the room, meshed against an impossible retreat. She tried to focus on the space around her. She could make out nothing. She began to pray. She had heard rumours among the girls. If you were judged badly you would not survive. They all knew that not everyone left the island. Had she done wrong in hiding the pain of her beating? Other girls had begged for mercy. She had heard them. She closed her eyes against her fear.

  The chief entered. His bodyguards followed him into the room. A low ceiling slid away and a flood of light filled the space. With a sudden and rapid movement of her eyelids she met his gaze. There was no emotion in her face or posture. She appeared calm. He nodded and the men took her by the arms and stood her up. The chief approached. The stillness of her body was absolute. She never once lowered her eyes. He released the fastening of her cloak. It fell to the ground. He walked around her. She felt his hands caress her body, not gently, but as though testing her flesh. She did not respond to his touch but stood like sculpted marble, waiting. He withdrew his hands and signalled to the men. They replaced her cloak and waited for him to speak.

  ‘Bring her,’ he ordered.

  The men’s hands tightened around her arms, again forcing her to march in step with them as they followed behind the chief. They did not release their hold until they reached the chief’s suite of rooms and they heard the next command.

  ‘Try her out.’ It was expected.

  The first man took her on her back and the second from behind. When it was finished she stood again in front of the chief. Nothing flickered in her eyes. She watched as looks passed from the chief to the men. They nodded to him each in turn and left the room.

  6

  It was hot. It was sticky. Sweat trickled continuously between her breasts. She was thirsty. She was tired and it seemed her problems were only just beginning. A long slow moving queue wavered through the tiny arrival hall towards passport control. Trish watched at a distance as each document was obsessively and closely examined. She avoided the eyes of the two officials who stood like stone, against the wall of the room, hefty machine guns clutched close to their ches
ts. She was by no means last, but an angry exchange had erupted ahead of her and the line of people was now stationary. Too far away to hear the details, there was no mistaking the ill will at passport control. The couple looked respectably European, casually though expensively dressed, and clearly accustomed to a rather different reception, particularly given what had, after all, been a pretty uncomfortable flight. No food, a drink at a price, if you could catch the eye of the staff, and a take off and landing that had caused Trish to have a long moment of doubt about air safety statistics.

  She pushed her passport impatiently back into her bag. She hated delays. Her mantra was efficiency.

  ‘It’s very tedious, isn’t it?’ A gentleman to her left addressed her quietly.

  ‘Is it a work to rule?’ she asked abruptly.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘No, no. It happens all the time.’

  ‘You mean it always takes this long to clear passport control.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  He spoke with a strange accent that she thought could be European but it was not familiar to her. He had joined the plane in London. She had assumed he would know English. Was that politically incorrect? At that precise moment Trish didn’t care. She wanted a drink, perhaps some food, and to lie down and forget all of this. Above all, she wanted sex with Richard. She checked that her passport was safely in its place.

  ‘Do you have to go far?’ he asked.

  She looked up. He seemed to her like a throw back to the nineteenth century. No one wore goatee beards these days. Wearily she told him her destination before prudence intervened.

  ‘Have you booked a hire car?’

  ‘Of course.’ She was in no mood for answering questions.

  ‘Then you must hurry. The desk closes on the hour, regardless. You might not make it. Take this, just in case.’ He held out a business card.

  Trish stared, incredulous, at the man. She had no intention of contacting some stranger. She would rather subject herself to an overnight stay in a mediocre airport hotel. She assumed such a thing existed here. She took the card out of courtesy.