From Nemesis Island

by Christine Mustchin

  Richard decided to say nothing and put away his phone. Trish sat down and stared blankly across the room.

  ‘I’ll get the bill,’ he said.

  They walked back to the hotel, their silence matching that of the streets. They went to bed without speaking, lying apart, each with their own uncomfortable thoughts. The alcohol brought a comatose sleep for both of them. Three hours later they were awake. The shutters on the windows rattled dramatically in a forceful wind, and rain drummed against the building with a relentless rhythm. But it had been the thunder that had broken their sleep. Its penetrating roll assaulted the town. Only a second passed between its onslaught and the lightning that pierced the sky and filtered through the chinks of the shutters. Richard and Trish got up. They opened the shutters and closed the window; the spectacle was clearly visible now. The streets were running with rainwater and other window shutters had been opened and secured so that lights in other buildings could be seen. They left their room in darkness watching house lights flicker until they failed. The town was in eerie blackness as the storm passed over. Back in bed, Trish and Richard instinctively reached out for each other and lay together in an embrace until the proximity overcame them and they made love noisily and desperately under cover of the weakening thunder. Afterwards they turned away from each other and slept.

  10

  The early morning sun woke them. The hotel breakfast was as dire as Richard had predicted and they sat awkwardly across the table from one another. They talked of the storm in the night, with no mention of their own tempest. Trish had an afternoon flight. Their time together that day would not be prolonged.

  ‘It really wouldn’t be a problem to come with you to the airport.’ Richard felt obliged to make the impractical suggestion.

  ‘No, no. You’d have to take your car to get back here and I have to get my car back to the airport so we’d have to go separately. Not really sensible, is it?’

  Richard was pleased to hear the expected reply. They parted amicably, more like friends than lovers, and Richard immediately took himself off to wander round the harbour side.

  Trish set off along the road to the airport. Daylight improved the journey and she felt a growing relief to be leaving behind what, secretly, she had categorised unflatteringly as a peasant culture. She had to admit that the countryside held a certain appeal, though. The road curved through rocky gorges and then opened out onto straight plains with wooded hills clearly visible a few miles distant. Then the road morphed into an undulating course flanked by forests and punctuated by small towns and villages with crumbling buildings and faded stucco facades. She saw no one. The occasional car came and went, overtaking her with the practised manner of a local driver. Others passed her by in the opposite direction but infrequently. The sun shone and Trish settled into the tedium of the journey. She was in good time and she relaxed in the knowledge that soon she would be home, hugging to herself the picture of familiar London streets. She only noticed the car when it came dangerously close to the rear of hers. She accelerated a little but it followed suit. She slowed down and then repeated the manoeuvre but with the same effect. She gave it one more go but this time she felt a bump as the car behind knocked into her rear bumper. This time she did not slow. The car behind appeared to back off and Trish’s anger changed to irritation.

  ‘Bloody local drivers. Bet they’ve never passed a test in their life.’

  She looked again in her rear view mirror and revised her opinion. The car was close behind her again. It was a hefty black four by four vehicle with a distinctive silver logo on the bonnet. It was not a model that she recognised, but she thought from its style that it belonged in a gangster movie. Another longer glance in the mirror and she saw the driver was a young man with dark good looks, dressed in a suit. He had not removed his jacket.

  ‘Must have air con,’ she thought. What looked like his clone sat in the front passenger seat. Both men wore ties of a striking vivid blood red colour. It was all she had time to take in before their car swerved out to overtake her. It pulled alongside, but Trish’s momentary relief was quickly aborted as they skilfully swerved again in front of her car and braked hard. Trish too braked with forced, to avoid a collision. Mercifully the car responded. Without time for thought, she put the car into reverse, threw the car back a couple of metres and then revved up again, overtaking the stationary vehicle whose occupants were already out of the car and heading her way. She floored the accelerator. It would not take long for them to catch her, if that was their intention. A look in her mirror confirmed her suspicions. She could feel her heartbeat quicken and the thought of Richard’s offer passed fleetingly into her head. Some farm buildings came into view around a bend. She could see no access road, only a narrow dirt track. The four by four had not yet rounded the bend. Trish’s car was, for the moment, out of sight. She slowed a little and looked out for the track, turning into it and bumping wildly along its rough and narrow path, gripping the steering wheel hard to keep control of the car. She could no longer see the farm and time was short. Woods closed in around the track. ‘Would they follow her here?’ She heard an engine note behind her, nothing in the mirror. She swerved off the track rattling through the undergrowth until hidden from the track. She killed the engine. She heard a vehicle pass and waited. There was nothing more she could do. For the first time in her life Trish was scared. She contemplated leaving the car but decided against making any noise. In the distance she heard voices raised in what sounded like an argument. Time passed all too slowly but eventually she heard another car pass by, its sound fading as it drew away from the farm. ‘How long should she wait?’ The question was academic. The car would not move. Trish got out and started off on foot for the farm. She had no idea how she would communicate her predicament nor what would ensue. She just knew she had no choice.

  11

  Trish had never looked down the barrel of a gun. It was not an experience she wanted to repeat. She stood at the open door of the farmhouse, facing a shotgun in the hands of a short, wiry wrinkled man. A slight tremor of the hands betrayed her feelings but she kept her voice under control. All to no avail. A blank look, a furrowed brow and the raising of the gun by a few inches was all the response she got from her attempt at an explanation. A younger woman appeared behind him and a babble of incomprehensible words screeched towards them. The man took a step forward and Trish instinctively stepped backwards. She thought of her flight, slipping away from her as the minutes passed. She tried again, a gentle pleading tone this time, but the man simply shrugged. The woman started up again but there was less urgency in her words and she stepped forward to take a look at Trish. She had a kind face. Trish made one last attempt. She spoke directly to the woman, one word, slowly and deliberately pronounced ‘English’. They all stood for a moment, a trio frozen in incomprehension. Then the woman’s face relaxed a little. She called out a word and Trish heard a scuffling of feet. A small girl arrived at the women’s side. The woman spoke to the girl and then looked at Trish and nodded. Trish looked in turn at the girl, wide dark eyes and tousled blond hair, her face serene and expectant.

  ‘English,’ repeated Trish.

  The girl spoke. ‘Yes, please.’ Her words were heavily accented but Trish felt a chink of hope rise up within her. She spoke again very slowly.

  ‘My car is in the wood.’

  She repeated the phrase and the girl nodded.

  ‘I can’t move it.’ The girl looked puzzled. Trish tried again.

  ‘Car?’ The girl nodded.

  ‘Not go.’ She mimed steering the car and shook her head at the same time.

  ‘In the wood.’ She gestured frantically in the direction of the wood.

  ‘Plane. Go home.’ More miming and a thoroughly puzzled look on the girl’s face.

  ‘Car. Wood. Not go.’ Trish desperately repeated the important words and actions. This was like a nightmare game of charades where you were allowed to speak but everyone was deaf. It would take more than dinner
party drugs or booze to make this amusing. The shotgun was still raised and Trish barely suppressed a sob. She repeated the pantomime yet again with an unfamiliar sense of desperation. It had to be a dream. It had to be unreal. It could not be happening. She had a comfortable flat and a good job waiting just a couple of hours away. And then suddenly the girl had understood. She was tugging at the man’s sleeve and pointing to the wood. Her tiny voice spoke excitedly. The man hesitated, then lowered the gun a little and turned to the women. She stepped forward and took the girl’s hand. They began to walk towards the wood. The man gestured to Trish to turn round and poked her gently in the back with the gun. She jumped but took the hint and started following the woman and the girl. The car looked pathetic, battered and covered in branches. The man handed the gun to the woman who seemed less concerned to keep it trained on Trish. He started the car and turned the ignition but the wheels spun and he got out. Trish now had tears across her cheeks though she managed to avoid sobbing outright. The man and woman exchanged words and she put down the gun, fixing Trish in the eyes and pointing to the car. They all pushed including the girl. Grunts and words that Trish took to be curses accompanied their efforts. Sweat ran from them all and then it was free. A final push and it was on flat ground near the track. The man got in again and this time the car moved. He positioned it on the track and got out. The woman handed him back his gun, which he raised again at Trish, indicating the car. She needed no invitation to get in but first turned to the girl.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ The girl smiled and nodded.

  Trish drove slowly down the track and joined the main road. She had to hurry. She might still make it. At every bend or turning in the road she looked for the black four by four but it had gone. She pushed the car to its limit. God knows what excess charges she would face for the damage. She didn’t care. Fear lessened into anxiety as she neared the airport and it was a physical sense of relief that flooded through her when she reached the check-in desk with two minutes to spare and no queue.

  As she handed over her passport and luggage she felt as though she were existing in a different time dimension. Within it she was moving and yet not moving. Her body had become both light and heavy. Her feet weighed her down but her limbs were floating above ground. She needed to recover herself before passing through security and the officious passport control. She walked through to the only bar in the airport in the arrival hall and ordered a strong coffee and brandy. She stared ahead, waiting for her thoughts to thaw. People passed across her vision as a blur of humanity far from her own concerns. It didn’t take long for the combined drink to take effect. She got up to leave and saw at some distance the familiar features of the man whom she had met on arriving. He was moving towards an attractive young girl. Trish saw him greet the girl and escort her out of the terminal building. She passed the exit en route for her gate and looked after them. Her step faltered for a minute as she saw the two men with the blood red ties standing by the four-by-four vehicle. They greeted the other man and then expertly ushered the girl into the back. Trish walked swiftly on. A fine sweat had begun to appear on her forehead.

  By the time the drinks trolley came round on the plane Trish had still not completely recovered herself. She took two double brandies. Her trembling began to ease with the comfort of the alcohol. She looked out at the clouds, soothed by their abstract patterns. The women next to her was reading and taking notes. Trish glanced across despite herself and saw the yellowing pages of a rather battered English grammar book. The woman looked up and smiled.

  ‘Forgive me for working. I hope I do not disturb you.’ The English was stilted and accented.

  ‘No, not at all. I hope you don’t mind if I just relax,’ answered Trish, thinking better of referring to the alcohol she was consuming all too quickly.

  ‘It would be nice to talk to you in order that I might practise my English but I must complete these notes.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Trish, secretly very relieved.

  ‘I am going on a course in London to obtain a qualification in teaching English as a Foreign Language. Our books here are old and out-of-date. I am trying to plan a lesson using the modern techniques about which I know a little. It is not easy when you do not have the correct books though.’

  Trish said nothing. She wondered if she would be in London long enough to stop her speaking like a grammar book.

  ‘I teach children. They are ten years of age. I think they will like the new methods.’

  Trish nodded. She thought with gratitude of one little girl and the English she had been taught. Without her Trish doubted she would have made her flight. Trish smiled kindly at the woman and concentrated on her brandy.

  12

  Sundays for Father Piontius was without drama, though never lacking in the theatrical. The mid-morning mass required a degree of pomp that he was happy to lay aside at other services. He himself preferred the simplicity of the early morning communion with his small band of regulars, as he called them, all past the prime of youth and now looking beyond the disappointments of their life towards the hope of the hereafter. For them he would happily leave off the ceremonial robes that now chafed at his neck, a meagre suffering compared to our Lord’s he had to admit. But then he was no saint. Perfection was not of this world, after all, but the striving to achieve it was all part of God’s purpose. In this he had failed. He would pass through the gates of Purgatory not Heaven when he died. If only sex were just a word for him. Its pleasures were long ago now, but it never left your soul, nor the things that followed from it.

  He concluded his address.

  ‘And so there are those who strive to create what is beautiful and those, many of us, who merely seek out its effects to enhance our lives. But let us not be deceived. Beauty is not truth. Beauty tricks us, leads us away from God by seducing us with her pleasures. The sounds of a song or a melody, the colours and hues of a painting, the excitement and fascination of a story, a glass of wine, the attraction between man and woman – all these may lead us to God if we see that the grace of perfection is never given to us here on earth and that what we see as beauty is but a process of becoming; a process of moving towards the divine, a hint or a clue of the true beauty that we achieve in eternal life. But let there be no mistake. Beauty also harbours evil. Beauty may seduce us all. It may lead us to be dazzled, to stop and worship the thing itself, not realising it can only be the representation of our own mortality, which we must go beyond to be saved. If we do not look beyond and behind the beautiful, we will become its prisoner and fall prey to its charms and attractions. If we see no further than its manifestations then we fail, for in the end beauty will consume us and lead us into evil. If we seek out only that which pleases us, then we shall lose sight of God and forget that our existence is but a moment in time before we pass on to everlasting life. So do not forget the words of today’s lesson from St Paul’s letter to the Colossians,

  ‘Remember you are the chosen ones, dearly beloved, and put your trust indeed in God.’

  He had finished. He had stirred up a few complacencies this week, even if they were only his own. He scanned the faces of the congregation for a response. There were some frowns, some puzzlement and one or two signs of an overt engagement with his ideas, but mostly the faces held their usual expression of feigned interest in whatever subject he chose to address. One man sat impassive, alone, to one side of the church. A dark figure, his eyes were fixed by a chill that drained his good looks and aged his youthful physique. His gaze did not falter. He watched the priest without remit. Father Piontius met his stare for an instant. He would not be there at the end of the service, this he knew.

  ‘And the blessing of God the Father……..’ it was almost over now. He processed down the aisle and waited for the file of people. The children tumbled out of the church glad to be free. They had not listened to a word he said anyway. Protocol required more of the adults.

  ‘Interesting sermon, Father. A bit difficult though.’


  ‘Rather philosophical today, father?’

  ‘Bit much for us simple folks, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure I followed all the sermon today, father?’

  And so it went on. He was not surprised, nor even disappointed. He would go back to his usual more pastoral approach next week. The dark man was nowhere to be seen.

  Father Piontius took the collection back to the vestry, a dim room off to one side of the nave. The door had already been opened. The dark man sat expectantly in one corner. Father Piontius felt the leaden weight of inevitability invade his body.

  ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said in a soft voice.

  The young man grimaced cruelly and remained silent.

  ‘I have come to persuade you.’

  He stood and approached the priest. Father Piontius saw the metal rings around his knuckles as the man raised his arm to strike.

  13

  Richard was out of sorts. After Trish’s departure he had wandered around the old town in a desultory manner. The charms of the place and the good weather failed to exert any influence on his mood. Trish was right. He missed the buzz of London. He had lost his taste for quiet reflection a long time ago and beautiful surroundings alone were not going to restore it. He thought of texting Dougie but he’d had enough of silent exchanges.

  He phoned him instead.

  ‘Hi, Dougie. Dick here.’

  ‘Watcha mate. Anything up?’

  ‘Bit bored, that’s all.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘No hope for me but you could spice things up a bit.’

  ‘No, I’m not going looking for a girl.’

  ‘Wasn’t thinking of that actually.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Why don’t you see if there’s anything behind this trip of yours.’