He kicked me between the legs and I curled up into a little ball, pressing my arm against my stomach. Closed my eyes, waited for the next kick. Waited. Nothing happened.
Branches snapped and then there was silence.
A car started up.
Sounds of an engine driving away.
Only then did I open my eyes and begin fumbling on the ground for my pants.
The sounds disappeared as I left the town behind me. A flock of seagulls shrieked and rose up, but then I was all alone with the sea. The rhythm of the waves. Only darkness existed, and the sand and low plants growing on the shore and scratching at my calves. The black rocks rested like slumbering animals at the water’s edge, and all around breathed the sea, raising and lowering its mighty paunch.
I took off my clothes. Placed in a pile my jacket and shirt and jeans, my socks and shoes. The wind lashed the sand against my body. Wearing only panties and bra, I walked into the sea. The waves washed over my feet, ankles, calves. The water was suddenly tepid, almost warm. I thought I heard the sea singing.
Near the black stone jetty, on my right, halfway out, I sat down and lowered my hands into the water, touching the bottom. His body had lain wedged in here. I tried to grab some sand, but it slipped out between my fingers.
I’m sorry, I whispered. I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.
And I lay down in the water and the sand shaped itself around my body. The next wave washed over me so the salt water filled my mouth and nose.
Where are you? I whispered. Is there anything afterwards?
The wave receded and the cold air rushed over me until the next wave came and I felt his hands, warm and soft against my skin, and the sand under me disappeared. I closed my eyes.
Everything for you, I thought. Tell me what to do, because I know nothing any more. Let me know whether you exist or whether everything disappears.
A rushing in my ears, a dull tone increasing in strength. I got up so quickly that the earth turned upside down. I clambered up onto the rocks and lay down, curling up with the cold against my wet skin. The song had grown to a roar, a hurricane of voices. It would have been so easy just to let myself be washed away.
And forget.
In the beam from the lighthouse I saw the furious waves slamming against the rocks in the distance. And I thought about Mary Kwara, who might be lying in the sea now, to be washed ashore today or tomorrow or whenever the sea deigned to give her up.
The wind swept away these last thoughts. My underwear was still damp, but my body had dried and was ice cold. I waded back to the beach, feeling nothing but the lukewarm water swirling around my ankles, enticing and tugging.
Chapter 19
Marbella
Thursday, 9 October
Fifteen minutes left before departure.
In the ladies’ room I used a safety pin to fasten the locker key to my panties. I also checked the sock I wore on my right foot. In the ankle I’d stuffed a roll of banknotes. I’d taken the cash out of various ATMs in Tarifa. I had a total of 2,400 euros stowed away in my wallet, my pockets, and my sock. I’d left my passport in the locker. It was a risk, but it was my only option.
At the sink I splashed water on my face and then dried it with a paper towel. I gave a start when I caught sight of the stranger in the mirror. Familiar and yet not. Like a long-forgotten colleague you happen to meet on the street in the wrong part of town, not sure whether you recognize her or not. The bleached hair made me look like a younger version of myself. It smoothed out my face. I could still smell the acrid stink of the hydrogen peroxide.
Buses headed in all directions from the terminal in Marbella. To Seville and Malaga and Madrid and towns I’d never heard of. I’d chosen the terminal because it was big enough to have seen all sorts of people coming and going. Nobody would pay any attention to me here.
I walked around until I found a mailbox. I took out the padded envelope with the letter for Benji and the keys to my apartment in Gramercy, clutching it in my hand for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure whether it was legal, but it would have to do. In the letter I’d written that I was leaving him the company and the apartment. Everything I owned. Patrick’s parents might put up a fight, but then he’d just have to fight back if it was important to him. The letter landed inside the mailbox with a faint thud.
At the back of the terminal the bus had pulled in. Exhaust mixed with cigarette smoke as passengers took a few more puffs before going on board.
It was my third bus of the day. At eight in the morning I’d left Tarifa and travelled east, then changed buses in Algeciras and passed Gibraltar where the Atlantic merged with the Mediterranean. The mighty rock faded to a shadow behind me as I continued on towards Marbella.
‘Where to?’ muttered the driver as I climbed in.
I handed him my ticket.
‘Puerto Banus,’ I said.
I sat down on a sofa in the Sinatra Bar, with a view of the harbour and all the luxury yachts, which looked grotesquely oversized. Ferraris and Lamborghinis slowly glided past on the street.
Without much interest I studied the menu and ordered a grilled sandwich. Two men with sunburned noses were dozing over their beers, and a woman who wore gold-rimmed glasses was taking a break from her shopping expedition, surrounded by bags from Versace and Armani.
I got out a notepad and pen and drew a sketch of the harbour while I waited. A stage set for a performance that had to do with success and money. Puerto Banus was built to look like a fishing village in a picturesque setting with whitewashed houses and narrow stairs leading from one street to another, but no fisherman would ever be able to afford to live here.
‘Oh God, I’m worn out. What a night,’ said a girl with a posh British accent as she dropped onto the sofa closest to the street.
‘I don’t know when I’m going to get any sleep,’ said her friend, beckoning flirtatiously at the bartender, who instantly approached. He wore a gold ring in his ear and a black T-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his biceps.
‘I’ll have a better tomorrow,’ said the girl.
‘Same here,’ said the other one as she sat down opposite her friend. They both stretched out their legs towards the street. One of them took off a shoe and wriggled her toes. Her toenails were painted silver.
The bartender mixed juice and lemons and filled two glasses with ice. A better tomorrow was a non-alcoholic cocktail on the drinks menu.
‘These shoes are killing me,’ said one of the girls. Both had their hair coloured in nuances that ranged from platinum to light blonde, with the roots deliberately coloured brown. According to the latest trend, the hair style was supposed to look messy and ruffled, as if they hadn’t made any effort at all.
‘Take a look, but don’t turn around,’ hissed one of the girls, motioning with her eyes towards the street. A red Maserati glided past for the umpteenth time.
‘It’s so dreamy,’ the other blonde moaned softly.
‘He’s the guy who picks up young girls. Thirteen-year-olds. He has a rooftop flat here in the harbour. The Jacuzzi is as big as a whole living room.’
‘Yes, but that car — it’s just so cool.’
‘You should see his yacht. It’s one of the biggest in the harbour.’
‘Have you ever been on it?’
‘Twice.’ The girl nodded and sipped at her juice cocktail through a straw.
‘So, is it bigger than the Golden Star? Leeson’s yacht? Or the Athena? Come on. You’re lying. You haven’t been on every yacht in the harbour, have you?’
‘No, but a lot of them.’ The girl tossed her head and turned to look at the cars again.
I put away my sketch of the harbour and leaned forward to speak to them.
‘Hey, excuse me. But I was just wondering. Are you models?’
The girls looked at each other and laughed, fluffing their hair.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I work for an American magazine,’ I said, feigning an exaggerated Ne
w York accent.
‘Which one?’ The girls smiled, their white teeth gleaming. ‘Vogue? Or what?’
I gave a vague wave of my hand, leaving my reply open to interpretation.
‘I’m writing about the glamorous party life on the Spanish sun coast. The jetsetter lifestyle. Do you know anything about it?’ I moved closer.
‘Do you want to interview us?’ The platinum blonde opened her glittery purse and took out a lipstick.
‘See, we’re a bit tired at the moment. We were partying in the mountains yesterday. We’ve come straight back from there.’
‘The parties are insane. They keep going until eleven in the morning.’
The platinum blonde leaned towards me. ‘Will there be photographs too?’
‘What are your names?’ I jotted down their names so they would see I was serious. Emma was the one with the lighter blonde hair. The platinum blonde was named Melanie.
‘So you must meet a lot of celebrities at these parties, right?’ I said.
‘Sure. Of course.’ Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘There are always plenty of celebrities down here.’
‘Sean Connery lives here,’ said Emma. ‘We haven’t met him, but Antonio Banderas goes jogging on the Golden Mile.’
‘Yesterday at the party, I met a guy who knows someone who plays with Robbie Williams,’ said Melanie. She raised her voice and said, ‘He told me Robbie is going to be coming here.’
‘What?’ said Emma. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘I just heard about it,’ said Melanie. She took out a small mirror to touch up her lipstick.
‘I’ve heard there are parties on the boats too.’ I motioned towards the docks.
‘God, yes. Especially in the autumn, when the owners come here from London and Paris.’
‘And the boats just stay moored in the harbour?’
‘Sure. Right. Unless they go over to Niki Beach, of course,’ said Emma.
‘I once saw Princess Madeleine from Sweden over there,’ said Melanie. ‘And Harry, of course.’
‘Harry who?’ I jotted down a few notes, just for the sake of appearances.
Emma laughed and slapped her hand to her forehead. ‘The prince, of course!’ The girls looked at each other and shook their heads, making their blonde curls flutter.
I turned the page in my notepad. The men with the red noses were sitting up straighter now that the girls were here. They were grinning, drinking toasts, and trying to catch the girls’ attention.
‘There’s a super-rich Frenchman who has a yacht down here,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you happen to know him. His name is Alain Thery.’
Melanie frowned. ‘But he’s not a celebrity, is he?’
‘He’s well known in France. And we have lots of readers in Paris.’
Melanie tilted her head to the side, making her long neck more visible. She fiddled with one of her dangling earrings.
‘Well, he never goes to Niki Beach,’ she said. ‘Just takes his yacht out for a short distance.’
‘Do you know which boat is his?’ I asked.
Emma finished her juice cocktail.
‘Would you like something else to drink?’ I offered with a smile. ‘The magazine will buy.’
‘Then I’ll have a Cosmopolitan,’ Melanie was quick to say.
‘A vodka red.’
I waved over the bartender and gave him their orders.
‘There was a party over there yesterday,’ said Emma.
‘Where?’ said Melanie.
‘On his boat. That guy’s boat — Alain.’
‘How do you know that?’ Melanie grabbed her Cosmopolitan from the tray and took a sip.
‘Well, Suze knows the skipper. I told you that before.’ Emma turned towards me. ‘A lot of girls hang out with the skippers so they can go out on the boats. You have to arrive on a yacht if you want to go out to Niki Beach. Otherwise it’s too embarrassing. But later, when the owners are here, the skippers chase the girls off the boats.’
‘One of my friends,’ said Melanie, ‘she once went to a party on that boat in the spring. There was tons of champagne. Plus anything else you wanted. You know.’ She licked her lips and drew her finger under her nose.
‘Cocaine?’ I whispered.
Melanie pressed her finger to her lips.
‘Which boat is it?’ I asked, fixing my gaze on the sleek-lined white vessels.
Emma pointed west, towards the edge of the harbour area, where the docks ended. There the artificial fishing village jutted out towards the sea, with shops and restaurants on the ground floors of the buildings. Above were three-room apartments that cost two million euros, according to the sign in a realtor’s window that I’d passed on my way from the bus.
‘Pier Zero,’ she said with awe in her voice.
‘That’s where the biggest boats are moored.’ Melanie clucked her tongue. ‘Some people pay up to ten thousand euros a month just to have a boat slip on Pier Zero.’
‘Do you know the name of the boat?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to take a picture of it.’
‘Do you have a camera with you?’ said Melanie, her eyes widening. ‘I’m not ready for a picture yet. I must look a fright.’
‘You know, Suze told me about something horrid.’ Emma looked from Melanie to me, making sure she had our attention. ‘There was a girl who went out there with him. The rich owner, I mean. And she was raped.’
Melanie sniggered. ‘That’s what everybody says.’
‘Well, she asked for it, of course.’ Emma took the lemon slice from her glass and licked it. ‘I mean, she did go out there with him, didn’t she?’
‘Some girls are so naïve,’ said Melanie. ‘They think they can just go out on the boat and drink champagne. And of course he gets cross. It’s his boat, after all.’
‘What happened to that girl?’ I asked.
Emma grabbed her own wrist and held it up in the air. ‘Handcuffs. All that kind of stuff. He cuffed her to the bedside lamp. You know what I mean, right? Everything is fastened down when you’re on a boat.’
‘Lots of people are into that sort of thing,’ said Melanie.
Emma sipped her drink. ‘But later she wanted to leave, and he wouldn’t let her. The boat was only a short way out in the harbour, just beyond the piers. He’s known for that.’
I remembered the gossip that Caroline Kearny had mentioned.
‘Is that because he can’t swim?’ I asked.
Melanie and Emma giggled and exchanged looks. It was clear to them that this journalist was clueless. And not very bright either.
‘Don’t you see? He takes the boat out when there are girls on board, so they can’t change their minds.’
‘And so nobody can hear them scream.’
‘That girl could hardly walk the next day,’ said Emma in a low voice. ‘It took at least three days, or maybe a week, before she could even come down to the harbour again.’
I glanced over at Pier Zero where the huge yachts bobbed in the calm water, their bows like pointed snouts, their windows like dark narrowed eyes. They looked sinister.
‘Is she around here anywhere? That girl?’ I asked. ‘It would be interesting to interview her.’
‘She went back home,’ said Emma.
‘My God, it’s no surprise that things can get wild. That’s what parties are all about. You should have seen me this morning.’ Melanie leaned down and fluffed her tresses so they billowed even more. ‘Well, actually, we were still going at it well past midday.’
‘You and that Phil guy?’ said Emma. She straightened up when three young Spanish men sat down over near the bar. They wore gold chains around their necks, and had big, flashy watches on their wrists.
‘Are you crazy? No. It was Liam. You know — the one who knows that guy who plays with Robbie Williams. I already told you that.’
‘But he’s so old.’ Emma grimaced.
‘No, he’s not. Robbie is only a little over thirty.’
‘I mean Liam. He’s got to be
forty, at least.’
‘But have you seen his house? On the road up to Ronda?’
‘It doesn’t even belong to him. Suze told me that he’s some sort of caretaker. He takes care of the house when the owners are away.’
Melanie put her hand to her mouth and looked away. Then she smoothed down her hair and opened her purse to take out her lipstick again. She pointed the gleaming, blood-red lipstick at Pier Zero.
‘It’s called the Epona, by the way. In case you were wondering.’
‘Alain Thery’s boat?’
‘It’s named for the horse goddess,’ said Emma.
Melanie and I both stared at her in surprise.
Emma shrugged and turned away. Her gaze seemed to be drawn to a black Porsche driving past at a leisurely pace.
I thanked the girls and took down their phone numbers, telling them a photographer would get in touch with them in about a week. Then I stood up, paid the bill in the bar, and left to stroll along the harbour towards Pier Zero.
The Mediterranean was as calm as a lake, compared with the violent waters off Tarifa. And Africa wasn’t nearly as close. The continent was visible only as a thin brushstroke of darker blue on the horizon.
The fifth yacht on the pier was the Epona. I walked slowly past without stopping, giving all the boats an admiring look. The gangway had been pulled up. No entry, no pasar, ne pas monter à bord said a sign on the stern next to an opening in the railing where a small companionway led down. The deck was made of some kind of expensive light-coloured wood, the type that was in danger of being wiped out in the rain forests. The doors with darkened windows led to the yacht’s interior.
I stopped at the third boat further along, where a man wearing jeans and a navy-blue windbreaker was loading suitcases on board.
‘Nice boat,’ I said. ‘What does something like this cost?’
He glanced at me. ‘More than you can afford,’ he said, tossing his cigarette into the water.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m more interested in that one.’ I pointed at Alain Thery’s yacht. ‘Do you know what kind it is?’
‘The Epona?’ The man took a step up the gangway and craned his neck. ‘It’s a Marquis.’ He looked me up and down with an insolent expression.
The Forgotten Dead Page 31
