Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  He saw the helmsman wave a deprecating hand and call out something to the girl. A moment later the anchor splashed into the water.

  In Manasa’s saloon Kirsty waited until Ramesh turned off the engine, then she walked up on deck. She saw Lascelles and Carlo at Jaloud’s rail, visually measuring the distance between the two boats. Lascelles looked up and saw her. His eyes dropped back to the water and then, had he been an actor, he would have been fired for his massive double-take.

  “Lascelles! Where’s my son?”

  His jaw dropped, then his mouth worked and he was about to say something when Cady appeared behind her.

  “Where’s my son?” she repeated.

  Lascelles took a deep breath and glanced at Carlo, then he said, “I told you woman. Your son’s dead. What the hell are you doing here?”

  The two boats had drifted closer and were now about thirty yards apart, their sterns forming a sixty degree angle. Keeping her eyes locked on his Kirsty walked to the stern to be closer. She had no need to shout.

  “Lascelles, I came here to ask you that question and I’m going to stay with you like glue till you tell me where my son is.”

  Both Lascelles and Carlo were looking at her with awesome fascination, as though she was an exhibit in a zoo— the patch of water between them the bars.

  Lascelles was the first to react. He leaned out over the rail, his bearded chin jutting towards her.

  “You’re fucking crazy!” he hissed. “Your kid’s dead. You hear me- dead!”

  Kirsty said nothing. She reached behind her and dragged up a canvas chair, sat down and crossed her legs. Her eyes never left Lascelles’ face.

  After a minute under this impassive gaze he snorted derisively and turned to look at Cady who was leaning back against the main mast, arms folded.

  Lascelles grinned, nudged Carlo and called out, “Hey pretty boy, you come for some more medicine?”

  Cady remained motionless. His voice was quiet but it carried. “I ain’t startin’ nothin’.”

  “You better not,” Carlo sneered. “There’s no hospital in this place.”

  A man had appeared on the beach wearing faded shorts and a singlet. He pulled one of the dinghies into the water, climbed in and rowed out to Manasa. As he pulled alongside and shipped the oars he looked up and said,

  “Henri Daubin. I’m the manager here. Welcome to Poivre.”

  Ramesh took the painter and secured it while introducing himself, then said: “Come aboard-would you like a drink?”

  He climbed up easily. A small, dark, lithe man almost bald apart from a narrow monk’s fringe. He was introduced to the others and accepted a Scotch.

  “You are on holiday? – a cruise?” he asked, taking a proffered chair.

  “In a way,” Ramesh said. Then with a glance at Kirsty added “We came to talk to Lascelles. Kirsty here’s son was supposedly lost off Lascelles’ yacht a few months ago. She doesn’t believe it.”

  “Aah!” Daubin nodded. “I know the story.”

  “You do?” Kirsty asked in surprise.

  Daubin gestured at the schooner.

  “La Belle Vue came in a couple of days ago from Mahé. We are isolated in these islands but it’s amazing how news travels. I heard the story of the woman looking for her son, and of the big blond man fighting with Lascelles.” He glanced at Cady with an edge of sympathy. “You must understand that we on these islands are on contract. The workers move from island to island rarely returning to Mahé. We are a strange society and somehow news travels between us as though it was carried by the wind, even as far as Mauritius or the Comores a thousand miles away.” He looked at Lani, “And you are the girl who stowed away in the Maldives.” He smiled gently. “I do not blame you. I was there once.”

  His glass was empty and Ramesh refilled it.

  “How long will you stay?” Daubin asked him.

  “As long as Jaloud.”

  Kirsty leaned forward and explained her strategy. When she mentioned the ‘haunting’ of Lascelles, Daubin did not appear sceptical. He looked across at the Jaloud. Lascelles and Carlo were back at the table now playing cards. They frequently glanced at the group on Manasa’s deck.

  “Haunt him . . .” Daubin mused. “Well I have worked on the Amirante and other islands for thirty years and have seen strange things and people act in strange ways. Anything is possible. Anyway the Jaloud will leave tomorrow for Desnouf. Lascelles’ passengers do not find our birds very interesting. After that they go to Farquhar and then Aldabra.”

  He drained his glass and stood up. “You have picked a good day to arrive. The schooner also brought news that the wife of one of our workers gave birth to a son — the first. Tonight we celebrate and you are all welcome.”

  “Will Lascelles be there?” Kirsty asked.

  “No,” Daubin said firmly. “Last year he got drunk on the island and assaulted one of the workers. Since then he has not been permitted to land. But the others will be there: the bird people, the crew from La Belle Vue and maybe Carlo. It is tradition – all are invited who have permission to land.”

  “Thank you but I will stay aboard,” Kirsty said.

  Daubin looked surprised, then his face showed understanding. “Ah yes . . . the haunting.” He turned to Ramesh. “Do you need anything? We are fortunate here, we have sufficient water . . . a little brackish but drinkable.”

  “It is always good to top up,” Ramesh said gratefully.

  Chapter 20

  Ramesh stayed with Kirsty. She urged him to go to the party with Lani and Cady but he adamantly refused and in truth she had not urged him too strenuously.

  They sat on deck with a drink watching the sunset. Earlier, during the afternoon Lani and Cady had gone fishing in the dinghy and among others caught a big red snapper. Kirsty had marinated it in lemon juice and herbs and just managed to squeeze it into the oven. Fish was her favourite food and as she had worked in the galley slicing vegetables to go with it her thoughts had gone back to New York and the occasional nights that she had gone for dinner with Larry to the little restaurant in the village where they ate king prawns flambéed in brandy. She wondered what Larry was doing now, and Irving and all the others. It had been one of the very rare occasions when New York had entered her mind and it did so with no hint of nostalgia.

  Now, as she watched the sun go red and the sky assume its multi-coloured mantle, New York and her past life were light years away.

  She looked across at Jaloud — menacing with its black hull and stark raked masts.

  Carlo sat alone on deck with a glass in his hand. Every time during the afternoon that she had seen Lascelles she had turned her gaze on him. Eventually he had gone below and not reappeared. In her guts she knew that she was getting to him. He was stuck on that boat and every time he was on deck he would see her watching him: a nemesis, poised and waiting. It made her feel good.

  Beside her Ramesh sighed and inhaled the aroma drifting up the galley.

  “I am feeling like a small boy waiting for a sweet.”

  She was about to make a reply when he suddenly called out, “Look!”

  She lifted her head and saw the flash of green band across the horizon. Vivid, fleeting and heart-stopping. It was gone and for a moment she wondered if it had been there, but Ramesh was saying,

  “A wish Kirsty! Make a wish!”

  She did and he turned, his eyes excited and said. “It is an omen. It is good luck. Very, very rare.” He smiled, “Of course I am knowing your wish . . . I too made the same wish . . .and also another. Who knows? Two may be granted.”

  Still unsettled and awed by what she had seen Kirsty unconsciously reached out and took his hand.

  “What was your other wish Ramesh?”

  The moment she said it she had doubts. She could have guessed his wish for she too had made a second one and she worried that her question might embarrass him. But Ramesh was not embarrassed. He squeezed her hand and said simply: “That after we find Garret we can in some way c
ontinue to be together.”

  She did not reply. She sat looking at the now dark horizon for a long time, then she withdrew her hand and stood up and went below to the galley.

  She refused to let him do anything. She laid the table and opened the chilled wine and carried the food up and served it. When they were both seated, she facing Jaloud, Ramesh poured the wine, raised his glass and said,

  “Book-keepers.”

  “What?”

  “Book-keepers,” he repealed. “Kirsty we were both bookkeepers. Let us drink to them – all over the world — and wish that they in their lives could have one moment as serene as this.”

  She returned his smile and sipped her wine and looked about her. Apart from the boat forty yards away and its associations, the scene was a page out of the book of paradise. They were yards from a palm fringed beach dimly lit by the emerging moon, which also shimmered gently on the mirror surface of the water. Distant sounds floated out from the trees: the syncopated music of the Moutia to which they had danced the sega in Mahé only three nights before. Above them the stars were amplified like diamonds scattered on black velvet. She was sitting on a yacht about to eat fish fresher than any city dweller could imagine. Opposite her was a man she found attractive and interesting — and yes, something more. A small kerosene lamp hanging from the boom cast a flickering light on to his brown aquiline face accentuating his slim nose and straight jaw; deepening his eyes and adding an air of mystery.

  She smiled again and raised her glass and murmured “To book-keepers.”

  During the meal they were generally silent apart from frequent muffled sounds of appreciation from Ramesh.

  Later she cleared away, again refusing his help, and brewed coffee and brought it up.

  Then they talked, first sitting at the table and later standing at the stern rail. She rested against the back stay, he very close, legs apart, head lowered towards her.

  They talked of their past lives. She told him of her marriage and Garret’s childhood. He told her of his life in Bombay, the early prejudices directed at Anglo-Indians, his mother and her stoicism. He even told her about the girl from Goa and his feelings of helplessness and frustration in the face of bigotry and poverty. As he talked she realised once again that this man had changed even in the days she had known him. He was still courteous and a little diffident, but she could see the strength in him emerging. It was like a curtain being slowly pulled aside, at the unveiling of a portrait. At first she had been faintly amused at the rhythm and foibles of his accent. The ‘I am knowing’ instead of ‘I know’. The absence of the apostrophes in his speech. The ‘and so on and so forth’. But now they seemed to give him dignity.

  “Ramesh,” she said. “I can’t hide it. I feel so much for you. I think from the first day. It’s grown ever since . . . goes on growing. Don’t think I’m cold or even unaware of what you feel . . . it’s just the time . . . the situation.”

  “I know. Do not worry about it Kirsty.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Ramesh, I truly thought until these last few days that I could never really love again. I thought that the part of the brain . . . or whatever allows it, was dead. You proved that wrong . . . but I don’t want to think about it, or after tonight even talk about it. I’m frightened to be weak, Ramesh. Frightened to think about myself . . . and not my son.”

  He told her that he understood – expected nothing less. Anyway, they were together and he was happy and confident about the future.

  They could still hear the music from the shore. Kirsty looked at her watch. It was almost midnight.

  “I’ll go to bed.”

  “Thank you for a very delicious meal,” he said formally and stood to one side.

  As she passed him she paused and turned and laid a hand against his cheek in a gesture of affection.

  She was about to go down the companionway when she heard the voices. She turned and saw two dark shapes on Jaloud’’s deck. Lascelles was talking in a drunken slur.

  “Well fucking go if you want to.”

  “I am.” Carlo said defiantly. “The damn beer’s finished. They’ll have gallons of calou . . . an’ that Chinese bitch . . . haven’t had a slit-eye for years.”

  He dropped on to the dinghy while Lascelles muttered something.

  “Don’t worry,” Carlo said. “I’ll bring you a fucking bottle.”

  He rowed off towards the beach and Lascelles disappeared below. Kirsty moved back to Ramesh’s side.

  “There’s going to be trouble,” she said anxiously. “If he makes a pass at Lani, Cady’s going to erupt.”

  “Definitely. Do you want to go ashore?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No Ramesh. But I’m not going to bed now. I’ll make some more coffee.”

  It had been a good party, simple and satisfying. Mountains of food and rivers of drink. There were a dozen men working the plantation but apart from Lani the only other female was Daubin’s wife, a plump, jolly woman. So after the meal she and Lani had to dance with all the men including the three ornithologists. They were all English, serious and middle-aged, but after the consumption of several glasses of calou they visibly relaxed and joined in the fun,

  Cady had drunk little but as he watched Lani dancing with the captain of La Belle Vue he felt mildly intoxicated and realised that it was not only alcohol that drugged the senses. He felt like a young boy on a date. Although with the preponderance of men he had danced only once with Lani she had, by her actions, proclaimed that she was with him. After every dance she came back to his side, natural and unselfconscious. There had been no chance for intimate conversation but he felt very close to her.

  The music was provided by three of the workers. One played a banjo, another a violin and the third a traditional zeze, a centuries old instrument consisting of a stretched string attached to a calabash to provide resonance.

  They were an unlikely trio but what they lacked in musical skill was more than compensated by enthusiasm. The venue was the copra drying shed, open on all sides. By midnight the new father was suitably drunk and Cady guessed that in a short while the party would come to a close.

  During the evening he had talked to the three ornithologists. They had heard of Kirsty’s story and were sympathetic. They were doing field work for the Royal Society preparatory to the setting up of a permanent scientific base on one of the islands. They were deeply disillusioned by the few days they had spent on Jaloud. The food was terrible, the boat dirty, and Lascelles and Carlo often drunk and abusive.

  On finding La Belle Vue at Poivre they had tried to charter her instead but she had to return to Mahé in the morning with a cargo of copra. However, the captain was taking a letter to the owner and, if terms were agreed, he would return and meet up with them either at Farquhar or Aldabra. In the meantime they had decided to stay on shore as much as possible.

  Lani had just finished dancing and plumped down beside Cady, fanning her face, when Carlo appeared. Everyone was sitting in a semi-circle facing the trio with the makeshift dance floor in the middle. Henri Daubin was beside a table laden with bottles and glasses. He stood up, filled a glass and gave it to Carlo.

  “Calou-it’s all that’s left.”

  “Thanks.” Carlo took the glass and drained half of it. The trio was still playing. Daubin’s wife was dancing with a crew member from La Belle Vue, but the atmosphere had lost its edge.

  Carlo looked around him, oblivious to the effect his presence had caused. He saw Lani and Cady sitting with the ornithologists and ambled over. Ignoring Cady he nodded at the Englishman and said to Lani, “Dance?”

  Curtly Lani shook her head and looked away. He stood there, rocking on his heels, his eyes travelling insolently down her body.

  “What are you, Chiu Chow? Fukienese? Cantonese?”

  He saw her eyes lift and he grinned and said something that none of the others could understand. She looked surprised, and then shook her head.

  “I don’t want to dance
.”

  The music had stopped. Carlo contemplated her for a while; a half sneer appeared on his face and he said something else.

  In a second she was off her chair and the shed resounded to the sharp slap as she slashed a hand across his face.

  He backed off two paces, grinning now. Cady was on his feet beside her, an arm in front of her.

  “What did he say?”

  Her eyes full of hate, she spat out, “He called me a whore!”

  “OK . . .” Cady gently pushed her back. To Carlo he said, “You’re gonna suffer for that.”

  Carlo’s grin widened. “Like I said kid, there ain’t no hospital here. You mix with me – I’ll do a lot worse than Danny.” He pointed his chin at Lani and laughed. “I get through with you an’ even Suzy Wong here won’t find your prick in the mess.”

  Suddenly there were a dozen men around them, all eyeing Carlo menacingly. Henri Daubin said to him, “You’d better get back on your boat – and stay there.”

  Carlo ignored him. He looked at Cady and laughed again.

  “Got you a little army, huh?”

  Cady shook his head and caught Daubin’s eye. A look passed between them and after a moment’s hesitation Daubin nodded and spoke in creole. The men backed away, forming a large circle.

  “Jus’ you an’ me,” Cady drawled and moved forward. Still grinning Carlo dropped into a crouch, turning his left shoulder forward.

  Cady, fully erect, edged in and, as Carlo’s left fist hooked to his face, ducked under it.

  There came a dull thud and Carlo doubled up from the blow to his stomach. Cady’s knee slammed up into his open face with a crunching, cracking sound and Carlo went over backwards, landing on the packed dirt, one hand clutching his belly, the other across the top of his face. His grin was gone.

  “Get up!”

  Cady’s voice was like a polar wind.

  Carlo rolled over on to his side, then pushed himself on to his knees. Blood dripping from his broken nose mingling with the brown dirt. He got one foot up and then the other, paused and then with a bellow rushed in a crouch, his bullet head aimed at Cady’s crotch.