I let him in, take the wine and mutter, ‘She’s all yours,’ only to find the doorway suddenly blocked with several exceptionally well-nourished members of the local constabulary. I look over at Valerie, only to find that she is no longer sleeping.
‘Barry has told me everything,’ she says.
Needless to say, the bastard has taped our meetings for the delectation of the boys in blue and I am found guilty of conspiracy to murder and sentenced to a lengthy staycation at an English jail.
During my first year behind bars I earn an NVQ in drama and spend time in the prison workshop doing a woodworking course. (I make a storage box and a jumbo-sized jigsaw as I’m not allowed to make a smoker’s pipe or a wine rack.)
I dumb down a lot and started reading an American magazine devoted to sightings of Elvis and kidnappings by extraterrestrials. One week they have a two-page spread on extreme eating competitions, and, to my amazement, they include a few words about Valerie and the cash prizes that she’s won.
Shortly afterwards, one of the younger guys gets hold of a mobile phone (you don’t want to know where they store these things), and I get to see my ex-wife in jaw-aching action. I can see that it is the perfect job for her as she gets to travel, as always, but now she can eat without guilt. Extreme eating has given her a purpose, a new part-time career, a fan base. She’s always had a competitive side to her nature and now she is top dog – well, top hot-dog eater – in her chosen field.
I bear her no ill will, and my ire only comes to the fore when I click on a photo montage and see one of Barry in the background. He is lifting a glass of whisky towards the camera (I bet he’s upgraded to a single malt) and is named as her tour manager. In other words, he’s taken on the pleasures of my role as kept man and world traveller without the pain of the sex.
He’s ruined my life and now I shall ruin his. It shouldn’t be difficult. After all, his itinerary is online and my fellow prisoners are being released into the wilderness every day. Several of them would beat a man to death just for the fun of it, but I’m willing to throw in the little money I have left, plus the handcrafted storage box and jigsaw, of course. I’ll toast his demise in the prison canteen with some bread and water, and neither will ever have tasted so good.
The White Goddess
Cath Staincliffe
The waves cast her onto the rocks, skinning her knees, shins, elbows. Her thirst was raging, her eyes were cloudy with exhaustion. There were buildings clustered half a mile or so along the coast but when she tried to stand her muscles shrieked and shivered. All she wore was a bikini.
Get up. Get up now!
On trembling legs, her tongue dry as the pumice sold in the minimarkets, she staggered on. No path. Thorns bristled all around, ripping fresh wounds in her legs. Dust billowed from the sere land, coating the blood that streaked in rivulets to her bare feet. Blood the same colour as the poppies sprayed among the scrub. Flies came to feed. Grasshoppers sprang away as she walked.
What was the Greek for husband? For help? For coastguard? For please find him, find my love? She would cry but there were no tears, everything parched. Sharp stones jabbed at the pads of her feet, making her grimace. The gesture caused her lips to crack anew.
Perfection. Lazy days under the brilliant sun. The rickety footbridge from the jetty to the tiny taverna. An aroma of garlic and prawns and wild oregano making her mouth water. Her skin tight with salt and heat. Her hunger for him ever present, ravenous.
Eyes narrowed against the rippling haze, she saw with a punch to her heart that the settlement was unfinished. A ghost resort. Raw breeze-block walls and steel rods. Hotels and apartments just shells, staring at her with blind malice as the wind blew sand and cement powder into her face.
She nearly gave up then. Why keep going when she had lost him? The thought tore at her insides. She wanted to howl, to throw herself down and beat the ground.
Walk. Keep walking.
Counting steps, she followed the rough track, cut to create access to someone’s dream development. Losing count and starting again and again until she reached a tarmac road. There she stood, hesitant, dizzy. Which way? The heat burned her shoulders and her scalp.
They loved the island. Honeymooned here. Returned often. Cistus, broom, vetch and daisies flowering in the dirt. The air perfumed by thyme and sage and eucalyptus. Waiters and shopkeepers greeted them with broad smiles. Tourists were money. And with the country ravaged by austerity, they were the lifeblood of the islands. It was his idea to hire the boat. Named Leucothea, for the goddess who rescued Odysseus from the deep.
Roaring and the blurt of a horn. The refuse truck swept past, trailing a miasma that had her bent double, vomiting into the ditch. Thin yellow bile splashed over the plastic pipes and lumps of concrete, rusting cans, rubbish bags and broken palm fronds. Then voices. Two old Greek men, wizened walnut faces. A small van. Incomprehensible questions. She pointed to her wedding ring, her finger swollen sickly white around it. Then at the sea. Implored them with shaking palms outstretched. Tried to speak – My husband, please save him – but the back of her skull was melting, her knees buckled, and she fell.
Kisses. The salt on his lips, small crystals dried on his chest. The scent of him, briny among the sweet coconut of sunscreen.
Cold white hospital bed, a metallic smell, a drip in her arm, throat full of glass. Dehydrated, punch-drunk with sunstroke. And shock. The soundtrack of the town was too close. The shriek of scooters, the frenzied barking of a dog, car horns, the chatter of sparrows, snatches of mindless bouzouki music and blaring rap, the bass so heavy it thumped through her stomach. Had she told them he was missing? They must find him. She pressed the buzzer.
Walking back to the boat, the earth giving up its scents to the night. Sweet jasmine and fennel, and a whiff of trash from the bins on the road that were alive with cats. Lulled to sleep by the rocking of the ocean, the slap and suck of the waves. She’d never imagined that the trouble with the business would follow them here.
She described it all. The water that rose so quickly, capsizing the boat. How, when she surfaced, she could not see him. They showed her charts. Talked of time and tides. He wasn’t wearing a life vest? Her face flushed. We’d been … making love. Drifting. The land a smudge on the horizon. The sea all theirs.
Is there any sign? He was the stronger swimmer, after all. There had to be hope. She asked every time the police came, but there was no word.
Butterflies bobbed and house martins dipped over the restaurant pool on the day they collected the Leucothea. The sea beyond was clear turquoise. The air busy with the hiss of spume and the sizzle of cicadas. Squeezing his hand, she met his gaze, saw her smile reflected in his.
She wept when they abandoned the search, when they told her gently that his body might never be recovered. The consulate had arranged clothing and essentials, temporary accommodation, her passage home.
The night before the sinking they stopped in a sheltered bay, accessible only by water. Shared bread and olives, wine so cold it hurt her teeth. She kissed his neck, his mouth, his belly. He touched her. She came watching the stars glitter above, the moon casting its silver beam across the oil-dark sea. She never wanted to leave.
They sought her out in the departure lounge. Took her aside. We’ve found your husband.
Her heart burst, the room swam. Thank you, she said when she could speak. I’ll wait, fly back with his … with him.
Cold eyes and the ghost of a smile. He has told us everything.
Drowsy after lunch, reaching for him. The wings of his shoulder blades flinched at her touch. Revulsion in his eyes as he turned. His voice catching: ‘I can’t do this. I thought I could. I’ve tried … but … I love her. I still love her. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She was silent. Stunned, as if he’d hit her. He had promised. They had agreed. He’d said the bitch had gone, left to work elsewhere.
Rage funnelled through her like wildfire. Rushing up her spine, into her neck, explo
ding in her head.
‘Need a pee.’ He stood silhouetted against the sky.
One shove was all it took.
She scuppered the boat within sight of shore, cruising past the ragged limestone cliffs of the west and on to where the plains began, in striking distance of land. But she had misjudged the demands of the swim, not allowing for the fierce currents that robbed her of progress. The undertow that sucked her back time and again and had her praying for salvation.
Fishermen found him, clinging to a spit of rock miles from anywhere. The policeman drew handcuffs from his pocket. Truly a miracle.
Gooseflesh puckered the honeyed tan of her arms as she held out her wrists. Through the plate-glass windows, beyond the runway, the sea shimmered cobalt, calm and still.
High Flyer
Chris Simms
He sat stiffly in the chair, head angled to the side, face turned in annoyance from the computer screen. ‘Come here, Pakpao!’
A couple of seconds passed before he heard the whisper of footsteps. A shadow appeared in the doorway. He didn’t bother swivelling the chair to face her. ‘Here, I said.’
His voice was stern. Ominously so. On the monitor was an airline company’s site: flights to Thailand.
She did as he asked and came to a halt alongside him. Despite being seated, his head was almost level with hers. ‘What have I said about visiting these sites? I’ve told you not to. You know that, yet still you do it.’
She said nothing. Her aura of calm annoyed him. Words could never puncture it. His hand lifted, his fingers grasped her wrist, and she was jerked closer to the screen. ‘Browsing history. I check everything. You can’t hide anything from me. When will you get that into your thick head?’
He glanced at her face, saw her impassive expression and tried to crush the bones of her wrist. ‘Hmm?’
The corners of her mouth finally tightened. A small movement, but enough to give him a victory of sorts. He threw her hand away from him. ‘Now get out.’
He turned his attention back to the screen, and a moment later a floorboard in the hallway creaked. She was gone.
Craig Evans minimised the browser’s window. Now a report from the head engineer at a manufacturing plant he owned over in Ireland filled the screen. Tax was more favourable in Ireland – but the production line had developed a fault. Something to do with the laser cutter.
He ran a hand over his face. A vein in his temple throbbed as he tried to calculate the best way to resolve the issue. He could pay for a consultant from a Dublin-based firm he’d used before. But even if identifying the glitch only took a day, the fee would be extortionate.
He tapped a finger up and down on his mouse. Bloody Pakpao. She’d robbed him of the ability to concentrate. It was nine years ago that he’d found her. The trip over to Thailand had been a fortieth birthday present to himself. Just him and a local guide, hiking in the vast forests of the country’s mountainous north. Two full weeks watching birdlife: blue-winged pittas, rufous-necked hornbills, Gould’s frogmouths.
Back in civilisation, he’d strayed into a bar on the Jet Yod Road in Chang Rai. Pakpao hadn’t been one of the naked dancers up on stage; she lacked the beauty and figure for that. Hips that were too wide, legs too stout, nose too flat. But as she moved around the bar collecting glasses and wiping down tables, he’d noticed something in her. Stoicism? The brain-jarring din of music didn’t seem to affect her. Nor the jostling groups of male tourists who had obviously taken a lot more than alcohol, judging by the way they staggered and giggled and blew out their cheeks. Observing her, he had admired the serene way she just got on with her job.
He checked the time: almost eight in the evening. Tomorrow was Saturday. The consultancy firm would charge a weekend call-out fee if he resorted to ringing them. Bloody shitty Taiwanese equipment. He should have made the extra investment and got the German machine.
She was in the kitchen quietly preparing breakfast when he entered it the next morning. Seven years ago he moved her into a spare room. One on the other side of the house. After they’d become husband and wife, he’d tried all the expected stuff. But he’d never really been bothered about it before, so why he thought marriage would provoke a taste for it, he couldn’t imagine. He’d made a few attempts during their first couple of years together, her lying beneath him, body rocking slightly as he’d thrust back and forth. Her face had never changed. Eventually, he’d gone back to relieving himself in the shower. It was easier that way. Less messy, too. After he’d made that decision, it was pointless sharing a bed.
She poured him a coffee. Strong and flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom – the way they made it in the hill village she originally came from. He hadn’t been sure about the taste at first. Now he couldn’t start the day without it.
‘Good morning,’ she announced with a smile, placing the cup before him. ‘Are you have porridge or the toast?’
He’d given up on correcting her English around the same time as they’d stopped sharing a bedroom. ‘Porridge.’
His copy of the Telegraph was on the table, where it should be. As he unfolded it, he noticed the little vase in the middle of the table. It held fresh daffodils. ‘Tomorrow, I may have to fly over to the plant near Dublin.’
She remained still.
‘I’ll try and sort it out from here, but I don’t imagine I’ll have much luck.’ He waved at the flowers and when he spoke, his voice had softened. ‘This is all very nice, but you’re not going back there. You know that, don’t you?’
He studied her back as she dug oats from a Tupperware container. ‘Pakpao? Look at me.’
She replaced the scoop and when she turned round, her face was like a mask.
‘Your sister should never have written,’ he said. ‘It’s her fault that you’re now sad.’
Her lips hardly moved as she replied. ‘My mother sick. That why I’m sad.’
‘How about we go to Chester Zoo on Sunday? Take your mind off things, hmm? I’ll resolve the problem at the plant and we’ll visit the zoo.’
The first time he’d taken her there, it was so that he could spend time in the aviary. Among the parrots were some of the finest Indigo Macaws in the world. He’d found her later in the tropical section, standing motionless below giant leaves as impossibly large butterflies glided over her head. He’d worked out, eventually, that the cloying atmosphere, loamy smell and pulsing colours reminded her of home.
‘My mother sick.’
He flexed the paper so sharply the pages made a snapping sound. ‘That may well be. And she might be better by now. Who knows?’ His eyes traversed the text. ‘You left that life behind when you came here. That is what we agreed, did we not?’
She looked to the side.
‘Did we not?’
‘I wish to see her.’
‘Do you know how much a flight would be? Booking at short notice like this?’ He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Astronomical.’
‘“Astromical”?’
‘A lot. A bloody lot. More than you can imagine, that’s for sure. So you’re not going back, and that’s an end to it. No more, do you understand?’
She bowed her head to show acquiescence.
‘Good.’ He raised the paper to remove her from his view.
The young men were in their usual place on the benches at the far end of the precinct. Boarded-up shops meant this had become their space, an area where they slouched and spat, and sold tiny plastic bags to teenagers and, occasionally, adults.
For Pakpao, the walk into town took close to an hour. The house where she lived was out in the countryside. To the side of the property was a large barn. Craig kept his aeroplane in there. It was small. Only two seats. Very similar to the ones that sometimes appeared back home. Those would clear the crests of the surrounding hills and swoop down as hissing clouds erupted from below their wings, vapour settling over the poppy fields her people grew. Sometimes the planes sprayed their cornfields, too. It was extra punishment, the village elder
s explained, for cultivating the forbidden crop.
When she’d been sent from the forested land to earn money in the bars of Chang Rai, she’d watched the farangs buying black opium paste. The young Westerners purchased other stuff, too. Clumps of mushrooms that grew in the hills; the type that painted pictures in your mind. Pills and powders that had a similar effect. She was puzzled by their carefree, indulgent existence. Was it how everyone lived in the countries they came from?
In the precinct, a young man wearing a black woollen cap became suddenly aware that a short figure had been standing silently beside him. ‘Whoa!’ His surprise was swiftly replaced by confusion. ‘Where the fuck did she appear from?’
His mates twisted their heads, took one look at her and resumed staring at their screens.
He leaned away, his glance dropping to her feet then working slowly upward. She had trainers on, but they were an unfamiliar make, probably bought in Aldi or something. Dark socks and a grey skirt that came to below her knees. Over that, a sensible coat. Navy blue. Even though she was tiny, she seemed solid. Sturdy. The straps of a rucksack curled from view beneath her armpits. Her jet-black hair was scraped off her face into a bun. She was, he guessed, around thirty. Her face was kind.
‘You lost?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘So…’ He half lifted a hand.
‘I buy some acid,’ she whispered.
He started to smile, eyes cutting to the others as they looked round. ‘For real?’ He got to his feet and checked about. No one else was near. ‘What was that you said?’
‘Acid?’
Placing his hands on his knees, he flexed them so his face was level with hers. ‘You what?’
Mystery Tour Page 5
