by Susan Duncan
‘Yeah,’ Sam says, barely listening, his eyes on the water. He takes a long swig. ‘Your dinner going to spoil, chef?’
‘I have cooked chicken tonight. Slowly braised in red wine and my homemade stock – stock is the key, of course, to a fine cassoulet – with bacon and mushrooms and flamed with brandy. A classic coq au vin. You know it, of course.’
‘Ah, chicken, yeah, I’m familiar with chicken,’ Sam replies, floundering.
‘Perhaps we will eat it warm instead of hot, which suits the weather. Yes? This way, the chicken will not dry out.’
‘Ah! Reckon that’s her now.’ Sam takes off, beer in hand. He can’t wipe the grin off his face. He waits on the pontoon until she’s close enough to swing in. She tosses him a rope, cuts the engine. Passes a manila folder thick with papers.
‘Don’t drop it,’ she says. ‘I’d hate to waste a day’s work.’ She climbs out of the boat. Bare legs and arms. Shoeless. Her tanned skin giving off a low sheen. ‘It’s mind boggling, Sam. Deeply crazy stuff. They’re all mad as cut snakes.’
‘Could have told you that from day one and saved you a lot of effort,’ he says cheerily.
Kate freezes. ‘Really?’
Sam swallows, loses the grin, curses himself for an insensitive blockhead. She’s worked hard. All he needed to say was ‘thank you’. He suddenly feels worn out, unsure if she was genuinely offended by an essentially harmless, throwaway line or whether she’s using irritation as a way of seizing the moral high ground. But, jeez, if you can’t laugh in the face of disaster . . . He backpedals. ‘A joke, love. The whole community is grateful for everything you’re doing.’ He bows, mock serious, looking for lightness. But he can’t help feeling that his foot comes down on a freaking twig that lies in wait far too often for comfort.
‘I don’t mean to be unkind,’ she says, ‘but I wonder, sometimes, if this great and wondrous community you’re always rattling on about is nothing more than a sheltered workshop. Out in the real world, I doubt too many of this lot would survive beyond the first day.’
He feels his hackles rising, a rare surge of anger. This time, he doesn’t back off. ‘Depends where you’re coming from, I guess. I prefer to think we understand our responsibilities to each other which, in turn, makes us feel strong and safe in our environment. Which, in another turn, means we feel free to be individuals instead of blindly following the pack mentality. You’re part of it too, Kate. Where do you reckon you fit in?’
Without a word, Kate takes her file from him as though he can’t be trusted with it. He follows her along the jetty in silence. He suddenly feels flat. Wonders why the two of them so often seem to be failing to thrive, as Fast Freddy would say. Up ahead, he sees Ettie emerge from the house. The chef rushes to her side. He takes her hand, leads her to a chaise. Cups one hand around her cheek. Sam can feel the tenderness in the gesture even from a distance. He catches up with Kate. Rome wasn’t built in a day, he reminds himself. Give it time. Give her time. And while he’s about it, he could take a few cues from Marcus and make more of an effort to understand the great divide between the casual requirements of summer romance and the concessions and compromise he’d watched his mum and dad make to richly sustain their long-term commitment. Jeez, he thinks, if he’s worried he might not be up to it, how must Kate feel? He catches up to her and slips his arm around her waist. He scrabbles for a line to sum up love, respect, appreciation, and even his fears that he’ll be unable to live up to her expectations. ‘You’re a deadset cracker,’ he manages, almost shouting with relief when she laughs out loud.
‘The night is suddenly so beautiful so we eat outside to appreciate this glory around us every day,’ the chef announces.
Ettie smiles agreement but silently yearns for a fan or even a zephyr to stir the air.
Kate says: ‘It is all quite exquisite, Marcus. You spoil us. But tonight, if you don’t mind, I’d also like to tell you what I’ve found out about the company that wants to destroy Garrawi.’
‘Ah, so this is the reason for coming just now. So! We share this information over dinner. Yes? Although I think, perhaps from the worried look in your eyes, that it may interrupt our enjoyment of this fine food that is waiting for us.’
‘Do you need help?’ Ettie asks, as the chef heads towards his kitchen.
‘Thank you, Ettie, no. The arm of a strong man only will do. Sam?’
Sam returns with a heavy cast-iron pot that’s as black as shoe polish. The chef, who follows carrying a salad and a dish of creamy mashed potatoes with melting butter in the centre, points towards a small table. Sam puts down the pot with suitable reverence.
The chef lifts the lid. Steam rises in a rush. The aroma is rich. Mouth-watering. Marcus takes a moment to close his eyes and inhale. ‘It is perfect,’ he says with pleasure and not a hint of conceit. Ettie can’t help smiling. He is perfect. ‘So first, you take your potatoes according to your desire and hunger, yes? Then I will arrange the chicken on top. The salad we will have after.’
When everyone is served and seated, wine glasses topped up, Kate begins.
‘The New Planet Fountain of Youth is in reality a cult. As far as I can tell, one of the worst kinds. It pretends to be about spiritual wellbeing but, in essence, it’s a massive money-making machine that lines the pockets of just a few people. The leader is a man called John James, who first appeared in a few isolated newspaper stories in the 1980s.
‘Back then, he was written off as a nutter who’d probably disappear after a year or two. One thing the reports agree on is that even though he is mad, he is also quite charismatic.’
The chef nods without saying a word.
Kate continues: ‘The basis of his faith – if that’s the right word – is fear. He preaches that the world is going to explode one day and fires will rampage across the earth’s surface, burning everything and everyone. The only survivors – no surprises here – will be his followers.’
Sam breaks in. ‘How’s he going to save all these people if the world’s blowing to pieces?’
Kate smiles, like it’s a no-brainer. ‘Easy, Sam. He’s going to teach them to fly.’
‘Eh?’ Sam almost drops his beer. Ettie’s eyes open wide in disbelief. The chef merely nods once more.
‘Yep. They’ll be told the secret of personal flight. No carpets, no gliders, no ultra-lights. It’s all a matter of mind control. You’ve got to love it. When the time for Armageddon is close, he says he will call his believers and they will rise up and hover high in unassisted flight above the holocaust until it passes. When the furore ends, they will descend from the heavens to earth to become the new leaders in a fresh and perfect world.’
‘You’re having me on, right? I mean, you’re talking about a bunch of weirdos that no one could take seriously in a fit! How the hell can they possibly snatch our park from under our noses? What do they want with Garrawi?’
‘Money, Sam. Quis licit. Remember? It’s always all about money.’
Ettie cuts in, more curious than outraged. ‘Do people really believe they’ll learn to fly? Surely no one’s that gullible in this day and age.’
‘People believe what they want to believe, my pet,’ Marcus says, reaching across the table for her hand. ‘The realities of life, for some, are boring. They are looking always for more. This is why scammers have success, no? Drugs too. They promise excitement at the beginning. Deliver disappointment at the end when the damage is all done. In this case I think, when the money runs out, so does membership. Is this right, Kate?’
She nods. ‘There are plenty of sites on the web where former members spell out what was offered to them, how their money was gradually siphoned away and what they were left with by the time their bank accounts were empty and they had nowhere to run. The stories are pitiable – lost and vulnerable people are pathetically easy targets.’
‘So what’s this bloke worth when everyt
hing’s tallied?’ Sam asks. ‘What kind of hard-core cash are we up against?’
Kate reaches for her file. Shuffles through a few papers until she finds what she’s looking for. ‘There are more than three thousand learn-to-fly centres established around the world. He has thousands of followers who operate profitable businesses – everything from manufacturing and selling health and beauty products to massive property development projects such as Garrawi. They also own vast tracts of valuable real estate.’ Kate flicks through a few pages of notes. ‘Ah. Here it is.’ She reads: ‘John James rules from a shiny black marble palace on a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Qualupe, a small and very poor town on the east coast of South America. He lives in splendid comfort with state-of-the-art technology and a band of assistants, none of them women. His faithful acolytes are housed within the compound in less glamorous accommodation: corrugated iron huts with only basic facilities, including shared kitchens and communal bathrooms. Each day, John James emerges to sit on a carved, throne-like chair on an elevated platform. He calls for prayer and then for alms, which are collected by his assistants, who are recognisable by their clothes – black suits and mirrored sunglasses. They are known within the sect as John James’s enforcers.’
She looks up from the page and continues. ‘And to complete the picture, John James has an international reputation for fraud and mismanagement but he’s avoided prosecution so far. No extradition treaties exist between our countries and, as far as I can tell, any others. Lengthy investigations by the US government into his net worth estimate his global empire at about three billion dollars.’ Kate closes her file. ‘There’s plenty more but you get the picture.’
‘Three billion? You sure that’s right?’ Sam asks, stunned by figures so far beyond his hourly barge rate of two hundred and fifty dollars that he feels his brain cells fizzing. ‘Am I missing something here? I mean how can a shonky cult leader who lives on the other side of the world end up stealing public property at Cook’s Basin?’
‘Good question. Let me explain.’
Marcus holds up a hand. ‘A few minutes, please. I will clear the table and bring dessert. It is best to have sugar in the brain at this time of the night. It is for alertness, no?’
Ettie, closest to the icebox, offers Sam another beer, then holds up the wine and raises her eyebrows at Kate, who shakes her head. ‘I’ll wait for the sugar hit,’ she says.
Ettie fills her own glass, regretting the impulse as soon as she takes a sip. ‘Back in a minute,’ she says, jumping up and racing down the jetty, where the cool night brings no relief from the heat that’s rushing through her body like an electric current. If she’s this bad now, how’s she going to feel when the next heat wave hits? Temperatures predicted to be in the high thirties. Humidity in the nineties. The kind of weather that turns you into a raging virago or sucks you dry. In her current state of mind, she’s not sure she’ll survive it. But if she installs an air-conditioner (to save her sanity), will she be helping to wreck the ozone?
Then there’s the question of the rat. If she puts down rat bait to remove a pest that could shut down her business, does she risk killing any poor starving bird that takes a bite out of the carcass? To her horror, tears pool in her eyes for the second time in a day. She is worn out by the fact that every thought and deed has far-reaching ramifications and none of them good. Why does every decision have to be so hair-tearingly complicated? Of its own accord and for no reason she can define, her body starts to cool, her panic subsides. A few moments later, almost back on course, she asks herself if most unsustainable decisions come down to immediate survival and if that’s when the rot triggers a minuscule knock-on effect that eventually expands to topple the whole shebang. Feeling fully functional and competent now, she makes her way back to the table, back on track. No bridge. No development. Hold back the bridge and resort or watch a way of life come tumbling down to sink forever in the sea. On this, at least, she feels no quivering qualifications.
She slips into her chair at the same time as the chef emerges from his high-tech kitchen, leans across to Sam and whispers: ‘We’re going to hold the biggest fundraiser The Briny has ever seen. Let’s set a date before the night’s over.’
The chef trumpets his arrival through pursed lips. ‘Tonight, we will have an old-fashioned treat that is no less magnificent for its longevity as a star in restaurants around the world,’ he declares, placing a silver serving tray on the table. Six doughnut-sized golden rounds of cake lie in a pool of fragrant syrup. The smell of rum is intoxicating. ‘I give you . . . babas au rhum! I have added, of course, my own touches. Lemon and orange zest, a little vanilla in the syrup only to bring out the subtleties of dark Jamaican rum. A symphony of lightness and strength.’ He beams. ‘At least this is the plan. Now we see if I am right.’ He serves from the platter, passing around a glass bowl of cream so thick it falls in folds like a ribbon.
Sam groans with pleasure. ‘You are a genius, chef. Never let it be said your talents are wasted on us.’ He reaches for his spoon.
Kate kicks him under the table. ‘We haven’t all been served yet, Sam.’
The chef breaks in: ‘You must begin, Sam. It is middle-class to wait.’
Kate blushes. The chef looks frantically to Ettie to get him out of a hole.
‘Two, four, six, eight, bog in, don’t wait,’ she chants. The heat is getting to her again. She wonders if spending so much time working over a hot plate in the café has somehow busted her inner thermostat. ‘Where were we?’ she asks, smiling brightly.
Kate takes up her story. ‘John James specialises in targeting ailing trusts. Quite clever, really. It’s a cheap way to acquire first-class properties. Now,’ she says, waving a piece of paper covered in small print, ‘guess who’s the trustee for Garrawi?’
‘The bad-tempered colour-blind leprechaun who lives on the eastern side of the Island, right?’ Sam says.
‘If you mean Eric Lowdon, spot on. He’s sole trustee. Turns out he’s related to Teddy Mulray, which according to my research, is how he got the job. Spent a few holidays here as a kid, too. So not quite the blow-in everyone thought.’
‘Must’ve been a loner or I’d remember him,’ Sam says, struggling to conjure up a childhood image of the current adult version of the man.
‘Now, who do you think owns the construction company that’s been hired to do the build? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not connected in any way with the guru.’
The trio looks blank. Kate laughs, pleased with herself: ‘Eric Lowdon again. Trading under the name of EL Constructions. Right under our noses if we’d bothered to look hard enough. He’s set to make a fortune out of the deal. Oh, and his first cousin is Theo Mulvaney, Minister for Housing and Development.’
‘It’s bloody outrageous,’ Sam says angrily. The foursome goes silent. Appalled by the crushing weight of money and power, struggling not to feel defeated before the battle even begins. The night closes in. Soft and warm. Like velvet. At complete odds with the way they feel.
Marcus says, ‘So what is my job on this committee to save the world?’
Sam places a hand on his satisfied stomach and hits on a brainwave. ‘You will host the first committee meeting, chef, if you’re agreeable. Perhaps one of your light repasts to give us all strength for what is ahead?’
Marcus slaps his thigh emphatically. ‘This is my forte, of course. So happily, my friend. Happily.’
Eventually, Kate rises to leave. Sam, unsure since the thumping disaster of his unintentionally light-hearted dismissal of Kate’s intense labours, whether he’s still invited to a post-prandial – as his dad used to say to his mum with a nod and a wink – assignation at her home, stays seated.
‘Your boat or mine?’ Kate asks.
‘I’ll follow,’ he says. As he knew he would.
Sam slips into bed beside a drowsy Kate. ‘The stuff about the cult knocked us sideways. I
t was good work, Kate. We’re on a learning curve. Most of us still can’t understand how all this has happened. I mean there we all are, going along minding our own business, leading halfway decent lives and all of a sudden, someone rips the rug from under us . . .’
‘Clichés, Sam. Time to give them a rest.’ She rolls deliciously on top of him. Their separate skins joined by the heat of their bodies. In a voice hollow with sleepiness, she says: ‘Promise you won’t turn rogue soldier and roar off on your own again. No freelancing, OK?’
He grins and runs his hand along her silken back. The power of women. No wonder men go mad. ‘Nice to think you care,’ he says, dodging the question, knowing he’d never get away with it if she were wide-awake. Just to make sure, he does his best to distract her.
Chapter Eight
Within a week, the first official gathering of Sam’s vagabond committee comprising Marcus, Jenny, Jane, Judy, Glenn the removalist, Ettie, the Misses Skettle, Lindy Jones (who still insists on shouldering the blame for letting Eric Lowdon sneak under her radar to buy properties), John Scott (representing the art community) and Seaweed (a devout rule-bender with a talent for creating top websites) takes place at Marcus’s home. Siobhan still hasn’t returned Sam’s call. A bad sign.
More or less on time (the first in what turns out to be a series of minor but significant miracles), a small flotilla of boats, with Sam in his tiny tinny at the point like an arrowhead, arrives in V-shape formation, setting up a foaming white chop that washes against the chef’s sandstone seawall. ‘The navy’s in port and ready to man the battle stations,’ they shout, waving madly. ‘What’s for dinner, chef?’
Marcus greets them one by one as they disembark with a firm handshake and a slight bow. It is a strangely formal gesture, underlining the grave purpose of the gathering and for a moment the committee is overwhelmed by the seriousness of the task they have set themselves. The fate and future of their small community is in their unskilled and very possibly inadequate hands. The mood goes flat.
