‘Who are they?’ he asked the chef, nodding in the direction of the two strangers.
‘What’s that, sunshine?’
‘The two stooges by the door.’
George glanced over his shoulder. The two men had gone.
‘The way things are going, I may have to leave,’ he told Veronique that evening. ‘You know what the new regime thinks of the British. Marry me and come back to England with me.’
‘This is my home. Stay here.’
‘It’s not like I’ll have any choice if they come for me, and it could happen at any time.’
‘I cannot leave Mahé . . .’ She faltered.
Her eyes grew troubled as he told her he might have been overheard criticising the new president. ‘It was stupid of me, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.’
She put her hands lightly on his shoulders and he could smell her perfume.
‘Take me with you, George,’ she whispered, her eyes shining.
‘Get your passport.’ He paused, seeing her bewilderment. ‘You have got a passport, haven’t you?’
But he already knew the answer. She had never left the island.
‘That’s it then, I’ll stay here one way or another.’
She pulled back out of his embrace. ‘No, you must leave. It’s dangerous for you here.’
‘Well, if they insist on sending me packing then I suppose I’ll have to go. In the meantime, you need to apply for a passport straight away. Hang on.’
He ran over to his desk and pulled out his stash of emergency cash.
‘Here, take this. All of it.’
Her eyes grew round. She had probably never seen so much money in her life, let alone handled it.
‘Take it,’ he repeated, thrusting the notes into her hand. ‘It will help you get hold of a passport. If they send me away before you can get out, I’ll send you more money, from England. Where shall I send it?’
‘Send it to Veronique Hall, at the Post Office in Victoria.’
He smiled, hearing their names linked on her lips.
‘If you can’t get a passport, I’ll come back for you. You have to wait for me, no matter how long it takes.’
She put her finger on his lips. ‘You do not need to say this.’
On the surface, life at the hotel continued as before. The British government had issued no recommendation for tourists to leave. Holidaymakers carried on burning in the sun, walking on the beach and enjoying the water sports. The chief of police was not the only one to have disappeared. Those who remained became staunch supporters of the new regime, wherever their previous sympathies had lain.
Without a word spoken on the subject, George and his friends no longer felt comfortable talking in public areas where everyone seemed to be constantly looking over their shoulders. More pressing was the problem of how to get hold of a passport. At a loss, George went to see the hotel manager.
‘I want to ask your advice.’
‘Fire away old boy.’
‘How do I go about obtaining a passport?’
The manager leaned forward and squinted into George’s eyes as though trying to read something there.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost your passport? Jesus, what a time to go—’
‘No, no. It’s not for me. It’s for a – a friend.’
The manager put his arm round George’s shoulder and propelled him towards the door.
‘A woman?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Not here,’ the manager murmured. ‘Come and see me later on. My office. Six o’clock.’
As George was walking away, a burly man stepped into the corridor right in front of him. A second thug came and stood behind him. Trapped, George cringed, waiting for a fist to land in his face.
‘Come with me.’
The voice was stilted, as though the speaker had learned the words without understanding their meaning. At the same time, a large hand gripped George by the elbow and pushed him towards a side exit. A black car was waiting outside, parked in the shadow of palm trees. A hotel porter was lolling against the wall near the exit, smoking. He glanced up, tossed his cigarette away and scurried back inside. There was no one else to witness George leave the hotel.
‘Where are you taking me? I can’t just walk away from my desk like this. I have responsibilities. At least let me speak to the manager—’
‘Shut up.’
Smoothly the car slid away from the hotel. George stared out of the window. He wondered if the view of the ocean speeding past was the last sight he would ever see.
‘Where are you taking me?’ He was embarrassed to hear his voice wobbling.
No one answered.
He was relieved when they drew up outside his house. One of the thugs pushed him out of the car and onto the path. He had to scramble to keep his footing.
‘Get your stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Get your stuff,’ the man repeated in a flat tone. ‘You going home, boy.’
‘Home?’ George repeated stupidly, staring round at the driver’s mirrored sunglasses. ‘I live here.’
The driver leaned back against the side of the car, legs crossed, and blew a smoke ring into the humid air. ‘You best do like he say and get your stuff or you going home without it.’
‘You move your ass, boy. The plane leaves in two hours and you gonna be on it.’
‘I can’t possibly be ready so soon.’
Careless of the danger he was in, he insisted they give him more time. He did not explain that he needed to contact Veronique. It might put her life at risk if they knew she was involved with a British man, a known supporter of Mancham. He cursed himself for having spoken out against René in public, in a moment of thoughtless stupidity. He did not actually give a toss who was president. He cared only for Veronique.
‘No,’ the brute replied. ‘No more time. The plane leaves in two hours. Go get your stuff.’
He stepped forward, reaching George in one stride. Grabbing the front of his shirt in one huge fist he yanked him forwards, almost pulling him off his feet.
‘It’s a small island. Don’t try no funny business.’
He shoved George roughly down the path to his front door. With only two hours before he was due to leave, he could not hope to find Veronique. He did not even know where to look for her.
‘My home is here with you,’ was the only answer she had given when he had asked her where she lived. At the time, that had been enough.
There was nothing he could do but pack his suitcase before the men returned. Carefully he wrapped a specimen of delicate black coral in a shirt and laid it in the case with his clothes. In his panic he nearly missed a note that had been slipped under his back door. Written in a childish scrawl, with deep indentations made by the letters as though the paper had been resting against the palm of her hand, at one point the biro had gone clean through the paper, leaving a tiny tear for a full stop at the end.
‘I cannot come today. It is no longer safe.’
The note was signed ‘V’.
All too soon, he heard loud banging at his front door. Without a word, the thugs bundled him out. As the car accelerated away from the small white house by the ocean, the thought of abandoning the woman he loved cut through him like a physical pain. His only consolation was the knowledge that she would understand his hasty departure had been forced on him. He trusted in her constancy as surely as he knew the sun would set over the ocean the following day, although he would no longer be there to witness its dying light.
Seychelles
Present Day
1
FROM HER SEAT BY the window Lucy stared past the edge of a wing. As the plane descended below a carpet of grey cloud, she saw the Indian Ocean far below, surprisingly turquoise in the early morning sun. They dropped closer and she saw the surface, crinkled by waves. Fluffy white clouds floated underneath them, resembling dollops of whipped cream. Two long islands came into view, one larger than the other, like a wha
le with a calf swimming alongside. They flew on and she saw a large green island with a wide bay. As they descended she could make out tiny angular flecks of boats. The plane wheeled until she could see nothing but water, and then they were flying over the bay, white surf edging the land like ruffled lace. They were almost on the ground, close enough for her to see white buildings with terracotta roofs dotted along the coastline. More buildings flashed past, at the foot of green hills dwarfed by a high grey mountain. Apart from that one stone outcrop the island looked lush and green. Lucy tried to look excited, but she felt numb with misery.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Seychelles. The local time is seven thirty a.m. and the outside temperature is twenty-seven degrees Celsius. Please keep your seat belts fastened . . .’
Lucy leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. It would be a relief to get off the plane and stretch her legs.
‘Are you OK?’
She opened her eyes and nodded at her mother, forcing a smile. ‘I’m fine, really. You don’t need to worry about me any more.’
Unwilling to leave her alone, her parents had whisked her off on holiday with them, taking her five thousand miles away from her devastating break-up with her fiancé, Darren. She had not been away with them for several years, had not spent longer than a weekend in their company since she had left home at eighteen.
As the plane touched down, she struggled to maintain a cheerful façade. She was doing her best, determined not to ruin the trip for her parents, who had been looking forward to spending sixteen days in the Seychelles. For as long as she could remember, her father had told them anecdotes about the time he had spent working there when he was younger: bananas and coconuts growing on trees, orchids sprouting like weeds along the roadside, and sensational sunsets over the ocean.
Her mother returned her smile. ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time.’
Lucy nodded and gazed out of the window. Already she was regretting her acquiescence, but her parents had made it impossible for her to refuse their offer. Her mother had flatly refused to go away and abandon her daughter to deal with her emotional crisis alone. It was unlike Lucy to be so despondent. Clearly her parents thought a change of scenery would help her to move on. She hoped they were right.
Her father leaned over. ‘Look, didn’t I tell you we’d be landing right at the water’s edge?’
‘I thought you were exaggerating when you said it was like landing in the sea,’ she replied.
‘The airport’s built on reclaimed land,’ he replied. ‘We are on the sea.’
She smiled at him, wishing she could share his enthusiasm. But as the plane raced along the Tarmac towards the end of the runway, she sat back in her seat, wondering what Darren was doing.
It did not take long to collect their luggage in the tiny airport, and they found a taxi easily. The driver spoke in a thick French accent, pointing out local sights as they skirted the town of Victoria in the early morning rush hour.
Lucy’s father stared out of the window. ‘There were no traffic jams here in my day. It was all mini-mokes back then.’
‘That was over thirty years ago, George,’ her mother said.
‘It’s all much more built up than I remember it.’
‘You been here before, sir?’
‘My husband worked at the Garden of Eden Hotel, where we’re staying,’ Lucy’s mother said.
‘You worked at the Garden of Eden, sir? Very nice. When were you here?’
‘I was here in ’seventy-seven.’
‘’Seventy-seven? Ah, a year after independence, that was when they got rid of Mancham and made René president.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I was here when that happened. I suppose things have changed a lot since then?’
‘Yes, sir. Back then life was very different. Now we have fast roads, and many more tourists come to the islands. Anyone who wants to work can get a job. Everyone has a house, TV, mobile phone, car. The children go to school, not like in my day. Everything has changed. Now they sell much land to Russians and Saudis. You can see the palace of the Prince of the United Arab Emirates on top of the hill there. They even got a gas station and a hospital up there. They got everything. Before the airport was built, the world didn’t even know we existed. Now everyone wants a piece of the island.’
‘Still, tourists bring money in,’ Lucy’s father pointed out.
‘Yes, but with the hotels owned by foreign investors, where does all the money go?’
‘Are there still wild dogs here these days?’ her mother wanted to know. ‘My husband used to see them.’
‘Not any more, madam, not many,’ the driver reassured her. ‘They used to be everywhere, before Chinese construction workers came.’
There was a pause while the visitors absorbed the implication of his comment.
‘The Seychelles certainly have an interesting history,’ her mother said.
‘That’s true.’ The driver resumed his patter, pointing out a seafood restaurant and a bar popular with tourists. They drove past white buildings, mature palm trees and dark green shrubs with startlingly bright flowers, orange, red and pink.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Lucy said.
The driver laughed. ‘This is only the town. Wait till you see the beaches.’
They reached Beau Vallon and passed a row of small supermarkets.
‘Why are there so many of them all together?’ Lucy’s mother asked.
‘Is because of the hotels. The guests come here for water and whatever else they wish to buy. You can shop here any day. Is good for food if it’s convenience you want, but the market in Victoria is better and is only a few rupees to get there on the bus. Or you can get taxi. Is easy. You ask in reception. Or better, you call me. I give you my number.’
The Garden of Eden Hotel was stunning, with marble floors and a beautiful tropical garden. Having checked in, Lucy was impatient to look around. Her parents wanted to retire to their room to rest after their journey.
‘It’s going to get hot soon,’ her mother said. ‘I’m going to have a rest and unpack. I’ll be up and about later on when it cools down. Why don’t you go and have a rest too? We’ve been travelling for eighteen hours.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Not bloody likely. Don’t worry, I won’t go out of the hotel grounds, but I’m going to check this place out.’
‘Well, make sure you keep out of the sun.’
‘Stop fussing.’
Lucy began to walk away, regretting her irritable tone. Her mother was only showing she cared. She turned to apologise but her parents had already closed their bedroom door.
Later it would begin to cool down and they had arranged to meet for a drink by the bar before dinner. In the interim, Lucy had time to herself. The prospect made her apprehensive, but also excited. Since she had left home, Darren had made all her decisions for her. Now she was alone, for the first time in her life, she was determined to make the most of the holiday. Darren was not going to ruin this for her as well. Changing into a blue bikini and matching sarong, she strode to the lift and set out to explore the hotel.
Barely three weeks had passed since she had walked in on Darren and his other girlfriend, in bed together. For a moment Lucy had been too stunned to speak. Darren had refused to apologise. He seemed to think he had done nothing wrong.
‘Yes, I know we’re engaged,’ he had responded to Lucy’s tearful challenge, ‘but you can’t control everything I do. I thought we agreed that we both need our freedom. We don’t want to be shackled by conventional rules. That’s not who we are. Being engaged doesn’t mean you own me.’
‘It means you shouldn’t be shagging some random cow. Get out of my bed!’
‘Who are you calling a random cow? Fuck off!’
When Darren had attempted to introduce his ‘other girlfriend’, Lucy had run out of the flat. She had not seen him since. He had called her several times at her parents’ house, but she refused to speak to him.
‘He’s not worth i
t,’ her mother had insisted.
All her friends had said the same. It did not help. Since the break up, all Lucy had wanted to do was to sit at home by herself and hide from the world.
‘You’re twenty-two,’ her mother had comforted her, ‘you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but it will get easier.’
Her mother was right. She had to start building a new life for herself. Kicking off with a dream holiday in the Seychelles was not a bad way to begin.
The pool area was surrounded on three sides by huge flowering shrubs. She recognised scarlet, purple and startling pink of frangipani, hibiscus and bougainvillea. Set in the midst of this profusion of lush greens, the clear blue water of the pool sparkled in brilliant sunshine. As she wandered past the pool she was startled by an old man who emerged without warning from the shrubbery. Heavy-lidded black eyes peered out from under the brim of a tattered straw hat. She turned away and walked over to the bar, ignoring white loungers laid out around the pool inviting her to sunbathe. Beyond them wooden tables and chairs were dotted around in the shade of huge parasols. Combined with palm trees and flowering shrubs, a thatched roof over the bar area created an exotic ambience. Perching on a bar stool, she sipped cool lemonade and fell into conversation with the barman, a blond guy from Nottingham called Eddy.
‘I came here eighteen months ago for the snorkelling and haven’t been able to drag myself away from the island since. Once you get hooked on this place there’s nowhere else, no other life.’
Lucy smiled, picturing herself breaking free of all her ties: parents, grandparents, friends, her boring job, leaving England behind for a new life on this paradise island. That would show Darren she had forgotten about him.
‘There must be a downside,’ she replied.
Eddy leaned his elbows on the bar, his face suddenly serious. ‘You mean the flesh-eating tarantulas, or the snakes that can swallow a living man whole?’
Lucy laughed. Her mother had been nervous, but her father had reassured them none of the species on the islands were poisonous, and there were definitely no snakes.
‘The worst you might see is a rat,’ he had added, grinning at her mother’s grimace. ‘Come on, Angela, there are just as many rats in London.’
Journey to Death Page 2
