Journey to Death

by Leigh Russell

  Fine rays of sunlight found their way through the interlocking foliage but the atmosphere was cool in contrast to the searing heat of the coastline. Hearing water cascading nearby, Angela shivered in her flimsy skirt as she squinted at the dense vegetation surrounding her. Terracotta-coloured earth was almost completely covered in a tangle of overlapping roots and ferns. Ivy or bindweed with huge leaves had wound its way around many of the ancient trunks of trees that grew incredibly high, their flat branches forming a dense canopy high above her. Even if George managed to persuade the authorities to carry out a search of the whole island, there was no way she would ever be spotted from a helicopter. Without a guide to lead her back to the road she might never find her way out of the maze of undergrowth. With her heart beating faster in terror, she forced herself to stay calm and think of a plan.

  The island was only about three miles wide. The ground sloped very steeply. By walking downwards she must eventually reach the coast. Even if she failed to hit upon a direct route, the island was twenty miles from end to end. Since she was probably at least five miles in from the northernmost tip, the furthest she might possibly have to walk would be about fifteen miles, as long as she could keep going in one direction. Given that she might take a circuitous route, the coast must still be within walking distance. She just had to keep going. The terrain would be tricky to negotiate but at least she knew she had to make her way downhill. It was imperative she set off without delay. She would feel safer when she had put some distance between herself and the maniac who had brought her to this remote spot against her will. However difficult it would be with her hands tied behind her, she preferred to take her chances on her own.

  Telling herself there were no poisonous snakes on Mahé, she began to pick her way between luxuriant bushes and tall trees. She reckoned she had at most six hours to find her way out of the forest before dusk. The ground was damp and the air uncomfortably humid. The Tourist Board warned visitors to avoid walking barefoot on moist soil and vegetation on the island, and she hoped her open sandals would offer sufficient protection against parasites and infection.

  Everything in this strange world was green, not only the foliage but trunks and roots of trees, granite boulders, even the light. Somewhere close by she could hear running water and a faint high-pitched whistling. She had to watch where she put her feet on the uneven stony ground. A dense network of moss-covered roots and trailing woody stems threatened to trip her at every step. Creepers straddled green branches alongside strands resembling pale green hair. Inching her way forward, she lost her balance. Stifling an involuntary shriek she reached out with her elbow in an attempt to steady herself against a granite boulder covered with irregular olive-green circles of mould. It felt slimy and she slid forwards, grasping helplessly at the air behind her as she sank to her knees. Close up, she noticed a sweet aroma from a fleshy-leaved plant growing on the surface of the rock. The fragility of its tiny white flowers flourishing in so dark a place made her want to weep.

  A bullet-shaped black beetle crawled across the rock on spindly legs. She drew back with a low cry and clambered to her feet, ripping her skirt. Her legs shook as pain stabbed her knee where she had fallen on it, and she struggled to suppress a growing sense of despair. Sodden with sweat and the humidity of the atmosphere, she had no idea where she was. As she began to edge forward again, the silence was disturbed by a shrill sound. It took her a second to realise that her phone was ringing. George must be calling her. Perhaps he was already on his way back from Victoria. If she managed to retrieve the phone from her pocket, she might be able to answer, and tell him what had happened. The police might even be able to pinpoint her exact location if she kept the phone switched on. Frantically she struggled to reach her phone with her elbow. With her hands tied behind her back, her efforts proved futile. Bending forward as far as she could, she tried to knock the phone out of her pocket with her chin. She lifted one knee and jiggled it about, but it was no use. The phone was impossible to dislodge. Frustrated, she watched the fabric of her skirt vibrate with the ringing. After a moment it stopped. The ensuing silence seemed to close in on her, suffocating her.

  As she gathered her strength to move on, a clump of giant ferns rustled to her left. She spun round and froze, unable to breathe, wondering what had disturbed the ten-metre-high fronds. Too late she heard shuffling, and an intake of breath that was not her own. As a rough bag was thrust over her head, she took an involuntary step forward and felt her feet slide beneath her. A hand grabbed her by the arm, preventing her from falling. Her phone was snatched roughly from her pocket. The hand on her arm shook with the movement as a foot stamped repeatedly on the ground beside her. She knew her phone was being smashed.

  Ignoring her demands that she be released, her captor grasped her tightly by both arms and pushed her forwards, holding her upright every time her feet skidded on the wet leaf humus that carpeted the ground. She had no idea where she was going. All at once she was shoved violently in the back, and she heard a door slam shut. For all her struggle across difficult terrain, she had not travelled any distance at all from the ramshackle hut. Before she could gather her wits, her wrists were shackled in what felt like handcuffs. The cold sharp edge of metal pressed into her flesh when she wriggled her hands.

  From behind her, the bag was lifted off her head. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a green gecko motionless on the wall, before the blindfold was pulled back down over her eyes. Without warning she doubled over and retched gobbets of sour-smelling vomit. She straightened up, her teeth chattering and her whole body shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘You can’t keep me here,’ she protested. Shaking her arms, she heard chains rattle behind her back. ‘They’ll be searching for me. The police will find me. You won’t get away with this. My husband will be here soon. Take me back right now and we can forget all about it, pretend it never happened.’

  Thirst gripped her so she could no longer speak. She was aware only of the bitter taste of vomit in her throat.

  ‘If this is some kind of sick joke . . .’ she began.

  Her voice cracked and she struggled to swallow, her mouth was so dry. She thought she was going to be sick again. Hearing the door slam shut, she started forward. Chained to the wall, she found she could only shuffle a few steps in any direction.

  ‘Don’t leave me here,’ she called out, terrified she had been left there to die alone in the darkness.

  12

  THE BOAT TRIP ENDED half an hour later than scheduled but no one minded. They had all enjoyed the outing. By the time they disembarked, Lucy felt almost sorry to be leaving the company of her cheery American companions. Billy and Gloria’s hotel was the first stop. As the bus trundled them back along the coastal road, Gloria invited George and Lucy to join them for dinner.

  ‘They do a wonderful buffet here,’ she insisted. ‘The food in this place is to die for!’

  ‘Too true,’ Billy concurred, glancing ruefully down at his sizeable paunch.

  The hotel where Gloria and Billy where staying with their daughters was only a few miles along the coast from the Garden of Eden.

  ‘That’s decided then! You’ll join us. You can take a cab back from our place later. How far can it be on this tiny island? The bus driver won’t give a damn. If he doesn’t have to drop you off, he’ll be able to scoot off earlier. Come on, George, let Billy and me treat you and Lucy to dinner. We’re longing to hear more of your stories.’

  Lucy’s father thanked her, explaining that although he and Lucy would love to spend the evening with them, they had to return to their own hotel where his wife would be waiting for them. The bus rattled on between lush slopes and the blue expanse of the ocean stretching away to the horizon. Sandwiched between the twins, Lucy listened to the discussion.

  ‘Give your wife a call and tell her to come along. She can grab a cab from the hotel. We’d love to have her join us.’

  George wavered but Lucy could see he wanted to carry on talking to the America
ns.

  ‘Why don’t you give Mum a call?’ she said. ‘It might be fun.’

  ‘That’s decided then,’ her father said. He sounded pleased. ‘I’ll call my wife right away. I’m sure you’ll get on well together.’

  He tried a couple of times but Angela’s phone went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Come on, George, we’re nearly there,’ Billy called out. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I can’t get hold of my wife, but I’m sure she’ll get in touch when she wakes up and she can come and join us if it’s not too late.’

  The buffet was similar to the one laid on in the Garden of Even every evening.

  ‘What’s this one?’ Gloria asked a passing waiter. She pointed at one of the dishes. ‘I don’t remember seeing this before.’

  ‘That is octopus curry, madam.’

  Gloria grimaced as the waiter walked away.

  ‘Octopus curry?’ she repeated, laughing. ‘Is it any good?’

  George shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never tried it.’

  ‘You lived here and you never sampled the octopus curry?’ Billy said.

  ‘Well, you can let me know what I’ve been missing.’

  ‘Not bloody likely!’

  ‘If you dream about eating curry, it means you’re worried about someone you love, and you’re going to face difficult times ahead,’ Paula informed them earnestly.

  Behind the American girl’s back, Lucy raised her eyebrows at her father who grinned.

  ‘Oh, stop with all your dream interpretations,’ Gloria scolded her daughter. ‘As if anyone in their right mind would dream about eating curry! I can’t recall ever dreaming about curry. How about you, George? Did you ever dream about eating curry?’

  Paula shook her head with a resigned shrug. This was clearly not the first time she had discussed the interpretation of dreams with her mother.

  The initial excitement at their meeting palled with the fading light. As soon as they finished their main course Paula and Tess made their apologies and disappeared, promising they would call Lucy and arrange to see her again soon.

  ‘Young women these days,’ Billy said with a complacent shrug of his huge shoulders. ‘They’re off to Victoria with a couple of guys from Boston. Would you believe they met right here in the hotel?’

  Gloria and Billy were sampling desserts.

  ‘You’ve got to try these, Billy,’ Gloria insisted, as she tucked into a banana cake dripping with syrup. ‘It’s the best yet! Out of this world! Even better than those pancakes.’

  ‘Just let me finish this panna cotta and I’ll be on it. How about you, George? What are you having?’

  Lucy yawned and glanced at her father to try and indicate subtly that she was ready to leave, although it would be rude of her to say anything before their hosts had finished eating.

  Lucy’s father had a signal and could not understand why he had not heard from his wife.

  ‘She’s probably lost her phone, or forgotten to charge it,’ Billy assured him. ‘Gloria does that all the time. I mean, all the time.’

  ‘Oh, stop it, you big bully.’

  Gloria flicked his arm with her napkin.

  ‘I lost my phone once,’ she explained earnestly. ‘And he hasn’t let me forget it.’

  Lucy’s father did not reply. He looked tired. Lucy could not care less whether Gloria had lost her mobile once or fifty times. After this evening they would never see the American family again.

  They had not discussed with Lucy’s mother what time they expected to return from the outing and she probably assumed they were still involved in the boat trip which, in a manner of speaking, they were. In any case, she clearly was not concerned about them or she would have been in touch by now. She could always call them from the hotel even if she had lost her phone which was, of course, possible.

  Just as Lucy thought her father was about to stand up, Billy began pumping him about his experiences during the coup and Gloria asked to see the photographs Lucy had taken on the boat trip. She seemed surprised that all the pictures were of marine life. Gloria showed Lucy her own photographs, each one of Billy or their daughters, at the hotel and the beach, and on the boat trip and even on the bus. There were pictures of Tess and Paula with Lucy, and Billy with George. Gloria offered to send them to Lucy who thanked her weakly.

  ‘Come on, George, just one more night cap,’ Billy insisted, when Lucy’s father finally stood up to leave.

  It was nearly eleven by the time they returned to the Garden of Eden. Lucy agreed when her father suggested they go straight to bed.

  ‘I hadn’t realised how tired I was till we got in the taxi,’ she fibbed. ‘But thanks, Dad. It’s been a lovely day.’

  ‘I’m afraid we allowed ourselves to get a bit swamped by the Americans.’

  ‘Not at all. They were sweet. Well, OK,’ she added, seeing the expression on his face, ‘they were a bit overpowering. But they were nice with it. And it was worth it to see those fish! I got some brilliant photos.’

  He nodded, pleased. ‘You can show us in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, good night, Dad. And thanks again.’

  Lucy went to her room and kicked off her shoes. For a few minutes she sat on her bed, too weary to move. The heat had been debilitating during the day. She was looking forward to taking a shower before falling into bed, when there was a knock at her door.

  13

  ‘DAD? WHAT’S UP? YOU look as if you—’

  Her father opened his mouth to answer but his eyes suddenly welled up and he could not speak. Shocked into action at seeing him so emotional, Lucy pulled him into her room and sat him down on the bed.

  ‘Dad? What is it? Tell me. Are you ill?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Is it Mum? Something’s wrong with her, isn’t it? Tell me!’

  ‘I can’t find her.’

  She did not answer straight away but watched his face, frowning, as he stumbled through his account.

  ‘When I got back to the room, she wasn’t there. She wasn’t in the room. I went and had a look around downstairs but I couldn’t see her anywhere. I checked everywhere, by the pool, in the gardens, the bar, but she isn’t anywhere—’

  ‘Perhaps she went for a walk—’

  ‘It’s half past eleven, Lucy. You know your mother. She’d never wander off without letting us know where she was going.’

  ‘She must have got lost then,’ Lucy said, suddenly brisk. ‘Have you tried her phone?’

  Head in hands, her father told her that her mother’s mobile phone was still going straight to voicemail. She had taken it along with her purse. Accustomed to relying on her father to assume control of any situation, Lucy surprised herself by taking charge. Always wanting to protect her, her father had never before turned to her for support. Ashamed of a fleeting sense of pride at taking on the responsibility so readily, she wondered what Darren would say if he could see her now. She dismissed the thought fiercely. There was no room in her mind to dwell on that scumbag right now. Her father needed her. He was all over the place. She had not realised he had drunk quite so much. He sounded close to tears.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, we’d never have come to Mahé, and your mother would still be safely at home in England right now.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You weren’t to know she’d wander off and get lost.’

  ‘I don’t know where to look,’ he mumbled.

  They went to her parents’ bedroom and Lucy began checking her mother’s belongings systematically. She started with the bedside table then moved on to the wardrobe.

  ‘What are you looking for? I told you she’s taken her purse, and her phone. She didn’t take her credit cards.’

  Her father sat on a chair helplessly watching her flicking through her mother’s clothes.

  ‘She probably went to sit by the pool and dropped off.’

  ‘She’s not by the pool. I checked.’

  ‘The point is, she didn’t intend to be gone for long so she mus
t have fallen asleep somewhere, while she was waiting for us. She left her passport and credit cards, so we know she wasn’t intending to run off and not come back.’

  Her father scowled at her. ‘Of course she wasn’t going to run off. What are you talking about? You’re not helping, Lucy.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t expect you to like the idea, but we have to be logical and consider everything. Now, we know what she left behind but what did she take with her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we can find out what she took with her, we might be able to work out where she went. What’s missing? Think, Dad! What did she take with her?’

  She stared earnestly at him. He frowned, making an effort to focus on the question. Rubbing his forehead he looked anxiously round the room as he listed what was missing.

  ‘Her purse with her cash, and her make-up bag. As far as I can remember, that is. And her key’s not here, but that’s about it as far as I can see.’

  ‘So she was definitely intending to come back.’

  ‘Of course she was going to come back. This isn’t bloody Shirley Valentine. For God’s sake, Lucy, what the hell are you trying to say?’

  Ignoring his outburst, Lucy pursued her train of thought. ‘What else is missing, Dad? Think!’

  ‘She was reading a thriller and I can’t see it by the bed. Then there’s her sunglasses, and the sunblock that she kept in her beach bag.’

  ‘That’s a point. Where’s her beach bag?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘So that’s her room key, sunglasses, sunblock, book, make-up, phone, purse and beach bag. If she wasn’t by the pool then she must have gone to the beach.’

  They stared at one another, aghast at the possibility that Angela might have met with a terrible accident. Looking at her father’s pale face, Lucy tried not to think about the fatal shark attacks that had taken place off the coast of Praslin only a year ago. The American girl’s voice seemed to bray inside her head: ‘The Frenchman’s arm was bitten clean off – or was that the Brit . . .’