The Hunt and the Kill

by Holly Watt

  A wide verandah wrapped around the building, wooden shutters protecting the old rooms. A few tables and chairs were arranged on the gallery, and others dotted the lawn beneath big cream umbrellas. Bougainvillea and frangipani edged the grass, the jungle looming beyond.

  Casey sat in the shade of the verandah. She placed her small handbag on the chair next to hers, and ordered fried squid. Wide ceiling fans turned idly as she got her novel out again, but her eyes kept straying across the lawn, to the path that led up to the house.

  And as the light faded to gold, there he was. Tall and dark, in a blue linen shirt and shorts. Sunglasses on his head, and a restless pace. A small dog trotted behind him. Part terrier, Casey guessed. A mongrel’s confidence. She breathed out the surge of relief slowly.

  ‘Mr Richmond.’ The waitress gave this man a genuine smile, ‘Your friends are waiting for you.’

  That evening, Casey sent a series of photographs to Noah. The small bag had contained a neat little camera, and the images of Daniel Richmond were sharp.

  That’s him! The encrypted message came back within seconds. Where on earth did you find him?

  Do you know any of the people he is sitting with?

  A wait. No. Looks like a nice place though. A bit of a step up from the Royal Brompton canteen.

  Thanks, Noah.

  Later, she messaged Miranda. She always did on the rare occasions she investigated alone. To show where her mind was wandering. In case she got lost, or was lost. Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs, a sort of superstition.

  This is where I was.

  And this is what I thought.

  Because I do want to be found.

  I do.

  Or I want the story to be found, almost the same thing.

  In black, though she might have worn white.

  I do.

  She was woken by a knock on her hotel room door the next morning.

  ‘That was quick,’ Casey yawned.

  ‘I was in Dubai anyway.’

  ‘That time of year.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Casey’s balcony overlooked the beach, the ocean growling in the distance. Miranda threw herself into a seat, and looked at Casey.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ said Casey. ‘And doctors like to save people.’

  ‘You’re hungover.’

  ‘A bit. Dash didn’t think I would find anything out here, did he?’

  ‘He did not. You OK?’

  ‘Zac’s taking the Renaissance out today.’

  That had been a bit of luck. She had watched Zac’s group getting ready to leave the Robery, and walked out ahead of them. Then she had hovered unobtrusively as he walked past, laughing on his mobile phone. A pretty blonde had her arm around his waist, possessively. As he was getting in his jeep, Zac’s friends called out an invitation for the next day, and he shouted back: ‘Sorry, can’t make it. Sailing.’

  ‘I’m annoyed I can’t come out with you,’ the blonde had grumbled. She wore a short pink dress, diamonds at her neck and ears. Her sleek hair and high heels looked out of place in the jeep.

  ‘You’d be bored.’

  ‘So he’s going alone?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘I think so. Or with a different blonde.’

  ‘So … ’

  ‘Yes.’

  15

  The sea glittered, a million broken mirrors. Casey tipped her head back, enjoying the sun. Miranda applied suncream.

  ‘Do you really think this is a good idea, Casey?’

  ‘It’s worth a shot.’

  The little Wayfarer bobbed serenely. Just under sixteen feet long, the wooden sailboat was painted a dark green, with crisp white sails. Pink Gin was written neatly on her bow.

  Miranda had convinced a cheerful hotel worker to rent them the boat for the day.

  ‘I’ve sailed a lot over the years,’ she had announced airily.

  ‘Have you?’ asked Casey, under her breath.

  ‘Well, a few years ago now. I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.’

  Miranda had grown up with ponies and skiing and a mother who cried every evening. Yachts too, apparently.

  ‘Stay inside the reef,’ said the man firmly. ‘In fact, you must keep away from the reef altogether. It can be very dangerous.’

  But Miranda had managed the little boat efficiently. Now Pink Gin floated quietly, just inside the reef. On the other side of the black rocks, the waves boomed in percussive jolts of foam and spatter. Without the protection of the reef, the typhoons of the Indian Ocean would long ago have blasted away all the pretty beaches, and all the expensive houses. There were gaps in the reef here and there, however, where boats could make their way out to the open sea.

  As soon as the little boat was bobbing close to one of the gaps, Casey and Miranda lolled back in Pink Gin’s awkward seats. Miranda adjusted her bikini, smiling up at the sun. Casey kept an eye on the yachts tied up inside the safety of the reef.

  ‘Look,’ she whispered.

  A couple of hundred yards away, a dinghy was darting towards the Renaissance. A small dog had its paws up on the prow of the little inflatable.

  ‘Zac is indeed alone,’ Miranda grinned.

  They watched discreetly as Zac prepared the Renaissance for a sail, fiddling with the ropes, checking the winches. Finally, he stepped forward, preparing to lift the anchor.

  ‘Now,’ murmured Casey.

  It took only seconds to raise Pink Gin’s sails, and Miranda guided the little sailboat towards the gap in the reef.

  The current gripped the boat immediately. The waves were far more powerful than Casey had realised, jolting the boat hard. It was as if the ocean had reached through the reef, and was playing with the little yacht. All at once, Pink Gin felt like a toy, bobbing at the whim of a giant.

  ‘Go on,’ said Casey.

  ‘I’m not sure … ’ Miranda was hesitating, hand on the tiller.

  ‘Come on.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Casey could see the Renaissance motoring towards the gap in the reef, ready for a day on the ocean. Zac was untying ropes with one hand, steering with the other, his eyes at the top of the mast.

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Hurry.’

  ‘No, Casey … Don’t … ’

  And Casey let herself tumble overboard.

  It was like falling into an explosion. The ocean seized her like a doll, the crests high above her head. The sea was alive: pulling, pushing, wrenching, jerking. Can’t see, can’t breathe. The waves came from every angle, all sense of direction lost. A wave swamped her, pushing her down and down. She battled to the surface for one gasp before the next wave smashed in, breaking over her head.

  Casey struggled up again – a panicked animal in the wrong element – and another wave slammed into her. No heave of air this time, her lungs screaming. A battle up, a last desperate gulp of air, a churning shock, and as the wave swallowed her down, she felt the rip of a rock against her leg.

  Deeper now, and she fought wildly, which way up? Everything was a swirl of water and foam and black. The world fragmented.

  Another crash, crunching into the reef again. Her shoulder was gouged, and there was a searing pain as she was tossed upside down underwater.

  Over time, the lungs may stop working properly.

  Somehow she was at the surface, just for a second. Miranda shouting: ‘Casey!’

  Down again, down again, nothing but noise and saltwater. Water burning her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  Where are you?

  I’ll be there in a minute.

  Were those even your words?

  For a second, she caught a glimpse of a blue sun, through the scream of the waves. She couldn’t fight her way up, not again. Couldn’t be battered by the sea rage, not again.

  Cat’s Cradle or Kissing Gate? I love you.

  It was far easier to stay down here, drifting, so gently.

  Into a sort of peace.

  My love. Beloved.
<
br />   This must be drowning.

  You don’t have to choose.

  The mermaid’s song, you will be safe here.

  You do have to choose.

  And her legs kicked, just once.

  An arm grabbed her shoulder.

  ‘Come on!’ The voice shocked her.

  She felt a pull, a jerk, rough enough to hurt. Someone was in the sea beside her, a lifebuoy jerking orange in the waves. A man dragged her through the water. Casey struggled, and felt her arms lock mechanically around the lifebuoy. A white shape loomed above, and the demons of the sea fell away, defeated.

  It was the Renaissance, bobbing obediently in the slack water just inside the reef.

  ‘Here.’ A ladder had been unfolded from the stern of the yacht, and the man boosted her up it unceremoniously.

  Casey collapsed on the deck, choking and coughing, bleeding, utterly exhausted.

  ‘You OK?’ Zac clambered up the ladder with the ease of practice.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘That was stupid.’

  ‘I know.’

  Casey rolled on to her back, looking up the mast. Renaissance’s sails were scarlet against a silken blue sky.

  ‘You saved my life.’ Casey turned her head towards him.

  A smile glimmered. ‘I know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure, Casey.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Your friend shouted it.’ He nodded to his left.

  There was Miranda, slightly shamefaced, with Pink Gin bucking like a naughty pony beside the racehorse elegance of the Renaissance. Casey waved weakly, her thoughts pulling together. She sat up, determined to smile.

  The small dog regarded her suspiciously.

  ‘Thank you—’ she began.

  ‘Is your shoulder all right?’ he said. ‘You must have really banged it on a rock. I could—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she managed. ‘You must let me buy you dinner. To say thank you.’

  He grinned, distracted from her shoulder. ‘Must I?’

  Casey thought about the blonde in the jeep, sleek in her diamonds and met his eye firmly. ‘Tonight?’

  His mind was turning to the sea. ‘Sure, if you’re up to it. The Robery at 7?’

  Miranda brought Pink Gin alongside, and Casey climbed carefully across, still shaking.

  They watched as he brought Renaissance around, and then the yacht was away, flying over the sea. As Casey watched, Zac glanced back, with a fleeting salute.

  ‘Well.’ Miranda reached for the suncream again. ‘That’s certainly one way of doing it.’

  16

  She was a blank canvas with nothing to hide.

  It worked best when they projected their thoughts on her, as if she were a screen just waiting for colour.

  Blank, empty, hollow: bare.

  Eyes, flecked with grey and green, blue and gold.

  No.

  She would keep him waiting, quite deliberately.

  She was meticulous with her make-up. Pink blusher: here. Grey eyeshadow: there. Colouring in, staying between the lines. Smile, and smile, and …

  She would choose her clothes with care.

  Cinderella’s rags, a child in a dress-up box, slice your foot for the slipper.

  She stood in her hotel robe, staring thoughtfully at her reflection. Skin bronzed from the sun, a healthy glow. It seemed unlikely, implausible, impossible.

  The pain throbbed down her legs, her arms. A cut on her shoulder stung.

  She reached forward, and touched the cool constancy of the mirror. In the other world, a pretty girl smiled.

  Her face seemed to fragment, just for a second, and it was a room she didn’t recognise, a face that wasn’t hers.

  Where am I? Oh, yes. Who am I?

  She concentrated on the embroidery adorning the hotel robe. A flower twisting over her heart, so pretty, and then she shook her head, forcing the thoughts away.

  She stared at the mirror again: back in the real world. Dried her hair, twisting it into a complicated plait. Steadier now, she painted on her eyeliner with a flick, and brushed on a curl of mascara.

  Where am I? Oh, yes. Who am I?

  A silence.

  She clasped her hands as if to pray, crushing her fingers together until they hurt. Then she looked away from the mirror, picking through her lipsticks. A deep red curve for her mouth: yes.

  This side of the mirror, or that. You can’t be both, can you?

  Can you?

  Where am I? Oh, yes. Who am I?

  I don’t know.

  Stop it.

  Casey crossed the room with a determined step and pulled open the cupboard. Cotton florals? No. Red lacy flounces? No. She tried on a peacock blue playsuit, wincing as she pulled it over her head, and peered in the mirror again. Yes.

  She stepped back. A huge bruise on her leg. No.

  She put on a floaty yellow dress, silk with long sleeves to conceal all the scratches.

  It would do.

  It would have to do.

  I wore this dress when we went to that funfair. Candyfloss and a thump of music and all the girls squealing in dodgems. The big wheel, higher and higher, and when it stopped at the top, you kissed me, and the yellow silk caught the breeze.

  No.

  A spray of scent. A bright smile in the mirror, clipped on like a rosette and not quite right. A shot of vodka from the minibar, and it tasted like a mistake.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Miranda’s eyes were hard on hers.

  ‘I’m fine.’ A stammer. Then louder: too loud. ‘I’m perfectly all right, Miranda.’

  And the next time she looked around, she was in a taxi to the Robery, the warm summer night speeding past in a blur.

  It was twilight when she arrived, candles burning in the hurricane lamps. Outside the Robery, she was pleased to see a large party arrive just before her, and head in just ahead. It gave her a few seconds to rally.

  She could see Zac at a table beneath the verandah, but loitered behind the group, forcing herself to smile.

  Usually, it was like pulling on a dress. Yesterday, I was cotton florals. Today, I am red flounces. Tomorrow, I am … She was an actress, inventing her own lines. Because isn’t that what everyone does?

  But tonight, she felt unmoored, adrift. There was no surge of adrenalin, no secret excitement, and as she waited behind the group, there was a flicker in the corner of her eye so that she almost flinched away.

  ‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’ The maître d’ was jovial, and she blinked at him, and almost told him the truth.

  ‘It’s lovely, thank you’ – and there was a hesitation in her voice.

  The maître d’ showed her across, and Zac half-stood. ‘Good evening, Casey’ – and he grinned.

  At first, it was easier. As she sat down, she watched his eyes narrow appreciatively, and she smiled through her eyelashes while the waiter draped a linen napkin over her lap.

  There was the babble of bread water wine? The swordfish is a miracle, so she could look round the restaurant and breathe.

  But then the waiter was gone, and she was lost again.

  Where am I? Oh, yes. Who am I? I don’t know.

  For a moment, it was as if her mind was caving in.

  Green gold eyes, staring at nothing.

  ‘It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it? Such a treat. The receptionist at my hotel said I must try the swordfish … ’ Usually, her words were fluent: an actress, smiling, cued. But this was a splurge of words, rattling too fast. Then just as quickly, her mind went blank, the silence stretching out. The clean, crisp linen was incongruous, the tinkling music unbearable.

  Zac smiled smoothly. ‘So—’

  ‘I realised that I never asked you your name this morning.’ She interrupted him: that had been a mistake, too.

  ‘Daniel Richmond.’ There was no hesitation. ‘Dan.’

  ‘Thank you for earlier, Dan.’ Too fast, again
. ‘I don’t know what to ….’

  But he gestured it away. ‘It’ll make an excellent story, one day.’

  She watched his mouth move and knew that she should smile. The words appeared slowly, floating to the surface of a dark pool, one by one.

  ‘Are you on holiday in Mauritius?’ she managed.

  ‘I live here.’ His voice was English, accentless.

  Again, the words were there, scooped out of the blackness. ‘I can’t believe people actually live here! I’m so jealous. It’s heavenly.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And what do you do?’ Casey asked.

  He smiled. ‘This and that.’ Martin’s voice echoed in her head. Quite a few blondes. Then he softened, added a few words, ‘I have a few investments. Some businesses in Dubai.’

  ‘How long have you lived on the island?’

  ‘A couple of years?’

  ‘And where were you before?’

  ‘What is this?’ He was laughing. ‘Twenty questions?’

  She could feel the bruises from the sea, sharp beneath the fluttery yellow and leaned forward, gulping her glass of wine, weary to the bone.

  ‘Sorry,’ she smiled at him. ‘About all the questions.’

  As if she might lead him back …

  One chance.

  Now.

  She lifted her head, to an inaudible battle cry, and all at once, the smile was real, and she was real, and she was the girl in the mirror.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Zac was smiling at her now, catching the change of her mood. ‘What about you? How long are you here for?’

  She shrugged. ‘A week or so. I’m between jobs.’

  ‘Sounds fun. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m in marketing. Not very interesting.’ It was fluent now. ‘So where do you live in Mauritius?’

  ‘Roches Noires, on the east side of the island.’

  She nodded, remembering, the confidence still flooding back.

  They had found the house easily once they had his name. Parcel for Daniel Richmond? Not here, just along there. His place is Ombres Paisibles. Three houses down.

  Miranda and Casey had walked past Ombres Paisibles’s high walls, and the Armed Guards: Immediate Response sign, before strolling on.

  There were narrow footpaths between some of the houses, running from the road to the ocean. Two houses beyond Ombres Paisibles, Miranda wandered down one of the paths to the beach, and looked back up through palm trees and hibiscus to glistening glass and steel.