Dark Oceans

by Mark Macrossan

  In broad daylight!

  And me, a cop, I’m not even in a foreign country, how humiliating.

  I may not tell Marine about this.

  * * *

  He had no idea how long he was out for. He didn’t even remember regaining consciousness, or walking back to the hotel. Not until he was almost there. He remembered passing people in the street, and most of them were giving him weird looks. What are you staring at? If his head hadn’t been as sore as it was, he might have said something.

  It was twenty to five, he still had his watch on. Amazing they hadn’t stolen it. So what the hell was their story?

  Up in his room, the mirror showed him why people had been staring: he had a smear of dried blood coming out of his nose like a lava flow. The side of his face was swollen, a nice bruise on the way. His mustard shorts had blood on them too. And his shirt was ripped. Thanks guys, thank you very much. But what did they want?

  He decided not to report the incident. For a start, it was embarrassing: a Paris cop beaten up by a bunch of gym boys. And the local police – Éric’s “slackers” – were very possibly involved in some way themselves. Why not? It was all a bit too strange, the unexplained intelligence failure regarding the Diamond Moon, the fact that everyone seemed to have ‘clam lips’, Éric’s theatrical tour de force, the call from Sav which was nothing short of bizarre – and highly suspicious, given the timing – and even the odd characters that kept cropping up including the Italian with the ponytail and the faceless man in the grey suit…

  He was convinced the whole business was connected with Drayle in some way. And then he remembered something one of the muggers said, or something he thought they said, he could have dreamt it, but he’d probably been semi-conscious:

  ‘It’s a little gift for you.’

  It was that same voice, same Creole twang. In his head at least, it was clear as the whistling call of a Réunion Cuckoo-Shrike (which was “near-extinct” actually, like just about everything else around there, including himself on one view of it). But if the words were said, what did they mean? Was it a gift from Drayle? Drayle, though, didn’t sound like the sort of person who bothered with gifts, even unsavoury ones.

  And then, a text from Paris. It was the Préfecture. He’d already told them what Éric had said about the purchaser of the Diamond Moon being an Australian called Bob Walman, not really expecting there to be any such person. But they’d just confirmed it. He was indeed a CEO of a mining company over there, just as the card had proclaimed. Walman’s office had said he was on a boating holiday in Broome.

  So that seemed as good a place as any to go to next (and he definitely had to go somewhere). Broome, he’d read about it. Broome, a pearl of a town, or something like that, it was a phrase he’d come across somewhere that had stuck in his head. He might have more luck with the Australians. And he had a feeling about this Bob Walman. Feelings, of course, were not things he usually acted on, not without something more concrete. But Time, as his Breitling continued to remind him, was constantly on the move and rarely on your side. And he may just have run out of his Réunion supply, judging by the welcoming committee back in the Jardin de L’État.

  So Broome it was, then. The beautiful aspect of Réunion would have to wait.

  He was about to get in the shower when he got a call. On his room telephone. It was the woman at reception. (Ruart remembered her: demure-looking, blonde. Slightly downturned mouth perhaps, but unquestionably attractive.)

  She informed him that while he was out, someone had dropped in to see him. A male. (Sav, most likely.) He didn’t leave a name, or a message, just said he’d be in touch. What did he sound like? He spoke in English. (Not Sav, then.) With an English accent? Or American? She couldn’t tell, he could have come from anywhere. Most people spoke English these days, didn’t they?

  And so what did he look like? Was he European? Ah, well, yes, perhaps, he could have been. He was white, at least. OK, great, anything else? She didn’t really know, she couldn’t say, she didn’t look at him very closely… oh, there was one thing though. Yes?

  He was wearing a dark grey suit.

  38. 17° 57' 34" S 122° 11' 38" E

  (Broome, Cable Beach mooring: the Diamond Moon)

  9.10pm Western Australian Time (13:10 UTC)

  Saturday, 19 October

  As a battered and puzzled Ruart was getting into the shower in his room in the Austral Hotel in Saint-Denis, seven thousand kilometres to the east and looking out over the deep-blue, night-time waters of Cable Beach, Diane heard a scream. And she could have sworn it came from the Seaking.

  They’re back. She’d only just realized. She and Brian were settling in for the night on the Diamond Moon – they’d arrived back from the Lacepede Islands that day and Bob and Peta had left straight away for the airport to fly to Perth. Some business meeting or other. Which meant she and Brian had the yacht to themselves (and what a yacht!) – apart from the captain and four crew of course. All of them very nice though, it had to be said, absolutely no complaints on that score: The Australian captain was impeccably charming with his unexpected English accent, the first mate Spanish (and extremely handsome) and the Portuguese cook – Nadine, a lovely, auburn-haired girl of about twenty-five – a barrel of laughs. The two other crew, one from France and one from Denmark, young men – boys really – were well-behaved, cheeky, athletic and went around shirtless for most of the time. So no, not quite to themselves but she wasn’t complaining obviously.

  And now the Seaking was back. Diane wondered if they’d heard the bad news. They must have by now. So what on earth was that scream? The Seaking was moored about fifty metres away, she could barely make it out, but there was no-one else in that direction as far as she could tell. Maybe it was Lena and she’d just heard the news about Aleks and Lydia? Oh God, Diane tried not to think about it.

  She was pleased they were back though, she’d been wondering where they’d got to – her attempts at contacting them had drawn a blank. She’d actually been thinking about calling the police.

  She first heard the news online that very morning. She’d been reading The West Australian and it was right up at the top, one of the first news items. There’d been a tiny piece the day before, on Friday morning, reporting that an unnamed couple were missing in the Great Sandy Desert, but she thought they meant way inland, not near the coast, and anyway, she’d been led to believe Aleks and Lydia were in Perth, not venturing off the beaten track in the middle of nowhere. So she didn’t for a minute think that it could have been them. But now they were named. She couldn’t believe it and had to read their names over and over. Aleks and Lydia! And what had they been doing? What had happened to them?

  Everyone had been a bit surprised when they rang to say they wouldn’t be coming along. Lena seemed particularly put out. Sure, she and Lydia were – and still are, supposedly – best friends but even so, you would have thought she’d have liked having Roy to herself. She’d certainly been acting like it over the last few days! And anyway, ever since Lydia had started seeing Aleks, Diane had noticed a frostiness that hadn’t been there before and cracks in what had once been a seemingly inviolable friendship. You would have expected Lydia’s absence to have been a blessing if anything.

  There was definitely something about Lena’s initial reaction that was puzzling and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Something weird.

  Diane had only met Aleks once. There was a hardness and a kind of distance about him, maybe it was just because he was Russian (or Ukrainian or whatever, same thing). She wasn’t sure. Lydia had met him at a resort in eastern Thailand apparently. Lydia herself though, Diane had met quite a few times. Lydia and Lena went way back – to their Moscow student days, supposedly – and they were both really similar. Strange senses of humour but very determined. Pretty too, both of them. Both of them blonde, Russian blonde, although Lena was the one with the olive skin. Diane wasn’t at all jealous that Brian used to be married to Lena – it’d been ages
ago, and they were just good friends now (and good friends with absolutely nothing in common, too), but every now and then… maybe a slight tinge. A slight little stabbing pain, but that was normal wasn’t it? She liked Lena, although, again, there was something about her that unnerved her a little. She wasn’t sure what.

  Speaking of pains, she was feeling the telltale signs of her period starting. She felt her breasts. She wished they were larger. (Should she get implants? A few of her friends in Perth had them and what a difference a bit of silicon made! The way guys looked at you…) But her period was definitely starting, so that’d be that as far as sex with Brian went, for the next few days at least, but it wasn’t exactly Secret Diary of a Callgirl anyway – she couldn’t, now she came to think of it, remember the last time they’d actually done it. Was it her? Or was it Brian? It didn’t feel like it was her.

  She found herself getting the hots for the first mate from “Barthelona” and that wasn’t good.

  Brian was a lovely guy but not the most exciting in bed, it had to be said. Not that that was everything, but he was no Casanova. At first she wondered if he’d had his eye on Nadine, but about the only thing that had made his eyes widen on this trip had been a Spanish mackerel jumping out of the water (speaking of Spanish). He used to be so passionate for her. For her body, her skin, her lips… and now it was fish.

  She sighed.

  She wasn’t complaining though. She had a kind boyfriend and got to go away on yachts like the Diamond Moon. What a treat, it was such a beautiful boat. Everything brand spanking new, or close to it, beautiful decor, beautiful cabins, beautiful galley – which was where Brian was now, she could hear him chatting to one of the crew. Making his hot chocolate “on the Marzocco” as he put it. He was always off to make a hot chocolate or a coffee on the Marzocco, although Diane was more of a tea drinker herself. She’d been trying to convert Brian but there was a way to go yet by the looks.

  The evening was heavenly. All the stars were out and there was a lovely light breeze from the west, not even raising a ripple. “Angel’s breath” the Captain called it. (Captain Charming she called him. Oh God, she was getting the hots for him now too?) Diane looked to the south towards Gantheaume Point and past the Seaking. There were other boats around, she knew, but they were rendered invisible by the dark tropical night. She could only see the Seaking. Why hadn’t they come across and said hello?

  What were they doing in there?

  39. 17° 57' 35" S 122° 11' 36" E

  (Broome, Cable Beach mooring: the Seaking)

  9.10pm Western Australian Time (13:10 UTC)

  Saturday, 19 October

  Lena screamed out.

  Roy had a firm grip on her hair. A great clump of it, the blonde strands bunched together in his fist and sprouting out the top of it, like an eruption of golden silk.

  Her clothing had long since been ripped off and he had her pushed down on the bed in their cabin, face first into the cotton lapis lazuli bedspread, and was brutally fucking her from behind. It was virtually rape, she was struggling quite a lot, but then again she always did, and mostly she wanted it, so he was giving himself the benefit of the doubt. Her screams – of pleasure, he was comfortable with assuming – were mostly muffled by the bedspread, but the occasional squeal or shriek still managed to escape. And he was enjoying the way she was bucking and wriggling like she was a fish at the end of a line, trying to get away.

  He particularly enjoyed watching his cock sliding into her – he was really ramming it home – and above it, her anus, exposed to the world and mouthing a silent scream to match Lena’s vocal one. The last one – really more of a yelp – was loud, that was for sure. He wondered if anyone their side of Réunion Island had missed it.

  She gasped and almost shouted out again when he suddenly pulled himself out of her – he loved to surprise her – and then he quickly flipped her over, straddled her, and pushed his cock into her mouth before she had a chance to scream again. He had her pinned, but held her arms down for good measure. She made a series of animal, grunting noises while she sucked him with gusto.

  It was the reverse, he was thinking. The reverse of what had happened that morning. When he woke with her straddling him. He’d been so out of it, he thought he was tied up. Maybe he had been, he didn’t know anymore. Lena was mad enough. She was a crazy bitch all right – she spun his head around – but when he thought about it, he probably preferred it when the steel-capped boot was on the other foot. He pushed his cock further down her throat until she gagged and thought, no, he definitely preferred it.

  He let her breathe for a moment then put his hand over her mouth to stop the shrieks and pushed deep inside her, front on, her legs virtually back up over her head. Her blonde hair was splayed out over the vibrant blue bed and looked like a stylized medieval sun with its flaming rays. She fought hard but he pushed down harder, and he pummelled her until he came. She was screaming under his hand by this stage and a final orgasmic groan echoed off the walls, merging with his own, after he slumped down and rolled off her. And all he could think was he was lucky she came, or else she probably would have killed him on the spot.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Roy got up and began picking his clothes off the floor. He looked at Lena, still lying there, spread-eagled, exhausted. Her hair was a spectacular golden mess, her olive skin glowed and the “V” of her pubic hair pointed to the scene of the crime. And it was an actual “V” too: the hair had been shaved into the letter. Or rather…

  ‘It’s not a “V”,’ Lena had said when Roy first commented on it. (He’d suggested the “V” for vagina was a good idea, ensuring no mistakes.) ‘It’s an “L”. Obviously.’

  A pretty skewed “L” he’d thought at the time, and he was thinking it now. Pretty skewed, just like Lena. Roy didn’t usually go for labels but he went for this one. Her labia label. Lena’s lewd labia label…

  His mind was all over the place. Still all over the place. He wasn’t sure if he’d quite recovered from the morning. And the previous evening. It was a blur, the moonlight, the creature that had come out of the depths, what was that about, was it real? He’d just taken a few lines of coke, not a tab of acid. Or had he? You could never be completely sure with Lena. It was always a blur with her. Christ, when she was asleep it was so fucking peaceful he could cry. Not that he’d give her up. She’d probably give him up one of these days – she was the ultimate femme fatale – he was philosophical about that. May as well just enjoy the ride in the meantime. May as well. Roy had not so long ago come out of a ten year marriage, no kids and thank God for that, his viper of an ex sued him for just about everything he had as it was. This was after walking out on him one day without warning – gone by the time he’d arrived home from work, no sign, not even a piece of fucking forensic evidence to suggest she’d ever lived there. Did him a favour though: quit his job, bought the yacht, never looked back. You certainly didn’t get too much time to do a lot of looking back with Lena around. Speaking of whom…

  ‘You better not have ripped my pants you fucker.’ She was awake. Was probably never asleep. Probably watching him through mascaraed eyelashes.

  ‘I did hear something, I thought it was my back.’

  ‘Fucker.’

  ‘You’re the one who nearly broke it this morning. Jesus.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you complaining.’

  It was true. Complaining was not something that had crossed his mind.

  ‘Hey,’ Roy said suddenly. ‘I can’t remember. Was I tied up?’

  ‘Tied up?’ Lena did that a lot. Answered a question by repeating the question.

  ‘Yeah, you know. Bound. Secured to the deck. Couldn’t move my limbs.’

  ‘Tied up,’ she said again – as a statement this time – and smiled.

  Roy shook his head.

  ‘You were fucked up,’ Lena added. ‘Well and truly.’

  ‘What did I take?’

  ‘What did you take.’

  Le
na sat up, stood up, looked about and found her panties which Roy had tossed against the far wall. He loved watching her dressing and especially putting her panties back on. And why was that? Maybe because it reminded him of how he’d be taking them off again before long.

  She sighed. Was looking at her white pants and fingering them – obviously a few stitches had come apart in Roy’s haste.

  He’d only intended to take her apart at the seams.

  ‘Fucker,’ she said for the third time.

  ‘I don’t deny it.’

  Lena turned and looked at him. Stared hard, as if attempting to unlock the secrets of his soul. Well I wouldn’t be silly enough to keep it just behind my eyes now, would I. But of course, he would. Luckily Lena was slightly long-sighted. Although she was standing across the room…

  ‘And I don’t deny…’ she began.

  ‘What.’

  ‘I don’t deny slipping you… something.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Maybe it was a bit much. A bit too much for―’

  ‘Slipped me what?’

  ‘A bit too much for a poor little boy.’

  ‘What was it? Acid?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You are completely insane.’ He shook his head. And, although he immediately regretted it, then added ‘You both are, you and Lydia.’

  Her face darkened – like the shadow of a cloud passing over the ocean. It was too late to withdraw the remark.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They’d heard the news about Aleks and Lydia that morning. Roy was a bit surprised she hadn’t been more upset, actually. It was as if she’d already known. Already grieved. Although grieved wasn’t the right word was it, it wasn’t like a body had been found or anything. They were just missing. Out of their car, though. Not good.

  Roy had suggested they call the Broome police, tell them what they knew, check in on progress. Nothing to tell, was Lena’s response, they’ll call when they want to, and she was probably right, but even so. It was a strange way of dealing with the loss – temporary or otherwise – of your closest friend. Maybe it was the Russian way. Lena had seemed more hurt, in fact, when Lydia had called to say she wouldn’t be joining them on the Seaking. (Roy had been pretty pleased and was just a tiny bit put out that Lena hadn’t been pleased as well, although he sort of understood at the same time.)