by Lisa Gordon
A few hours passed and Gaby was still not feeling quite herself. Piers had eventually returned to the room and was brimming with stories of a beach-volleyball competition, a character by the name of Mike ‘The Meister’ Mixer, and something about a fishing excursion. Gaby had retreated to the shower in order to avoid his hyperactive company.
Later, Gaby accompanied Piers to ‘The Beach Club’. She was relieved at the opportunity to sink into the background while Mike royally entertained everybody with his hyperbolic tales from his life as an international bartender. She was dismayed to learn that Piers had signed them up for a yachting trip to feed the stingrays and trawl for barracuda; the thought of being tossed about on the ocean for six hours with no escape terrified Gaby. She would have to let Piers down gently; she was feeling guilty about the way their first day had turned out.
“I’m sorry, Piers, but I’m just not up to it,” groaned Gaby as she stared down at the remnants of her pink grapefruit.
“What is wrong with you, Gaby?” enquired Piers, losing his patience.
“Maybe it’s all the stress over the wedding. I hadn’t slept properly for weeks worrying about,” Gaby stopped mid-sentence and threw her hands in the air, “everything.”
“Well, if you can’t relax here, then where can you relax?” snapped Piers.
“I promise to go on the yacht trip some other time, okay?”
They continued eating until Gaby broke the silence. “Piers, I’ve been thinking about looking for a new job in the New Year.”
Piers barely looked up. “Sure, Gabs, after working at BarkerWhittakerHowell, I’m sure any law firm will snap you up.” Without even pausing for breath, his head shot around and he addressed a waiter who happened to be ambling past. “You don’t have any British newspapers in today do you?”
“Piers. I was talking ...”
“Sorry Gabs, so laid-back here you know, thought I’d better ask now before he clears off for ages.”
“Can’t you just enjoy the fact that you aren’t bombarded by depressing tabloid headlines here?” She shook her head.
“Want to see who’s been selected for this winter’s Ashes Tour,” he insisted.
“A bit too early for that surely,” argued Gaby as the waiter returned with a tabloid.
Piers grabbed it eagerly. “The DM. Oh well, will have to do.” He flicked through the pages anxiously. Gaby waited patiently until his appetite for news was quenched, wondering if he would attempt the Coffee Break puzzles as well while she sat there. Eventually he folded the paper in half and wedged it neatly under his empty plate. “So you were saying something about going to a new law firm ...”
Gaby shook her head. “No, I mean doing something other than law entirely.”
The difference in Piers’s reaction could not have been more marked and he looked up aghast. “But Gaby, you’re at Senior Associate level; if you start another career you’ll be starting at the bottom, at a much lower pay grade. We have a mortgage to pay. What’s brought this on?”
Gaby took a deep breath. She would have to explain herself carefully; she was well aware of how Piers was still struggling to gain a foothold in the world of architecture and he had been working for extended periods abroad to gain experience. “This break away has given me a new perspective. Quite honestly, I can’t bear the thought of going back to BWH.”
“But the money is excellent,” protested Piers.
“I realise that there will be a financial knock-on and I won’t just quit overnight,” countered Gaby, realising from the expression of dismay on Piers’s face that he was not warming to her idea.
“I’m beginning to think I left the real Gaby at Heathrow,” he groaned, screwing up his nose. He pushed his chair back and made for the patio.
Gaby was beginning to regret having introduced the subject of her career. Moreover, she was crestfallen at Piers’s reaction, his main concern being having to get by on less. She had anticipated more encouragement and support, something along the lines of Great, Gabs, go for it! or We”ll get by, as long as you’re happy!
As Gaby got up from the table, she brushed past the newspaper which hung partly off the table and it flopped on to the floor. As she bent over to pick it up, the headline “Missing British Woman Washed up on Moroccan Shore” caught her eye.
Gaby jerked out of bed, gasping. It was still dark, but a shaft of moonlight illuminated the bed. Perspiration clung to her skin like a shimmering oil slick; she had been dreaming that the powerful, deadly waves of a tsunami were thrashing their bungalow and threatening to burst through the glass doors. She had cried out as she woke, but she had not disturbed Piers, who was still sleeping peacefully. Gaby reached out for her travel clock and pulled it closer so that she could see the luminous hands. It was three thirty in the morning. Gaby lay back down and tried to relax. She had an eerie feeling of foreboding, which was registering as a cold sensation in her chest. She wondered if anything could be wrong back home. Silently, she slipped out of bed and made her way over to where her iPhone lay on the dressing table. There were no messages on either hers or Piers’s. Everyone had both her mobile number and hotel phone number, so should anything have happened, she would have heard something. It was another hour before she fell asleep.
Piers was up early and had already showered by the time Gaby eventually stirred, roused by the smell of a cafetiere of coffee. Gaby mentioned her dream to him briefly. His mood, Gaby was pleased to note, was far more chipper, the conversation about her change of career obviously having been discarded as a passing feminine whim — in his mind at least. After some coffee, Gaby sauntered into the bathroom. She reached for her toothbrush and noticed that Piers had not only dumped his lidless toothpaste tube in the middle of the bathroom slab, but had also failed to rinse the basin — which was still full of toothpaste. Gaby felt utterly revolted and turned away, deciding to brush her teeth over the bath.
The couple had decided to spend the morning on the beach: Piers was craving the chance to avenge his earlier beach-volleyball defeat, and Gaby was certainly eager to replace her fake tan with the real McCoy. She had decided to christen her orange and pink bikini and was about to search for her red linen dress to slip over it for breakfast. As she walked back into the room, she wondered whether she should mention the toothpaste but, as Piers was out on the patio, she decided to let it slide. She flipped open their larger suitcase which had remained unpacked due to her migraine (and it was clear Piers was not going to take the initiative). Gaby was horrified to find a wet pair of swimming trunks in the suitcase, even more so when she realised that they were on top of her red linen dress and had caused the red dye to run on to her favourite white linen trousers.
“Piers!” she shouted, incensed. Piers immediately popped his head into the room and Gaby flung the wet trunks at him. “What kind of idiot puts his wet trunks in a case of clothes?” she demanded furiously.
Piers responded with a confused shrug. “Sorry, Gabs, maybe they fell in.”
“With the lid shut?” she said sarcastically, before holding her white trousers up. “These are ruined.”
“We can try find a dry cleaner,” offered Piers.
His comment just enraged her further. “Well, thank you so much for that useless bit of advice.”
“Gaby, for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a new pair. What the bloody hell is up with you? You spend the first day lying in a darkened room; then you wimp out of the yacht trip; yesterday you start this job thing; now it’s a tantrum over a pair of trousers.”
“The yacht trip?” bellowed Gaby. “You’re not still on about that are you? Since when were you so into marine life anyway?”
“When in Rome, Gaby.”
“So if they offered walking on hot coals we should do that too, huh?” Gaby glared at Piers before storming back into the bathroom, where she took his toothbrush and flung it on the floor in anger. Suddenly she caught her reflection in the mirror; her face was so red, so angry. Why? Why did she feel thi
s way? This was her honeymoon after all and maybe Piers was right. What was wrong with her, she wondered? She walked back into the room with her hand on her head, not looking at Piers, and sank on to the bed. “I’m sorry, it’s just some trousers. I shouldn’t ruin today over that; I apologise.” Gaby spoke with sincerity and genuine regret. It was very unlike her to lose her temper and she felt ashamed.
Piers joined Gaby on the bed and wrapped his arm around her. “Forgiven,” he whispered in her ear. He then adopted a serious tone. “Gabs, I was thinking last night, this must be the first time you’ve had a beach holiday since,” he paused respectfully, “since Alison died.”
Gaby turned around immediately and responded thoughtfully. “You’re quite right, I didn’t think of that. We always went visiting family in Dallas and New York, skiing in Switzerland, on safaris, even to the pyramids, but never to the seaside again.”
“Yes, and you and I always go on European city breaks,” continued Piers, who added, “which may explain the migraine and the nightmares you were having about the waves as well. This trip may have triggered something you usually bury in the back of your mind.”
Gaby lay back on the bed, allowing her mind to recall those scenes from twenty-two years before …
Gaby had been four, Meagan six, Alison nine and Clinton twelve; it was the Butlers’ first trip to Florida. Gaby could remember that fateful day on the beach; she could picture Clint and Ali, both blond and outgoing, racing into the foaming surf. Gaby had followed them into the sea, taking advantage of the fact that Meagan was keeping her parents fully occupied with one of her tantrums. Her older siblings waded and then swam further and further out to sea; both were confident and strong swimmers. They did not notice their small sister trying to emulate them. Gaby kept both in her sight, but she was beginning to feel out of her depth and hoped they would turn and see her. Suddenly the sea swelled up, blocking her view and sending a wall of water her way. Gaby cried out before taking a gulp of breath and shutting her eyes tightly. She was sucked under the surface and carried towards the shore like a grain of sand by the massive force of the waves. It had felt as though she was under water for many minutes. After the waves had dumped a bewildered Gaby on to the sand, the backwash attempted to drag her back; she felt as if she was on a giant carpet being pulled along, and she dug her hands and feet into the sand in resistance. As the force of the water abated, she looked back at her parents, who were still attending to Meagan and had not seen a thing. It was then that she noticed Clint striding out of the sea towards the beach, and she hurried back to her folks alongside her brother.
With difficulty, Gaby forced herself to recall the next few panic-filled moments as her parents realised that Alison was missing. Clint ran to alert the lifeguards and swam out himself to search for Alison. A massive search was mounted, but it ended two hours later in tragedy when Alison’s body was found washed ashore five hundred yards south. Although Gaby had mentally blocked out the desperately dark days which had followed, she now forced herself to review them. Her parents had been devastated; inconsolable, they had ceased to function. Clint and the hotel staff had looked after Gaby and Meagan, who were kept away from their mother who was often hysterical with grief. In fact, their mother, who had been a successful barrister, had never recovered. Just eighteen months later she had died from a combination of drink and drug abuse. She would remember Florida as a place where she had lost both sister and mother.
Sitting there in Malaysia, it was so far away in time and space that Gaby felt somewhat consoled. She was grateful to Piers for bringing it to her attention and she hoped that she would now be able to seal those reopened wounds in her mind. She wondered why the emotions connected to that day had been triggered. Was it the sea? She thought of how Malaysia was so vastly different to anywhere she had been to since Florida: the sweet humid air; the smell of salt coming off the sea; the royal-blue sky; the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore; the energy of the ocean; the aroma of tropical vegetation — smell, after all, was the sense most closely linked to memory. She had to pull herself together though as she was not being fair to Piers.
Yet, the can of worms was not so easily closed. The nightmares about tsunami continued and so did the feeling of unease. Gaby responded by throwing herself into every activity Langkawi had to offer — from the cable car to the yacht trip to the crocodile farm. The benefits were threefold: Piers was ecstatic; Gaby was too busy to dwell on the strange feelings and dreams which had begun to torment her; and the days were so packed with action that there was little time to talk. She had begun to welcome the company of Mike in the evenings. He invariably filled every silence with the sound of his own voice and there was never any need for the tormented Gaby to make conversation. Piers continued to revel in the experience in his hyperactive way, oblivious to Gaby’s thinly disguised depression.
They arrived back at Heathrow on a cold, dank October day and were greeted by drizzle and a four-mile M4 tailback, yet Gaby was thrilled to be home. Despite the weather she had a warm feeling inside.
Their apartment was still filled with wedding gifts; some were unopened and still boasted their splendid wrappings. While Gaby sorted their dirty holiday clothes into piles, Piers set to work on opening the remainder of the gifts. “Gaby,” exclaimed Piers, “take a look at this monstrosity!” He had opened one of the larger parcels to reveal an industrial-sized espresso maker: it was almost a yard wide and had four stations.
“Who gave us that?” laughed Gaby.
“My work,” answered Piers, adding, “I’ve seen these at John Lewis. They cost over £400.00. What say you we return it and put the money towards that new leather suite we’ve been after?”
“Great minds think alike,” agreed Gaby.
“Or …” Piers paused for effect, “since you were on about a change in career, you could start a coffee shop; become a barista rather than a barrister.”
They laughed together, and Gaby embraced Piers with genuine emotion for the first time in over ten days. It was good to be home.
Marmaris, Turkey
“C’mon, Dad, don’t be a wuss!” shouted Liam.
“Jump in, Dad, we can’t stand the sight of your purple trunks anymore.”
Martin removed his glasses and took a running leap off the Gulet, breaching the glistening blue surface of the Aegean with an explosive splash of white. His two children swam towards him, giggling as he surfaced, his hair over his face like a beaver.
“Hey, what’s that?” asked Liam, pointing to what appeared to be a large plastic bag floating towards them.
“Bet those idiots on that other yacht have been chucking their bloody rubbish overboard again,” complained Martin.
“Gross out. It’s heading towards us,” warned Tilly, screwing up her nose in disgust.
“I’ll get rid of it,” volunteered Liam, bravely swimming off in the direction of the package, with his father in close pursuit.
“Leave it alone Liam!”
“Yuck, it’s minging isn’t it, Dad?”
Martin was now only six feet from what looked like a cluster of bloated garbage bags held together with some sort of cloth. A small wave washed the bundle a little closer. “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Martin suddenly. “Liam, Tilly. Get back to the boat. Get out the water now!”
“Get back to the boat Til’, quick!” yelled Liam to his younger sister. “Don’t look back okay?”
Martin looked back to what he had thought were dustbin bags; from one end of the elongated object, he was certain he saw blonde hair undulating in the water. Although he wanted to gag, he was unable to avert his eyes from the macabre sight of the bloated and blackened body. “Liam. Matilda. Get back on the boat and stay in the cabin. Now.” He took a quick look back to the yacht to see his children looking back with wide-eyed concern. “I said now!”
The body was threatening to drift towards the yacht. Martin felt he had to do something; he did not want his daughter to see the body. It was grotesque and f
rightening for an eight-year-old and he knew the image would live with her forever. Martin had never been able to erase the picture of his neighbour’s dog, bleeding to death in the driveway. His uncle had driven over the dog when learning to drive: it was almost thirty years ago, but to Martin, it felt like yesterday.
Taking a deep breath, he paddled towards the stinking mass of bloated flesh. Attempting to push it away, he thrust his hands forward. He was totally unprepared for what happened next. His hands sunk deep into the flesh of the rotting body, as it oozed over his arms.
“For fuck’s sake call the police!” he found himself screaming.
Chapter Three
Monday, and Gaby’s enthusiasm for her work had not returned. She arrived every morning and regarded her in-tray with a leaden heart. Reluctantly, she plodded through the business of the day, her mind focused on five thirty. Where previously she had been ultra-thorough, now she was adequately thorough; once she had been fastidiously diligent, now she was merely diligent enough. Although she knew she needed a change, she had no idea what other career options there were realistically, bearing Piers’s concerns in mind.
She was relieved that since three members of staff had married that summer, wedding fatigue had set in and no one was particularly interested in rehashing her wedding or oo-ing and aah-ing about the honeymoon snaps in exotic locations. Gaby had not taken many photos; she did not see the point of taking amateur snaps of landmarks and beaches: that was what postcards and brochures were for, surely.