by Anna Maxted
Innocence made you polish the floor on your hands and knees, like Cinderella. But at least Cinderella got to be beautiful. Innocence had cut Claudia’s hair short; she looked like a boy.
Claudia put the spade to one side and scraped at the sand with her toes. It was hot, but if you scraped deep enough, it got cool again. It was good to be alone, but she was scared that Innocence would see her and get cross. Innocence always got cross if she saw Claudia. She wished that Mummy had tried harder to stay alive. If Innocence would like her, then Claudia would like her back. But she hated Daddy and she would always hate Daddy, because Daddy did nothing.
Stupid grown-ups. They were having a big party for Daddy’s stupid new hotel, and there were people who wrote stories for the newspapers. There were people she had seen on the television, on Top of the Pops. Famous people. She wasn’t allowed to watch Top of the Pops, but when Innocence was out, Nanny let her. It was a very important party, because Daddy wanted people to like his hotel. Claudia didn’t like it. It was dark inside, like a haunted house.
Her head was burning hot in the sun: she felt as if she’d catch on fire in a minute. She really wanted to go in the water. It was very shallow, and you could see to the bottom, and some tiny fish. She jumped up – ouch, ouch, the sand was like stepping on an oven – quick, to the water! Oh, it was so warm, like a bath. It swirled around her knees, and her waist, and she splashed with her hands, and put her legs together and pretended to be a mermaid. Except she wouldn’t go underwater, no way. It was horrible not being able to breathe until someone let you. It was quite hard to swim with your legs together, she needed a proper fish’s tail. But, oh, the water was pushing her deeper, she tried to stop, but it was too strong, ugh, it was salty in her mouth – help – she couldn’t – she was going under – choking – oh—
‘Got you!’
A great big man like a bear, with a big black beard and curly hair, was smiling at her, lifting her up, up, up, out of the water. She was happy but she was crying and scared at the same time.
‘It’s all right,’ he said as she spluttered and coughed. The water stung inside her nose. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘Please don’t tell my stepmother,’ she said, ‘or I’ll get told off.’
The man looked serious. ‘You shouldn’t have been in the water by yourself, young lady. Anything could have happened. What’s your name? And where is your stepmother? She should be looking after you.’
‘Claudia. She’s in the hotel, with Daddy and all the other people. I’m seven and I can look after myself. And what’s your name?’
The man smiled but she didn’t like him, even though he’d rescued her. He was too hairy.
‘What’s your favourite name for a boy, Claudia?’
‘You’re not a boy!’
‘What’s your favourite boy’s name, Claudia?’
‘It’s … it’s … Orinoco. You can put me down now.’
‘Well, Claudia. My name is Orinoco, and I’m going to help you to get dry. If you’re a good girl now and do as you’re told, I won’t tell your stepmother how bad you’ve been. It will be our secret.’
‘I’m dry, Orinoco. The sun is drying me. Please don’t tell her.’
‘We’ll see. Do as I say, and maybe I won’t. We’re nearly there.’
She could feel her heart going pit-pat pit-pat, but she didn’t want Orinoco to get cross. She could tell that he was almost cross, and it was so, so terrifying when adults got cross. They turned into monsters.
Orinoco was looking about, and then he walked quickly to the beach hut, the one right at the end of the beach, away from the hotel. He put her in a chair. It was made of bamboo and scratchy. Orinoco locked the door.
‘It’s too dark,’ said Claudia, but she said it in her head. She wanted her daddy. Orinoco was a baddie, and it wasn’t her favourite boy’s name any more. She could feel her eyes getting hot, which meant that she was going to cry.
‘You’re going to meet a friend of mine, and I want you to be very nice to him.’
She nodded. The seat of her chair was warm and wet suddenly, and she was shaking. Slowly, Orinoco unzipped his shorts. He put a finger to his lips, and she bit hers to try not to scream. It wasn’t like Daddy’s – it was much bigger, and upright, purple and disgusting.
Orinoco sat down on another chair and smiled at her, like a wolf. She wanted to run but Orinoco had locked the door. There was no glass in the window but it was too high to reach. It was hard to breathe, as if she was still in the water.
‘Who saved your life?’
‘You did, Orinoco,’ she said, but her voice wouldn’t work. It came out all croaky.
‘That’s right. And now you are going to say thank you.’ He paused. ‘Come and sit with me, Claudia.’
TEN MINUTES EARLIER
Alfie
It was the worst party in the world ever. Lots of adults shouting and falling over. The food was brill: a chocolate cake in the shape of the island, and trifle, and a chocolate fondue with marshmallows, and a fruit salad with cherries in it, and a massive barbecue with fat sausages, and prawns the size of bananas. There was a hog roast as in medieval times, but he couldn’t get to any of it, because the adults were so greedy. They pushed, then told you off for bad manners! They were jumping in the enormous swimming pool that looked joined to the sea and some of them were kissing.
Alfie slid off the chair. His legs peeled off the seat like a sticker coming away from its backing. He had heat rash and insect bites that swelled and oozed yellow pus and his back felt hot and painful even though he’d only been allowed to go snorkelling for five minutes. He’d forgotten his sunblock in the speedboat.
It was misery. His daddy had said it would be fun, but it was only fun for the adults. The adults had behaved like children – his daddy and all the journalists had water-skied, and windsurfed, and gone spear-fishing. He’d stayed inside and drawn a picture of a Chieftain tank.
Daddy was still having a good time: he was sitting in the pool drinking champagne and laughing with a lady who had a red swimming costume and big boobs. Claudia’s new mother.
He wasn’t scared of Claudia’s new mother. She was beautiful, but she smoked, like Cruella de Vil, from a long cigarette-holder. Claudia said she was a witch, and even though Alfie didn’t believe in all that nonsense, he’d seen the wigs in the room where she kept all her dresses. They were like Indian scalps. He’d wanted to check them for skin and blood, but Claudia was too frightened that they’d be caught.
It was so unfair. He wanted to play with Claudia – she was all right for a girl – but Innocence had said she was resting, and he couldn’t see her because her nanny wasn’t well. He liked his room. The bottom of the bath was see-through, and the sea was underneath. It was cool. He’d seen a lion fish. The only thing was, if a diver saw your burn.
Alfie decided to go and find a tree to climb. There were hammocks all over the island, and brown rabbits and peacocks and squirrels. He wondered if Daddy had brought his ratter.
He trudged off through the trees, dodging the sunlight. Every time it hit his skin he itched. He saw a turtle, sleeping. And a pair of sandy flippers, and a diving mask, left outside a beach villa. He stared: a spear gun, propped against the wall. Alfie glanced left and right. One go. He’d have to find a fish – couldn’t be too hard, the sea was full of them!
He lifted it and touched the tip of the arrow. He knew he shouldn’t, but it was the same as seeing a notice that said ‘wet paint’. It was bloody sharp. The gun was heavy and nearly as tall as he was, but he was very strong. The handle of it was just like a normal hunting rifle. Did you have to shoot fish with it? Unless there was some decent shade on the beach, he couldn’t face getting to the water – every step across the sand the sun would sear into his flesh. He knew just how it felt to be a hog roast.
He’d creep among the trees and see if there was a way of reaching the ocean without being fried alive. Even the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of the
palm trees irritated his skin. He could still hear the noise and music from the party. Keep walking. OK. Right at the far end of the beach, there was a tall stack of surfboards, next to a beach hut – ah, shelter – and further along, near the water, a couple of kayaks, left upside down on the sand. He could crawl along in the shadows, like a sniper, and from there the water was only a few feet away, and there were rocks. Perfect: fish and shade.
He hurried through the trees, gripping the spear gun in sweaty hands, and darted in front of the surfboards. Then into the shadow of the beach hut – ah, this was proper, solid cool. He paused for a second, resting the spear gun on the sand and wiping his hands on his shorts. The enemy was in his sights! Then he heard it, and froze where he stood. It was the sound of primal fear and it chilled him to the bone. All the heat left his body in a shudder. The noise was coming from inside the beach hut: the cold hard tone of an adult with no mercy, and that terrible heart-stopping whimper of a child, a little girl.
Claudia?
Alfie held his breath and slowly, quietly, picked up the gun. Suddenly he was as calm as the glassy turquoise sea. He’d stalked deer with Daddy in the Highlands every year since he could walk. Daddy said he was a rotten shot. But he wasn’t. No, it took a lot of skill to convincingly miss a beautiful enormous animal like a stag every time. He crept round to the window.
‘Come and sit with me, Claudia.’
The man was on a chair with his eyes closed and a strained look on his face; he was sort of panting. Alfie could only see his head and shoulders. He heaved the gun on to his shoulder, took aim at the centre of that ugly forehead. It was only as he pressed the trigger that he started to tremble and shifted his aim to one side.
The man screamed. He seemed to fly backwards, in a bright red spray of blood. Alfie staggered with the force of the recoil and fell over in the sand. ‘Claudia!’ he yelled, scrambling up on jelly legs. His shoulder was a blaze of white-hot pain where the butt of the gun had kicked back. ‘Claudia! Are you OK?’ He jumped at the window, trying to see into the room. The man was lying on the floor, clutching the side of his head, moaning, gasping. His dick was out. The arrow was embedded in the bamboo behind him, neatly pinning a ripped-off ear to the wall. Alfie took a deep breath, and looked away.
Claudia had no clothes on and a sick dazed look. ‘Claudia. It’s Alfie. Move the chair to the window.’
She gazed at him, numb.
‘DO AS I SAY,’ he roared in his father’s voice. It hurt his shoulder even to speak.
She started and pushed the chair.
‘Quick.’
Gritting his teeth against the agony, he hauled himself up to the window. The man was staggering to his feet, and his face was grim like death. She climbed on to the chair. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Jump.’ He held out his thin arms. ‘I’ll catch you.’
She stared at him, hesitated for a second, and he was back in the Highlands, helpless, witnessing the gentle despair of a doe just before death. The man lunged, grabbed her, and she disappeared from sight.
THE POOL BAR, TWO MINUTES EARLIER
Harry
What a rack. Her nipples were clearly visible beneath the thin material. He was getting a stiffy. And she was looking at him that way. But she was the wife of his friend, and Harry did not shit on his own doorstep, despite the fact that Jack had done the dirty on him. His wife Helen had agreed there were mitigating circumstances, but the relationship would never be quite what it had been.
Ah well. A man could dream. You could drown in that cleavage. And when she uncrossed her legs, he could see the—
‘Harry.’
‘Jack, old chap! Splendid party. Your wife and I were discussing the stock mark—’
‘Harry, where’s Alfie?’
‘The little chap? Sitting right over – ah, bugger.’
‘Claudia’s nanny woke up and she’d gone. I’ve had the staff check every villa, but there’s no sign. Perhaps she’s with him?’ Jack paused. ‘They wouldn’t go in the sea, would they?’
Fuck. Helen would kill him if anything happened to Alfie. But she wouldn’t have to – he’d kill himself. That little chap lit up his world. Why had he taken his eye off the ball just because they were on holiday? It was more dangerous than home. His heart shrank pea-sized with dread.
‘We’ve got no time. This bunch of hacks – get them involved.’
Jack paused. Harry gave him a look. ‘This is no time to be proud, Jack.’
‘You’re right, of course.’
‘I’ll get their attention,’ said Innocence. She walked over to where the band was playing, and whispered in the ear of the lead singer – a Frog? Le Bon was his name, though he sounded English. Well, he sounded like a bloody racket. Not quite the thing, but Jack didn’t take advice these days.
‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your enjoyment,’ she purred into the microphone, with a smile on her beauteous face – she was mint-julep cool in the face of disaster – ‘but Jack’s seven-year-old daughter, Claudia, and Lord Cannadine’s ten-year-old, Alfie, have gone missing on the island. We beg you to join us in our search. They could be anywhere. They could be in danger.’ She paused, lowered her eyelashes, seemed to swallow a sob. ‘Thank you, so much.’
As Harry leaped out of the pool and ran towards the beach, he was aware of Jack glaring at his wife. What was his fucking problem? His child was missing, and he was worried about the bad press! But it was working. This bunch of alcoholics had trained themselves to function at 20 per cent proof, and off they all trotted after the prize, like sniffer dogs. At least the piles of coke they’d hoovered up would give them energy for the search. For them, it wasn’t about the lost children, it was about the story, but he didn’t care. Just let Alfie and Claudia be safe.
He thundered across the sand, straining his eyes out to sea. ‘Alfie,’ he shouted. ‘Alfieeee.’
And then, oh blessed day, a small figure staggering around in the distance, by a beach hut. ‘Daddy, Daddy, run.’
‘Alfie! Daddy’s coming. Everyone, here!’
LAKE COMO, ITALY, A WEEK LATER
Innocence
‘Darling, excuse me for just one second.’
Innocence hurried up the marble staircase to one of the Roman-sized bathrooms, closed and locked the burgundy-velvet and walnut-wood-panelled door, and sat her pert behind on the thick red marble edge of the tub. She stared at a white marble bust of a Greek god – some bald guy with a beard – and laughed and laughed.
After the horrors of last week, Jack would be begging her to take her place on the board. Which meant she would be able to call a halt to Plan B. Plan B would be so very harsh on poor Jack.
It was so kind of dear Gianni to lend them his charming lakeside pad for the bambina to recuperate. She’d always liked his frocks, and now she loved them!
She was half annoyed that Jack’s refurbishment and renovations of the Spyglass Island Villa Retreat had turned out gorgeous. The wood was too dark, and he wasn’t fabulous on detail, but he’d managed, without asking her opinion once, to create a desirable and exclusive destination – and all the new staff were young, beautiful, and didn’t wear red waistcoats.
And, she’d realized – stupid only to realize now – that the hacks wouldn’t have cared had he stuck a line of caravans along the beach. What mattered was that Jack had shown those dog-eat-dogs the time of their sordid lives. Booze, drugs, grub, all laid on. The grubby hordes had enjoyed frangipani massages, they’d sailed catamarans, they’d picked the pink curly shells off the white icing sugar sand and jammed them in their pockets: it was all about greed, grabbing as much as they could get. They were being bribed to make the love ooze off the page.
And it would have paid off. The rich and famous would have had their butlers ringing the phone off the hook to book the presidential suites, the ocean-view villas, the entire island all year round, and Jack would have thought he was invincible.
But, that mistress of disaster, Claudia, had managed to turn the jewel of he
r father’s young empire into a piece of broken glass.
Now, he would see that he needed Innocence. For richer, he needed her.
The headlines were horrific. Innocence’s particular favourite was the News of the World: ‘PAEDO IN PARADISE – WE SAVE TYCOON’S KID’.
A story on pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 followed – ‘As her millionaire dad drunkenly partied with a bevy of blondes …’ – which managed to cover every grim detail, including the fact that Jack had once wet his bed aged eleven.
She’d covered her tracks well enough – had the wit to pay some dropouts from that posh school to sell a ‘story’ on her. She’d scanned the pages with shaking hands, but their main interest in her was her bust size. The photo of her was satisfactory – how dare Jack question her need for her hairstylist to travel with her! Once she was working with him she would also employ a full-time make-up artist. It was the 1980s. Image was everything.
And the image of Jack’s fabulous island retreat was dirt. It would always be the island retreat where his seven-year-old had escaped being raped and killed by a nonce. Jack’s own image was tarnished: he was a rotten father. He’d sacked the nanny but it was too little too late – why oh why wasn’t he watching his kid? It was his island, that practically made it his nonce! The pictures on page two were of a rugged Harry Cannadine carrying a limp Claudia in his arms, and his handsome son and heir, Alfred Horatio Nelson Cannadine, hobbling by his side – having dislocated his shoulder while rescuing the fair maiden. Harry and Alfie were the heroes. ‘Fucking Establishment,’ Jack had muttered.
The only thing the News of the World had forgotten to mention was that the nonce in question was a journalist.