by AJ Kirby
Jim was taken aback, but then, he knew that she had an instinct about him. She knew him better than he knew himself.
‘You’re right. But the police don’t know about this. This is all my own work. Nobody can know. Look, the reason I needed to see you is because it’s my hunch that the gang involved in the crime have fled to Mauritius. I’m booked onto a flight there tomorrow. Between now and then, I need to know anything and everything you know about the place; any contacts you have, any recommendations of where I could start my search for some master criminals… anything.’
‘Okay; and this goes against all of my better instincts, but I’m prepared to help you. I always had a soft spot for you; you know that,’ she took a long draught from her vodka and shook the empty glass at him. He waved her hand away - later.
‘Mauritius is a beautiful island; paradise for some people. But I went there for research and it seemed to get up the noses of a lot of people. I got on the wrong side of some of the locals, and they waged war against the scientific facility. You know, I would have thought they’d have been pleased at the research we were carrying out- they absolutely revere the Dodo still - but no, they seemed to think that nature was better left well alone. I never really went anywhere at night where I’d expect a gang of criminals to hang out; the only place I could recommend would be a place called the Hotel Midas… it’s a bit off the beaten track, and very, very expensive. I could conceive of a group of criminals hiding out there.’
Jim raced to the bar for more lubricant to oil the wheels of his source of information. On his return, he already had formulated his next set of questions.
‘Okay, the Hotel Midas might very well be the place, especially if the group appreciate their ancient mythology. But what I think the group will be looking for, almost as soon as they reach the island, is some kind of criminal group which can help them. They’ve stolen a pretty sophisticated piece of kit from Edison’s Printers - the Precisioner itself - and they’ll be needing some help to work it. Are there any gangs that you might have come across that would fit the bill? I want to get there first so I can lay my trap for them.’
‘All I can think of, Jim,’ said Ruth, taking another Jim-sized gulp from her drink and ruminating over the possibilities, ‘is a man who calls himself ‘the Dodo’. He’s renowned throughout the island. Hates foreigners; keeps hacking into the bank accounts. It’s him that caused us most of the problems with our research. He kept hacking into our computers and deleting the files. The locals seemed to think of him as some kind of a Robin Hood character.’
‘He might very well fit the bill,’ Jim was getting excited again. ‘Did you ever meet him? Where might I find him?’
Ruth smiled consolingly, ‘I never met him, to be honest, and I don’t think many people ever did. But, one of the guys at our facility tried to cut some kind of a deal with him; they were supposed to meet up in a place called Rose Hill to discuss a way in which we could all move forward. Unfortunately, the University cut short our research funding at that very moment as they were getting a little scared about all of the bad publicity.’
Jim clinked glasses with Ruth across the table, ‘I really do owe you one now, Dr. Sharp. Even if our elusive Dodo can’t help lead me straight to the three roisterers, then at least he can help us explore some of the murky underworld of the place; this will make my job one hell of a lot easier.’
‘There’s one way you could pay me back,’ said Ruth, levelling her stare at him over the top of her glass. ‘You could take me with you…’
Drawing Straws
Ever since Danny had seen that terrible gleam of malice in Chris’s eyes when he’d mentioned Cheryl’s name, he had taken to sleeping with the bag of money under his head. Or rather, he had taken to lying awake all night with an uncomfortable, bulky, canvas bag sticking uncomfortably to his skin and hair through the glue of the atmosphere’s sticky heat.
They had discovered another luxurious hotel and moved away from the boarding house of their first night, but both had agreed that they didn’t want to let the other out of their sight, so they’d opted for a twin room. Sometimes, Danny would turn his head and look at Chris through the gloom. Once he had been genuinely scared when he’d looked over and saw Chris’s cat-like green eyes staring right back at him.
Every morning, they would order room service and eat a cooked breakfast on the balcony overlooking the luscious green hills and towering mountain panorama, but both felt trapped by their paranoia. They hardly even set foot out of the room for fear of what the other would do with the bags. Nothing had ever been spoken between them about this sudden loss of trust; it just simply appeared between them like a massive barrier. A week of inertia passed in which they were frozen by fear. No longer were they watching over their backs for flashing blue lights; instead, they were looking for the flash of a blade held by the other one.
Every afternoon, they would draw straws to decide what to do next; should they make their way to the coast and try to track down the elusive Dodo there, or should they pay another visit to the huge colonial house, and try to glean some more information out of that strange owl-like creature that was house-sitting for his master there. In fact, they would draw straws about everything; it was the only way to stop sneering argument. It left everything to chance rather to the other’s wickedly subtle plans.
Dark rings had begun to appear around Danny’s eyes. As he stared into the distance, off the balcony, his eyelids flickered and trembled like a light-bulb that was about to burn itself out. He would sit for hours in the bathroom, his bag by his feet, simply watching the water disappear the wrong way down the plug-hole in the sink. Chris apparently kept himself going by chain-smoking; virtually lighting his next cigarette off the one he ground out aggressively in the ashtray.
The cleaner would come into their room every morning, and unable to speak English, would simply gesticulate at the beautiful view from the balcony, as if she couldn’t understand how they could stay in their room. Chris would wave his hands right back at her, unsubtly telling her to mind her own business in the universal sign-language of swearing.
Sometimes, though, when the straws demanded, they had to leave their comfort zone. They had to walk back through the narrow, confined streets, where anyone could simply jump out and attack them, making off with their bags. Where once they’d seen the wonder and magic of the candle-light in the trees, they now saw madmen in the flickering shadows they cast. Where once they’d been delighted by their inconspicuousness within the crowds, they now felt as though they stuck out like a pair digits which had had thumb-screws applied to them. Danny favoured a head-down approach, choosing not to meet anyone’s eyes. Chris was clearly trying to blend in with the locals by wearing one of the ubiquitous white linen suits.
Every day, they would stride down to the Dodo’s colonial house; every day, they would amble back again, the toll of no news ringing in their ears.
‘When are we actually going to do something? We’ve been here for over a week now,’ said Chris as they were walking back under another cloud of disappointment.
‘We keep picking the straws, and that’s what they keep telling us to do, we have no choice in the matter,’ replied Danny.
‘Well I’ve had enough. I say that we turn around, go back there, and shake that little owl thing from his roost. We’ll find out where the bloody Dodo is, and we’ll go and pay him a visit. I’m sick of this island,’ snapped Chris. He had stopped on the side of the road and was spitting out vehemence to accompany his every word.
‘Okay then, cockeroo,’ Danny agreed. ‘But this is the last time that we make any decision which we don’t justify by drawing straws.’
They marched back down the road, lugging their hefty bags behind them again. Danny reflected that perhaps the locals thought they were salesmen, carrying their wares in the bags. They must have been spotted on a daily basis, walking up and down the road, never once setting up their stall. They knew every bump in the road, every crack in the
pavement, every doorway. When they finally approached the house, they could see that, for once, the shutters on the windows were open. Danny felt a surge of anticipation.
‘Perhaps the master of the house is back. Look, they’ve put the sprinklers on in the garden too.’
The baby owl man crept around the corner, wearing what looked like gardening overalls.
‘Back to the old, routine chores now the master’s back, is that it?’ sneered Chris.
‘I see that you’re back again. You must really want to see him,’ replied the baby owl, politely, as he rested a spade against the stone pillar of the entrance.
Chris just laughed at him, ‘I’ve had enough of your games. Is Mr. Ramnawaz back then?’
A flicker of a smile appeared on the little man’s face, tufts of his puny beard danced in the breeze. ‘He came back, sirs, but he has left again, just this minute.’
Abruptly, Chris grabbed the tiny figure by the shoulders and roughly shook him as though he was mixing a cocktail.
‘You little shit. This is not a game; this is very important. Let us in the house; I’ll check if he’s there.’
Danny tried to restrain Chris, ‘Leave him alone; he’s not a child.’
Chris finally released his grip on the man, and apologetically brushed some dirt away from his child-like shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, but you tell us the same cock and bull story every day we come here. Did you even pass on our message to your master?’
Finally, with a great, heaving sigh, the baby owl replied, ‘Why did you not ask that question first? Of course I did. He is at a place called Goodlands, on the North side of the island, near the beautiful reef. He will meet you at a hotel - the Hotel Vasco Da Gama - in exactly two day’s time. He has business he needs to attend to first. Why not take the time to look around our magnificent island? You have spent so much time coming back and forth, up and down that road, that you have surely appreciated none of the island’s true qualities.’
The baby owl began to look wistful, a faraway expression glazed over his eyes. ‘Did you know; the great American writer, Mark Twain, visited Mauritius. Maybe it’s his fault that all the tourists now flock here. He said, “You gather the idea that Mauritius was made first and then heaven, and that heaven was copied after Mauritius.’”
Danny tried to respond to the baby owl’s enthusiasm and obvious pride, ‘You’re right; this is a special place. It’s just that we’re in purgatory at the moment, not heaven. All we need is your master’s help, and then we’ll be able to relax and enjoy the natural wonder of Mauritius. I’d like to thank you for arranging our meeting.’
Danny almost bowed at the baby owl, not really understanding the correct etiquette. Chris, however, had already walked out of the gate and was standing in the road, waiting.
The Sea
Mark had always secretly loved the sea, but the waters around Mauritius were something else. In his childhood, he’d been overwhelmed by the murky, grey mystery of the North Sea, but now he was swept away by the clarity and depth of the Indian Ocean. He could stare into its extreme depth and wonder at the profundity that it inspired in him. It made him want to write poetry, to somehow describe the flirtatious fish, the wondrous underwater landscape of the coral reefs and the sheer amount of different shades of blue which it contained. The ocean’s vast volume had the power to dwarf his personal problems, to wash them away with the tide. He could lose himself, become a castaway in a place where he felt somehow renewed.
Mauritia sailed the small boat; she had learned the family trade so well over the years that it was second nature to her. They weren’t particularly going anywhere. If they fancied eating, they would cast nets over the side and catch fish, then they would land on a nearby beach and build a fire, and cook their catch. The fish always had the tangy, slightly charcoal taste of freedom. If they fancied sleeping, they’d simply drop the anchor and let the waves lull them into a peaceful slumber; all of their cares simply drifted away.
Mark thought of his mother sometimes, with regret, but otherwise, he never gave England another thought. That would be like looking back; all he wanted to do now was look forward. He sometimes questioned Mauritia about why she liked him, but deep down, he knew that she felt, like him, that it was simply right. She still liked to joke with him though, betraying a terrible array of jokes which Mark still had to humour.
‘Mark, when you’re asleep one day, who’s to say I won’t just throw you over the side? You don’t really know me… I could be a murderess!’
And then she would laugh uproariously, that same snorting, donkey-bray laugh, and Mark wouldn’t know where to look.
‘Nobody knows you’re here with me. What if I were to sell you into slavery? My revenge against the old colonial masters! Ha, ha, ha!’
And she’d slap her thighs, almost losing control of the steering of the boat.
They sailed around the Southern tip of the island, past the coastal town of Souillac. At one point, their small boat was accompanied by a school of dolphins that would race ahead of the boat, and then, about a hundred metres away, they’d stop, as if to say, ‘catch up!’ Their sleek, aerodynamic bodies would, as though part of a display team, acrobatically spring out of the water - almost flying - putting on a free show for Mark and Mauritia. Then they would sink back into the clear ocean, twisting and turning; swimming under the boat and then magically reappearing. Mark loved their playfulness, their lack of fear, their agility. Finally the dolphins tired of their game, and swam off in search of newer, quicker playmates. At night, they would hear the mournful songs of the whales, their sad, lonely lament to the stars.
Finally, after a week’s sailing and fishing, Mauritia asked him the burning questions.
‘How long are you planning to stay in Mauritius? What do you want to do now?’
Mark looked up from the careful job of untangling the fishing net and smiled, ‘I’m here for good if you’ll have me? I could try to get some kind of a job here. Maybe something in the tourism industry; I’m still a qualified electrician.’
‘Why don’t you come to stay at my house? Just on a temporary basis at first, and then we’ll see what happens. We should put no time limits on things; just let fate decide for us…’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Mark, pensively. ‘I’m not at all sure about the whole fate business. I think it has more to do with choices; whether we make the right decisions for us. To be honest, if I had have been fated to meet you, and if I’d have known that, it would have completely tongue-tied me. I would have concentrated on what I was supposed to say, rather than what I chose to say. Do you know what I mean? As though there was a script I was supposed to be reading from, but I didn’t know where it was… instead I met the real you. And on my own terms.’
‘You don’t know how happy that makes me,’ said Mauritia, a smile gleaming across her face. ‘I was worried that I was just becoming part of your mystical exploration of eastern thinking, and not a real person.’
‘No, Mauritia,’ said Mark, taking her hand. ‘I love you because you are the most three dimensional person I have ever met- your dancing, your laughter, your bad jokes, your eyes… you are the key to my door, and through that door, I’ve found happiness. And I also love you because you saw the real me.’
Mark then burst out laughing. Mauritia was accompanying his attempts at a romantic speech by pretending to stick two fingers down her throat to make herself sick.
Mauritia and her family lived in a row of shack-like houses arranged in a haphazard fashion, strung out along the coastline, not far from the town of Mahebourg. As she led Mark towards her house, she seemed a little embarrassed at the poverty of the place. Small chickens ran in and out of their feet, abandoned fishing vessels were simply left to rot away into the grass and sand was everywhere. But Mark loved it; after the damp walls and decaying carpets of his house in Wortley, this place was a step-up.
She led him through the flimsy plastic front door and into the main room of the ho
use. It was covered with flotsam and jetsam from the sea; gaping sets of shark’s teeth, name plaques from long-dead ships, the ubiquitous ship-in-a-bottle. There was a tired looking sofa, which she’d tried to brighten up with a colourful throw, and there was also a table, constructed out of what was seemingly a ship’s wheel with a pane of glass welded onto the top of it.
To Mark, it was a treasure trove of delights.
The bedroom had a huge panorama window which made it seem like the bed was actually on the beach. And from the amount of sand on the floor, it might as well have been. The walls were again filled with maritime memorabilia; there were beautifully drawn old maps, sketches of crashing waves, and old paintings of unlikely-looking sea monsters. Mark threw himself onto the bed and started a strange, jerky dance - his ankle no longer hindering his movement. It was the only way he could express the wave of happiness which had swelled up in him.
He thought of Danny dancing on the silk sheets of the King-sized bed at the Midas Hotel; an image which seemed to come from another era. For once, he didn’t feel that stab of anger. No, Mark felt pity for the man whose happiness was dictated to him by a stash of bits of paper.
That night, Mauritia telephoned seemingly all of her family to come round and enjoy the fruits of their fishing expedition. She laid out a vast array of dishes on the ship’s wheel table; Sounouk, Octopus stew, Daube de poisson and a fish Biryani. At first they had seemed a little wary of Mark, but soon, as the powerful local coconut rum started to flow, the laughter and chatter had started.
And the questions; suddenly it seemed as though everyone wanted to know something about this mysterious guest at Mauritia’s house. They wanted to know about England, about his family, about why he was there.
‘Is it true that in England it rains every day?’ asked Mauritia’s father, a tall, austere-looking man. ‘Is it true that in England nobody speaks to each other?’