She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  On the way out of town, there’s a scruffy little garage at the side of the road. I saw their sign:

  Quad Bikes for Rent

  $25 an hour

  I was sure they wouldn’t be too fussy about seeing a driving licence. I showed them my student card to prove I was over twenty-one and the fat old man in charge took me across to one of the rusty old bikes and told me to hop on. After a ten-minute tutorial in the saddle I was on my way, engine sputtering and roaring, speeding along gravelly roads winding up steep green hills, through unbelievably green and lush tracts of the Pine Mountain National Park, and across to the other side of the island, in search of the villa.

  Sadly, the fat old man forgot to warn me to go easy on the brakes!

  I stand up and take a few unsteady steps. My knees are bruised and bleeding, and my wrist is hurting but I’m more or less in one piece.

  I look around nervously. Once again, I can’t shake the uncanny feeling that someone’s watching me. I spent most of the ride, checking over my shoulder every hundred metres or so, convinced I was being tailed. But I’m probably just imagining things. There’s certainly not a soul in sight now. I can see why Damien chose this villa. It really is in the middle of nowhere.

  I climb onto the quad bike and ride it gingerly in low gear back up to the turning for La Revanche. Strange name for a holiday home. If my schoolgirl French doesn’t deceive me, I think it means the villa of ‘revenge’ or ‘retribution.’

  I steer the quad bike safely up the driveway that opens onto a sun-baked parking area. There’s a rough stone wall running the length of the path leading to the ramshackle house. I park up next to it. A couple of lizards dash out as I follow the wall up towards the peeling front door. They’re well camouflaged and I see only a flash of movement as they dart away into the gaps between the stones. This place is teeming with life but it’s hidden away, furtive and secret. Even the reptiles are on the run. As I walk up the path, I pass a rickety wooden outbuilding and almost jump out of my skin as a dog just inside the rotting timbers starts up barking furiously and throws itself against the locked doors. I’m glad it’s not on the loose. I can’t see it behind the timbers but it sounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles.

  Damien must have heard the engine and the rabid barking. He’s waiting for me at the door. He’s got a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. Not the first, judging by the way he sways over towards me. He kisses me on both cheeks and swings open the door with an extravagant gesture.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  He doesn’t look like a double murderer – more like a pathetic drunk this afternoon, with stubble on his cheeks and stains on his shirt.

  Although the house itself is shabby and run down, its owners have begun to redevelop the property, starting with the pool area. The swimming pool is appealing, an infinity pool, set on a high point in the land overlooking the valley below. The pool is encircled by stone paving and a vast area of decking decorated with wood carvings, water features and hanging chairs. I can imagine the blurb in the brochure. The perfect place to relax in complete isolation.

  Damien offers me a gin and tonic and asks if I would like to have a swim. It’s too much to resist, so tempting after spending hours stuck in Costa’s stuffy office.

  ‘I need to clean myself up first,’ I say, pointing to my scuffed knees. ‘And I didn’t bring my bikini. I can’t go skinny dipping in broad daylight. Do you think Christina would lend me one?’

  I want to go and talk to her as soon as possible so I’m looking for an excuse.

  ‘Christina is resting,’ he says. ‘She went up about half an hour ago. Have a swim first. You can see her later. I think she left a bikini in the downstairs bathroom through there. Help yourself. I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  I go through to the bathroom and wash the blood off my knees. I look in the bathroom cabinet for some antiseptic to put on my wounds. Christina’s medicine collection seems to have expanded since I last saw it. Alongside her usual brands of sleeping pills and sedatives, there are a couple of bottles with names I haven’t seen before. I read the warning labels. I know enough from my aborted childcare studies to recognise that these are powerful anti-psychotic medications usually prescribed for schizophrenia. She must be in a bad way.

  Her leopard-print bikini is hanging up to dry on the towel rail. Christina must have been for a swim. I thought she hated going in the water. It fits me pretty well though the cup size is a bit small. The odd thing is, I could have sworn she bought it from Calvin Klein, but the label on this is Sauvage. Anyway it looks great on me and I’m dying for a swim.

  When I go back out to the pool, the grounds are deserted. Damien’s left me a gin and tonic on a small table next to a sun lounger. Next to the glass there’s a small silver bell – does he expect me to ring for service? It feels very Great Gatsby. There’s also an open book on the table – Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon. Who reads a book about bullfighting in Spain when on holiday in the Caribbean? I’m sure it’s not Christina’s. Damien must have left it there on purpose. He’s trying to impress (or intimidate) me.

  I dive in the pool. The water’s deliciously cool. I’m going to do forty lengths.

  *

  When I get out of the pool, there’s still no one around so I settle myself down on the sunbed and reach for the gin and tonic. The ice has almost melted.

  I’m about to take a sip when I notice something sparkling on the surface of the drink. I hold the glass up to the light. It’s a silver jingle shell, gently curved and scintillating, floating on the top of my gin and tonic. It makes a tiny clinking sound as I swirl it round the rim. I stand up and call out to Damien but he’s nowhere to be seen. The sound of my voice is enough to set off the hound in the outhouse. The alarming volley of barking and snarling sparks a recollection of the image in the police file of the dog photographed in front of The Phantasea. It occurs to me that someone is trying to communicate with me by leaving me a cryptic clue. Now I think maybe I get it – the floating jingle, the silver bell… Does that little floating shell on the surface of the water represent The Phantasea? Is the idea of the jingle and the silver bell intended to make me think of Katie’s favourite fairy Tinker Bell in the story book of Peter Pan that I was reading to her the night before she disappeared?

  Damien wouldn’t have the imagination for this. If my instincts are right, it’s Christina’s work – Christina who bought the beautiful copy of Peter Pan that she found in the Book Cellar in New York for us to read to Katie on holiday. She told me it was her favourite children’s’ story when she was a little girl too. We were taking it in turns, reading Katie a chapter every evening at bedtime.

  This message, that Christina’s left for me right under Damien’s nose, may help me to discover where Katie – our very own lost child – has been hidden. Could it be that this little shell is supposed to represent a boat floating in the sea, and could it be… that the lost girl…?

  Yes, Katie’s on the boat… The Phantasea must be where she’s hidden.

  Christina’s the one who did this. I feel sure of it, just as she’s the one who scrawled letters from Damien’s name in lipstick on my mirror and took Katie’s passport and her purse from my safe. God knows what her motives are but it’s her. Perhaps she removed Katie’s passport to stop Damien getting his hands on it. Maybe she’s regretting having allowed Damien to force her into the dreadful conspiracy to stage Katie’s disappearance. She wants this nightmare to be over as soon as possible and now that Damien’s got her entrapped here at the villa, she’s finding ways to communicate with me so that I can go and rescue Katie. Is this too far-fetched? Could this be true?

  I can’t face drinking the gin and tonic any more. It could be drugged or laced with poison if Damien got to it! So I decide to head up to the villa to get a towel and a glass of water. Damien must have gone up to join Christina. Looks like she was in a hurry to get undressed – her top, mini skirt, bra and briefs are abandoned on the floor. Christina�
��s bathrobe is draped over the sofa. I wrap it round me. I’ve borrowed it before but there’s something different about it today. It doesn’t have that familiar Coco-Chanel-Christina-smell. She must have changed her perfume.

  As I bend down automatically to pick up the scattered clothes (force of habit being a nanny), there’s a loud thumping from upstairs. I go out into the hallway. More banging and screaming. God, he’s attacking her. Maybe it was Damien who ripped off her clothes and dragged her up to the bedroom. I run up the stairs. There’s a crash, something heavy falling to the floor, immediately followed by the sound of breaking glass. Then another scream. I grab the door handle and turn – it’s locked. He’s locked her in. I rap on the door.

  ‘Open the door.’

  Now, it’s all gone quiet. I stand very still outside the door and listen. I can hear muffled talking, then panting and moans, and giggling. Unmistakably, it’s the sounds of vigorous lovemaking ending with the high-pitched yelps of a woman, and a low groaning, ‘God that was so good!’ from Damien.

  This isn’t Death in the Afternoon. It’s Sex in the Afternoon. Katie’s disappearance clearly hasn’t diminished Christina’s sex drive – unless she’s excellent at faking it! I stand out here on the landing for a few minutes, allowing a decent interval to pass then I rap on the door again. I’m determined to see Christina before leaving the villa.

  ‘Piss off, Scarlett,’ shouts Damien. ‘We came here to get some privacy. Go away and leave us in peace.’

  But I stand my ground. I’m not giving up that easily.

  ‘I’m waiting here,’ I say. ‘I’m not moving until you unlock the door.’

  ‘Fine, then enjoy the show.’

  The banging and panting and moaning starts up again. They haven’t any shame.

  God, I’ve never heard anything like it. The three of us have shared an apartment for the last six months and I’ve never heard noises like that coming from their bedroom. It’s carnage. He must have plied her with alcohol and legal highs (or more probably, illegal highs) – or it’s that new anti-psychotic medication she’s taking, driving her crazy, paradoxically!

  When I can’t take it any more, I go back downstairs into the garden. The noises off continue from the open window overlooking the swimming pool. I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to Christina so I call her name and throw some pebbles up at the window where they splatter against the glass. Eventually Damien comes out onto the crumbling balcony wearing only a towel tied round his waist.

  ‘You really are an insufferable pest, Scarlett. Just go away. And don’t come back. You’re supposed to be holding the fort at the hotel. If you keep coming over to spy on us, you’re going to give away our hideout and lead the press pack over here. I’ll have to ask Costa to keep you under control.’

  ‘I’m not spying on you,’ I shout up. ‘I just want to make sure Christina’s OK. I need to speak to her.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve just heard, she’s doing absolutely fine, much more positive about things. Now get lost’

  ‘I’m not leaving until I’ve seen her,’ I say.

  ‘She’s in the shower.’

  *

  When Christina eventually comes out onto the balcony about ten minutes later, she’s wrapped only in a sheet, which reminds me that I’m still wearing her bathrobe.

  ‘Hi Scarlett,’ she says. ‘How are things at the hotel? Are you still being hounded by the press?’ She’s swaying slightly and her words are slurred. ‘Have you spoken to Costa today?’ She’s looking flushed from her shower and the sex.

  I can’t really tell her much about the investigation with Damien listening in the room so I just tell her everything is going fine and Costa’s making good progress gathering witness reports and following up leads.

  ‘I came here to make sure you’re OK,’ I say. ‘I was worried about you because you didn’t answer any of my texts.’

  ‘I’m sorry’ she says. ‘I’ve lost my phone. Anyway I’m here. I’m OK. I’m coping.’ With one hand she grips the balcony rail to keep herself upright, in the other she’s holding a glass of red wine.

  I fear she’s talking and acting under duress, a victim of Damien’s coercive control. I fear that Damien’s putting her under pressure to say that she’s fine but really, he’s holding her hostage here, and subjecting her to psychological and sexual abuse. I’m also concerned she’s off her head with a cocktail of medications, alcohol and drugs – that her judgment is impaired, that she’s deluded.

  I stand just below the balcony and say quietly, ‘Are you sure? It seemed pretty wild in there. He’s not forcing you, is he? Hurting you? It sounded like an orgy…’

  That really provokes her. Suddenly she’s on the attack.

  ‘That’s rich coming from you… flirtatious little tart… always flaunting your body in front of all the men. Damien told me you practically raped him in the Jeep… and why the hell are you wearing my bathrobe and my bikini?’

  She’s just clocked the fact I’m standing here in her gear. Abruptly, she switches to her most shrill, condescending tone – Christina does a good line in condescending.

  ‘I don’t think the star of that masterpiece of cinematic art Made-in-Soho, produced by Porn-R-Us, and ranked number 1 in the bisexual chart for short features on YouPorn is really in a position to lecture me about inappropriate behaviour in the bedroom.’

  So perhaps she wasn’t faking it!

  She’s floored me there.

  She slings the wine glass down onto the stone terrace at my feet.

  The white bathrobe and my legs are splattered and stained red with wine and blood and shards of glass.

  Thank God she didn’t sling it at my head.

  I walk back into the house, rip off her bathrobe and bikini, drag on my own clothes, and run out the front door, down the driveway and past the raging guard dog.

  As I swing the quad bike round and set off towards the road, there’s a sudden crack and noise of creaking wood.

  God, the evil hound must have broken down the rotting boards.

  I turn and see a leaping mass of lolling tongue and flesh and dark gleaming fur and muscle. I crank up the gears and tear away in a cloud of dust and keep on going until all I can hear is the sound of frantic barking gradually merging with the puttering of the engine and then fading into the distance.

  *

  On the ride back to the hotel, I’m so angry and upset that I can scarcely control the bike. I take the bends too quickly and almost veer off the road as I swerve to avoid a pothole.

  I pull over at a passing point to calm my nerves and gather my thoughts. The view from here is spectacular – verdant and tranquil, a vast canopy of green peaks, gradually falling away down to the sea.

  How on earth does Christina know about my appearance on YouPorn? I thought I had managed to keep it absolutely secret. I can’t imagine Christina is a user, but even if she had stumbled on the film or if Damien (who I have no doubt is a regular user) showed it to her, it doesn’t feature my name and it certainly doesn’t show my face – I made damn sure of that when I agreed to do it.

  What’s happened to Christina? Aside from the rampant sex which is completely out of character, I’ve never known her to be violent – apart from the day she lashed out at me on the beach but that was understandable. She must be off her head with the cocktail of alcohol and drugs she’s taking. It’s like she’s had a personality change.

  And what about the search for Katie? Has Christina lost her mind? What’s she doing holed up here with Damien having sex in the afternoon, when she should be down at the police station, making a nuisance of herself and making sure the police are doing absolutely everything in their power to find her little girl?

  Unless…Suddenly I remember Stacey Jackson’s witness statement and Costa’s warning about the notorious unreliability of witness evidence… Something’s not quite right. For one thing, Christina doesn’t take photographs. And she doesn’t own a pair of Tiffany sunglasses. I’m quite sure of that.
And come to think of it, last time I saw Christina, her toenails were painted purple, not coral red.

  25

  Scarlett

  It’s high noon by the time I get down to Coral Point, dump my quad bike in the scruffy car park of the Coco Shack and walk along the quayside to where the wooden motor boats are lined up for hire. Who should be there on the dockside but the hustler who made a play for me at the bar the other night! Looks like this is his day job – hiring out the boats. Does he use them on the night shift for smuggling dope? I wouldn’t be surprised. I pretend not to recognise him.

  ‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ He grins, flashing yellow teeth as I hand over a twenty-dollar bill. ‘You’re the chick who lost the kid, aren’t you? We met at the Shack.’

  ‘I need a boat for the day,’ I say.

  ‘Come on in,’ he says. ‘I can sort you out.’ He stubs out his cigarette, and gives me a leery smile. ‘It was a good haul last night.’

  ‘Hey, don’t get any ideas. The only thing I want from you is a boat to hire,’ I want to make it absolutely clear I don’t want him pushing anything else on me. ‘And a map of the coastline if you’ve got one.’

  ‘I don’t sell maps,’ he says. ‘You’re hiring a boat not a rental car. That’s the ocean out there, not a frigging highway – just open your eyes.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘A tourist guide at the hotel told me about a place they call the Mermaids’ Lagoon. Can you point me in the right direction.’

  He laughs in my face. ‘Wake up Wendy, I’m not Peter-fuckin’-Pan.’

  God help me! I’m so sick of men… I wish someone would take me seriously!

  I tried to get hold of Costa yesterday but his phone was going straight to voicemail all evening and when I dropped in at the police station this morning the duty officer smirked at me and told me that he’d be late in because Monday nights were his ‘Singles Nights’.

  ‘What does his wife have to say about that?’

  ‘His wife don’t say nothing ’cos his wife walked out on him last year – lives in San Juan with the kid.’