‘Don’t they teach you anything in school these days?’ she says. ‘It’s in the Old Testament. He called for his sword to cut the baby in two.’ The look in her eyes sends a chill down my spine.
‘That wasn’t the way it ended,’ I say hastily. ‘The King understood that the baby’s real mother was the woman who loved her baby so much that she chose to give her baby away rather than let it be harmed.’
‘Well, I’m not that woman,’ says Gabrielle, ‘And nor is she.’
She smashes the vodka bottle on the surface of the bar and then turns to Christina, thrusting the broken glass at her chest.
‘I would never harm my baby, you brainless idiot,’ she spits out at me. ‘King Solomon was a fool. It’s not the baby who must die. It’s one of the women. In our life, there’s only space for one…’
Christina looks terrified. These are not empty threats – especially when Gabrielle’s on her second bottle of vodka combined with God knows what cocktail of drugs.
‘There’s no point in harming Christina,’ I cry, trying again to get through to her. ‘It will only make things worse. You’ll never have Katie now. The law’s on Christina’s side – she’s the birth mother. The surrogacy agreement counts for nothing. She changed her mind about giving the baby away – there’s nothing you can do.’ Foolishly I add, ‘Even if Christina were dead, you’d never be allowed to keep Katie after what you’ve done.’
Gabrielle slings the broken bottle across the lounge and spins the knife once more.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ she says. ‘Two’s a crowd – that’s my judgment.
The knife stops dead with the blade pointing at Christina.
Is this her variation on Russian roulette?
‘Come on Scarlett! What’s your verdict? We’re running out of time. Who should it be? Her or me?’
She’s smiling as she holds out the knife. The blade glints in sunlight from the setting sun breaking through the clouds
‘I’m ready to die,’ she says. ‘To die will be a wonderful adventure!’
I sense a trap. Either that, or she’s completely lost her mind. I take the knife and quick as a flash, I slash through the ropes at our ankles setting myself and Christina free.
‘It has to be a fair contest,’ I say.
Then I race out onto the deck and hurl the knife away as far as I can across the dark water.
Gabrielle follows me. To my surprise, she’s laughing.
Her eyes are wild as she watches the knife spiralling in an arc through the air until the blade plunges into the water. I was expecting her to explode with anger but she turns to me quite cheerfully.
‘I knew you would bottle it,’ she shouts, above the noise of the wind and the waves. ‘You kids are so soft these days.’
We stand side by side at the rail, facing out to sea, bracing against the wind that’s whipping salt water into our eyes and tangling our hair. She seems exhilarated by the storm.
‘It’s OK, Scarlett. I’ve worked out the ending to our story now. And I won’t be needing the knife.’
We’re both gripping on to the balustrade as the catamaran lurches in the swell.
She reaches across and rests her hand on my wounded arm.
‘Are you scared? Isn’t it awesome? The power of the sea.’
A huge wave splashes up on to the deck. We’re soaked.
She yells in my ear. ‘Your friends are taking their time. Let’s go back inside. I need your help to steer The Phantasea out of the eye of the storm.’ At last she’s coming to her senses. ‘We don’t want to capsize before they get here!’
40
Scarlett
Christina is nowhere to be seen when we step back into the saloon. She must have taken her opportunity to hide and I’m praying that she’s had the sense to run below deck and grab the gun.
‘Silly woman,’ says Gabrielle. ‘It’s not as if she’s got any hope of getting away.’
Gabrielle takes another cigarette. ‘Go and get her will you,’ she says, ‘in case she does something stupid.’ While she saunters over to the cockpit to raise the anchor and start the engines, I race down the stairs.
All the cabins are empty.
She must be hiding in the dark room.
I run to the dark room and slip through the door. Once the door closes behind me the room is pitch black.
‘Christina,’ I say softly. I can hear her breathing. ‘It’s Scarlett. Have you got the gun?’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I can’t do it. I left it in the cabin.’
I might have guessed Christina wouldn’t have the guts to turn the tables on her twin. But I’ve made my decision to choose between the two of them, as Gabrielle pressed me to. I’m not about to let Christina die here like a rat in a hole.
‘Don’t be a bloody idiot!’ I whisper. ‘I’ll be back,’
I start on a frantic search of the single cabin where Gabrielle held us captive.
‘Christina must have hidden it somewhere in here,’ I say to myself.
I rip back the bedding and search under the pillows, along the wall and under the mattress. I pull open every cupboard and drawer. I can’t find the gun anywhere. Losing valuable time, I pull the panels off the shower and behind the sink. Still no luck! I’m worried about Christina, all this time defenceless and alone. Then I notice that the metal grille on the air-conditioning unit above the towel rail is very slightly out of place, just a millimetre or two ajar. I climb up onto the towel rail and pull the grille away from the wall, breaking my fingernails in the process. I grope round inside the unit. Sure enough – my fingertips brush against cold metal. The gun is there.
Seconds later I’m back in the dark room pushing open the blackout door, with the pistol concealed inside the waistband of my shorts. I peer into the gloom. Even though I know she’s hiding there, when a hand reaches out to touch my arm, I can’t stop myself from screaming and I fall back against the door.
‘Hush Scarlett, it’s OK. It’s me, Christina.’
I hear a click and the safelight comes on. In the light of the lamp, I can make out Christina’s silhouette through the shadows. I stifle a gasp. With her cropped hair and wild eyes and teeth glowing in the red beam she looks like a vision from a horror movie.
‘You gave me a fright,’ I whisper. There’s something metal gleaming in her left hand. A large pair of scissors.
I hold out the gun. ‘Here take this – you can’t defend yourself from Gabrielle with a pair of scissors.’ She lets the scissors drop to the floor and I thrust the gun into her empty palm. ‘Don’t be afraid to use it if you have to!’ I say. ‘After the shocking way she’s treated you in the last twenty-four hours, you’ve got to learn how to stand up to her once and for all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says softly, cocking the gun with surprising dexterity. ‘I won’t let her bully me again. I promise.’
There’s a new conviction in her voice.
‘Thank God, she seems to be calming down now,’ I say. ‘She’s preparing to sail for shelter. She wants me to help crew the boat. Just keep out of her way down here. I’ll go back up in case she changes her mind.’
*
When I open the door, I hear a crackling sound and the unmistakable acrid reek of burning paper. I run up the stairs and into a billowing cloud of smoke. There’s no sign of Gabrielle but she can’t be long gone. She’s used the stack of legal papers as an ashtray and her latest cigarette is abandoned on the top, still burning its way through the heading:
IN THE CAS…KENEDEY V HAMIL…
As I run through the saloon to grab the fire extinguisher from the galley there’s a sudden gust of wind and a plume of burning papers spirals into the air. To escape the burning cascade, I run on to the deck and become conscious of a wailing sound above the howl of the wind. The shrill noise becomes more insistent, closing in on The Phantasea like the Dementors in a Harry Potter movie.
For an instant, I think I’m going mad. Then a huge wave of relief f
loods over me – it’s the sound I’ve been waiting for. Police sirens.
Now I hear new sounds from above – loud beating in the air, a throbbing engine approaching and receding and a shadow passing overhead.
I run onto the open bridge and look out to sea.
Thank God, though still some way off, three police boats are closing in on us from different angles, blue lights blazing, sirens screaming, and in the skies above, a helicopter circles the catamaran.
I start shouting into the wind as loud as I can and waving my arms frantically above my head.
‘Help! Over here. Help!’
‘Save your voice, lady! They’ll never hear you.’
I recognise the loud hollering that comes from directly below where I’m standing waving my arms about on the deck.
‘Relax, they’ve seen you. They’re on their way.’
It’s Mitch, riding the waves in a gleaming black speedboat that he’s in the process of tethering to the catamaran.
‘Where the hell did you steal that?’
‘Mitch Stanley. At your service.’ He touches his hand to his head in mock salute and gives his characteristic lopsided smirk. ‘I borrowed it – called in a favour.’
‘Get the hell up here fast,’ I yell. ‘I need your help. That madwoman’s set fire to the boat. I’ve got to go back for Christina. She’s down below deck.’
Just as I’m leaning out, throwing down a rope to Mitch so that he can pull himself up from the speed boat and on to the catamaran, a loud crack rings through the air.
‘Shit – that sounded like a gunshot,’ shouts Mitch.
‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘She’s done it.’
I’m in freeze-frame for a second before I turn to sprint inside.
‘Stop!’ shouts Mitch, as I drop the rope and he loses his grip on the deck and slithers down, landing on his back in the speedboat.
As I cross the deck, I hear a big splash above the sound of the fire and the sea.
What was that?
Inside the saloon flames dance across the petrol-drenched floor and a cloud of papers whirls in the wind.
Holding my T-shirt across my face, I take the stairs two-by-two then almost falling through the door into the dark room, I scream,
‘Fire, fire, Christina, get out, the boat’s on fire.’
Inside the smoked-filled darkroom, there’s silence.
Thinking she might have passed out, I grope around on the floor until I’m almost overcome with smoke then drag myself back up the stairs on my hands and knees. Coming into the light, I look down at my palms. They are sticky with blood and cuttings of hair.
I reach the deck just in time. Only a few seconds later, while I’m still gasping for breath, there’s a sickening, searing scrunch of ripping metal. I gape in horror as a black pall of smoke and flames erupts from the engine room, followed by an almighty bang. A fireball of debris and heat and pressure, a surge of shockwaves that rips through the catamaran, and flings me backwards off the deck into the sea.
Suddenly everything is in fast forward. Images and sensations flash before me and within me – first, the sudden, stomach-churning, fairground freefall from the deck, then the chilling descent into cold, bubbling-black brine, the stinging sensation of the waves engulfing me and my sea-weed hair floating up about my face. Then surfacing, gasping, coughing and choking on salt water, thrashing about in the surf, managing to get my equilibrium, coming up for air, floating on my back in the survival position. Slowly, the realisation that I’m still alive, looking up at the sky and the column of thick, pumping black smoke, rising from the engine room. Above The Phantasea, the air is alive with burning sheets of paper from Kenedey versus Hamilton, like giant fireflies swirling in the night sky. As I come to my senses, there’s a grand finale, a monstrous explosion, spraying rockets and shells in the most spectacular, exquisite and deadly firework display I have ever seen.
I am struggling to keep afloat in the water, horrified, stunned and exhilarated – mesmerised by the firestorm overhead. But my strength is failing, waves break over my face and my head dips under the surface. My arms and legs flail, and the current sucks me down.
Just when I feel I’m losing my battle with the sea, I hear a shrill whistle, repeated several times and a brash voice calling to me on a loud hailer. Before I can turn, there’s a flash of orange above my head and I hear the splash as something lands within a few feet of me in the water. Thank God – a lifebuoy! I summon all my strength and gradually, painfully, swim towards it – eventually I manage to grab it and position myself inside the ring. I feel the line go taut and hear, over the tannoy, another familiar voice.
‘Hold on tight, we’re bringing you in.’
I’m hauled in to the side of the police rescue boat.
I look up to see Costa staring down at me.
‘Have you found Katie?’ is the first thing I say to him.
He leans over, pulls me out of the water effortlessly and gathers me in. The Jackal is standing at the helm, the tannoy in his hand.
‘She’s not at the villa,’ says Costa. ‘My officers have been searching the premises since last night.’
It feels like he’s just punched me in the chest…
He holds me very tightly, wrapped in the survival blanket while the Jackal steers away from The Phantasea. We turn to watch it going up in flames.
‘What about Christina?’ I shout. ‘Turn around, go back.’
The tears stream down my cheeks. The Jackal pushes the throttle to full thrust.
‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do,’ says Costa rubbing my back while I struggle to break free. ‘The helicopters are on their way with the water cannons.’
41
Scarlett
I’m at the police station most of the night being patched-up and checked over and interviewed and debriefed but as soon as the patrol car drops me back at the hotel, I hastily shower and change before ordering a taxi.
When the taxi drops me at the gate of Villa la Revanche just as dawn is breaking, all is quiet. There’s no sign of Costa or the two police guards who are supposed to be here securing the site. I creep up the driveway, walking on the grass as I pass near the outhouse to avoid kicking the stones and waking the rabid Hound of the Baskervilles. Someone has done a poor DIY job of nailing back the timbers and between the gaps I can just make out the form of the dog curled up in the shadows in the far corner of the outhouse. When I get to the top of the driveway the peeling green shutters of the house are closed, so I can’t see in to the property. But the front door is unlocked, so I let myself in.
The place looks as if it’s been ransacked – cupboard drawers and doors ripped open and contents tipped unceremoniously on to the floor. Bookshelves empty and crooked stacks of books heaped round the sitting room. Pictures taken down and left leaning against the walls. Food from the fridge-freezer spills onto the worktop, left to defrost, drip onto the floor and rot in the heat. A trail of ants checks out the contents of the larder dumped in the overflowing bins. Every cushion on the leather sofa is slashed, handfuls of stuffing spewing out. It looks like wanton vandalism. I’m beginning to wonder if this is the aftermath of a burglary or a rave rather than the debris from the police investigation.
Whatever. It doesn’t look as if the police officers have done a very professional job so I decide to look round the property myself. I don’t care that this is a crime scene or that I’m leaving my fingerprints everywhere – this isn’t the time to worry about legal protocol. We’ve got to find Katie fast – her life is in danger. If she’s not hidden here, I may at least be able to find some clues as to where she’s been taken.
When I go upstairs, I find the bedrooms are also in chaos: beds stripped and bedding left bundled in the corners, clothes dragged out of cupboards, and everything swept on to the floor. In short, whoever has been here, has made a shocking mess.
In among the jumble of clothes left at the foot of the bed in the single bedroom, I recognise some T-shirts and boxer
shorts belonging to Damien and some of Christina’s underwear and nightshirts. Incredibly, the police have also missed or discarded some of Katie’s clothing down here on the floor. I work methodically through the pile and discover one of her nighties, a flowery T-shirt and a tiny pair of yellow shorts. I could cry! I lift Katie’s clothes from the floor and hold them up to the light – looking for any mark or stain that could provide some clue to her whereabouts. Then I bury my face in the nightie – it still smells of Katie, her sweet just-out of-the-bath-and-dusted-with-talcum-powder smell. I fold up her clothes neatly and put them in my bag. Though appalled at the negligence of the police officers, perversely I’m filled with new energy and hope – if Katie’s clothes are here, then at least there’s a good chance that she was safe and well and here, not too long ago, and that she may not be too far away.
I hear creaking and a groan coming from the master bedroom. I push open the door. As I suspected, the police officers have made themselves at home. The two men are crashed out on the bed, using the house as an overnight squat. Surrounded by ravages of the previous day’s search, they’re fast asleep. This would never happen in England. Back home, I’m sure sleeping over at a forensic crime scene would be a sackable offence.
The older of the two, overweight, jowly and grey-skinned, is stretched out under the silk sheets, his boots, uniform and pistol, dumped on the chair next to the bed. He’s snoring loudly – not a care in the world. The younger man rolls over to face the door. In a former life I could have appreciated this sleeping Adonis with his strong jaw, glorious suntan, kiss-me-now lips and morning-after stubble. He hasn’t bothered to take off his uniform or his boots.
I walk out and make a point of slamming the door very loudly. A few seconds later the older officer runs out, a towel round his waist, pistol at the ready.
I step out from behind the door. It’s almost farcical, as he jumps back, yells, cocks his gun and drops the towel.
‘You left the back door open,’ I say. ‘So I let myself in. I’m meeting Detective Sergeant Costa here for breakfast.’
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