“How did you know it was the ‘real thing’?” she asked them.
For once Grace didn’t feel the need to speak second. “You just do, don’t you, Steve?”
Stephen smiled in a way that reassured Grace but didn’t convince Vicky.
“What if?” she continued. “What if one of you was keen but the other not as committed?”
“Well, it wasn’t like that…”
“No, I don’t mean with you. Obviously,” her look challenged Stephen to disagree, “you are both in love. And on your honeymoon so you should be. No, I meant hypothetically. Say the man was very interested, and made it obvious, you know looks, touches that kind of thing, that he was interested – but the woman, she wasn’t so keen?”
Grace murmured sympathetically, “It is awkward. Especially at work; there are so many considerations.”
Just then Redmond brought over a tray with two coffee-pots and several cups. The way he let his hand linger on Vicky’s shoulder told Grace all she needed to know about Vicky’s question. Grace was perceptive where other people’s relationships were concerned.
Jack was feeling decidedly moody. Emma and he had been dancing around each other's sensitivities for too long. He was a man of action, and unless he took some soon he felt ready to explode. He was vaguely aware of the people, Redmond and the others, to his left. He glanced over to the open doors to see if Emma perhaps wanted him to join her, but he was surprised to see she already had company. Sybella Martin was sitting with her, the two of them joking with one of the waiters who was refreshing their glasses. Affecting an air of disdain, Jack slouched across to the bar, where a double Jack Daniels had his name on it.
Emma saw him leave the table but she was too engrossed in her conversation with Sybella.
“So, what brings you to Ashushma?” Sybella was asking.
Emma breathed in the aroma of her drink, peaches with an astringent after-scent. “Jack has done well in his career. He’s in finance, a merchant banker in the City. We wanted to take it a bit easier, have a proper holiday away from it all. A colleague showed Jack the brochure, and here we are.”
Sybella smiled but her gaze trapped Emma as a lie in Heaven. “Yes, but why are you here?”
“I told you…is it that obvious?”
“If I’ve guessed right, then yes it is, to me.”
“We’re both mid-thirties, done okay as I said. When we met we talked about babies but there never seemed to be a need to rush things. We moved a couple of times, got the house we wanted, how we wanted it, and then we just assumed a baby would follow. We’re the golden couple, everything we want, when we want it.”
“But it’s not that easy.” Sybella spoke to Emma but also to memory.
“Jack was reluctant at first, ‘there can’t be anything wrong with us’, but as months turned into years even he accepted we needed help. We’ve had all the tests, and there’s nothing wrong with either of us. Unexplained pregnancy they call it.”
Sybella nodded understanding. She wasn’t just being polite, she did understand.
“Anyway, we discussed IVF, but Jack is dead against it. He says we should just accept we can’t have a family and enjoy what we’ve got.”
“You can’t do that, not if you truly want a baby,” Sybella said.
Emma, to her own astonishment, started to cry.
Jack was back at the table, his head starting to get a bit hazy.
“They are both beautiful women.”
Jack turned slowly to see Leo was sitting next to him. “How long have you been there?” he asked in an attempt at good humour.
“About two large whiskeys.”
Jack laughed, slurring the sound as if it was ink on wet paper. “My wife wants a baby.”
“Why don’t you want one?”
“I do, I think, I don’t know.”
“She wants one, you probably do as well. What’s stopping you being as loving towards your wife as you clearly want to be?”
“Pretty much a smart-ass aren’t you?” Jack found he was sobering up quickly.
“Pretty much,” Leo agreed. “Comes with age and experience. And, before you ask, because she loves me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You were thinking, it’s okay they all do, what is a woman like that doing with an old cripple like me?” He indicated his hands.
Jack poured some whiskey into Leo’s glass. “I’d guess at arthritis?”
“The worst kind. Do you want to hear my story? Sybella’s too? I promise to give you the truncated version.”
“Have you got children?” Jack asked.
“Sybella couldn’t, and I shouldn’t so it all worked out well. Does that make a difference to whether you hear how Sybella and I met?”
“Not really, I just wanted one conversation that wasn’t about children in any way shape or form.”
“Sybella was my drugs counsellor.” Leo paused for dramatic effect, and with a sardonic smile. “I was a fairly famous artist in my time, forgotten now of course. I was exhibited at the National and several smaller galleries. They spoke of me as the next great English talent, until the fingers began to drop brushes, and the hands began to curl into claws under spasm. Then they, the patrons and the gallery owners began to question my worth. ‘Perhaps he isn’t as good as we thought’; ‘Possibly he is over-rated’. Quietly, one by one my paintings began to disappear from view. At the same time I was finding it next to impossible to paint anything new as the fingers tensed, the hands contracted, and the talent became locked in a frustrated decaying body.”
Jack had rarely heard such passion spoken so simply.
“I took the cowards’ way out; not attempted suicide though it was considered. I was too self-centred to go that way. No, I took to drugs. Cocaine, heroin, you name it I took it. It was easy to acquire in the circles I was used to moving in. Once my invitations began to wane along with my ability, I stayed on the periphery of the groups, and courted the darker characters, the ones who could supply my new craving, my raw hunger for oblivion.”
“So where does Sybella fit into all this?”
“A beacon of light in my cellar of darkness. She was a counsellor. Addiction was her speciality, be it drink, or in my case drugs. My last remaining friend brought me to her one night, after I had passed out in an artistically arranged pile of my own vomit on the steps to the Tate. My friend, dead himself now, had used Sybella’s services himself, and bless him for all eternity, thought she could help me. She did more than that, she saved me, she made me. For whatever God-known reason she fell in love with me, and I with her.”
“You married in London?”
“Oh, Sybella and I aren’t married. Too conventional for us. We use the same surname for convenience.”
There was a murmur from the other end of the table. Jack looked in time to see Redmond and Vicky breaking away from each other, after a kiss.
“So you came to the island because of Sybella’s father?”
“For that, so she can say her prayers with him. It is my reward to her before I die. They say six months, unless the cancer progresses too quickly.”
Slashes of cool light crackled over the glass-domed roof of the swimming pool, the ochre colours mingling with the dancing reflections of playful dots of colour from the blue water. The inside of the glass roof was a shifting pattern of shapes, white, blue, pale and shadow. Subdued wall lighting was a pale imitation of the glare of the full moon, hanging like a judge in sessions from the dark sky.
There was something unsettling about the movement of the water in the silence and half dark. Ripples like breathing troubled the surface, lines of age on a flawless face. Soft liquid sounds of gentle movement as water lapped against smooth stone sides. The water seemed to whisper. It almost seemed to rustle, water can’t rustle, but to Grace that was the sound she could most liken it to.
“Stephen, I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”
Stephen was already half undressed, hopping from f
oot to foot as his trousers snagged on his ankles. “Of course it is. You’re just nervous in case anyone comes in.” An office filing room, lunchtime, furtive fumblings with clothing and with feelings, excited by the forbidden fruit, fearful of the consequences. It was always Stephen who reassured her then as well.
Grace watched the shadowed images the water created on the white tiled walls. Then she looked at her husband, frantically disrobing, letting the moon’s rays play like mistresses fingers on the hairs on his chest, on the firm muscles of his back. He was almost naked.
“Come on, Grace. You’re overdressed for a swim.”
It had been her idea, as the drinks had circulated, and the inhibitions had loosened. While people paired off for private conversation, Grace and Stephen had been left with Redmond and Vicky Towers, who were distinctly more interested in each other rather than in entertaining the clients. Grace had whispered in Stephen’s ear, and he had squeezed her thigh. Propelled along by this gesture of intimate acquiescence, Grace had taken his hand and led him from the dining room.
The complex away from the dining area was quiet, still as the night outside, lit with discreet wall-lights, stars in the sky. Everywhere was glass, windows that by day gave light and space, but which at night gave back just their own reflection.
She heard a splash and saw a pair of feet disappear beneath the surface. As quickly as she could she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. She kicked off her shoes and reached behind her to unhook. A sudden feeling overtook her. She was being watched. She spun round but the door was closed, as they had left it. They would have heard if someone had come in. The walls were mainly glass but she would be able to see if anyone was outside looking in. Surely there was no one out there. She even looked up to the ceiling, but only the lonely eye of the moon gazed back at her.
Stephen burst from the water in a tangle of droplets and spluttering. “Come on, slowcoach!” he called as he got back his breath. “That’s lovely underwear but I’d rather see what’s inside it.”
‘…and don’t wear anything underneath it.’ The little notes he used to pass to her inside files, or ‘…are you wearing what I bought you?’ The enquiries about the outrageous things he would buy for her and expect her to wear under her office clothes.
She stripped off the last of her clothing and, abandoning all vestiges of uncertainty, she dived into the pool.
They played like mermaids in the warm water. Splashing as children, swimming in circles, pulling one another under. Ducking, jumping, playing with an innocence that was as natural as the day’s cycle. He pulled her legs and floated her in circles; she put both her hands on his head and pushed him under. They hugged and caressed, kissed and laughed.
“Right,” he called. “I’m going to get you now.”
She swam, half ran, away from him, towards the deep end. He created a shark’s fin with his hand and made menacing noises. She screamed with delight. Then he disappeared.
One moment he was there, fooling around, the next when she turned to see why it had gone quiet, he was gone. Everything was still. She trod water, pumping her legs slowly, meandering her hands over the surface, getting nervous.
“Stephen?”
There was no reply, just the smooth rustling of the water.
“Stephen, I’m not joking now, I don’t like it. Where are you?”
The water lapped teasingly against the steps at the other end of the pool. Footsteps out of the fear, an escape. Still she was treading water, trying to keep afloat and not make any ripples at the same time. Not draw any attention to herself.
Then he burst from the bottom of the pool where he had been holding his breath and showered her in crystals of blue, white froths of surprise. He coughed and held her, laughing and hugging her. Enjoying her naked breasts pressed against his skin.
She pushed him away. “You fool. I was terrified.”
“I’m sorry. I was only playing around.”
“Well I don’t think it’s funny. I’m going to have a swim. I’ve had enough of your messing about.” With that she struck out with strong confident strokes, swimming away from him, towards the shallow end.
Deflated, and out of breath from the pressure of waiting a long enough time at the bottom of the pool, he pulled himself out of the water and sat on the edge, feet dangling in, like floats on a fishing line. His body warm from the exertions and the atmosphere.
Grace swam a lazy crawl, then flipped over and did the backstroke for a while before stopping and letting her body float into the shallow depths near the steps.
Stephen looked around the pool, admiring the diamonds of light and reflected water playing on the glass ceiling, and on the white walls. Coated with the black of night the pool was a safe haven.
When he turned back to watch his wife, he saw it immediately. A long grey shape, sleek and deadly, submerged beneath the surface. It was swimming directly for Grace.
“Get out!” he yelled. “Grace, get out of the water.”
Unable to act as fast as his words urged her to she stopped swimming and stood. The water at this depth was just up to her waist. She stood, droplets of silver suspended from her nipples, her hands brushing the hair away from her eyes. Eyes that were half shut from the chlorine stinging them.
“Get out now!” Stephen yelled. The grey shape was smooth under the surface, moving with economic motions, moving incessantly towards Grace.
Stephen ran towards the shallow end, waving and gesturing for his wife to get out. Calling her, pleading with her, but not actually diving in to assist her.
Panicked now by his tone and actions, she was splashing frantically on the top of the water, causing noise and froth to mask the bottom of the pool, to hide whatever it was Stephen had seen.
He moved down two steps into the shallow end, his ankles barely covered by the turbulent waters. His hand reached out and Grace caught it, first time, They pulled together and she fell into his arms, heart beating with the force of a waterfall. Gradually the water subsided, calmed into a natural stillness.
There was nothing in the water.
“I saw it,” Stephen insisted.
“You frightened me.”
“It was there, I saw it. A long grey shape. It was…”
Grace pulled a little away from him. “There isn’t anything.”
Their nakedness suddenly seemed inappropriate and they fumbled for their towels, covering themselves, Adam and Eve, an unseen serpent causing them to open their eyes for the first time.
Dressing in silence they failed to see the ripple on the surface of the pool. It was followed by a second, and then others, until quietly but with eager urgency the blue water was alive with white froths of movement.
Morning surfaced with bright sunlight. Emma slept, a little hung-over, a little suppressed from her conversation with Sybella. She and Jack had talked deep into the night inches apart on the huge bed, inches and emotions a divide that prevented their true feelings from burrowing out. Feelings that longed to burst as a dawn, and spread their warmth over the two of them, if only they would allow the blanket to be pulled over them.
Jack allowed her to sleep in and shut the bungalow door behind him. The fresh morning was speckled with birdsong. Splinters of sun rippled through the overhanging leaves of the tall trees, clouding the humidity with a brilliance that gave promise of magic and wonder. The splendour of the setting pushed any annoyance, doubt or anger he felt into a drawer to await developments.
He walked quickly, contemplating an early morning run. The paths amongst the bungalows were artfully designed to prevent incursion into the grounds of the others. There were occasional sounds amongst the jungle noises, alien and attractive, reminders that he was far from home and lost in time if not reality.
Eventually he came around to the front of the main building, to where the expanse of lawn looked newly watered. The helicopter sat sentinel near some trees, a beast waiting for its supplicants to offer treasure. Redmond was standing next to it,
an anxious Vicky Towers with a hand on his arm.
“Everything okay?” Jack called as he approached them.
Vicky failed to hide her concern, but Redmond gave the answer Jack knew he would. “Fine, just checking the pilot is ready for take-off.” The fine suit was cream this morning.
“That’s nonsense isn’t it?” Jack thrust at him.
Vicky gave Redmond a look that spoke a hundred contradictions. A stronger man than Redmond would have capitulated and Redmond was almost eager to oblige.
“The helicopter was supposed to have flown back last night. Obviously it hasn’t.” He spoke to Jack but kept watching the trees.
Vicky tutted. “We can’t find the pilot.”
Jack smiled, not empathetic with their underlying mood. “He’s probably spent the night with one of the waitresses.”
“He’s gay,” Redmond said, as though everyone should know it.
“One of the waiters then,” Jack offered, but then began to recognise the fear that was prevalent amongst the other two. “You’re worried aren’t you?”
It began as a typical Redmond bluff of denial but squandered the chance and became a whine of concern.
Vicky let him flounder for a moment before she explained. “Chris, the pilot is on a fixed hourly contract. He never misses a schedule. He should have left before dinner last night. We’ve searched the grounds and the buildings. He’s not here.”
“Pegg and Smith may still find him,” Redmond suggested. Then to Jack, “The two maintenance men are looking in the basement.”
Calling him a liar by their appearance, empty of any pilot, Pegg and Smith were clearly perturbed. Glancing anxiously at Jack, as if nervous he was about to betray some guilty secret, they addressed themselves to Redmond.
“Nowhere to be found. Not a trace.”
“Did you search everywhere?”
Although his face gave away his thoughts about this statement, Adam confined himself to a simple confirmation.
While they argued and prevaricated joylessly Jack meandered to the edge of the dense jungle, his feet idly kicking ferns and coarse grass. It was there that he found it. It didn’t take too close an examination for him to know what it was.
Echoes of Darkness Page 3