18
THE ANCHOR splashed down into the sea like a space cone returning to earth. About twenty-five metres of chain clanked down after it before the steel plough embedded itself on the ocean floor. The electric anchor winch was out of action, so I had to manipulate the big thirty-seven kilogram anchor by hand, cutting my pinkie in the process.
It was even harder to get the small tender down into the water but at last it was done and I got ready to start the Yamaha fifteen-horsepower motor. Cody and I had last used the rubber dinghy at the Hammo marina. I knew he would have left it in good order, cleaned and fuelled. Nevertheless, I crossed my fingers that it would go all right. Pressing the little red ignition button, the Yamaha coughed discreetly a couple of times but failed to fire. I tried again and it started with a mini roar and a puff of smoke. Hallelujah! I felt excited, energised for the first time since Cody left. The realisation hit me that I had not once thought about Charlie since waking up.
Taking a final squiz at The Scoop to make sure it wasn’t drifting, I fastened my lifejacket and pointed the dinghy at the smallish island about a kilometre to the south-east. Its dominant feature was the mini mountain I had seen earlier that rose up rather apologetically in the central part of the landmass. The peak looked about four hundred metres high and its west face was stubbled with green and brown vegetation.
The sea was clear and clean, the swell slapping against the narrow V-shaped bow, a slight wind misting my face and chest with a fine, salty spray off the wave tops. I could see large birds that looked like sea eagles circling the trees and swooping down to the surface of the jade sea.
As I drew closer, I could see mangrove swamps dead ahead; it looked unappealing so I decided to go round the south tip of the island and see if there were any better anchorage prospects on the east coast. There the sea was even calmer. Initially the shoreline was speckled with small sandy coves, more swamp and a few rocky outcrops. Tall cliffs of volcanic rock stretched down to shallow fringing reefs. Still no sign of human habitation. I was slightly apprehensive on this score: there were, I had read, still people in this part of the world who combined a Stone Age lifestyle with a warlike antipathy to visitors. I’d really like to avoid ending up in a cannibal’s cooking pot, I thought with a wry smile.
Then, about a kilometre further on, I came across quite a large bay framed by two high headlands at the south and north ends. There was a small barrier reef protecting the shore. The whole vista looked almost Disney-like with an even crescent shape, white sand and palm trees swaying in the light breeze.
With the outboard motor on idle, the dinghy bobbing in a gentle swell, I stopped to weigh it up: on the one hand, this looked the perfect spot for me to spend a few days rest. However, on the other hand, the reef would make it impossible to take The Scoop in close to shore. Reluctantly, I pointed the dinghy north again. A few minutes later, rounding the bay’s northern headland, I thought I spotted a gap in the rocky cliffs.
Edging towards it, on low throttle, I thought at first it was just a large cave entrance but the closer I got, the more I realised that the sea had carved out a wider gap over the centuries. Vegetation on both sides helped obscure the narrow, curving passage and I carefully manoeuvred the dinghy through it for about another thirty metres until I reached a vertical wall of jagged rock that jutted out from the left side of the cliff-face. On the right of it, there was a narrow channel of water leading to what, I could not see. I doglegged around it and the channel suddenly widened out, revealing an extraordinary sight. I gasped.
Fuck.
Me.
Gently.
I could not believe my tired eyes.
By the time I got back to The Scoop in the early afternoon, it was hot and humid again. A sudden torrential downpour courtesy of the monsoon did nothing to help. My tank top was wet through and my clammy skin glistened from a mix of sweat and rain. But my spirits weren’t dampened; I was still tingling with amazement and elation over what I’d found on the other side of the island. I tied the little dinghy to the stern of the sloop and sat down in the shelter of the saloon to think things through. How do I steer The Scoop round the mystery island without power or electronics? The answer was obvious: tacking. When Cody and I used to sail in racing competitions, we often had to work our way around a slalom course in and out of multiple buoys. Our tacking skills were highly honed as a result. Once I got to that hidden entrance I would face another, bigger steering challenge but I would worry about that when I came to it.
I grunted as I hauled up the anchor, enjoying the manual labour again. Rigging the sail came naturally to me and I enjoyed the hands-on feel of the sheets and winches, despite the warm rain. It felt good to be out in the elements, doing something I’d always loved. Before long, The Scoop was zipping downwind, the sea a bit choppier now. The sloop’s bow sliced through the puny waves and tiny, glistening spumes of water frothed over the bows like loose diamonds.
The rain started to slacken but the breeze had freshened from the north-east. We began to run downwind; then I eased out the mainsail to effect a broad reach before steering at right angles to the wind on a port tack. That allowed us to skate around the southern tip of the island; then a close reach took us into the wind and north up the east coastline. The long, lazy zigzagging as I veered from port to starboard tack and back was invigorating.
Soon I could see the edge of the large pristine bay I’d noticed on my earlier recce. It still looked inviting, but the waves breaking over the reef showed again that The Scoop would not clear it. Besides, I’d found a better option. Although there was a different problem with this one – the dogleg. Easy enough for the tender to negotiate, it would be a whole different story for the fifty-two foot sloop.
Sure enough, it was not long before the partially concealed entrance came into view. But by then it was late afternoon; dusk would not be far behind . . . too late to get the sloop through the narrow channel that day. It was disappointing but better to hunker down for the night and be fresh for the challenge tomorrow. To the right of the northern headland there was a long rocky curve of shoreline that would provide sheltered anchorage for the night.
Wagga and I settled down to spend the evening in candlelight. In other circumstances it might have been a romantic setting, the sloop gently swaying in the slight ocean swell, a warm breeze wafting through the saloon from the stern and the occasional tinny protest from the anchor chain as the current gently moved the boat one way and then another. But I was starting to feel like shit again. The craving had come back. My earlier adrenaline had given way to angst and, feeling tight and brittle, I went to bed.
Lying in the dark, I felt loneliness snuggle in beside me and take me in her arms. It made me think of Frieda. As a young reporter on the Sunday World, I’d had a brief affair with an older woman who worked nights in our cuttings library.
Frieda was forty-one and divorced. She looked severe in her high-necked blouses, scraped-back hair and tailored skirts. Large-framed, tortoiseshell glasses hung down her chest on a gold chain. Some reporters were a bit scared of her but I came to see that she was just reserved, a little insecure and very lonely. Just like me, when I come to think about it. Despite the age difference, I was attracted to her and one night asked her to go for a drink after work.
Our date started awkwardly, both of us aware of the sexual undertones but lacking the confidence to move things forward speedily. Nevertheless, after a bottle of pinot noir and a few clumsy overtures, we eventually managed to navigate the necessary niceties. In bed, Frieda was a different animal. Her inhibitions came loose along with her long, auburn hair. Everything about her seemed to soften: the sharp planes of her face, her skin, her surprising curves, even the stern demeanour. Our shared shyness slowly melted away and she became assured when telling me her needs. I remember her mouth pursing into a tight wrinkle when she climaxed, eyes closed tightly, her curved eyebrows arching as if in surprise.
Nowadays it would probably be labelled ‘friends with
benefits’. Every once in a while, Frieda and I hooked up, had sex and assuaged our lust and loneliness. It wasn’t love, it was just lust made tender by mutual affection. We both knew that, for different reasons, it wasn’t going to become any more than that. She once said to me: ‘Loneliness is when, if you died in the night, no one would really know or care.’
Maybe it was paranoia, but that night, as I lay there alone on The Scoop, I doubted if anyone would care if I died.
I dreamt of sex: soft, hazy images of Frieda. I woke up with another headache and a hard-on. Both were unwelcome. It had been a sweaty, exhausting slumber. I squinted out of the tinted stateroom window from my damp, rumpled bed. The sky was overcast and the hazy horizon was the colour of cigarette ash. As the sloop turned lazily on its mooring, the panorama changed and I was now looking at the dark and forbidding rockface. The vibrancy of the previous day had vanished and I felt a shiver despite the humidity.
Getting out of bed was a struggle. I felt as if I had the flu. But then I remembered what a treat was in store that day and my spirits began to lift. Wagga appeared from nowhere and jumped on the bed. He immediately started attacking a corner of the pillowslip. I felt a sudden pang of affection for the little guy – he would care if I died. I picked him up. ‘Come on, mate, let’s eat.’
Over a cold croissant that had already thawed out from the dead freezer, I thought about how I could get The Scoop safely through the narrow passage between the two headlands without power, particularly at the dogleg where it choked into an even tighter squeeze. Then I had an idea: the tender had an engine . . . could I use that to navigate my way through? It would take some careful planning and execution, I thought. But it could be done. Not for the first time, I wished Cody were still with me. He’d know exactly how to handle it.
By late morning the early wind had subsided and the swell had reduced sufficiently to have a go. I was excited but apprehensive. Carpe diem, as my old Jesuit tormentors at St Jude’s used to say – seize the day. Going downwind a couple of hundred metres, I dropped anchor as close as possible to the cleft in the cliffs. I dangled fenders from the guardrails on either side to protect the boat from the rocky cliff walls and then lashed the wheel in place to keep the rudder straight. Finally, I untied the rope tethering the tender to a stern cleat and walked it around the starboard side to the bow and retied it to the stanchion. The dinghy bobbed and weaved slightly on a generous line.
Now comes the tricky part, I thought nervously. Taking three deep breaths (Percy used to tell me to do that whenever I got upset at the subs rewriting my copy), I pulled up the anchor as fast as possible. Next I tightened the tether to the dinghy until it was bobbing just underneath the bow. I then had to climb over the bow pulpit and drop down into the little boat.
Despite my quick actions, the sloop had already started to drift a bit by the time I started the tender’s motor. I quickly engaged it and pushed forward slowly, carefully tightening the line to the bigger vessel. There was a tug and the dinghy stopped dead as the line tautened, the heavier boat acting like a dead man’s brake on a train; I increased the throttle slowly and steadily and, after a moment, we began to move forward, the little tender bravely pulling the sloop’s twenty-one tonnes like a muscle man towing a truck with his teeth. I knew it was vital to keep the rope taut between the two vessels. The slight drift meant that the entrance was no longer dead ahead and I had to steer in a wide arc to line us up again before heading straight into the narrow channel. The rubber dinghy sat up proudly in the water as The Scoop twisted and resisted, dragging its heels as if mortified by the indignity of it all.
The Berenger was close to five metres in the beam, spacious and handsome for living purposes but a pain in the butt to pilot through a tight space. I watched as the dogleg came towards us. The huge out-hanging shard of rock had helped make the entrance even more difficult to spot from the ocean side because it prevented a clear view of what lay beyond. But it only left less than a metre either side of The Scoop as we eased through and my lovely boat suffered a series of heavy bangs, bumps and grinds along the way, despite the fenders. Fingers crossed nothing’s seriously damaged, I thought. Finally, as we curved around the dogleg, I got my second sight of the spectacular vista from the day before. And again, the breath stalled in my throat.
All morning I had been worried that I might have exaggerated the beauty of the scene in my head. Those doubts now disappeared. There in front of me lay a small, beautifully formed horseshoe-shaped lagoon about the size of a football pitch.
It was framed by red–grey cliffs – high on the left, lower on the right – banking away like the tiered seats at a Roman amphitheatre. A dense fringe of swaying trees bordered the white, sandy beach. Suddenly the sun came out and the clear water rippled towards me, glinting and sparkling in the fresh light. A large rock, shaped like a miniature version of the island’s feature mountain, rose from the centre of the lagoon. A baby biosphere, I thought.
Yet, I dared not stop or slow down in case the heavier sloop tailgated the dinghy. So I kept the line taut and we performed a majestic half-circle curve from port side to starboard, slowing gradually on the final arc of the turn. The stern of The Scoop was left pointing at the shore, about thirty metres out. Both vessels came to a gentle halt without colliding; there didn’t seem to be any current and the boats bobbed together on the surface, like two synchronised swimmers maintaining their choreographed distance.
During the previous day’s recce, I had discovered that the beach shelved quickly and deeply into the sea; that meant the sloop’s 2.2 metre draft could be accommodated comfortably. I dropped the forward anchor manually and let plenty of chain out before attaching a heavy line to the port stern stanchion and swam to the shore with the other end tied around my waist. I tied it securely to one of the trees then repeated the exercise with a line from the starboard stanchion. Next I adjusted the bow anchor so that The Scoop was moored firmly about eight metres from the beach. Finally, just to be sure, I donned a mask and swam underneath the sloop, double-checking that the big, cast-iron fin and bulbous six tonne lead keel were well clear of the sandy bottom in the shallows.
Then, tired but elated, I flopped down on the beach with my legs and arms spread out and closed my eyes. I had done it! The thought made my body wriggle with pleasure in the warm white sand. Somehow, it felt as if I had come home.
PART TWO
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge.
Lord Byron
19
THE HOLD in the pirate ship was as dark and fetid as a medieval dungeon. The hot stink of diesel clashed with the stink of fish scales to create a thick fug that Annie could almost taste. The ceaseless clatter of the engine made her head spin. The old boat rolled and pitched against buffeting waves. She felt drained and disoriented. She wanted to throw up.
Her brain was like a pinball machine with thoughts crashing around, colliding, smashing in different directions. Fast, furious, frantic. What had just happened? Where was she? She was dimly aware of Dani squatting near her in the darkness, shaking violently, her breathing a mix of gasps and sobs, the air whistling through her chattering teeth. But where was Martin? And that bastard Gary? Were they up top? Were they hurt? Who were these people who had plucked them from the boat? What’s going to happen to us? She had a horrible flashback of her husband and Dani entwined on the deck.
Gradually, her tumbling thoughts became more ordered. Okay, we are in some sort of floating fleapit; we seem to be alone down here; the bastards who attacked us must be all up top; obviously these vile men are pirates, and we are in great danger. My wrists are tied. I’m semi-naked. Shit. Basically, we’ve been captured, abducted, kidnapped probably. Hostages? Her mind started to race again: were they to be ransomed? Would they hurt her? Rape her? Sell her into sexual slavery? Who would even know where she was? Her parents in the UK were vaguely aware that she was off sailing somewhere in Asia, but they didn’t know the detail
s. She had just told people in her office she was heading to Langkawi. Absolutely nobody would be looking for her for a while. Panic started to take hold of her again.
Jesus Christ, get a fricking grip! Annie told herself fiercely. She looked around in the dim light: there was a bucket sitting next to her, sliding back and forward slowly with the boat’s rocking motion. God, from the smell, that must be the toilet.
Her mind went back to the other toilet – what was it, just an hour ago? Two hours ago? Bloody hell, is that all? She couldn’t tell for sure, her Cartier Tank watch – a thirtieth birthday present from Martin – had been ripped off her wrist earlier, along with her wedding and engagement rings. She had been slumped on the toilet reliving the horrible scenes on the deck: Martin and Dani having sex, and then Gary’s proposition. Then she had heard the strange sounds from above. The next thing she knew there was a huge bang on the toilet door, followed by the tip of a machete bursting through the middle of the thin wood. She jumped up in great alarm, screaming in terror while instinctively clutching her towel to her bare breasts.
The blade of the parang had struck again and the door splintered. A brown hand reached through and undid the catch. The door swung inward and there stood a sinewy, Asian man dressed in stained shorts, singlet and a red bandana. He bared yellow and black teeth at Annie as she reared back against the toilet wall, her face convulsed in terror. The man reached in and grabbed her arms, pulling her through the ruined doorway and dragging her into the saloon. There stood a squat, barrel-chested man with a pitted face. He looked her over, his yellowed eyes like a serpent’s. He was wearing dark cargo pants, garish Adidas trainers and a short-sleeved, maroon chequered shirt over a stained singlet. A greasy baseball cap that was too small for his huge head carried an incongruous New York Yankees emblem.
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