There were sounds of activity above. A number of men, Annie registered. She could see shadows and shapes in the sunlight through the windows.
Annie had blustered: ‘Wh-wh-who are you? Wh-what are you doing here? Where’s my husband?’ It sounded so clichéd! It was as if she was someone else, floating above while watching the scene unfold below.
The stocky man had said nothing, but continued to appraise her. Annie shrunk from his intense gaze; his whole presence oozed a casual but intimidating malevolence. Then her captor smiled cruelly, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight filtering through the saloon window. He gestured brusquely for the other man to bring Annie forward. She struggled and shouted, ‘You bastards! Don’t touch me.’
The man with the gold tooth reached forward and wrenched the towel away from her, watching as she tried to cover her breasts with her hands. His eyelids were peculiarly large and thick, she noticed; when he blinked, it was like curtains coming down on a Broadway performance. Then he slapped her face hard and said: ‘Lady, you come with us’ and put the towel over her head. The second man started hustling her forward again. She cried out as hot, rapid tears of terror began streaming down her face, soaking into the large striped beach towel.
‘Martin?’ she screamed. She screamed his name again. There was no reply.
Annie was vaguely aware of other sounds – shouting, laughter? Then she was outside, the change of light and temperature dimly permeating the thick towel. She slipped on something. Looking down, she saw glistening smears of blood on the teak deck. Moments later, she felt hands lifting her into a smaller boat, her feet half slipping on a rough, wet floor as she was forced to sit down. She noticed streaks of blood on her feet. A woman screamed. Dani, she thought dully. She could hardly breathe, gut-wrenching panic paralysing her body, her brain.
Shortly afterwards there were more loud words spoken in a foreign language, and she sensed others getting into the boat. They smelled of sweat and cigarettes and rancid cooking oil. They were talking excitedly. She felt hands on her body, pawing her naked breasts and thighs. Revolted, she shrugged them off violently to the mocking sound of more laughing. Trembling, Annie had never felt more afraid in her life.
20
I MAY be an avowed atheist but I swear to God that my initial exploration of the horseshoe lagoon came closer to making me a true believer than all the years of religious brainwashing I’d suffered at the hands of priests and nuns at St Jude’s. The school’s Rector, Father Benjamin Lafferty – AKA ‘Big Ben’ because, the legend said, he would often strike six, or twelve while caning naughty boys – had once pointed out to me that St Jude was the patron saint of lost causes. ‘In your case, Jonathan,’ he had once told me, ‘the blessed Jude would have conceded defeat.’
The sand was pristine, without a single sign of human visitors. Behind the palm-fringed beach I discovered a dense, lush tropical rainforest, punctuated by small streams of water filtering down from the small mountain.
Hundreds of different species of birds, including gaily coloured parrots, swooped and capered in the high canopies of these timber giants. I could hear but not yet see monkeys, their excited chatter somehow comforting in this alien place. I doubted there’d be orangutans but there could be gibbons and probably leaf monkeys, perhaps even a simpai Mentawai, a black and yellow species unique to the area. A glorious spicy, heavily seductive aroma that spoke of wet soil and rotting flowers rose up from the dark, pulpy undergrowth.
After the heat and stickiness of the rainforest, I was grateful for the refreshing embrace of my own private swimming pool. Masked and flippered, I swam to the rock in the middle of the lagoon. In the water I spotted grouper, trevalla, barracuda, stingrays, and a shoal of small wrasses; clinging to the rock were sea fans and sponges, sea cucumbers and large clams. A lugubrious-looking turtle swam by nonchalantly.
I must have floated around the rock for hours, excited but sated by the kaleidoscopic sights and sounds and smells that I’d experienced since arriving at the island just a few hours ago. It was like a secret Shangri La, cut off from the world. My feelings of energy and euphoria lasted until the sun went down in a stunning gold–red blaze of intensity. Back on the boat, I felt exhilarated by the afternoon’s adventure and relieved to have found a safe haven. Alas, the euphoria didn’t last. In the dark velvet embrace of night, my crippling paranoia returned. Dark thoughts intruded. What will become of me? Is the boat buggered? Will I ever get back to civilisation? What if I fall ill? Perhaps there are dangerous creatures out there: spiders, snakes, malaria-carrying mosquitoes. I went to bed early, fearful and fretting. I felt exhausted but couldn’t relax, I was hungry but didn’t feel like eating and I felt intensely angry but did not know why. Before long I was drowning in familiar saw-toothed waves of self-pity. Damn that blasted Charlie. He’s a mind fucker.
My Jekyll and Hyde mood swings were gone by the next morning. Sitting at the polished teak table in the cockpit having a raw Pop-Tart for breakfast, I felt calm, almost serene. No headache, just a slight fuzziness. I’d slept for God-knows-how-many hours. The sun was already quite high in the sky and the placid lagoon looked so perfect it was as if it had been created by a Hollywood animation team. A sparkling jade green, the colour of sunlight washing through an old-fashioned medicine bottle, and the big charcoal grey stone casting a slight shadow on the unruffled water.
Wagga was basking on top of a seat, his eyes screwed up, licking his unmentionables. What he made of all of this I had no idea but he seemed happy enough. My own dark hysteria seemed to have faded and I dared believe that I might be beginning to heal. It had been about a week since I’d last had any dope. Looking around the lovely lagoon I thought: what better place to detox? The stillness and serenity was soothing, uplifting.
‘The fact is, mate,’ I said to Wagga, ‘I can’t go back to my old life. All those money problems, book demands and . . . drugs. I can’t cope with all that again.
‘So, I’m thinking, why not just stay here? On this island? You and me. For a little while at least. Whaddya think?’
Wagga ignored me and continued licking his privates.
I reckoned I had enough food and water, between what I had on board and what the island could provide, to survive. I would not have to slum it like Robinson Crusoe. I even had my own little Cat Friday. Above all, my old false friend Charlie was, mercifully, conspicuous by his absence. Another benefit: no Twitter or Facebook or emails. Bliss!
Sure, I would be without human companionship but that didn’t worry me. I had always been a bit of a loner. Having grown up an only child with an alcoholic mother and a semi-detached father, I was used to it. Anyway, I thought, in my present state of mind, having no one else around was a positive thing. Okay, I’d suffer a little discomfort if I could not get the power back up and running – no hot showers or cold air from the aircon, for example. But I could also live with that.
I can easily stay put here – for weeks, possibly even months, safe and snug in my secret refuge, I thought with growing excitement. And with a bit of luck I may even be able to start writing again. A new rush of euphoria suddenly kicked in. That’s it! I’m bloody staying here, I decided. I stood up, arms in the air and shouted ‘Rehab Island, you beauty!’ The name just came to me. The noise startled Wagga, who sprang up and bolted into the saloon. I laughed my head off. I did not know it in that joyous moment but it would not be long before I was laughing on the other side of my face.
21
I DESPERATELY need to find out from Dani what happened to Martin and Gary, Annie thought as she sat and sweated in the hot gloom of the ship’s hold. But first I need a pee. The fear and panic she had experienced had put a ton of pressure on her bladder. She stood up awkwardly, gingerly stretched one leg out and drew the bucket towards her with a bare foot. She used her bound hands to shimmy down one side of her bikini bottom, then the other, then carefully got her feet clear and squatted above the pail. Blessed relief, she thought, letting go. But then the boat lurched violently and she lost
her balance, the bucket clanking over and spilling its contents over her feet and lower legs.
‘Ah shit! Shit, shit, shit!’ Annie stood up again, located her bikini bottom with her toes. It was wet. She used the towel as best she could to dry the fabric and then wiped her legs. Getting the small strip of cloth back up her legs was a real challenge thanks to the dim light and the bucking motion of the boat. But the last thing she wanted was to be fully naked when their abductors finally came for them.
Dani had gone quiet, her sobs and shuddering gasps reduced to a mild shaking and deep breathing. Annie moved very close to her until she could see her properly. The girl looked catatonic. Her eyes were staring straight ahead and she didn’t register Annie’s presence. Annie’s mind flashed briefly on the scene of Dani pleasuring Martin on the foredeck of the Lady Vesper. Grimacing, she squatted down right in front of Dani, her face inches from the younger woman’s. She gently shook her and whispered loudly to combat the engine noise: ‘Dani, Dani, talk to me. Come on, you’re okay. We’ll be fine, I promise you. I need you to tell me what happened.’
Just as she was about to slap the younger woman in a bid to shock her into consciousness, suddenly the words, jumbled and confused, poured out of her like a torrent. The information was chilling. Bit by bit, Annie was able to piece the story together.
After she had stormed down below, the others heard the sudden roar of high-speed boats from behind them. Startled, the two men jumped up to look at what was happening. There was a rapid burst of gunfire. Dani had watched in horror as Martin clutched at a bright red wetness that had suddenly appeared on his naked torso. And then, a moment later, she saw a glint as a long, double-edged knife curved down on Gary. The attackers had then thrown both bodies overboard. ‘It was all a bit of a blur. I had been drinking. They were so fast. I-I-I can’t remember much,’ Dani said, tears glinting in the darkness.
‘Maybe they could have swum to the shore,’ Annie said numbly. But Dani shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But there is no way either Marty or Gary could have survived. It was too brutal . . .’ At that point Dani broke down.
Annie was devastated. Her head dropped, tears came. Despite their recent unhappiness, she had been fond of her husband. ‘Oh Martin,’ she wailed out loud. He had not deserved such a terrible end. She silently said a prayer, asking God to have mercy on her husband’s soul. Gary’s too, she prayed.
Annie Spencer had had a conservative Christian upbringing as part of a solid, middle-class English family that worshipped together every Sunday at their local Anglican church in Stroud, Gloucestershire. Her faith had remained intact all this time, despite Martin’s disinterest. A fragment from her favourite hymn that the Spencers had all sung together came to mind and she began to whisper the words:
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
It seemed to help and gradually she pulled herself together. She looked around at the hold she and Dani were trapped in. Their situation appeared hopeless: they had no weapons, no clothes, no money to bribe the pirates with. And, thought Annie forlornly, no hope. Suddenly nauseous, she quickly righted the bucket with both hands and vomited into it like an erupting volcano until her throat hurt and there was nothing left but a corrosive fear in her stomach. Then, wiping her lips with a dry corner of the towel, she prayed again: ‘Oh my dear Lord, what is to become of us?’
Focus, she told herself sternly. You can grieve later. Right now you and Dani are in deep shit. These guys – these pirates, for fuck’s sake – are not pissing around. They have already demonstrated a ruthless savagery and a total disregard for the law. She thought back to a previous episode in her life – the only time she’d ever felt real fear. She’d been about thirteen or fourteen years old. She was taking her dog Paddy for a walk in the neighbourhood park. They came across a young, heavily tattooed man with a pit bull terrier. The pit bull was not on a lead and it ran over aggressively to confront Paddy.
Annie’s little Jack Russell was as brave as a lion and squared up to the slavering brute. Soon they were snapping and snarling at each other before the larger dog gripped Paddy’s skinny haunch in its powerful jaws. For a moment, everything went quiet. Annie was standing, horror struck, rooted to the spot as she saw Paddy’s liquid brown eyes look up at her almost as if to say ‘Sorry I didn’t do better’.
Something snapped inside Annie. Nothing was going to hurt Paddy. Screaming something, she could never remember what, she took three quick steps forward and started whacking the pit bull’s rump as hard as she could with Paddy’s lead. The big dog loosened its grip on Paddy and snapped at Annie, its bared fangs wet with white-flecked saliva tinged pink with Paddy’s blood.
The savage beast bit Annie twice before the young thug managed to drag his dog away. With tears of pain and relief running down her young face, Annie was taken to a nearby hospital for a combination of jabs and stitches to her right arm. Later, at the vet, Paddy endured a similar routine. He would live to fight another day. Annie was badly shaken, surprised but fiercely proud that she had somehow found the courage to face up to danger and rescue her dog. She decided that her natural instincts had simply overcome her normal reason and caution.
I need those same qualities to save myself now, she thought. Just then, the engine noise began to subside and the boat slowed. They must be about to arrive at their destination. Wherever that might be, Annie thought fearfully. She started to half-speak, half-hum the same hymn:
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
She glanced over at Dani. The younger woman had returned to her catatonic state. Annie almost envied her. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the terrible ordeal that she knew awaited.
A few minutes later, they came for her.
22
THE FIRST day of the rest of my new life started with an inventory of The Scoop’s provisions. The galley cupboards yielded a ton of usable stuff including a couple of big sacks of rice, containers of pasta, lots of tinned food (sardines, tomatoes, tuna, baked beans and soup), a few litres of cooking oil, a range of herbs, condiments and spices and a box containing packets of curry sauce. Of course, there was also tea and coffee. And plenty of water – the boat’s twin tanks held more than seven hundred litres of fresh water. I’d only made a small inroad into that so far. In addition, there was an abundance of coconuts on shore. I didn’t need to be Bear Grylls to survive in this place; with the fruits of the forest and the sea as well, I would not starve by any means. Wagga would not starve either – not many sardine or tuna tins left but there were plenty more fish in the sea, I thought cheerfully. Finally, there were a couple of cases of wine and beer, as well as soft drinks. They’d do for heydays and holidays.
I checked the storage lockers for supplies and found two dozen boxes of matches, some torches, lanterns, candles and umpteen batteries to add to my treasure trove. Happily, I also came upon a large cardboard box that held a pile of new books I’d bought in Hammo to read on the trip. The box was still sealed with brown tape. Under a hatchway in the cockpit deck I found what appeared to be about half a kilometre of fishing line. But my biggest find was a ream of bright, white copy paper. I guess I already knew it was there but hadn’t really focused on it before. If I wanted to write, I had no excuses.
The only missing ingredient was music; the radio didn’t work and I couldn’t charge any of my three I’s – pod, pad or phone. That sucked. But all in all, not a bad haul. I celebrated with a swim, followed by a splendid lunch of cold soup and sardines with sun-warmed baked beans. A warm beer chased it all down. I decided to have a nap before attempting what I knew was going to be an onerous and frustrating task – trying to get the generator going.<
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Later in the afternoon, down on my knees in the engine room, I swore several times. The instruction manual could have been written in Sanskrit for all I knew. Pity my old man’s not here to translate, I thought, he’d know how to fix it. He was always tinkering with stuff in the shed. The irony is he can’t fix the things that matter most – his marriage and his relationship with me. My dad doesn’t much like boats – he gets seasick standing on a pier – but without a doubt he’d be able to get both the main engines and the generator working on The Scoop. I’d have settled for the latter. The genset provides the power for hot water, lights, the oven and all the other important electrical appliances and instruments. Even the bloody toaster. But I just couldn’t work out what was wrong.
‘Fuck it,’ I said to Wagga and went for another swim instead.
That set the pattern for my first few weeks on Rehab Island. I had everything I needed. There was no requirement to build a roof over my head, or scrabble for food or fashion clothes out of reeds or animal skins. I had no need to go anywhere, see anyone, do anything.
So I mostly chilled. I went to bed early – before 9 pm most nights – and woke with the sunrise around 6 am. I built a barbecue on the beach, up against the rocky base of the headland. I used flat stones as bricks and a grill from the galley oven. Pretty rudimentary, and it smoked a bit, but it worked well enough. I cooked fresh fish I caught in the lagoon. I’d paddle the kayak to the far corner where there was a little rocky overhang and where the fish seemed to shelter from the sun. Crabs and lobster were also plentiful. There was no shortage of wood for the barbie – the tropical pine trees growing up the side of the mountain had particularly flammable resin and provided excellent kindling – but I had to dry some of it out after the constant heavy showers.
Most days, I swam and snorkelled on the reef in the bay next door. I had only ever seen tropical fish in a small aquarium at the doctor’s surgery years ago. They were small but cute as they flitted around the glass rectangle with its green plastic vegetation and little treasure chest half buried in the fake sand on the bottom. But the reef was like an explosion in a paint factory with hundreds of staggeringly beautiful fish of every hue and stripe swimming past me incuriously. The beach there – ‘Big Bay’ I christened it – was a lovely expanse of white sand only blighted by the black remnants of fires lit sometime in the past, most of them towards the far end.
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