His destination was just over five hundred metres from the beach but it took him twenty minutes to reach the familiar rockpool, the dark blue water coloured by the minerals leeching out of the volcanic rock. The pool was framed by a steep, moss-covered rock face on one side and dense vines and rotting vegetation on the other, making access difficult. He looked back, not for the first time, to check he was not being followed, then carefully picked his way through the foliage to the far end where there was a small clearing by the side of the pool, covered in bark and animal dung. Although the sun was still not fully up and the towering canopy cast the whole area in its sombre shadow, he was sweating like a pig and wheezing from the effort. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot.
Finally he came to a half-hidden gully running alongside the rock face; pulling back some foliage, he saw the small, dark entrance. A large stone barred the way and BangBang had to squeeze his bulk through. The cramped space immediately widened out into a huge cavern. He took a torch from the briefcase and the beam illuminated dramatic shark-toothed lavacicles, similar to stalactites, on the ceiling. There was rubble and other debris on the floor. A sudden commotion disturbed the gloomy silence – a colony of bats startled by the intrusion. They were the source of the overpowering stench that permeated the cavern. BangBang smiled: the first time he’d found this lava cave, those stinking creatures had surprised him, now he was used to them; relied on them in fact. Those noisy fuckers are better than a bank’s security alarm, he mused. I even have my ‘safety deposit boxes’ – three heavy-duty, moulded plastic suitcases. They were watertight, dustproof and remarkably robust with two padlocked hasps. Each was similar in size to a carry-on bag and virtually indestructible. And I’m here to make another deposit. He chuckled at his little joke.
From a stone ledge just above head height, he pulled down the three suitcases. Each one was undisturbed apart from where the bats’ foul-smelling guano had fallen on them. BangBang carefully opened each one and examined its contents delicately. There was jewellery, mini bars of gold and small packets of cut diamonds in one; another held five bricks of heroin, each weighing a kilo and wrapped in freezer bags covered in brown duct tape; the third case contained mainly banknotes in a number of key currencies, and his pride and joy: four US-issued bearer bonds worth a combined total of $200,000. BangBang smiled happily and kissed the small sheaf of certificates. Next, he opened the briefcase chained to his arm and put the various valuables stolen from the Lady Vesper into the relevant cases; finally he took out some documents and put them in with the bond certificates.
BangBang was not a nervous man by nature – far from it – but these particular documents made him anxious. They were detailed plans from the syndicate for two shipping raids that were scheduled in the next few weeks. They were worth a hundred times more than the other contents of the cases put together. His Triad masters would have him killed if the plans were compromised. He couldn’t keep them on the Crimson Tide in case a patrol boat stopped them. And his men were not to be trusted. The cave was the perfect place to keep them safe.
BangBang locked the cases, put them back on the shelf above and went outside. Pausing to light another cigarette, he headed back to the beach.
29
THE BIRDS woke me at dawn; normally a delight, the raucous, rapturous chorus was a shock that morning. It seemed a sacrilege in the light of what I’d witnessed a few hours earlier. Similarly, the cheerful morning sun seemed a betrayal of the dark terror of the night that had just ended.
I was still sitting upright, arms round the tree, my bum completely numb. My face was chafed from sleeping against the rough bark and my knuckles raw from hitting the trunk during the night in impotent frustration. As I rubbed my cheek gently, I caught a movement on the beach. Snatching up the binoculars, I trained them on the far end of the bay. A slightly surreal sight greeted my red-rimmed eyes: a stocky brown man was strolling towards the right-hand corner of the bay with a bulging briefcase in his hand, for all the world as if he were an insurance broker heading to the office. His right shoulder was sloping down so the case must have been heavy. The man was slightly bow-legged and had a distinctive roll as he walked before disappearing into the trees. What the hell? Where was he going? For a pee? But why would he take a briefcase?
The rest of the encampment was dead to the world; and, for all I knew, the women were also dead. I could not begin to imagine what that unending brutal assault must have been like for them. Nothing was moving, apart from some wispy smoke from the fire. The whole setting looked eerie. Moving the glasses, I could just make out the two women, both lying in the fetal position, arms outstretched backwards to a stake in the sand near the remains of the campfire. A few brightly coloured tents formed a rough horseshoe. The lenses suddenly blurred; I felt light-headed. Dehydration, I self-diagnosed. Nothing appeared to be happening down on the beach so I decided to nip back to the boat to get some water.
When I climbed back up to my hiding place at the top of the ridge a short time later, I saw a hive of activity. The two skiffs were being loaded up with the tents. The stocky man was back and shouting orders. He still had the briefcase under one arm, although it didn’t look quite so heavy now. I couldn’t see either of the women. My binoculars swept backwards and forwards around the beach but there were only a bunch of slovenly men moving listlessly. Where could their victims be? Just then, I picked out two round objects on the sand right at the waterline a couple of metres apart. For a moment, I thought they were rocks or something washed up on the shore. But, when I zoomed in, I saw that they were the women’s heads, faces turned towards the sea. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ I said. The cruel bastards had buried them up to their necks in the sand. And the tide was coming in! Surely they weren’t leaving them there to die? No one could be that mind-blowingly evil.
My question was answered moments later when the stocky man walked casually over to the women, bent over and obviously said something to one of them, then savagely kicked the other one’s head as if it were a football. Jesus fucking Christ! I thought I heard a scream but it might just have been one of the nesting birds. My head dropped, the bile rising in my throat. Taking three deep breaths, the way Percy had once taught me, I looked back to the scene. The skiffs were puttering away from the beach, the leader on board the rear one. He’s no insurance broker, I thought savagely, he’s a murdering bloody psychopath. He had deliberately positioned the women so they would be forced to watch the boats leave. What must those two wretched human beings down there be thinking as they realised they had been left to die?
My rage and shame finally boiled over. I started scrambling down the ridge towards Big Bay, being careful to stay hidden by the scrub – the scumbags might still be keeping an eye out. I slipped and slid down the incline to the jungle and started making my way as fast as I could behind the tree line, staying parallel with the shoreline. When I drew level with where the women were buried, I crawled through the palm trees and wriggled commando-style down to the waterline with my elbows and knees, my belly flat on the sand. The two small boats had reached the larger vessel beyond the reef about a kilometre away.
From behind, the women’s heads looked like blocks of driftwood washed up on the beach, covered in sand and debris. The tide had already reached up to their necks, pulling at the tips of their hair. Hurry! I propelled myself forward into the water in front of them, desperately afraid of what I would find and praying that the bastards on the boat were not looking back at the beach.
Their faces were both grotesque. One of them, a blonde, had an earlobe chewed off and one eye was out of its socket; she was the one that the gang leader had booted in the face. Her head was pulped, lolling to one side, her tongue slightly protruding. Horrified, I figured she was already dead.
The other one was in marginally better shape although it was hard to make out her features, her face a rictus of terror and pain. She had two black eyes, her lips were mashed and crusted
in dried blood. Her dark hair was clotted with sand and twigs. Wet tears had cut clean spider lines through the grime on her face. But at least she looked alive. One eye blinked slowly, painfully. The other was closed in a sticky mess. Her bruised lips moved slightly but I couldn’t make out any words. The sea was now up to her chin.
‘Don’t worry, I’m here to help you,’ I said feebly. Christ, I sound like a fucking jailhouse lawyer, I thought. The single eye blinked again.
I began scratching the sand away from her buried shoulders with my bare hands but it immediately filled in again. I tried scooping it out with a diving mask from the bag I’d brought from the boat. That didn’t work either. I was becoming frantic; the tide was rising inexorably, centimetre by centimetre; it would reach her mouth and nose soon. She would drown in a matter of minutes. Think! What the bloody hell can I do?
30
I HAD almost given up hope when I had an idea. I took my snorkel out of the bag and attached it to the mask and put both on the dark-haired woman, gently massaging the mouthpiece past her damaged lips. The sea was now nibbling at her mouth. I crouched down in the surf in front of her and put both my thumbs up in front of the mask. There was no response from the battered visage behind it but what did I expect? I looked over at the other woman: her head had drooped forward slightly and both her mouth and nose were now under water. God help her, I thought, because I cannot.
The head of the woman in front of me also began to droop forward and, in desperation, I sat behind her with my legs on either side of her head, my thighs propping her neck and chin upright. The tide continued to rise. Eventually it covered her head completely and swished warmly over my stomach; soon the top of the snorkel was only poking about two centimetres out of the water and I was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. I had no Plan B – if the snorkel idea failed then she would drown. ‘Hang on, don’t give up. We can do this,’ I told her many times. Having been an impotent witness to her shocking treatment during the night, I was determined not to let her down this time. The hours ticked by. Occasionally I would lean forward and touch her neck to feel her pulse and ensure she was still alive. I hoped she was unconscious otherwise she would be out of her mind with fear. One good thing: the fishing trawler had disappeared from sight.
Finally the water stopped rising. Then, slowly, inexorably it began to edge back. By now, my legs were cramped and numb. I was tired, itchy and hot from the midday sun. My thoughts constantly turned to the men who’d done this and what I’d like to do to them in return. How could any human being treat another person like a piece of meat, to chew on and then discard the bones? I figured the pirate leader had decided to kill the two women to ensure their crimes went undiscovered. But why do it in such a barbaric way? When I eventually return to civilisation, I vowed to myself, I will do my utmost to have that monster found and brought to justice.
Even with the tide gone, it took some time to free the woman from the clammy grip of the wet sand. Once clear, I laid her gently on the beach, covered in a towel, before returning to the lagoon for the dinghy. I was careful to face her away from the ghastly sight of her friend, whose head was now unrecognisable after its battering and subsequent immersion in the sea. She didn’t even look human anymore.
Less than thirty minutes later, when I brought the tender back round to Big Bay, I found the woman in some distress. Muttering and moaning, she had somehow shaken off the towel – her otherwise naked body was still caked in sand. I put my ear close to her face but couldn’t make out what she was saying: something sounding like ‘martini’. It was a struggle to get her into the tender, the wind had picked up and a slight swell caused the small boat to twist and turn. Then, to make things worse, it started to bucket down.
Once back at The Scoop, I half carried, half pulled her up onto the swimming platform at the stern. I sat down beside her for a moment, exhausted but relieved that she was still alive. And, yes, proud that I had saved her. I looked at her with pity: the rain had washed most of the sand off her and the parts of her body not covered by the towel were a mess of ugly bruises and abrasions. I almost cried at the sight. Then I carried her through the saloon and laid her on the bed in my stateroom.
Later, sitting on the side of the bed in my cabin, I held her head up slightly and tried to dribble some water down her throat, but most of it ran down her chin and onto her bruised body. I tried talking to her but got no response; she was completely out of it. At that point I’d have given my right arm to have a lie-down myself but I had unfinished business. Grisly business. The other woman was still buried in the sand and I didn’t want her body being targeted by animals or birds. She had suffered enough. So, after a little food for myself and Wagga, I climbed back into the tender in the driving rain and returned with a heavy heart to Big Bay.
31
I’D NEVER seen a dead body before, far less touched one. Once, as a teenager, I went to an auntie’s funeral and she was lying there serene in an open coffin, everyone going up in single file and kissing her cold corpse. Not me, I’d have rather died myself than do that. The only other funeral I had been to was Percy’s, but fortunately he was in a closed casket.
The rain was still steady when I returned to Big Bay. On the way there I’d thought about what I was going to do with the woman’s body. The options included burying her at sea or in the jungle, or cremating her: I could build a big fire and turn her into ashes. The idea of putting her in the ocean was the most practical solution but I worried that the woman I had saved might want to say farewell to the dead woman – she might have been a good friend or even a family member. So, in the end, I dug a hole just behind the palm trees on the edge of the jungle, underneath a casuarina tree. The ground was quite soft and wet and it was easy enough to dig a shallow grave.
Digging the dead body out of the sand was a lot harder. I was bone tired and the rain didn’t help. I tried not to look at the woman’s face while I was getting her out. I was too spooked to carry her small, broken body, so instead I used a towel as a litter, dragging the towel by two corners up the beach to the burial site. There I carefully put the body in the hole and covered it in earth and rotting vegetation. I put a large rock on one end as a marker. No cross, I’d make one later if her friend wanted it. Then I stood there. The rain was beginning to ease off and I wondered if I should say something. It seemed a bit crass but then again, given her ordeal, I felt she deserved some sort of send-off. So I said a prayer, the words coming back to me with ease; no real surprise, I’d been being made to mouth it a million times at St Jude’s.
Hail Mary, full of Grace, Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
I felt a bit silly standing there saying those familiar words out loud but it seemed appropriate – even if I didn’t believe a jot of it.
Soaked to the skin, smeared in mud and pebble-dashed with sand, I felt weary but glad my grim mission had been accomplished. After a quick dip in the lagoon back near The Scoop, I towelled myself dry and went to check on the mystery woman. I found Wagga curled up asleep on the bed beside her. There was no sign of life apart from her shallow breathing. I wondered if she might be in a coma and I wished I knew how to tell one state from another.
The woman’s face was still bruised and puffy, her eyes closed in horizontal slits. The bruises on her body seemed even more grotesque against the white sheets: a mass of dark grey and yellow bruises, cuts and abrasions. Her hair was still a tangle of knots and frizz. From what I could see, her injuries were mostly superficial; there did not appear to be anything needing urgent medical attention. No doubt she could use some penicillin or tetanus jabs but The Scoop’s first-aid kit did not quite run to that.
Despite the fact she looked as if she’d been in a car crash, the woman still possessed a fragile dignity. I guessed she was probably an attractive woman underneath the bruising. Yesterday I’d been too busy saving he
r life to consider her properly. Now I was keen to discover more about her. Of course, whether her mind or spirit ever recovered was a different matter. I sensed a difficult road ahead, perhaps for both of us. Not least when it came time to tell her that the other woman had not made it.
Sighing, I scooped Wagga up and went through to the saloon to reward my endeavours with a welcome, albeit warm, beer. Later I stood on the foredeck gazing across the lagoon in the fading daylight with a fishing rod in one hand, the beer in the other. My mind pored over the sequence of incredible events of the last twenty-four hours: the first sighting of the ship in the distance, the shock of seeing the men arrive on the beach with their two prisoners, and the bestial savagery that had ensued. And then my rescue bid and the horrible process of digging up and then burying the other victim. To be honest, I felt a little proud of myself for the first time in a long time . . . Perhaps I had a gone a little way towards redeeming myself after all the drug-fuelled selfish and stupid behaviour since arriving in LA.
My gaze took in the familiar beauty and tranquillity of the island; it looked the same but something had changed. And not for the better. Somehow the idyll had been tarnished; it was the old turd in the swimming pool syndrome . . . this place, for all its beauty and serenity, could never be the same again.
Yet, despite my gloom, I felt my pulse quicken a little when my mind returned to the woman lying in my cabin. Who was she? How did she end up here? What had happened to her and the other woman? I felt a slight shiver of excitement at the prospect of finding out the answers to those questions.
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