The Jaguar

by A. T. Grant

  David sighed again, this time in resignation. He gave in to cats, cold-callers and unfathomable females. Anything was better than another week at work and he was certainly due a considerable amount of holiday time. “When do I go?” He felt a large part of himself recoil in surprise and shock, as he assimilated his own response.

  The routine nature of the question made the caller rally and she quickly picked up the pace, perhaps as keen as David to escape the embarrassment of the call as soon as possible, as much as to ensure that David had no time to change his mind. “Do you have our brochure to hand, by any chance?”

  David nodded. The voice moved on before he had time to reflect on what a ridiculous response this was.

  “If you turn to page 47 you’ll see we’re now offering a range of activity-based trips: everything from scuba-diving and island hopping by yacht, to jungle trekking and exploring little-visited ruined cities from the famous Mayan period.”

  David had no idea who the Mayans were, other than some vague notion that they had erroneously predicted the end of the world, but he knew all-too-well that he really was rather scared of anything to do with swimming or deep water. “Trekking sounds fine” he heard himself say, somehow managing to dodge his usual self-image of a rather fat, un-sporty, couch-potato.

  “Well done, David. Now, if you can just confirm that Phoebe has given me your correct email address I can put all the details, dates and recommendations in writing. As the package you have chosen is new - in fact you will be one of our first participants - we are able to offer you a considerable discount, if you can confirm your exact requirements within the next week. Once you have spoken with Phoebe, I’m sure you’ll be able to think more clearly about what is best.”

  There was a pause; the caller apparently unable to decide whether to say more. A half-strangled and unintelligible single word was followed by a barely audible sigh.

  “I really enjoyed talking to you, David. Hopefully we’ll speak again soon.”

  For a long time after the lady disconnected, David held the telephone to his ear, as though its monotone whine might suddenly modulate and offer some reasonable explanation for what had just occurred. “Well done, David” echoed incongruously around his head, finding absolutely nothing to befriend. Except that he knew that phrase. He was sure that he knew it from a long time ago and that it was associated with something, or someone, important in his life.

  There was a suitcase in the sea: the brown leather suitcase from the Underground. It was bumping along the side of a boat. Laura felt seasick. She reached down and fought a tug of war with the water. The salt-patterned box sprung onto the deck beside her. A sound drifted from the case to her core. Laura knelt and grasped the metal latches. As the lid flipped open, it revealed only darkness and a mother’s scream, as at the moment of childbirth, which she really couldn’t bear.

  Laura rolled over in bed and stared at the patterned ceiling. It moved as though she was still on the sea. She lay there indecisively, swept by a deeply perturbing sense of loss which wasn’t, for once, centred upon her dead mother. It felt like losing a child, but this made no sense. She shook her head and made for the bathroom.

  Downstairs, coffee in hand a short while later, Laura discovered that the hoped-for letter had indeed arrived. It was a recorded delivery, so Katie, who seemed to have already departed for the office, must have signed for it. She checked the London postmark then turned it over to discover a cartoon version of her own features smiling back at her. A shining orb to her left and a pair of sunglasses provided the holiday touches. Katie, indeed: she was a fine artist. Laura tore into the package and scanned the contents. There was the job offer and also a personal note on scented writing paper from Culjinder, telling her that Marcus would be in touch after the weekend. Finally, there was an expedition kit list; a range of travel items long enough to leave Laura worried about both her bank balance and her fitness. Rucksack, boots, walking poles, full waterproofs: she gave up trying to tally the cost, but it was obvious from the list that, whatever her role, it was going to be hands on.

  She lounged on a sofa with her drink and studied the contents of the package again. Laura knew it had been written and posted in haste, but still she felt cheated. She wanted to know exactly when she would start and what she would be doing. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know where she’d be working. The original brief had said: must be flexible about working irregular hours and over weekends, and willing to travel overseas, if necessary at short notice. Certainly, there seemed no question of her moving to London. Laura felt impatient and still more than slightly nervous. She would need to give in her notice. Doubtless, Simon had already spread the news at the office.

  Only one thing for it - she decided to go shopping. Half an hour later she was rooting around an outdoor equipment store, trying on lightweight travel trousers and sunhats. Nothing seemed to fit, or maybe it did, but she just didn’t like the style. She settled eventually on a new pair of sunglasses - not unlike those that Katie had drawn - and decided she would be wearing these when her flatmate returned that evening. She let the steep slope of Park Street carry her down from Bristol’s main university district towards the city’s central square. Slipping into a favourite wooden booth in an old-fashioned café near the base of the hill, she pulled out her phone and paused momentarily to consider how she would broach her sudden change of career to her father. Then she gave up and lost herself to cappuccino and a small electrical storm of excited messages from curious friends.

  Chapter Five

  Riviera Maya

  Marcus almost tumbled down the aircraft steps. He had slept heavily for most of the flight in the relative comfort of business class, after a long week of rushed preparations. His drowsiness - combined with a struggle to prevent his voluminous hand-baggage escaping - had left him more than a little light-headed. Then there were the three glasses of wine that had induced his torpor in the first place. Never mind, he consoled himself. He had pre-booked a taxi from Cancun airport to his hotel, and the others wouldn’t be arriving for another day. There’d be plenty of time to sort everything out.

  As he was driven south down the long coastal highway, past an endless procession of grand entrances to jungle and palm-enfolded beach resorts, Marcus tried, unsuccessfully, to focus his mind on the task ahead. His chore was not helped by the stream of broken English from the determinedly cheerful taxi driver. Marcus half listened and mumbled the occasional “Si” out of a deeply engrained sense of good manners.

  The squat, semi-bald, somewhat intimidating local smiled gleefully through a list of what should have been complaints. The car swerved as he stuck a broken finger up to the driving mirror for Marcus to examine, simultaneously lifting his other hand from the steering wheel to demonstrate how it had occurred. It swerved again, this time somewhat alarmingly, as the driver waved the same finger at a passing gas station to highlight the scandalous cost of fuel. Eventually the car started to sway in a manner Marcus could sense was stoking his giddiness and jetlag, as his tormentor complained at the state of the roads. The monologue turned to the unseasonably cold and wet weather. This seemed an unlikely contrast to Marcus’ sweaty and increasingly smelly self - an enquiry at this point establishing that the cabbie was called Eric and that he had not felt it warm enough to turn on the air conditioning. He did so, with an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders, following Marcus’ polite insistence.

  After adding two hours of driving to the ten hour flight, the car swung through a grand, flower-fringed concrete portal and stopped at a security barrier. Marcus woke from fitful sleep to see Eric deep in conversation with the security guard. His attention was drawn to his driver’s neck. A tattoo had emerged from beneath his blue and slightly frayed shirt collar. It revealed a complex shield containing symbols including a football, a pistol, a lightning bolt and the letter X. All were in black and somehow the ensemble was slightly sinister and seemingly n
ot the sports insignia that Marcus at first suspected. Moments later the taxi was engulfed by the reassuring sights and sounds of an all-inclusive, 5-star tropical resort. It wove past joggers, family groups on wobbly bicycles, and snake-like land trains. The roadway emerged from a dense patch of trail-pierced jungle to reveal the main car park and a grand thatched, timber-clad reception building. It was fronted by a fountain of leaping dolphins and a shining marble staircase. Standing between these was the familiar figure of Dana Murphy, Deputy Programme Manager for Carlton Travel Group’s Caribbean Division and the main line of communication to Tailwind Adventure.

  Dana held out a pale, limp, slim-fingered hand as Marcus approached. Her height, slender figure and shock of red hair gave her gesture an almost imperious quality, leaving Marcus half tempted to kiss, rather than to shake it. The pair exchanged a few pleasantries, Dana speaking with a lazy Celtic lilt which Marcus found instantly soothing. As Eric dumped Marcus’ cases unceremoniously beside him, Dana issued an apologetic smile and said she would join him again shortly. With an unexpected burst of energy she skipped up the steps like a startled fawn and disappeared into the foyer.

  A freshly showered and shaved Marcus stretched his long legs across the balcony of a newly completed honeymoon suite, taking in the expansive ocean view. Flecks of white spray marked the line of an offshore reef and dark shadows tracked the course of passing clouds in the grip of a strong onshore breeze. Children chased footballs across the white sands, as hotel staff fought to close a line of parasols in danger of blowing away.

  Dana emerged from behind the curtains with a jug of Pimms and glasses retrieved from the housekeeper. Settling opposite Marcus, both concentrated upon their drinks. Marcus wondered whether to imbibe so soon after the flight. He rubbed his forehead to see if he could make an impression upon a dull headache and a vague sense that he was still in motion.

  Dana stole a critical glance at her guest’s profile. His features, particularly his nose and chin, were long and heavy and his eyes dark brown and slightly sunken beneath bushy brows. A fine head of chestnut hair had been whipped up by the recent wash and the wind. The overall impression was of strength and masculinity, rather than good looks, and his height, broad shoulders and narrow waist provided an innate impression of athleticism. This was the first time that Dana had met Marcus in an informal setting and she was already beginning to feel relaxed in his company. She was used to people talking incessantly about the minutiae of this or that aspect of the travel business. Marcus, although polite, seemed utterly disinterested, which inevitably fuelled a degree of fascination.

  Later the pair decided to walk the furthest fringes of the resort, the last beach before semi-solitary bays and headlands reasserted their innate disinterest in all things human. Both figures clambered awkwardly over a low, half-hearted rope barrier and tottered in inappropriate footwear onto the wave-ravaged coral rocks beyond. Dana, tall and elegant in a knee-length orange striped dress, strode most purposefully ahead, having recommended their excursion. Marcus was less certain, in terms of his footing, where they might be going, and why. However, the cool sea air was a positive treat and he felt a renewed sense of relaxation seep into his forehead and sink slowly to release his hunched shoulders. He looked up as he reached a patch of fine white sand huddled in a rocky cleft and admired Dana’s long red hair. Its strands flicked backwards and forwards across her back as she balanced from boulder to boulder. He noted the long inward curve of her spine and wide, elegant shoulders as she stooped and partially disappeared from view behind a particularly contorted piece of geology. As he leant, a few moments later, upon this same obstacle, he thought for one unregulated moment that Dana must have lain in the sand beyond and performed a tropical version of snow angels. A series of deep, evenly-spaced grooves pattered the sand, some disappearing into play-pit sized holes. He looked enquiringly at Dana, who smiled a most fetching smile of enthusiasm as she realised she would not have to garner Marcus’ interest in this curious patina.

  “We have turtles here” she explained and smiled a little bit more. In all her time showcasing CTG resorts, wildlife had rarely entered the conversation and it felt like such a release that, if she could have read Marcus’ mind, she may indeed have made sand angels.

  “These marks are very old, but at night, during the egg-laying season, we have staff patrolling the beach. If they find a turtle they watch over it. If there’s already a nest, they dig out the eggs. They re-bury them in a fenced-off area which local naturalists oversee for us. There aren’t as many turtles now, but at least the hatchlings needn’t run the gauntlet of crabs and gulls. Most go by bucket straight into the surf. A few end up in local aquaria and marine parks.”

  “So what’s happened here?” Marcus pointed to the scattering of concave leathery pouches close to Dana’s feet, which had obviously once been eggs.

  “Some of the turtles are put off by the lights along the shoreline. They swim around the point and end up here on small patches of sand between the rocks. It isn’t really deep enough. Our local iguanas have no problem digging up the eggs - we have fat, overfed lizards everywhere - our guests love them, but they can be real pests.”

  Marcus and Dana stood quietly and studied each other. Both found something different and refreshing in the other and both now savoured a moment of calm. It was not until Marcus realised Dana was shivering that he felt the need to speak.

  “Perhaps we should get back?”

  Dana nodded. “We usually don’t mention the turtles to our guests, but I thought you’d be interested, with your party heading off into the wilderness and all. You realise, when you’ve spent a little time here, that there’s a rhythm to this coast, a kind of magic, something that has nothing to do with the tourist trade. It makes you remember that we’re all just passing through.”

  She shivered again. Marcus was uncertain whether to look interested or concerned.

  “We haven’t had a week as cold as this for a long time” Dana explained. “The local hospitals are filling up with old people with pneumonia. Farmers are worrying about their crops. You can imagine how disappointed our guests have been, although the Brits are still hitting the beach. Apparently, it’s been worse in the north. There’s even been snow in some places. It’s all supposed to be getting back to normal in a couple of days: just in time for your visitors.”

  Marcus awoke, rolled over and stretched each limb towards a corner of his king-size bed. The room remained dark, but slashes of light above and to the side of heavy curtains signalled that the sun was already climbing high. From the other end of the long, split-level accommodation there was the sound of a well-rehearsed, polite knock. Marcus slumped onto the floor and felt for his dressing gown and slippers. A few unstable steps later he was squinting into full sunlight and at the trolley laden with food that blocked the doorway. He picked up a piece of seashell imprinted notepaper and read the message from Dana - Good morning, Marcus. I hope you slept well. I’ll meet you in the main reception building at 11am. Enjoy your breakfast.

  Deciding that food was a more pressing concern than a shower, Marcus wheeled the trolley as far as he could into the room. He threw open the curtains and arranged the table and chairs on the balcony. As he removed the tray and carried it outside, he remembered the data stick that Steven had thrust into his palm at Heathrow Airport. He spent the next three-quarters of an hour sifting through its contents on his laptop, between mouthfuls of fried food and sips of strong coffee. Steven had, as usual, conducted most of the reconnaissance for the new itinerary, and had also hired the local agents who would support the trip. Marcus was slightly nervous about leading a tour he hadn’t himself undertaken, but also knew he could trust Steven’s judgement. The notes were extensive and Marcus felt guilty about failing to study them sooner. He logged into the hotel network and checked quickly whether the forecast for a steadily improving weather picture still held true. It did, information reinforced by
the small clusters of early risers meandering past his balcony towards the sea, bearing armfuls of towels and blow-up toys.

  Dana was stood chatting languorously to a receptionist when Marcus arrived freshly showered, shaved and for once splashed with a small amount of Cologne. She raised a freckled arm from the desk and greeted him with a lazy wave. It was already hot, much hotter than the day before. Marcus was relieved when - having followed Dana down a spiral marble staircase - they entered an air-conditioned staff office. Dana smiled at the two Mexicans in linen suits who stood up as they entered. To Marcus their matching garb, tans and grins, but entirely different physiques, gave the pair the air of a comedy couple. A few pleasantries later, all four were sitting around a circular table covered in numerous documents, including information about each of their expected guests. A small ceiling-mounted projector illuminated a nearby wall, the group occasionally looking up to consider the next map or picture on display.

  Midway through the meeting, Carlos Rivera glanced at his son, pushed back his chair to make more space for his portly frame then coughed for dramatic emphasis. “When we reach Punta Allen - Cesar will show you where that is on the map - we will be on the edge of wild country. Few tourists make it that far: the road is in poor condition and hazardous. Some rich people come in by boat to fish, but there are strict controls and it is hard to gain a permit. We, and a few other companies, do boat tours for day trippers. There’s a lot of indigenous wildlife and also a number of Mayan ruins. These are the reasons why the area is a biosphere reserve and a World Heritage Site.”

  Dana interjected, “Carlos is a modest man. His company is the longest established in this region and the most professional. It is fully insured and all guides and instructors have international qualifications. As you’ll hear, he’s been able to put together a very interesting programme.”