Big Fish
By Andrew Osmond
Copyright 2011 Andrew Osmond
Minnow Press
Smashwords electronic edition
ISBN 978 1 907507 11 3
License Notes
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Prologue: It Started With A Piss
He deliberately adjusted his position so that the jet of urine struck the bottom of the disinfectant block. The small, white cube had become lodged behind a rusting screw which fastened a metal grid over the drainpipe in the porcelain bowl. Normally, he aimed, such that the stream of liquid shot directly between one of the holes in the grid, to disappear straight down into the void, without touching the ceramic sides of the urinal, but the possibilities of being able to move the block had got him interested; momentarily distracting him from the matter at hand. He wasn’t looking forward to the interview ahead. It was always difficult talking to one of the relatives. Too close. Never able to separate the emotional from the logical.
Just a little bit lower. And if he squeezed harder, perhaps he could produce just a little bit more force. The warm fluid bubbled up in a frenzy of white froth where it struck the surface of the urinal immediately beneath the gleaming cube. The little object rocked one way and then the other, moving almost like a miniature hovercraft supported on a wave of air, teetering, seemingly aware that its energy source was not inexhaustible and was subject to fluctuations. Now or never. One final blast. Almost. Almost. The white block hung suspended, perilously close to surmounting its rusty hurdle, before the pressure of the jet diminished, and the cube of disinfectant sunk back, dejected, to its previous dormancy; one tiny speck of purity in an otherwise soiled world. No more delays. Best to get out there and get this over with.
Shake. In. Tuck. Zip. OK.
• • •
“I’m positive.”
“I’m sorry, Sir. I know this is difficult, but we have to ask.”
“I understand that.”
“So, absolutely sure? I am sorry to press this, but it has been eight years. Are there any distinguishing marks that make you absolutely positive that it is his bag?” The New Zealand accent made the final word sound like ‘beg’, but there was no mistaking the policeman was referring to the small suitcase that he cradled in his large arms, in the same fashion that his interviewee would have once held his missing offspring.
“For God’s sake. Of course I’m sure. I know my own son’s case. It might be eight years to you, but it is still yesterday to me.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Do you? I doubt it.” Confronting. Bitter.
“I understand how distressing this all is for you.” The official reverted to the public broadcast, “But rest assured we are doing everything in our powers to find out what has happened to your son. The discovery of this suitcase opens up several new possibilities.”
“So you will finally believe me when I say that something grave has happened to him?”
“We never ruled that possibility out.”
“But you never did anything about it.”
“Young people disappear all the time. Most of their own volition. If we spent time investigating every ...”
“Eight years. Not a word. He had nothing to run away from. He had a life waiting for him back home. He was on holiday. On holiday.” His indignation blew out, replaced by despair.
The dark-suited policeman was silent for a moment, allowing the other man time to compose himself again, before continuing. “We will have to hang on to this.” He held out the suitcase again. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Procedure.” Quiet. Ironic.
“We’ll find out what happened. Leave it to us. Go back to your hotel. You’ve had a long ...”
“Don’t tell me I’ve had a long flight.”
He continued, his voice quieter but more steely, “You’ve had a long flight. I might have more I can tell you in the morning. All I know at this stage is that your son’s suitcase was discovered at the back of a large laundry cupboard in a popular hostel in the city centre. It could have been there ever since he disappeared. We have thousands of backpackers passing through Christchurch every year. Millions, for all I know. Thousands just in this one hostel, so it’s not surprising that it wasn’t discovered. But we’ll tear the place to bits if that’s what it takes to find anything more about what happened.”
“But eight years.”
“I know. It’s a long time ago. But if there is any evidence to be found, we will find it.”
“And what can I do?”
“You can catch up on some sleep.”
“Sleep?” Surprise. It was as though he’d never slept before. As though the concept had never occurred to him. Too simple that the anxiety could all be switched off by a simple flick that turned consciousness into unconsciousness; reality into oblivion. It was an invitation that had no pay-back. A win-win situation. Sleep. Not a solution, but perhaps an answer.
• • •
At the same time, eleven thousand miles away, a young man is watching his TV set and is about to discover that he has made the biggest mistake of his life.
Section One: Fry
Chapter One: The Fellowship Of The Nerd
“Well, here I am tonight in Tahiti.”
• • •
“Looking for a bed tonight?”
In his imagination it had been a dusky, Polynesian maiden who was going to ask this question, not the burly Frenchman that currently stood before him in the fast-emptying wasteland between the comfortably familiar bureaucracy of passport control and baggage reclaim, and the great unknown night, separation from which he was protected only by the insufficient barrier of two sets of double swing doors. That aside, the fact of the matter was that he was looking for a bed for the night and with only one offer on the mattress, beggars can’t be choosers.
It was two o’clock in the morning and Stuart had just stepped off the previous evening’s Air New Zealand departure from LAX, destination Faaa International Airport, on the island of Tahiti. It had been a journey off the map. The group of islands that collectively make up French Polynesia, and of which Tahiti is the largest, did not even feature in Stuart’s atlas. Tiny specks lost in the vast blue expanse of South Pacific Ocean, they did not warrant the double page spread which would be needed to truly give an indication of their isolation from the nearest land mass of any significance. They were little fish lost in a big pond. But, it was not a random pin stuck in a map that brought Stuart to these remote shores, it was a further step into imagination. Or perhaps, more accurately, a step backwards into the boyhood fantasies of a bookish adolescent. Jack London, Robert Louis Stevenson, Herman Melville: hadn’t they all followed the same route? Voyages of self discovery and adventure. Paul Gauguin too: the search for a lost innocence. They had all come here. Rupert Brooke - romantic soldier poet. Somerset Maugham. These islands had held them all under their spell. The young Stuart had devoured their collective outpourings and built in his mind his own personal Pacific idyll, a place of escape from his own urban reality. The older Stuart now had the financial - bourgeois? - means to visit his fantasy. Mistake? He had made a few.
Mutiny on the Bounty: Fletcher Christian had set the trend. The archetypal opt-outer. The first lotus-eating hippy, who had inspired a modern-day generation of backpackers to follow in his rebellious footsteps. Of affluent backpackers that is.
“What’s with the suitcase?” They were the first words the Frenchman had uttered since his initial invitation.
“I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t clock you as one of us at first.” The words were Hollywood American, but the accent gave them a Mediterranean softness. “No one - and I mean no one - has a suitcase.”
“Eh?” It had been a long flight. It was the middle of the night. It was his first real stop-over. He was innocent. He was naïve. He was not expecting to have to partake in lateral thinking competitions mere minutes after having stepped off the plane. He had an excuse for being dumb.
“I thought you were with the tour. They have cases. Club-Med, you know? More Samsonite than Superman.”
Stuart still looked vague.
“I almost missed you altogether, and what would you have done then?”
“I don’t know,” apologised Stuart.
“Backpacks. That’s what all the other have got. You won’t get very far with one of these.” The Gallic giant gave Stuart’s pale green suitcase a friendly kick. “Useless.” The single word seemed to make a mental association for him as he made a conversational leap. “Are you English?”
Finally a topic of conversation he was comfortable with, “Yes.”
• • •
He was sitting in the back of an open-air truck. There were three of them. A blonde - weren’t they all? - German called Stefan - weren’t they all? - and a loud - weren’t they all? - American called Courtney. The Frenchman was somewhere up front, presumably driving. He had no idea of where he was going, but he still had his pale green suitcase with him, and at the moment that seemed like quite a positive thing to cling on to.
“So what’s your name?” It was the American speaking.
“Stuart. With a ‘u’ ‘a’.”
“Withayooay? Weird name, guy. What’s that? Australian?”
“No, I’m English. I mean, Stuart with a ‘u’ ‘a’. You know? Rather than an ‘e’ ‘w’.”
“Oh, right. Yeh.” Silence.
The truck was travelling along a two-lane, unlit carriageway. The lights of the airport complex had diminished to a hazy corona in the sky behind; ahead the only illuminations were the headlights of occasional oncoming cars, until they too had passed and blackness enveloped the three travellers once again.
“Does any one know where we are go-ing?” It was the German who spoke now. The sentence slowly and precisely intonated; each alternate syllable rising then falling in a clipped lilt, the words spilling out as they matched the rise and fall of the truck’s suspension as it bobbled back and forth along the pitted tarmac.
The other two exchanged a glance before replying in unison, “No.” All three looked towards the cab, where the broad shoulders and lowered head of the Frenchman could just about be made out as a silhouette behind the glass, taking them they knew not where. He seemed oblivious to their observation and speculation. The orange flare of a cigarette appeared fleetingly at the side of his face, before the bright spark was discarded, flicked through the side window, to leave a surprisingly long trail of glowing embers as a momentary marker to the van’s night-time passage, looking like cat’s eyes on the road or landing lights on a runway. Stuart saw a road sign flash past.
“Papeete,” he said, knowledgeably.
“Oh, right. Yeh.” Silence. So this was the famous camaraderie of travellers he had been hearing all about.
It had been the silences that had made him start searching in the first place. Got him thinking that there must be ‘more to life than this’ and ‘there was a great big world out there waiting to be discovered’. There had been the silences when he had asked himself, ‘what am I doing?’; ‘where am I going?’; ‘what have I done with my life?’. There had been the silences that had greeted his attempts at career progression: his requests for a rise; a desk by the window; an electric fan in the summer. Not much to ask. And the silences that had greeted his phone calls: “Hi Tessa, it’s Stuart, can you give me a ring.”; “Hi Tessa, it’s Stuart, not sure if you got my earlier message, can you give me a ring.”; “Hi Tessa, it’s ... no, never mind, I’ll try again.”.
The vehicle sped on into the darkness, slowing only to swerve past a staggering drunk who was captured in the headlight’s beam, rolling with a sailor’s gait across the centre of the carriageway as though it were a pitching boat deck. The Frenchman’s hand was brought down hard on the truck’s horn, and stayed there long after the drunk was just a memory of the night, a harsh siren renting the air. Stuart propped up his suitcase to form a makeshift seat and to cushion himself from the worst jolts on the hard, metal floor of the bucking van, and watched as the endless obscure vegetation at the road’s edge gradually gave way, replaced initially by dark, little shacks, with corrugated tin roofs and sleeping occupants, and eventually by the bright lights of the big city.
A hard ridge of bitumen, undetectable until the truck hit it with a larger than normal bump and which sent its three rear passengers into the air and left them clinging onto the side rails of the cabin for support, indicated the transition from the old airport road to the smooth four-lane Boulevard Pomare, and its tree-lined approach to the capital. Stuart saw bright-fronted boutiques on the right-hand side of the strip; shops and kiosks; deserted food stalls. Beyond the rustling fronds of the palm trees to the left Stuart knew was the Pacific Ocean, although its vast expanse was largely hidden by the myriad masts of a flotilla of boats, both large and small, that were moored along the length of the waterfront. Five, six, or more deep, Stuart couldn’t see the limit of the boats in the darkness, although he could hear their mast bells sound far to the distance across the water, intermittently ringing, revealing their presence like a herd of highland cows scattered across a mountainside. There were lights too, tiny specks on the water, illuminating a small circle of concentric ripples around some nocturnal boatman. Clang, clang, clang. It was an incongruous note in an otherwise sleeping town.
There was a slight pressure on Stuart’s arm, and he turned to look in the direction that Courtney was indicating. A huge four-mast schooner was anchored close to the harbour wall: a beautiful vessel, silent and serene amongst its smaller, noisy brethren. It was too dark to read the name of the boat, although it would have meant nothing to him in any case. The faintest noise as the wind off the sea delicately strummed the taunt ropes and wires fixed at the highest points of the rigging, positively sang of money. Not a vulgar, showy display of wealth, but the quiet confidence that comes with invincibility. You may look little backpackers, but you are not in my league, and never will be.
The truck horn sounded again and swivelling around they saw their driver was trying to draw their attention to two figures standing on the corner of the opposite pavement. Courtney waved as they sped past.
“Mahu,” she laughed, “I’ve read about them.”
Tall and skinny, and with flowers in their hair, the two colourfully attired pedestrians waved energetically back, calling out in a stream of rapid French that Stuart was unable to comprehend. One lifted up a hem of skirt and flashed at the retreating tail-lights, before straightening down the upturned garment with a provocative wiggle, replacing the view of exposed genitalia instead with that of a beaming smile.
Stuart looked across to Courtney, confused, “Wasn’t that a ...”
“Big prick,” Courtney supplied.
“Bloke, I was going to say,” said Stuart. “I thought they were women.”
Stefan suddenly found his voice, “They are Ta-hi-ti’s Third Sex.” He waved his copy of the Lonely Planet Guide, which he had been determinedly trying to read, by the poor light and in the jolting conditions, ever since leaving the airport. “They are trans-vest-ites,” he explained. “You know, men who ...”
“Yes, yes,” Courtney interrupted, impatient at the German’s slow diction, “we know. Men who dress up as women. Mahus, like I said.”
Stefan, once started, was not so easily silenced. “Here though, un-like in Eur-ope they are accept-ed. It is part of their cul-ture.”
“Oh, right. Yeh.” Stuart was secretly relieved to discover that Courtney’s conversation stopper was not exclusively reserved for him. He felt a sudden sympathetic bond with his spurned male companion. From such trivial things could fine friendships spring. A common link between seemingly disparate individuals. The fellowship of the nerd.
Having decided that Papeete was to be the destination of their nocturnal journey, it was something of a surprise to see the well-lit streets of the capital suddenly receding, to once again be replaced by banks of inhospitable shrubs and, more importantly, no obvious accommodation. Apart from the distant luminescence of the multitude of stars above, and the mesmeric yellow beam of the headlamps on the road ahead, all other lights were suddenly extinguished as quickly as the hope of a comfortable hotel bed for the night.
“Where do you think we are going?” asked Stuart after another five minutes of silent journey into night. “Is there a map in that guidebook of yours?” he asked Stefan.
“Yes. But it is too dark to read it.”
“My watch has a dial that lights up,” offered Courtney, pressing a small button on her wrist-strap to produce the tiniest of useless green glows. There was no need for further comment. Stefan and Stuart were united in their joint silence. The fellowship of the nerd had grown to three.
Chapter Two: Soft Cheese And Hard Sell
“The warmth of the Polynesian welcome is world renowned.”
• • •
He had not realised that Courtney was blonde until he woke up beside her the next morning. It was a minor discovery, but at least it was a secure fact; something tangible that he could hang on to. At that moment he felt like he didn’t have many other anchors to reality. There were other - greater - discoveries he was going to have to make this morning, if he was going to be able to grab this vacation by the scruff of its neck and get on with the task of enjoying it. A start would be to discover the answer to, ‘where am I?’ Stuart shut his eyes again. Later. The big questions could wait till later.
He was lying on a thin mattress on a hard floor. That much he could tell with his eyes closed. There was the sound of the sea: strange that he hadn’t noticed that last night. There was a pleasant smell too. Not perfume, not flowers, just something fresh and clean. There was the gentle touch of a breeze on his cheeks too. Not the chill air of Northern Europe, but a cooling caress, on skin that would have felt uncomfortably warm otherwise. Four senses were signalling ‘safe, safe’. Perhaps it was all right to open his eyes again too.
Next to Courtney he could now see the German chap he had travelled in the truck with. Both of them were still asleep. The German was snoring. Or was that actually Courtney? Women shouldn’t snore. It did not fit in with his aesthetic ideal of them. What was the other guy’s name? He could not quite remember, not to worry, it would come back to him.
It had taken another fifteen minutes the previous night before the truck had veered off the main carriageway and skidded across a short expanse of dusty scrubland, giving some indication that the culmination of their drive was very close. Stuart who, having accustomed himself to the rhythmic vibrations of the old vehicle and having accepted that his fate was in the hands of others - a decision which instantly made him feel more relaxed about the situation - had been nodding off to sleep, initially assumed that the Frenchman had dozed off at the wheel and that they were all careering helplessly off the traffic lane and into the verge. There was a thud, and then the truck straightened up again and was bumping along a narrow side road, the trees so close on one side that the branches struck and scraped along the metal of the van and caused his companions to shift their positions or risk being hit. The ocean, which had been a constant companion since Papeete – the highway never being further than the sound of a lapping wave distant from the water’s edge - had disappeared a mile or so back, and with it so went the last landmark.
It had reached a stage where Stuart was not sure if he was more nervous about the continual progress into the unknown, or the moment when he knew the truck was going to stop, the ignition would be turned off, and he would have to face up to where – and why – he had been brought. Hostage Situation. He couldn’t get the two words out of his mind. He pictured a dark sack being thrust over his head, a lengthy captivity perhaps culminating in a TV appeal, and photos of him, bruised face beside a local newspaper to indicate that he was still alive. But what then? A happy family reunion or an ominous silence? A silence which would stretch from days, into weeks, into months. A silence which would ultimately be replaced by forgotten.
A silence which was being broken by the sound of snoring. It was Courtney. The German guy was awake. Much like himself, he was looking shifty. He was trying not to make himself look too conspicuous, but he was definitely awake. Stuart watched, through half-closed lids, as his fellow captive eased himself to a sitting position, blinked, looked around, and then slowly, silently stretched out his arm, searching, his hand fumbling around until it alighted upon a garment strewn on the floor, and after a hasty search withdrew a small, plastic package from one of the pockets. The young man cast around himself, part-guiltily, part-protective of his newly discovered bounty and, only after convincing himself that the coast was clear, proceeded to peel back the top layer from his find and dig his fingers into the small container. A sticky resin ran down his hands and landed with a dollop onto the floor. Stuart continued to watch from his prone position, confident that he was unobserved.
“That’s disgusting.”
It was an American voice. An American female voice. A rather raucous, American female voice. Courtney was awake.
The German looked startled, before breaking into a sheepish grin, “I had heard that things were ex-pen-sive here. I though that it might be worth sav-ing the air-line food in case I got des-per-ate.”
“You must be desperate to eat that. What is it?” Courtney pointed at the congealed, yellow blob.
“It was cheese, but it is so hot, it has melt-ed.”
Courtney sat up laughing, “And what else have you saved from the flight? Sugar sachets? Sick bag?”
Stefan looked puzzled, not quite understanding the words. Stuart decided that he was missing out on a potential traveller-bonding session and thought it time to make his presence known. “You may laugh,” he said, “but don’t come running to me when you run out of moist lemon hand-wipes and complimentary comfort socks.”
“Not you too,” said Courtney, good-humouredly.
Stefan, his forehead wrinkled with concentration, had finally caught on to the subject of the conversation, “I al-ways keep the duty free mag-a-zine. Then I know what to buy on the way home.”
There was a silence before both Stuart and Courtney burst out laughing.
Yes! Before he had been just an anonymous pawn-nerd. Now he was the king.
It was Stuart who came to Stefan’s rescue. He could sympathise with how he would feel in the same situation, after all, he had been there often enough himself. Here he was, a young man, alone, away from anyone that knew him - knew his past; his modest history - anyone that had preconceived ideas about the kind of person he was: the same people that did not know him at all. Here he had a chance to be himself. Whoever that might be. Not to reinvent exactly, but to find out just who it is who has lived for so many years concealed beneath the layers of nurture and expectation. It was an opportunity to live out some dreams. Except here he was making all the same mistakes again. Perhaps you can never run far enough away to escape yourself?
Stuart’s attempt to ease Stefan’s embarrassment was by relating his own duty free magazine anecdote - not something that everyone could boast of possessing in their narrative repertoire, and a story that Stuart was secretly rather proud to be able to pull out and use at this particularly apt moment. “I remember on one flight I was on, you could buy this blow-up life-size doll. It was meant to be a security thing. You know, you sit it next to you in your car if you are alone and it makes it look like you have a passenger with you, or you can leave it in a parked car to stop people breaking in. As if. I wondered why they had it for sale on a flight. Is it for lonely people to sit next to them? Or is it for…”
Courtney, who had been looking less amused as the anecdote progressed, finally broke in, her voice one of high-pitched indignation, “I have one of them. They are actually very useful.”
Yes! The king has his queen. As a means to easing Stefan’s discomfort the story could not have been more successful.
“You just arrived?”
The newcomer was young and female and very ginger: ginger hair, ginger dress, ginger freckles, and ginger spirit. Ginger beer? Her bubbly approach appeared the very effervescent antipathy to the flat conversation of the other three. Plus she could obviously speak English. Stuart and Courtney pounced upon her with their questions like hungry wolves. Stefan circled like a vulture, ready to scavenge any morsel of conversation, should there be any oratorical meat left on the carcass.
“Yes, where are we?”
“We arrived last night.”
“We came in the truck.”
“We had no idea where we were going.”
“What is this place?”
“Where are we?”
Ginger ignored the most urgent question, and held out a hand of welcome, “Hi, I’m Jenny (could have been worse, could have been Ginny: could have been Geri!) It’s nice to meet you too.”
Stuart, realising their previous rudeness, acted as spokesman for the group. “I’m sorry. You know what it’s like when you first arrive. We haven’t quite settled into the pace here yet. I’m still operating on London time. You know, quick, quick, answer, answer, can’t wait. You sound like you’re from somewhere up north.”
“Huddersfield. Just can’t get away from us Brits can you,” Jenny replied.
“I’m Stuart, by the way. With a ‘u’ ‘a’.”
“Withayooay? Oh, right, with a ‘u’ ‘a’.”
While the introductions had been going on, Stefan was taking an opportunity to properly take in his surroundings for the first time. Things were looking better than he had imagined. Strange, but better than he had imagined. He was - they all were - lying on a large open-air balcony of what appeared to be a sizeable, colonial-style mansion: stone, white-washed, and rather crumbling. One storey below him there was the sea, but seemingly so close that is appeared to be lapping at his side. The sky was blue above him. There were palm trees in the distance. The beach might be black volcanic ash rather than sand, but it was a sort of paradise. Like Stuart, he was lying on a thin, once-white mattress; unlike Stuart, he realised, with something like horror, that he was wearing only a pair of flimsy boxer shorts. A rather threadbare sheet had evidently slipped off him at some point in the night, exposing to all his dazzlingly white, sun-starved chest, although, he was thankful to note, nothing more scandalous.
Stuart had been continuing his story to Jenny, “We all just got bundled in here last night. It was pitch black. No idea where we were. Shoes off. I’ve no idea where they are. Up some stairs. A big room full of snores, and then here.” He spread his arms out wide to embrace his surroundings, before ending rather weakly and with something like surprise, “Pretty nice actually.”
Stefan was feeling slightly at a disadvantage in his minimalist garb. He noticed that both Stuart and Courtney must have had the foresight not to have stripped off before they went to sleep the previous night, and both were still wearing the crumpled clothes that they had worn on the flight. He pulled the sheet further around him, while at the same time slowly reaching out for the pile of clothes that were at the foot of his mattress.
“Here let me.” Jenny bent over to help him, the loose neck of her dress gaping wide open as she scooped up the garments off the floor. Ginger nipples too.
“Thank you,” Stefan mouthed.
Jenny returned to Stuart. “Well for starters you’re at a place called Venus Point, near Mahina, it’s about ten miles out of Papeete. And this is Hiti Mahana Beach Club. All the travellers end up here. It is Tahiti backpack Mecca. I’m probably not the best person to ask about anything else. I’ve only been here a few days myself. Some of the others ...” She looked around her, but other than one or two still slumbering forms there was no one else in sight, “seem to practically live here. Actually, I was thinking of exploring the island today. Hire a car. Any of you want to join me? It’s pretty expensive to do it on your own.”
Courtney, who had been unusually quiet, silently assessing the new female ... what? - not rival, she hardly considered either Stuart or Stefan worth fighting over - presence perhaps, found her voice, “Sounds good. Count me in.”
Stuart was thrown into a dilemma by the invitation. Explore versus Expensive. Adventure versus Dosh. Good Opportunity To Meet New People And See New Things versus Travelling For The Next Six Months On A Limited Budget And Don’t Want To Blow It All On The First Day. “Yes, go on then.”
Stefan was still dreaming ginger dreams, “Yes please.”
“We’ll probably never see her again, mate. You were a mug to lend her that money.”
Having initially felt confident that his loan was in safe hands - “Just lend me four thousand Francs for the car hire, I’ll give it back to you later.” - Stefan was beginning to feel less sure. He had allowed Stuart’s cynicism to seep into him, “Do you really think so?”
The two men were washed, dressed and sitting in white plastic, garden chairs, on the dark sands, outside the main communal block at Hiti Mahana, enjoying the morning sunshine. From somewhere inside there was the sound of billiard balls clicking and a game of pool in progress. Courtney had disappeared inside the building twenty minutes earlier with the intention of finding “a secure place to store her luggage” and had not yet reemerged. Meanwhile Stefan and Stuart had been talking about Jenny and their proposed island excursion.
Stuart was already talking like the world-weary, experienced traveller, “Classic scenario, I’m afraid. Read about it all the time in the colour supplements.”
Colour supplements. Stefan mouthed the words silently; experimentally.
“Pretty girl, new arrival, perhaps a little naïve.” Stuart paused to indicate his choice of words were aimed specifically at Stefan, and did not include himself in a catch-all philosophy of recently-arrived travellers. “Get chatting. All very pleasant. Uses a bit of charm. Perhaps shows a bit of leg. Am I right?” Stefan nodded, miserably. “Then, bang!” Stuart smacked his hands together, “The hard sell. The big steal. The velvet rub-down. Borrows your money today, with the promise of goods tomorrow, and that's the last you ever see ... Jenny. Hi! We were just talking about you. Everything fixed up?”
Jenny pulled up another chair and joined the two men. “Yes, all sorted. The car’s sitting out front. A Renault. We’ve got to have it back by five this evening.” She turned to Stefan, at the same time pulling out her bum-bag from where it had been concealed beneath the clothing at her waist. She counted out four crisp notes and handed them to him, “I think that’s the right amount. I passed an A.T.M. on the way back after I’d topped the car up with petrol. God! You’ve really got to watch the drivers here. They’re maniacs! Do you both drive?”
Stefan nodded, pocketing his money, with a smug look towards Stuart.
Stuart blustered, “I do, but ... Is it an automatic? I haven’t driven anything but an automatic for a while.”
“It’s manual.”
“Oh, well ...”
“Never mind,” Jenny interrupted, “the rest of us can drive. How about you, Courtney?” They all turned, as the blonde woman reemerged from the reception hut, shutting the mesh door behind her.
“What?”
“Do you drive?”
“Are you kidding me. I’m American. Does the Pope pray? Hand me over the keys.”
Chapter Three: The Incident At The Cave
“It is possible to drive around the whole island in less than one day.”
• • •
It had been a good day. All in all. Stuart sat on his own, cross-legged, leaning back, supporting himself on his open hands, the fine sand seeping into the legs of his shorts and running between his bare toes as they sank deeper, and watched the local boys playing football on the beach. The sun was beginning to set: they would all have to pack up for the night soon. Courtney had been a little tiresome and the incident at the pool had been rather strange, but otherwise it had definitely been a good day.
Courtney had driven, and drove well. She was someone that could concentrate on the road ahead and hold a conversation with someone in the back seat at the same time.
“Have you heard about the cheese-thief?”
“The what?” Stuart wasn’t sure that he had heard her words correctly.
“The cheese-thief. They were talking about him in the reception this morning. I say ‘him’ but it could be a ‘her’. No one knows who it is.”
“What? Who what is?”
Courtney was beginning to lose patience. She had primarily been speaking to Jenny, seated next to her in the front passenger seat, but the ‘boys’ in the back kept on wanting to be a part of their discussions. Hardly surprising, they neither of them appeared the most vocal duo left to their own devices. Whenever she chanced to glance at either of them in the rear-view mirror they would either both be sitting in silent contemplation of the landscape, or Stefan would occasionally be reading his book. She had been mistaken in thinking that Stuart looked quite cute in the truck last night. It had been dark. They were both losers. Jenny had been telling her about some of the French men around the camp. They sounded far better value for money.
All four windows in the car were wound down and as the car sped along the highway, the breeze which was successfully keeping the Renault’s occupants cool was also casting Courtney’s voice to the wind, such that Stuart was having to strain his ears to keep track of the conversation. Courtney repeated herself, stressing each word painstakingly - and finally.
Once he had caught the drift of the discussion Stuart asked, “So what does this cheese-thief do?”
“Steal cheese,” said Stefan, breaking into a loud peel of laughter, much to the surprise of the other three. German humour?
Jenny continued the story, “I’ve heard about this too. Two guys from N.Z. warned me not to leave anything valuable in the communal 'fridge, because it wouldn’t be there the next day. In this sort of heat, what can you do though?” she shrugged.
“So it’s not just cheese then?” asked Stuart, ever the stickler for precision.
“No, apparently it is,” Courtney reiterated. “I heard it was a fetish. The couple I overheard discussing it said whoever it is has a real ... you know ... thang,” she drawled the final word, seductively.
“But sure-ly,” Stefan joined in, “is it not com-mon for such thiev-ing? At my un-ivers-ity, it hap-pened all the time where we shared rooms.”
“I thought just the same,” said Jenny, “but people here are talking about this like it is a real mystery. Apparently he leaves some sort of calling card even. I don’t know all the facts. But it is the talk of the camp.”
“Nothing better to do with themselves,” said Stuart contemptuously.
“So you’re not interested?” inquired Courtney, mischievously.
“No,” said Stuart, and as if to emphasise the point, turned to Stefan, “Can you tell where we have got to from that map of yours?”
By way of answer, Stefan pointed to a large sign that flashed past the window at that moment. “Gauguin Museum.”
“Stop. Stop. Back up. We must stop there,” said Stuart.
Courtney’s hand flexed back and forth, smoothly moving through the gears, bringing the car to a gentle halt by the roadside. She turned off the ignition, undid her seat belt and turned around to face Stuart, “Votes.”
“What?” said Stuart, surprised.
“We are operating a democratic car here,” Courtney continued, “Votes. Who wants to see the museum?” She mimed stifling a yawn as she said the last word.
Stuart stuck up his hand. Class monitor: old habits die hard. Stefan pointed to an entry in his guidebook, “It says that it is a ‘must see’ in here.”
“So that’s two, is it?” said Courtney, taking charge. “And two against. I currently hold the keys. So I think I have the controlling vote.” Without further discussion, she swivelled back around and restarted the engine with a roar.
“Hey!” shouted Stuart in protest.
It took Jenny to come up with a compromise, “Why don’t we drop the two of you off here for ... how long? Will an hour or so do? And we’ll come back and pick you up later.”
“And what will you be doing?”
Courtney’s mood was combative. “What’s it to you. We’re off to have fun.” She clapped her hands impatiently, like a school matron calling the end of playtime amongst a group of nursery children, “Come on, hurry up, if you’re getting out.”
Stuart yanked open the rear door and walked off with a snort. Stefan was more practical. “It is eleven o’clock now. You will be back by twelve?”
“Make it twelve-thirty,” said Courtney and, without more ado, sped away, leaving the young man standing alone beside the metal crash barrier, on the grassy verge at the side of the carriageway. He turned and hurried after Stuart.
It was actually closer to one by the time the familiar shape of the red Renault reappeared, and Stuart’s mood, which had been pacified by the beautiful and calming surroundings of the museum gardens, had begun to simmer up with the midday sun. Jenny was at the wheel of the car. Of Courtney there was no sign.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jenny was leaning out of the window, as the two men picked themselves up from where they had been sitting in the shade of a large, broad-leaf banana tree. “I just couldn’t drag Courtney away. We found a great bathing spot and it seemed a shame to miss the best of the sunshine. I said I’d pick you up and then go back for her. How was the museum?”
“OK,” said Stuart, sulkily. “The grounds were fantastic, though,” he continued with more enthusiasm.
“I have cross-ed off many plants,” said Stefan. He flicked through the pages of his guidebook, reading out the names of the different species like a registration roll-call, “Palm, bam-boo, pam-ple-mousse, hib-isc-us. They were my favour-ite.”
“What about the Gauguins, though? I thought that was the point of stopping,” asked Jenny.
“There weren’t any,” said Stuart. “At least no originals. They were all reproductions. I guess the real pictures were snapped up by galleries and collectors years ago. I suppose it was a bit naïve to think it was going to be anything different. You know how it is, just because it seems like you’re so far away from England here, you imagine that you are somehow going to be the ... well, the first. I’m beginning to realise these islands are not quite as innocent as I had presumed.”
“Come on, get in,” said Jenny. “Do you want to sit up front?” she continued to Stuart.
The two men climbed aboard, Stefan immediately returning to the study of his guidebook, while Stuart and Jenny chatted.
“It’s a valuable lesson to learn early on,” said Jenny.
“What is?”
“That the road less travelled is actually very well worn.”
“How do you mean?”
Jenny explained, “I came out here like you. Full of ideas, full of dreams. I’m not saying that was wrong. It’s just that things never live up to how you anticipate them in that case. Now I have given up with my expectations, and have just started enjoying each day and whatever it may present. No expectations, no disappointments.” She nodded backwards to indicate Stefan. “That’s why I chucked away my guidebook.”
“I thought you had only been here a few days?” said Stuart.
“Yes, that’s right, but I had been travelling around Fiji for a few months before I moved on here.”
“How long do you plan to be away for?”
“I don’t know. Remember, no expectations, no disappointments.”
“Traveller philosophy?” said Stuart, smiling.
“It won’t be the last you hear.” Jenny returned his smile.
The rest of the ride was completed in companionable silence. Stuart watched as the car sped past lush, green vegetation, a constant reminder of their tropical location, and around twisting, winding bends, which brought to mind Monaco rather than Mahina, the blue sea an intermittent companion on their left-hand side, tall, white cliffs hemming them in on the right. Stuart rested one arm on the open window sill, sunk back in his seat, and closed his eyes. A fast car, a beautiful companion, a jet-set lifestyle: it wasn’t so far removed, was it? OK, so a hired Renault’s not a Ferrari, but eyes shut the rush of air feels just the same. Let his imagination do a minor erasing job on Stefan sitting in the back and ...
“This is the place.”
Stuart opened his eyes. The car slowed, and Jenny brought the vehicle to a halt on a sloping gravel expanse, just off the roadway, on the opposite side to the ocean. The even gravel, gradually changed to a natural carpet of loose and rugged scree, smattered with the occasional larger boulder that had evidently fallen from the high, unstable-looking rock buttresses that towered above.
“It does not look so nice,” said Stefan, picking his way carefully across the uneven ground; shaking his feet, where the small, sharp stones had found a way inside his open-toe sandals.
“It’s just around here.” Jenny led them to a point from where it was possible to see that the base of the cliffs suddenly gave way to form a large cave entrance, the bottom of which was filled by a clear, salt-water pool. There was the sound of laughing and splashing. Courtney was standing at the water’s edge, wearing only a dark blue bikini, bending over and scooping up handfuls of the cool water, which she preceded to throw over a large, white man, who was sitting a little further out in the pool. Both were laughing loudly, oblivious to the new arrivals. Finally, stung into retaliation, the man stood up and with a giant windmilling motion of his arms sent a vast shower of water over the young American woman, drenching her from head to foot. He charged at her with mock aggression and then with one arm around her waist, swept her off her feet and swung her around, finally depositing her with a splash in the shallow waters. Courtney’s initial look of surprise was once again replaced with one of amusement, and the pair continued to frolic noisily.
Stuart’s attention had been captivated by the man. He was not a European as Stuart had initially thought, but a local man, his wide features, broad nose and full lips were more apparent now that they were closer. The man was an albino. The white complexion that had initially fooled him, looked like an artificial dusting against features that should so naturally be tanned. Hair that would usually have been black and curly, was snowy and cropped short. The man was naked. Stuart was not surprised by this fact, as much as he was by Courtney’s apparent lack of recognition of the matter. The man was evil. Stuart couldn’t tell which one of his senses was tugging at his internal alarm chord to make him think this, but it was the over-riding feeling he had as he watched the scene before him. He wanted to be away from this place. Even the sun, that had shone all day, had momentarily gone behind a cloud, and the bright waters of the pool, which had once looked so inviting, appeared sinister, dark and unfathomable. Even Jenny appeared a little disconcerted.
“Perhaps we should leave them to it?” she suggested.
It was then that Courtney caught sight of the watching threesome, and still laughing, stepped past her new consort, and picking up her towel from where it lay drying on a rock and wrapping it around herself, in one skilful movement, to form a makeshift sarong, ran up to them. “Ready to go?” she asked, unconcerned, as though nothing were amiss.
“Are you?” asked Jenny, a slight challenge of disapproval in her voice.
“Of course. Where next?”
• • •
The remainder of the afternoon had passed quickly. Jenny had continued to drive. Courtney had sat in the back next to Stefan, where she had remained unusually quiet for most of the rest of the trip. She stared absentmindedly out of the window, a self-satisfied, knowing expression on her face, which somehow managed to distance herself from the car’s other occupants. No one directly mentioned the incident at the cave again, although Stuart was secretly pleased that his comment that “a modern-day Adela Quested would probably have walked away with a phone number rather than a scandal” had brought a conspiratorial smile to Jenny’s face.
They had stopped briefly in Papeete. Stefan had visited the post office because he had read that they had an impressive philately display, which he wished to tick off in his book, while the other three decided to walk down to the harbour front. The town was gearing up for the month-long Bastille Day celebrations - a festival that the Polynesians celebrate with even greater fervour than the French - but other than a few market stalls and some forlorn-looking, multicoloured streamers strung across the Boulevard Pomare there was little sign of any activity.
“I think I might hang around here and see if it gets any livelier this evening,” said Jenny. “Would one of you mind making sure the car is back at the camp by five. I’ll catch a bus back later.”
“Do they still run in the evening?” asked Stuart, suddenly concerned.
“What? Been reading in Stefan’s guidebook that they don’t?” said Courtney, rather scornfully.
“It’s OK,” intervened Jenny, “if I can’t catch le truck, there are plenty of cars that I can hitch a lift from.”
“But won’t that be rather ...” Stuart begun.
“Dangerous,” finished Courtney. “For God’s sake, Stuart. Live a little. Learn to take a few risks.” She turned her back on the other two, “I’ll see you back at the car.”
Jenny lay a hand on Stuart’s arm, “Don’t worry. Really. I’ll be fine. But thank you. So, about the car?”
“Yes. No problem. I’ll make sure it’s back on time. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Grab something to eat. Check out a couple of bars. I won’t be late, dad,” she added, jokingly.
“I wasn’t ...” Stuart started to explain.
“I know,” said Jenny smiling. “One thing. You couldn’t do me a favour, could you?”
“Sure.”
“Would you lend me three thousand Francs? I seem to have run out. I’ll pay you back later.”
Chapter Four: Tahiti Shrug Off
“Polynesia has a great tradition for legends, superstitions and tall tales.”
• • •
The only uncool thing about Cedric was his name. Although having introduced himself in his decidedly cool French accent even that was sounding pretty interesting.
Cedric was handsome: tanned and youthful-looking, although perhaps not as young as the majority of backpackers; pale blue eyes and long, wavy, Byronic hair, which suggested an artistic temperament and a prolonged period absent from a major Parisian hair-styling salon; plus he was annoyingly free from the rows of unsightly red insect bites which seemed to inflict every other traveller in the tropics. Cedric could play the guitar. Cedric had a beautiful girlfriend. Cedric was currently sitting on the white, stone veranda of Hiti Mahana, looking handsome and playing the guitar to his beautiful girlfriend. Worse still, he was doing this while sitting on Stuart’s mattress. A crowd of fellow travellers sat around him, admiringly. Stuart noticed Stefan among their number and nodded his recognition.
There were no lights visible beyond the villa now - no hint of a boat far out at sea, nor anyone still up in the next village along the shoreline - and the electric light in the main room had been switched off, but someone had placed three candles on the floor of the terrace, and these cast a mesmeric light over the group as the breeze off the sea toyed with their flames, constantly threatening to extinguish them altogether.
“Is yours?” Cedric had broken off from his strumming and was speaking to Stuart, patting the misshapen bedding at the same time. Not only could he mind-read, but he could do so in the correct language of the person he was addressing.
“Yes,” admitted Stuart, “but carry on, it’s all right.”
“Non, non,” said Cedric, “It’s OK. I am finished. We ...” he caught his companion’s eye, and smiled mischievously, “...were just going to bed. You know?” He pulled the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and lay the instrument flat on his lap, but otherwise didn’t attempt to move from where he sat. The rest of the group had begun to disperse to their various beds, although Stefan still loitered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps in a quandary, once again, about what night-time attire to don.
Cedric drew out a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, gave the carton a sharp knock, and drew out one tube with his teeth. He offered the packet to Stuart, “Want one?”
“No, I don’t, thanks. Smoke, that is.”
“Gauloises,” he continued through clenched teeth, “It is good they have them here. French, you know?”
“Yes,” agreed Stuart.
Cedric used one of the candles to light the cigarette and blew an elaborate smoke ring into the air. He smiled at Stuart, “It is not as good as weed, no? But ...” he left the sentence unfinished with a shrug of his shoulders.
“No,” agreed Stuart, at a loss to know what was better or not.
Cedric’s girlfriend laughed nervously and whispered something in rapid French in Cedric’s ear. He half-smiled, but continued to direct his conversation towards the Englishman.
“Is yours?” This time it was Stuart’s small, pale olive suitcase that Cedric was indicating.
Stuart nodded.
“Is best not to leave here,” said Cedric. He lowered his voice, and looked around him, “Too many thieves, you know?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Really?”
“The cheese-thief?” suggested Stuart, hesitatingly.
Cedric laughed out loud, at the same time patting the mattress again to indicate for Stuart to sit down and join him. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing really. Just that someone has been stealing cheese,” he finished, lamely.
“And you heard that he leaves a ... a sign. No, what you say. A calling card. Yes? Perhaps?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Ha,” the note was scornful, “And what if I were to tell you that I am this cheese-thief?”
“Are you?” asked Stuart, surprised.
“Who knows,” he stood up, tapping his girlfriend on the shoulder, indicating that it was time to leave, “Perhaps.” They walked towards the open archway that separated the veranda from the main dormitory of the house, before Cedric turned around, flicking his still smouldering cigarette in an orbit over the balustrade, “Or perhaps it is you.” Another shrug of those shoulders and they were gone.
Stuart blew out the two candles that remained glowing dimly on either side of his bed. The guitar still lay on his mattress. Cedric had forgotten to take it with him. Somehow, Stuart thought, the enigmatic Frenchman wasn’t going to be needing it for the rest of that night.
• • •
Stuart slept badly. Or thought he did. He had dreams of an albino man doing ... he wasn’t sure quite what; activities always just outside of the vision of his nocturnal imagination; blurred and hazy, it was like he was viewing the scene behind a fogged glass window or through a piece of wrinkled, stretchy cling film. He had dreams about money. Three thousand Francs. It was almost twenty pounds. The exchange rate was one hundred and seventy Pacific Francs to the pound. So that was three thousand over one hundred and seventy. Which is: divide by ten, and halve, and then add a bit. Almost twenty pounds. It was more than he could afford to lose. It represented almost two day’s budget. He had reckoned on living on about twelve pounds per day. So twenty pounds would be: divide by ten, and then take off a little bit. Almost two day’s budget. Three thousand Francs. He would never see that again. Divide by ten, and then add ...
• • •
The money was there. Three crisp, new, one thousand Francs notes. In an envelope with his name on the front. He found it lying on top of his suitcase when he woke up next morning. There was a brief hand-written note with the money too. “Thanks for the loan. See you on Bora Bora? Jenny.”
“She was here very early.” It was Stefan who explained. “You were still sleep-ing.”
Stuart held up the note. Still half-asleep, he stifled a yawn, “Bora Bora?” He looked questioningly at Stefan as though he must know all the answers. Oh, lucky day.
“It is where she has gone.”
“Bora Bora? I thought she was going to be around here for a few days.”
Stefan shrugged - was this a gesture that Stuart was going to have to develop if he was to be truly accepted as a credible Continental traveller? “She told me she was fly-ing this morn-ing.”
“Flying? That must have cost a packet.” Stuart instinctively checked his Francs again, suddenly suspecting some fresh scam. “I was planning to go there myself at some point, but no way could I afford to fly. I thought I’d check out the boats.”
Stefan already had his finger in the correct page. He flipped open his faithful companion and read from the guide, “The Tap-or-o de-parts at five to-night.”
Chapter Five: Three Down, One To Go
“It is not long before most people want to explore some of the more remote islands.”
• • •
The Taporo wasn’t leaving at five or at any other time. Along with the Raromatai, and the third boat listed in Stefan’s book, it was currently lying in several hundred fathoms of water, somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, halfway between Tahiti and the island of Bora Bora, some 150 miles distant.
“Where do you think Courtney got to?”
Stefan shrugged. He really was going to have to learn this.
“You didn’t see any sign of her last night?”
“No, noth-ing.” Stefan sounded bored. It wasn’t the first time that afternoon that Stuart had returned to this subject of conversation, but waiting on the dockside at Papeete for a new boat to appear that could transport them out to the islands, there was little else to speculate upon to fill the passing hours.
“Her bed hadn’t been slept in?”
“No.” It was agreement.
“Could she have gone with Jenny?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you think of that albino?”
“Al-bin-o?” It was a word that Stefan was not familiar with.
“The guy at the pool.” Stuart didn’t wait for an answer before offering his verdict, “Weird, really.”
“Umm.”
“When did that bloke say the boat would arrive?”
“Six.”
“What’s the time now?”
“Six.”
“OK.”
There was a long silence, before, “So where do you think Courtney got to?”
• • •
The boat left at nine and, by all accounts, that was pretty good going. Stuart had imagined himself leaving Tahiti in a colourful departure of floral garlands and fond farewells, watching the low mountainous silhouette of the island gradually disappearing in a glorious sunset. In fact, since his time in the South Pacific, he had yet to witness a sunset, glorious or otherwise. Distant as the bright star is, it always seemed to be in the wrong direction to capitalise on maximum aesthetic impact in the sunset department. He had been told that it would be different on Bora Bora. There, they specialised in glorious sunsets.
The boat was not how Stuart had imagined either. He had taken the ferry from England to France. Regularly. He had been from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight. Once, he even took a two day cruise across the North Sea from Harwich to Hamburg. This boat was not like any of those. This one was crowded. Big style.