3rd January
2017, Barbados
The
man watched her hasten down the stone steps, slightly ahead of him, her bare,
tanned legs lithe and slim – a combination of good genes and regular dance
classes, more like a teenager than a woman in her late twenties. For a moment,
he felt as though he were watching a memory, a video on his laptop of someone
he used to know. He gave himself a shake and followed her.
‘Come
on, slow-coach!’ she called, dark ringlets bouncing around her shoulders. She
threw him a glance over her shoulder, a teasing grin. He smiled back and put on
a spurt of speed, scooped her up in his arms and jogged down the remaining
steps with her until they reached the arc of pristine sand which curved around
the turquoise bay, its backdrop of trees swaying in the breeze. The sand sifted pleasantly beneath his soles, warm and soft. Later it would become a
white-hot furnace, impossible to walk on with bare feet, and he’d have to dig out
his flip flops from the beach bag.
Katie
wriggled out of his arms and pulled him along by the hand to their favourite
spot under the morning shade of a benevolent palm, far enough away from the
manchineel trees with their poison fruit and deadly sap.
A
cursory glance left and right, showed two other couples already on the beach,
stretched out on bright towels, and one older woman on her own, nose buried in
a paperback. It was a week day, so no sign of the weekend yachties
and speedboat owners who would moor up in the bay often staying until sundown.
No. Today, the view was of empty ocean and sky. Perfect.
Dropping
her towel and bag on the sand, Katie twirled her hair up into a makeshift bun,
fixing it in place with a hairband from her wrist. ‘You coming in?’
‘Later.
I think I’m going to relax for a while.’
‘Lightweight,’
she teased. ‘The woman in the villa next to ours said she saw whales in the bay
yesterday. I’m going to swim out and see if I can spot them while it’s still
early enough.’
‘Don’t
go too far,’ he said, knowing she’d most likely ignore him.
He’d
never been on holidays like this before he’d met Katie. Yachts, mansions and
ski slopes had not been for the likes of him. Katie, however, had been born to
it. While he’d been skinning his knees learning to ride a second-hand bike at
the local skateboard park, she and her parents had been gliding across virgin
snow, flying to far-flung continents on safari, or watching prima ballerinas twirl
on famous stages. She had led a charmed life.
Surely,
the parents of a girl like this should have been horrified when she brought
home a nobody like him – a dirt-poor, classless loser with no career to speak
of. But he had been proven wrong. The Spencers were nice people. Warm and
welcoming. Non-judgemental. Nothing like his own family. To give himself
credit, he did have a decent sense of humour and a beautiful face. He had
always been admired. Charm was his gift.
And
so, it had been an easy thing to become absorbed into this family. He and
Katie. The golden couple. Shining wherever they went. He had shrugged on her
privilege with ease, taking it for his own. Long-haul flights to distant lands,
skiing, safari-ing, visiting the ballet, the opera. Moving in dizzyingly high
circles without once losing his balance. They were a pair. And she loved him
without reserve.
Peeling
off his t-shirt, he began applying sun lotion to his torso, watching as Katie
walked across the beach in her skimpy bikini towards the gently lapping ocean,
its water the perfect temperature. Not like the English Channel back home which
would steal your breath, needle your skin and finally give your stomach an icy
punch. No, Barbados seas were warm yet refreshing. Already up to her waist,
Katie struck off away from the shore, her arms powering forward. He watched her
for a moment and then lay back, gazing at the palm fronds and blue sky above,
trying to let his mind go blank for a while.
It
didn’t do to overthink things.
He
lay there for some time before he heard the noise. Faint, at first, like a lazy
bumble bee or a neighbour’s lawnmower. Then, growing louder. An engine,
determined, fast, the random crashes of its hull against the ocean’s surface.
He imagined himself sitting up and looking at the sea, searching out the source
of the noise, but his body was locked in place, too tense to move. He couldn’t
stop staring at the impossibly blue sky. Could barely breathe.
A
scream jolted him from his brief stasis and he jerked upright before springing
to his feet. As his senses sharpened, he saw the other sunbathers running
towards the ocean, their hands raised against the glare of the sun, pointing,
shouting. Beyond them, a white speedboat bounded out to sea, its wake
contaminating the glassy blue ocean. His eyes scanned the water for Katie. No
sign. Maybe she was hidden by the chop from the boat.
He
sprinted down to the water’s edge, shielding his eyes from the sun, trying to
locate her.
‘Did
it hit her?’ a woman with a German accent cried out to him. ‘Did you see?’
‘What?’
he replied, panting.
‘The
boat out there. I think it might have hit your friend.’
‘Are
you sure?’ he questioned, his voice slow and stupid, his mind frozen. ‘The
boat? It hit my wife?’ He dove into the water, powering through the ocean to
reach Katie.
He
felt the company of another swimmer beside him – a concerned sunbather wanting
to help. The boat was already a pale dot in the distance, its motor a receding
hum. He didn’t know where to look for her. Stupid. He should have been looking
out for her instead of staring at the sky. But the man ahead of him knew where
he was going, his long, powerful strokes propelling him towards a fixed point.
He would follow that man.
A
crimson stain like a beacon spread out before him, already losing its bright
hue, turning pink and dissolving into wisps. Soon it would be absorbed into the
ocean. But still no sign of Katie. This is where it must have happened. Where
the speedboat had collided with his wife. He took a long gulp of air and dove down.
He couldn’t let the other man reach her first. The crystal water showed him
what he needed to see.
Her
body was whole, but had been mangled, torn up, beyond repair. One side of her
head was missing, ribbons of red following her descent. He looked away briefly,
noticing the blurry shape of the man from the beach next to him. Then, he
turned back, swam towards his wife, took hold of her slippery body and kicked
up to the surface, gasping for air.
The
man rose up with him, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus,’ the man gasped.
‘Let’s get her to shore. That fucking speedboat, man.’ A South African accent.
‘Shall I help you . . . with . . . her?’
‘No.
I’ve got her.’ He knew how to tow an inert body. Remembered it from his
lifesaving classes. The South African swam alongside him as he carried his dead
wife, the smell of sun and salt and blood in his nostrils, a strong desire to
vomit, a blank void in his brain, a trail of blood in their wake.
Back
on the beach, one of the women was shaking her head and crying, the other two
had mobile phones clamped to their ears, no doubt calling the emergency
services. The other man on the shore took Katie’s legs and they carried her
between them, up the beach away from the shoreline towards his and Katie’s
favourite palm tree. They laid her on her towel, where she’d been standing less
than an hour earlier. A numbness overtook his body and he realised he was
shaking.
Someone
placed a warm towel over his shoulders, but the shivering only increased.
‘He’s
in shock.’ A woman’s voice, loud and authoritative.
‘It
was his wife,’ the South African said.
‘Do
you think they’ll catch them? The people in the speedboat?’
‘I
gave the police a description of the boat over the phone. Didn’t see who was
driving it, though. Surely they can track it on radar?’
‘No
chance. They’ll be long gone.’ An English voice.
‘Irresponsible
bastards.’
‘I
can’t believe it. Poor woman.’
‘Poor
guy.’
The crush of
words wove through his consciousness, but he didn’t respond. He closed his eyes
and clutched at the towel around his shoulders, desperately trying to stop the
shivering and act more coherently. React. Respond. Cry. An arm slid around his
shoulder – the South African. ‘The police will be here soon, mate. Don’t worry.
They’ll catch them. Those bastards will get what’s coming to them. Don’t you
worry about that.’
on Kindle, in paperback and slightly later as an audiobook.
Plotting 
