The Abigail Affair (13 page)

He smelled the girl’s body before he reached the boat. Toby pulled up the front of his T-shirt to act as a mask, but still, the stench was sickening, and seemed to have combined with the remnants of the gasoline to produce a truly nauseous mixture.

He turned away and his stomach heaved.

He turned back.

He had to face up to this.

The corpse lay in the bottom of the boat and stared accusingly at him. It had started to swell and bloat in the heat of the sun. Toby’s stomach contracted again, his mouth filled with sour-tasting saliva, and he was sure he was going to be sick.

He staggered back and a moment later, he was gasping and retching. There was little in his stomach to bring up, but what he did tasted bitter and evil.

He doubled up and puked again and again on the beach, his stomach cramping. The injuries to his abdomen and side made it almost unbearable.

Eventually the cramps eased and he was able to stand up straight. He spat out stringy saliva with difficulty. His mouth tasted vile. Now he needed water more than ever. He could feel the start of a headache take root in his left temple. The dehydration, added to exhaustion and terror, was starting to bring him down big time. Why hadn’t he had a lucky break with the bloody phone? Just one bar would have been enough to get a text message away. Everything seemed to conspire against him these past days.

He wiped his mouth with the front of his T-shirt and steeled himself to deal with the girl’s body.

He climbed up and into the RIB. Trying not to breathe in, he put his hands under the girl’s armpits and pulled. She felt rigid, like a mannequin in a shop window.

But she wasn’t very heavy. Toby heaved and shoved. He got the body on top of the rubber tube. It balanced there bizarrely.

He got out on to the sand and pulled. Irina’s body slithered down the rubber tubing and fell against the side of the boat. Toby gripped the corpse once more and pulled. The heels dragged in the sand, leaving two trails. It was like being in a horror movie. Toby willed himself not to gag again and tried not to look down at the face.

He dragged the body a little distance away from the boat, abandoned it gratefully and retraced his steps.

He climbed back into the boat and assessed the situation.

Any water?

He opened the little hatch under the pilot’s seat. Inside were an anchor and line, a bailing bucket and a small plastic toolkit with “SPARES” written on the top in black marker pen. He opened the box just in case. Inside were spark plugs, a spark plug wrench and rags, but no bottle of water.

There was another hatch behind the console. He opened it and found more pieces of rope, two small rubber fenders, two unopened plastic bottles of engine oil and a reel of fishing line. Not much for him there, though he might find a fishhook somewhere and have a go at catching some reef fish later. Sushi would at least keep him alive.

The last hatch was the one Scott had opened in the floor. Toby lifted it. The little brass stopcock, obviously the fuel drain, was in the open position, and the hose had been detached. He closed off the valve, but there was certainly no fuel left in the tank, and there appeared to be no reserve or spare can. A quick hunt around the rest of the tender confirmed this.

So, no water and no fuel. What about the engine? Would it contain any fresh drinkable water? Probably not—Toby remembered now that they added antifreeze to cooling water, even in the Tropics, and he also doubted that the engine used fresh water for cooling as opposed to sea water. He didn’t have the expertise to get anywhere with this idea.

The sun hammered down. Toby went back to the console storage hatch, took out some rags and made them into a pirate-style bandana to keep some of the sun off his head and the sweat from running into his eyes.

He sat down in the helmsman’s seat. He was exhausted and getting more dehydrated by the minute. He fished out the little cell phone again and thumbed the “ON” button, more in desperation than anticipation.

Nothing. The same shit.

Little wavelets lapped on the beach. The sun was high in the sky and the booby birds seemed to have flown, at least for the time being. Apart from the sounds of the sea, it was quiet.

He wondered whether to explore around for things that could help him survive, or to conserve his strength until the heat of the day had passed. Time versus energy. What did people do in all those books and movies? Usually they quickly stumbled upon a spring for water. Then they built a shelter, caught fish, made a campfire and by the end of the second reel, they were set up in style and thinking about romance.

That wasn’t going to happen on this bird-shit encrusted piece of rock. There was no water.

Fire! That was it. Castaways always made a smoke signal. That he could achieve, and his prison island was so close to the mainland that a big blaze would surely attract attention. He would use the engine oil to generate some good, thick black smoke. As for firewood, of that there was a plentiful supply.

He did, however, need a source of ignition. He had possessed a lighter at some point in the past twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t on him now. On the other hand …

He opened the buttoned pockets on his cargo pants one by one and felt inside. In the first, he found a damp tissue and a safety pin. In another, he found a scrap of paper with a name and mobile number in a neat feminine hand. Celine. One of the women in the Snooty Goose Botox set had slipped it to him with the promise of showing him how to make a strawberry fool. Toby had not followed up on this offer, despite a sweet tooth and a liking for strawberries.

He started on another pocket, dug his hand around in the fluff, and came out with a matchbook from a trip to Tenerife the previous summer. There were four matches inside. Dry, too.

Filled with new purpose, he leapt down to the beach. The body of the girl lay accusingly on the dirty sand. A whiff of stench reached Toby and he turned away quickly. He should have dragged her downwind of the boat. Perhaps the decent thing would be to bury her as best he could. Or would that incriminate him in the event of rescue?

So many problems. So many questions. So few answers.

Toby decided he would conserve his energy. Burying the body would be perfectly possible later. Alternatively, if he got a good fire going, he could give her an Indian-style funeral pyre. In the meantime, he needed to save himself.

He picked a dry spot, well above the high-water mark, and started to collect bits of straw and small twigs. He arranged these in a little wigwam construction. He then filled the inside of the wigwam with even smaller bits of dried grass and moss.

This had to work.

Then he scouted around the immediate area and collected larger sticks and branches. These he placed near to his starter fire, ready to put on quickly.

All this took about ten minutes. It was easy work, but hot. His homemade bandana did a good job, though. And the heat and dryness would make lighting his beacon easier.

He took up the matchbook, tore off a single match and closed the cover.

Here goes.

He scraped once, twice … a spark, but not ignition. He scraped repeatedly and got a spark, then a light, but it went out immediately. That was the end of that match.

He felt his pulse pound in his head. Next try. He selected the sturdiest looking match and tore it out.
Come on, come on,
he willed the match.

One firm strike—and he had a light! He quickly cupped his hands around it and transferred it to the wigwam of dried vegetation and twigs.

It caught immediately, better than paper. Eagerly, Toby fanned and fed the little fire. He placed two larger twigs against the brightest bit of flame. Soon they were alight too. This was going to work.

He reached for his reserve woodpile, selected a stick and placed it carefully. It sputtered but didn’t catch. Toby realised he hadn’t been careful enough—some of this wood had been in the sea too recently. He inspected his fire more closely. The straws and small twigs had almost burnt out and the bigger ones hadn’t lit properly. In a panic, he sorted through the bigger sticks. Some were OK. He put a dry stick into the fire and waited, almost holding his breath. After a minute, it caught.

He let it catch light nicely, then laid another stick on top. Now he had some decent-sized flames.

He laid progressively larger sticks until he had a real Boy Scout-style campfire going. Now it was time for the heavy stuff. He walked around and found a large branch well away from the beach. It was too heavy to move, but he found he could break off some smaller branches for his purpose. He hurried back and put these on the fire.

He tended the beacon. Soon he was drenched with sweat, the work compounded by the heat from the fire now that it was going well.

He stood back and let it burn for a few minutes, and then decided it was time for the engine oil. He fetched the two bottles from the RIB, opened one and poured a little on the fire.

He was rewarded by a satisfying billow of black smoke. The oil really did the business. He poured about half the bottle in. Soon he had to step back from the choking fumes and heat.

From a safe distance, Toby surveyed his handiwork. The smoke billowed nicely, going straight upwards in the light air. Surely someone would see his beacon from the mainland? But would they do anything? In the Caribbean, people often laid fires to clear dead wood and to dispose of rubbish. Then there were the natural bush fires. A blaze was not a big deal in these parts. However, it was worth a try, and certainly the addition of the engine oil made the fire a little out of the ordinary.

He resolved to keep it burning until he was rescued. That meant he needed a good supply of firewood. He set about the task. He went around the beach and loaded his arms with sticks, taking care to select dry, brittle material.

Half an hour’s work later, he had a good reserve that should last the rest of the day and the night.

He took off his sodden, sweaty T-shirt and spread it on a rock to dry, then lay down full-length on the damp sand near the water’s edge to rest and think.

Should he put the girl’s body on the fire? The very thought of it sickened him. Would it be better or worse for him? Could he burn the body sufficiently that it would not be recognised as such? Or would he just have a disgusting, smouldering corpse to make him look even guiltier?

His throat was parched and he desperately needed water. He was just beginning to think that he should start investigating the boat engine after all when he heard a noise. A faint drone. An engine. A boat or a plane? But where was it coming from?

He rushed to the fire, and threw the rest of the first bottle of oil into the centre. His spirits started to soar. His emergency signal had worked, and almost immediately. He turned to look out to sea.

The noise was louder now and then he saw it—a boat! It was just a speck out to sea, but it must be a boat. Now just let it head his way and rescue him.

He willed the little speck to grow larger, indicating the boat was coming his way. He watched for several minutes. The speck wasn’t moving. That meant it was heading straight towards or straight away from him. But the engine note seemed a bit louder now and—yes—the boat was coming into better view over the glinting sea. It was heading for him.

Toby ran to the water’s edge and paddled in up to his knees. He waved his arms above his head. What could he use for a better signal? His T-shirt! He ran back and collected it from the rock, then selected the longest and lightest branch from his firewood pile. He tied the shirt to the end of the branch and hurried back to the water. He hoisted the stick and waved it from side to side.

There was no doubt now.

The boat was coming for him.

Chapter 12

Every second enlarged and added detail to the approaching boat. The engine noise grew to a buzz. After a minute, the helmsman throttled down. That would be the start of the shallow, reefy water. Toby watched as the boat negotiated the channel towards the beach. It looked as if there were two people on board.

The boat was in the sheltered water. Its big outboard burbled as the helmsman turned the power down to a near idle. There were definitely two on board.

Toby kept waving and now added encouraging shouts. “Hey! I’m here! This way!”

The boat was a local pirogue, a heavy, island-built wooden construction of the kind used for fishing and water taxiing work, with one large outboard engine on the transom. Toby waded out to meet it.

The man in the bow regarded him suspiciously. “What you doing here?” he asked. The man on the helm produced a rusty fisherman’s anchor. He lobbed this over the stern and paid out the chain, then tugged several times to dig the anchor into the seabed.

“I’ve been abandoned here,” Toby said. “I was on a mega yacht but they brought me here and let the fuel out.”

“That your boat?” the first man demanded. He nodded in the direction of the RIB.

“No, it’s not mine, it belongs to the
Amelia V
,” Toby said. He hadn’t expected this degree of suspicion from a rescuer. However, it was an unlikely tale that he had to tell. And there was the small matter of the decomposing corpse to explain away. Their noses would take them to it, if they didn’t spot it first.

The man in the bow took the pirogue’s painter in his hand, swung a leg over the side and lowered himself down into the water. He was quite a short man, wiry but muscular in frame, wearing a pair of what had once been shorts and a T-shirt of indescribable colour covered in fish blood. The water came over his knees. He waded ashore, walked up the beach and tied the rope around a large rock that protruded from the sand. At this point he noticed the corpse. He turned his head and shouted to his companion, “Hey, Amos, it like the man say who send us. There a body here.”

“Shaun, take care, man,” came an answering shout from the anchored pirogue.

The fisherman named Shaun walked slowly over and inspected the girl. He quickly turned his head away and grabbed up a handful of T-shirt to cover his nose and mouth. Then he approached Toby. “You kill that girl, man?”