The Reef (2 page)

Rather, it’s remains.

He approached the washed-up carcass. Its chest had been cut open. He picked up a piece of driftwood to push the wound apart further, could see that the creature’s heart had been taken. The doctor explored the tissue further. The creature’s eyes were glazed open, a half smile on its bloodied face. Decaying flesh reeked, and he cringed as flies swarmed all over it like a fast-growing tumour. He stumbled back.

The bald man stood still, stared offshore. He closed his eyes so that he could hear only the wind racing along the beach, the wave motion yards away. The surf roared in.
Full of energy,
he thought. He opened his eyes to watch a small gull race over his head, arc out to sea, curving along the beach, looking down to the water’s surface. It flew to the south, becoming a shadow in no time at all as it moved in front of the rising sun.

He lowered his head, shook it.
Not again. This can’t go on. There’ll be no more left if I don’t do something. A fabulous race of exotics, wiped out. And I need them to survive.

The movement of the afternoon waves tilted the small boat. The wind was noisy. The ichthyocentaur that were sitting inside the boat were visibly scared as the doctor lowered a sack of fruit on board the long craft. He thought it would be sufficient-they never ate that much, and they could always catch some fish should they need to. It was another hot day, but he noted that the two male ichthyocentaur shivered. The doctor looked at the anatomy of these creatures for a long time, as if, in this moment, it would be the last he ever saw of them. Of course, he wouldn’t, there were more on the island. He handed over a bottle, sealed by a small piece of plant matter. Inside it was a note.

Foam brushed his toes and plants and detritus were scattered around. Sand was lifted, smoothed over as the saltwater trickled underground. It was these small details of the world that he appreciated, and was one of the reasons he adored the island.

This was doing the right thing. They would bring help, it will bring attention. I only hope they manage to do it safely.

He pushed the boat and it creaked. His muscles tensed, his feet slid in the sand, pressing down to create a deep scar on the beach. Water spat up at his shirt, and it became damp and heavy. Then an ichthyocentaur picked up an oar, began to row, then the other did, and they looked at the doctor, who nodded, trying not to display too much emotion.

It’s all right, you will be fine,
he signed to them.

They did not reply, their hands busy with steering the boat out. He sat on the sand, crossed his legs, watched the boat sail into the distance. A bend round the reef and it was gone.

One

Manolin stared out of the window, as he often did, to watch the rain. To him, rain was a delicate, feminine violence. From his house you could see over the lines of ships that filled the docks of Portgodel South. Water was striking wood and metal with an alarming force. Behind intricate, rusted metal work, people ran for shelter, newspapers or coats above their heads. One old man was regarding the sea with a primitive serenity, as if he wanted it to take him into a saline grave. A rumel dockworker jumped from one boat to another, his tail stretched out for balance as he dived into a metal shack. The sign on the wall said “cheap lunches”. Half opened crates were left to become islands on the cobbled harbour, brackish ponds forming around them. Faces stared out from the yellow light of dry, top floor rooms. In these shades of grey, the horizon was imperceptible.

Manolin sipped from his glass. He didn’t like to drink wine, but she would insist they drank it together. Still, he swirled the liquid around staring at it with some disdain, aware of the meaning within this action. This was how it always was: her decisions, her choices. Tasting the tannins, he grimaced, then set the glass down by the windowsill. A vague sensation came to mind that her eyes were beginning to burn with rage. He caught her reflection in the window as she tossed her red hair back, rearranged herself in her chair. Of course, he should have known that this was what she would be like. There had been enough signs.

The first night they were introduced: within minutes of meeting him she was already laughing at something that another man had said. From that moment, it created a need in him to keep her smiling, and when she did, there was comfort. Perhaps a man more aware of emotions would have stayed away from such a situation. Their love was intense at first, but he wasn’t old enough to realise he should have left things merely at that. They’d spend evenings where they would drink wine and she would do most of the laughing, only for them to spend the following hours sweating in the bedroom, losing control of his urges. But he didn’t like to drink wine.

She said, ‘You never answered my question.’

‘You know why,’ he said.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘Come on, you really
ought to
spend more time with me. You’re never here. You’re always working.’

He said, ‘You know I can’t get out of it. It’s been arranged for weeks. I’ve told you about it every day more or less.’ Then, ‘So, you know, why don’t you come along with me?’

‘You know I can’t stand them. They’re always trying to outsmart each other. You
intellectuals.’
He felt as if he was constantly on his own, that she never understood him.

Again, the elements distracted him. Manolin had always loved the sea. It was a reminder that there was something else, something
more
than the city. Something special that those who never left the shores would never experience, and they were poorer for it. He also loved storms. It stopped the city, for a while. It stopped the flow of people, forced a moment of peace. To him it was nature’s way of reminding everyone that they couldn’t control
everything
in their lives. Not that he ever wanted to control things. He was more than happy to sit back, let other people do that. Let decisions be made by those who feel the need to, he thought. Maybe it was the only reason that he stayed in this marriage.

He turned to look at his wife, still sitting in her chair, still reading a cheap newspaper. It was something he would have once dismissed as sweet, but now he hated it.
Why does that happen?
he thought.
Why is it that the things you love at first can be the things you resent, that cause bitterness. Or was I just blinded in the first place-that I always hated it?

They had married only months ago. She was pretty, but that was not enough to go on. He was learning that the hard way. Red hair fell either side of her sweet face, which he’d seen turn into the nastiest of grimaces when required. And her slender figure was deceptive of the amount of strength it could generate. There were things he smiled at: he used to like the way that heels didn’t suit her tall frame, had adored the fact that she wore flat shoes when out with him. At other times he had loved walking into a tavern with her. The feeling it brought. At first, he liked the fact that she made decisions. She was the one who convinced him to get married. She was the one who booked the honeymoon. She fucked him while he lay looking up in awe.

It hadn’t been a bad start.

She’d been a waitress in an up market bar near Pennybrook Road, just outside the Ancient Quarter, but too near the side of the industrial areas so that it lost it’s classiness. A new line of restaurants and inns had been slapped on top of six hundred year-old cobbles. She had worn a white shirt that was a size too small, cut to enhance everything she had. He was kind, considerate. Her ex had treated her badly.

It was inevitable.

An exchange of addresses, three weeks of courting and a quick marriage left them boxed up by the docks.

An oil lamp inside reflected off of the window, creating a warm haven for his eyes, and he gazed back now at his own reflection. Many considered him a handsome man, never short of admirers, but she was far more attractive. That was the way he had to have it. He wasn’t much older, his black hair did not yet show any signs of age, his brown eyes were still bright.

‘And why do we still have to live in this shit-hole?’ she asked, flicking a page over. Then another. ‘It’s too near the docks. Can’t we afford anything better than this?’

She hated the sea. He hated that fact. She told him that she felt lonely without people to talk with, because that was important. Her days had become uneventful, and she felt that that no one thought about her anymore. This conversation had been brewing for some time, was a point at which she would become angry from time to time. Today, she’d been drinking too.

The washed air that seeped under the windowsill calmed him. ‘You know it’s all
we
can afford. And, you know, I can’t help the fact that working in science doesn’t pay all that well.’

She made a disapproving noise, tilted her head. ‘So why can’t you get a proper job instead of buggering about with
him
all the time?’ He said, ‘You never minded what I did when you met me. What’s so different now? Anyway, what about your job?’

‘You just can’t expect me to sit here for weeks while you’re on some expedition. You’re probably shacked up with the first tribal girl who flashes a tit at you. And my job is very respectable, thank you very much.’

‘Listen to me,’ he said. He felt he lost more self-respect each time this conversation took place. ‘If I’m with a girl as
beautiful
as you, why would I want anyone else?’ He wished he hadn’t said it to the window.

‘For your information, I’m not a girl,’ she said, ‘I’m a
woman.’

Since his marriage had run aground the silences were amplified to cause such an uncomfortable feeling. Each was left to their own thoughts. Unsurprisingly, to him, it was she who broke the peace.

She said, ‘Will
she
be there tonight?’ ‘Will who be there?’ he said, glancing back. There was a strange expression on her face, as if she fought with herself to maintain composure, but it looked as if she wanted to laugh.

‘You know, his daughter-Becq. We all know she’s fond of you. You’ve only got to look at the way she stares at you.’ She was looking at the pages of the paper, but he could tell from the lack of movement in her eyes that she wasn’t looking at any of the words or pictures. He turned back to look at the view. Then she said, ‘Anyway, she’s really ugly.’

‘I hope you’d credit me with a little more than going for just looks.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I don’t know if she’s going or not, but if Santiago is then it’s more than likely.’

He could hear her kicking her shoes against the wooden chair. ‘Have you ever. ..
slept
with her? Before I came along. I won’t mind if you tell me, really. Do you see her much?’ ‘No,’ he said, quite certain she would mind. ‘No, I haven’t. I haven’t slept with anyone but you. And you know that.’

She said, ‘You could’ve lied about it.’

‘Look, I only see her whenever Santiago brings her to work.’ Then, ‘But now you come to mention it, I think she may be coming along on our next research trip. That’s if Santiago deems it a part of her development.’

‘You know, my friend Gathya said that she saw you with her two nights ago, leaving the research centre.’ She paused for effect. The woman had clearly rehearsed this in her head. ‘You were heading up Pennybrook Lane. You were together. She said you could’ve been holding arms but it was dark.’

He sighed, knew that this was a fragile situation. ‘I walked her home. It was raining. You know how violent the streets are round there. Only last week that girl was raped. If she’d gone on her own and something happened ... Well, I’d feel really guilty, wouldn’t I? Besides, Santiago would’ve killed me.’

She stood up. Her paper dropped to the floor in a heap. His back was turned, but he could guess from her heavy breathing that something wasn’t right, and for some reason he didn’t yet want to look back to confirm it. She’d been getting like this all afternoon, working to some crescendo.

‘I see that you’re not even going to bother denying it,’ she said. ‘And she’ll be with you then-on this trip? For how long, exactly, will you be
with
her?’

He said, ‘It’s likely, I’ll be honest. But I don’t know how long. Depends on the region we travel to. Anyway, I don’t even know when our next trip will be, if at all.’ Then, ‘You’ll have to cope with me being with her then.’ He cringed, shouldn’t have said that. He froze, his back still turned.

Glass struck his head with such force that he fell forward against the side of the window with a grunt. Splinters pierced the skin of his cheek as he slid down, fell to the floor.

‘Fucking cheating bastard!’ She started to kick him repeatedly.

‘Hey, please, I haven’t done anything wrong! I never have, fuckssake, please. Damn, you’re drunk.’ To stop her kicks he grabbed her shoes. His abdomen throbbed, but she bent over to pull his hair, to scratch his face, claw it. He cried out, closed his eyes, hunched into a foetal position. She reached for anything that was nearby to strike him with.

With his eyes closed he raised a hand above his head, caught her on the chin, grazing it.