The Sexopaths (6 page)

‘Camille!’  He tries to
shout but her precious name comes out choked with emotion, as if already his
subconscious is telling him he’s said it to her for the last time.  He
feels blind and helpless, rooted to the spot, yet knowing he must charge
through the crowds calling out like Monique would already be doing.  But
which way?  He imagines the chilling news story later – “If only her
father had gone right instead of left he would have caught up with her before
her abductor got her onto the afternoon ferry.”  But he always chooses
left.  Compressed vignettes queue to play across his mind:  of the
disinterest of the Greek-speaking police looking on doubtfully as he pleads for
them to close the port, to search the barnacle cluster of houses with their
dank wartime bomb-cellars; of jubilant tourists bringing a ‘lost’ child to him
– but it’s the wrong girl; of himself soaked with sweat, hauling open the
smoked glass sliding door and bursting panting into the meeting room back at
the hotel… his dread of bearing such news to Monique:

‘Monique… c’est Camille. 
Elle est perdue!’

Bizarrely his fantasy finds him
speaking in French, as if to demonstrate to the shocked onlookers he’s not just
some nobody she happens to be married to.  He sees Monique’s face, the
anguish – no trace of anger – just absolute despair as unseen
horrors overrun her unready defences and give life to the ghosts that lie in
wait.

‘What do you mean?  What do
you mean!’ she cries.

‘She’s lost in town.  The
police are looking for her.  We need to get back down now.’

‘Oh my God… Camille…’ 
Monique becomes hysterical.  He wraps his arm round her and helps her out
of the room, the bemused delegates watching in silence – Ignacio, the
parent, leaping to his feet, knocking over his chair and striding after them.

‘It is okay – sir, she is
here.’

‘What?’

The cool fingers that lightly
grip his forearm invade his nightmarish daydream with the detached
post-operative touch of a nurse detailed to bring him round.

‘She is inside.  She stroke
cat.’

‘My daughter?’

‘There – she love
cat.’  The young woman indicates through the open door in the direction of
the counter.  Adam can just see, poking out on the left-hand side, a tiny
pair of bare heels – Camille’s heels.  He darts in, and rounds the
counter.  The cat starts and jumps away from Camille.

‘Daddy – you’ll scare her!’

Adam can’t speak.  He coughs
to cover the welling relief, dizzy, heart pounding, head throbbing, kneels to place
a healing hand on Camille’s crown, calls to coax the cat back to her…

***

‘Well – it seems a pretty
secure place, does Mykonos, being an island for one thing – and the
Greeks are so good with kids, aren’t they?’

The Irishwoman’s question jolts
him out of his roller coaster of reverie.

‘Oh… yes… on the face of it… it’s
just – you know – with some of these things that have happened it’s
easy to imagine the worst… a person with a speedboat at the ready, or an
isolated cottage in the hills.’

‘It must be tough being a parent
– there’s enough bad in the world to worry about without having to watch
over your little ones.’

Adam nods thoughtfully.  He
guesses from her statement that she’s not a parent herself.

‘Anyway – she seems to be
having a fine time.  It’s good that you could bring her on a break like
this – and that you’ve got the patience to look after her.’

Adam smiles.  ‘I might have
to take issue with the word
break
– what with making sure she
stays afloat in the pool, doesn’t fall off the wall round the hotel, and then
answering a question every ten seconds… but I suppose it’s a break from work.’

‘Did you not think about leaving
her with relatives?’

‘It’s difficult – they all
live a long way from us – Monique’s are in France.  Actually we have
a woman at Camille’s nursery – she was her nanny beforehand. 
Camille loves her, and she’s familiar with our house – so she’s normally
our best bet – although we had decided anyway to bring Camille
here.  It’s surprisingly hard to leave them behind at her age – you
feel if she were ill or something she’d really need us – and it would be
terrible not to be able to get to her quickly.  And even the knowledge
that she’s missing you can take the gloss off a trip.’

‘I’m sure you’re absolutely
right.  Where is she just now?’

‘We’ve got a babysitter in the
room – the girl from reception.  I think she’s part of the family
that runs this place.’

‘That’s a sensible idea. 
Peace of mind.’

Adam glances at his watch. 
‘Yes – actually – if you’ll excuse me – we said we’d check
her every forty-five minutes or so – in case she’s playing up.  It’s
past my shift – I’ll just be a jiffy – they don’t seem to be in a
great hurry with the food.’

He rises and makes his way along
the line of diners.  He feels drawn to Monique, and wants to break into
her little circle.  He’s more confident now, loosened by the alcohol,
displaying parity in his designer apparel.  As he approaches he gathers
they’re engrossed in animated French conversation.  The Dutchman is
telling a story, his upper body turned towards Monique, one hand lightly on her
bare shoulder as he shares the tale with the quartet; Monique is laughing,
sparkling, rewarding him with surely undeserved adulation.  Adam pulls up
on her other side, at the end of the long trestle.  He bends and whispers:

‘I thought I’d go and see if
Camille’s okay – you know how she can be with strangers – wrapping
them round her little finger.’

‘Sure, my darling.’

She seems only to have half an
ear for his words – she turns back to the group – but then translates,
her words partially unfamiliar.  He wonders if he should have made the
announcement aloud – but they’d continued their dialogue as he’d
approached, admitting no interlopers.  They chuckle at Monique’s
interpretation, and as Adam passes above the French President he catches Adam’s
eye and, still smiling, raises a faint but knowing eyebrow.  As he steps
away into the darkness beyond the fairylit awning, there’s another burst of
laughter, and he’s sure they’re continuing to refer to him.  Reaching the
illuminated stone staircase leading from the pool and restaurant he slowly
mounts, translating ponderously, but effectively enough – he realises
Monique said he was going to check up on
not
the baby, but the
babysitter
. 
He rounds the top of the second angled flight and ducks under a
bougainvillea-clad portico into a dark courtyard – exchanging the lively
conversation for the hiss of cicadas, white noise that is black.

For a moment he hesitates,
disoriented, his balance unsteady – he’s more drunk than he’d appreciated
– but his eyes adjust to the gloom and he strides out towards the corner
of the main building, which is now gaining form.  He crosses the small
paved square in front of the hotel reception, and quickly covers the
seventy-five yards or so of the rising driveway.  On his right is a high
enclosing wall of weathered limestone, to his left a short series of
whitewashed igloo-like creations, each with its own mini front garden and path
of stepping stones, quaint detached residences embedded into the receding
contours to give spectacular views across the terraces, gardens and sea
beyond.  There’s access front and rear – before leaving he’d checked
meticulously that the door to their sun-deck was firmly bolted, and all windows
secure.  The girl had arrived on time – in fact he’d been pulling on
his shirt and Monique had marshalled her past him into Camille’s room,
suggesting a game of matching picture cards in order to get acquainted –
and that was how they’d left the pair of them safely locked away.

He arrives and taps lightly three
times with the tip of the key.  He pauses for a couple of seconds before
letting himself in.  The door admits into a short hallway with the
bathroom on the right, open wardrobes and shelves on the left; beyond is the
spacious main room – dominated on the right by their king-sized bed,
which faces mirrored vanity units and an offset wall-mounted tv.  It’s
playing quietly on a music channel.  The Greek girl is lying on the bed,
stretching her arms above her head; he thinks she’s probably just stirred from
dozing.  Her hair is a little dishevelled and her already-short skirt has
rucked up high on her smooth russet thighs.  In a contrast emphasized by
her neat pink-painted toenails, her feet and legs seem shockingly naked. 
Drawn by these shapely lines to their point of convergence he catches a glimpse
of the white satiny band of her narrow briefs.  She seems unaware, or
unperturbed, but he averts his eyes before she might feel ogled.

‘Sorry - I just came to check
Camille.’  He says this apologetically, and indicates in the direction of
her bedroom.

The girl smiles and nods. 
‘Sure.  She is very good.  She sleep now.’

He creeps through the thick dark
heat; the suite lacks air-conditioning.  Camille’s regular breathing
instantly tells him all is well.  He’s half expecting the girl to follow
him, in the proprietorial manner of a regular babysitter, to make sure the
ham-fisted parent doesn’t undo her hard-won handiwork, or at least to
demonstrate her proficiency with a sweeping gesture of the arm towards her
sleeping charge; but she remains behind in silence.  Adam leans over the
cot that the hotel has installed (much to Camille’s exaggerated chagrin –
and probable secret regressive pleasure).  He strokes her hair, repositions
her soft-toy and drapes her slumbering form with the light topsheet she’s
kicked off.  He backs out and quietly closes the door.

The Greek girl is still
prone.  She has tidied the strands of hair from her face – she must
be able to see her reflection – but not the skirt.  He’d been struck
how facially attractive she was when he first glimpsed her at reception –
the full Loren-like lips, prominent cheekbones, pale penetrating eyes framed by
characteristic sunstreaked Hellenic blonde-yet-unblonde shoulder-length tresses
– but now her animal form eclipses such attributes: set free from its
daytime enclosure of the chest-high counter and crisp censorial uniform staff
blouse, its twin breasts spill, off duty, into an accommodating, revealing
vest-top, narrow shoulder straps intertwining with the gossamer counterparts of
her bra, accentuating the smooth curves of her shoulders with g-string-like
mimicry of … well.  Distractedly, Adam parts the curtains that shield the
balcony door, and rattles the handle.

‘I am a prisoner, yes?’

He swivels round.  She’s
laughing.  Once more she stretches, this time he feels more brazenly as if
to offer her wrists to be handcuffed to the bedstead above her head.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It is safe.  Your baby girl
is safe.  This island – it is very good.  No problems.’

‘Oh… yeah.  Sorry. 
Yes, I think so.  Very nice people here.  Thank you.’

‘You are welcome.  And how
is your meal?  Is good?’

‘Great.  Just how I like
it.’  He pauses, wondering how to say the service is really slow and make
it sound like the compliment he intends.  ‘You have a top chef.’

‘Thank you.  My uncle. 
I tell him.’

‘Look…’  He realises he
doesn’t know her name.  Now it feels too late to ask.  Monique had
made all the arrangements.  ‘Have you had a drink?’

The girl shakes her head and
raises her palms as if about to protest.

‘You should just help yourself
– I meant to say earlier, but we were a bit late for the reception. 
Sorry. Let me get you something from the mini-bar.  A coke, maybe?’

‘Thank you.’

He fishes out a chilled bottle from
the refrigerated unit situated beneath the tv.

‘Something to go with it?’

He refrains from saying ‘You look
old enough.’  How old
is
she?  Eighteen? 
Twenty-eight?  He has no idea.

‘Sure.  JD.  Just a
little coke.’

She knows what she wants. 
And what’s available – but of course she would.  Adam mixes the
drink and takes it across to her.

‘Will you join me?’

‘I should go back in a moment.’

But it would be impolite to
decline her request.  She settles herself approvingly and waits while he
fixes his own drink.  He opts without much deliberation for a vodka;
watches the clear cold liquid into a tall glass and bombards it with a skim of
remnant floe ice from their bucket.  He wonders if she can tell his hands
are shaking.  Recumbent against the oversized but fashionably decorative
bed-cushions, she observes him with what he detects is a mixture of faint
amusement and contentment.  She’s at once still and yet in motion; there’s
a continuous, sinuous, slowly caressing serpentine wave that travels almost
imperceptibly through her limbs until it finds its way out at her fingertips
and toes, by which time another undulation has begun to follow the same
mesmeric path.  Adam weighs up the easy-chair angled towards the tv, but
finds he is drawn instead to sink side-saddle, half-way down the bed, facing
her.

‘Well – I’m hopeless at
Greek, but I do know
yasou
.’  He leans forward and offers his
glass.

‘Yasou.’

The girl reciprocates his
movement, reaching with her right hand, bending at her narrow waist.  As
she does so her left knee rises up and her legs part slightly, the mini-skirt
now more or less redundant.  Adam keeps his focus upon making sure the two
glasses collide safely, but bang in his line of sight lie her exposed inner
thighs.  Where a minute or two earlier, amidst the forbidden shadows of
her groin, her white briefs flashed an invitation to treat, no longer is there
a subtly veiled advertisement.  Just a neatly trimmed ‘V’ of honey-blonde
pubic hair.  For a moment he’s transfixed.  The girl calmly drains
her glass, then, keeping her eyes on him, places it with a deliberate tap on
the bedside table.  From inside the temporary sanctuary of the rim of his
own glass, he obediently meets her pale green, now quizzically inquiring gaze.