Chapter Thirteen

“Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”
   Gandhi

Thunder cracked, echoing around the empty shack, the weak timbers rattling. Rain pelted down relentlessly, like nails hammered into the roof. My arms were wrenched back and bound with a cable tie. My shoulders burned, my back and neck stiff. I was tired, thirsty and longed to lay down and rest.

George had guided me at gunpoint to the car and had forced me into the cramped space of the boot. I had no choice, he would shoot me if I didn’t obey. Killing people didn’t seem to tax his conscience. I had climbed into the boot, curling my knees up to my chest and glared back at George’s smug face. He winked at me and slammed the lid down.

Despite the confined space, I had rocked and rolled as the car sped away. The motion was almost hypnotic and, my body aching with weariness, I was lulled into a hazy doze, the severity of my predicament momentarily silenced.

When we stopped George had grasped my arm and dragged me from the car. Fat raindrops slopped down onto my head and shoulders, the water welcome on my sticky skin. We were at the top of a small, secluded cove. An abandoned wooden boathouse metres from the rocky shore creaked in the heightening wind. I could see no other car or house as I craned my neck to look around. George jerked my arm and pulled me down a narrow dirt track, the gun cocked in his hand. If I had resisted him, I could have easily fallen and tumbled down the sheer drop littered with rocks. And I didn’t think I had the energy to fight him.

With a firm kick, George had knocked the boathouse door open. He shoved me in front of him, the barrel of his gun trained on my back. Inside, the space was largely barren, the air musty. Dust motes spiralled lazily in the shafts of light filtering through cracks in the boards. George retrieved a cable tie from his pocket and yanked my arms behind me, binding my wrists together. The plastic dug uncomfortably into my skin. He had rummaged around a pile of discarded junk in one corner and pulled free an old, rusty camp chair. It screeched as he opened it up and thrust it down.
“Sit,” he had barked.

I did so awkwardly, my weight causing the chair to wobble on its unstable legs. George crouched down and tied each of my ankles to the front legs of the chair. He rose and strode away, pressing his phone to his ear and walked back outside. The door flapped in the wind but I could still hear George’s voice.

“Any change? . . . No, we’ll stick to the original plan. Look, we’ve got another problem. . . No, just some witness that needs to be taken care of. . . No, it’ll have to wait, can’t have it looking too suspicious, I’ll have to think of something. I need to leave now to meet the boat.”

George appeared at the door, leaning on the frame, silhouetted against the grey light.
“What are you going to do to me?” I croaked.
He didn’t reply but smiled slowly. He pulled the door towards him.
“I wouldn’t bother shouting,” he had said with sadistic delight. “There’s no one around for miles.”

The wind tugged at the secured door but it remained closed. I felt quite unwell now, the thunder and rain exacerbating my pounding head. Sofia would be expecting me home for dinner soon, I thought, and when I didn’t arrive she’d call Gabriel. What would he say? He could easily lie to her so she wouldn’t be concerned. But what about later when I still didn’t return, surely then she would grow suspicious. I had to count on that and Sofia’s unwavering determination.

I had the time so I tried to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. Firstly, I was sure now George was the other man on the ferry with Carlos, the white suited man chilling in the freezer. George had killed him, the reason why not yet known. Had George killed Vittorio? What was his motive? Perhaps Vittorio was a smuggler too. Was Gabriel? No, I couldn’t believe that, could I? He hadn’t been eager to divulge his past, what did I know what he was up to? Wasn’t Vittorio blackmailing him? About his wife’s murder and the smuggling? Then what about Francesco, where did he come into it? Why had he suddenly resurfaced?

Thinking was pointless, I decided. I attempted to stand, pushing up slowly. My knees buckled and I quickly had to throw my weight back so I didn’t stagger forward onto my face. My heart raced at the sudden exertion and I swayed dizzily. I groaned. How had my perfect holiday unravelled so quickly into this awful mess?

The storm raged persistently outside, battering the humble shack. I sat listening, the rhythm of my pulsating head harmonising with the drumming rainfall. I wanted to be home, safe with Sofia and Luca, curled up on their sofa watching some cheesy nineties movie, with a table crammed with snacks and drinks, looking forward to returning to the beach the next day. I centred my mind on that image, shutting my eyes against the desolate boathouse and rowdy storm outside.

A sharp pain in my neck woke me. I winced and straightened, rubbing my neck against my shoulder. I peeled my eyes open, my eyelashes dry and sticky, as if they were crusted with grains of sand. A swathe of darkness greeted me. I had no idea what time it could be. The temperature had dropped with nightfall, a cool breeze whistling through the chinks. I shivered though my head burned and ached. I was so thirsty and hungry. I felt like a dried out husk, one breath of wind and I would disintegrate into a cloud of dust.

Suddenly, the doors rattled. I jumped and my eyes shot open. A gush of air raced in, soon followed by the blaze of a torch beam. The light played over my face, blinding me. I screwed my eyes shut. Someone entered and walked towards me. The torchlight dropped from my face for a moment. My chin was gripped and the light returned.
“Still alive?” jeered George.
I squinted at him. In the poor light, he was a large, faceless shape. I heard a penknife flick open and then George was sawing through the cables around my ankles.
“Get up,” he said.
I leaned forward, my hands still bound, and tried to stand. My legs were numb, my back taut. I fell, crashing to the ground. I grimaced, pain shuddering through me. George seized my arm and impatiently hauled me upright.
“Stand, woman,” he grumbled.

His phone began vibrating in his pocket. He plucked it out, the dim glow of the screen momentarily illuminating his face. He was scowling. He looked at me, tugged me closer and clamped his sweaty palm over my mouth. It smelt of oil and ketchup. My throat gagged.

“Listen Gabriel,” bit George. “I haven’t had time to send the report . . . what? Oh . . . no.”
His head dipped briefly to me.
“I didn’t see her there . . . Well, yes I saw Elena but no one else . . . Yes, I did a sweep before I locked up . . . Stefano? No, I didn’t see him either, why? . . . Must be some sort of epidemic . . . Alright, alright . . . yes I’ll call you if , , ,”
As soon as I’d felt his fingers loosen around my jaw, my mouth snapped open and I sank my teeth into the repellent flesh of his hand.
“Ah, you b***h!” he hissed and lashed out, striking me forcibly with the heel of his fist.
My cheekbone and eye socket stung with red-hot needle pricks. I stumbled back, my feet tangling in the legs on the chair. I fell heavily, the breath driven from my lungs. I gasped, gulping in mouthfuls of air, incapable of calling out.
“ . . . oh nothing, just the neighbour’s cat scratching me,” I heard George explain through the ringing in my ears.

The beam of George’s torch flashed over me and he grabbed me roughly again. I was so exhausted, in pain and felt any hope of escape was swiftly dwindling. I blinked back the rising wave of tears. The one small comfort I could glean was that Gabriel didn’t seem to be involved in George’s illicit business. It didn’t absolve him completely from all my suspicions but it was a relief to know he was concerned and looking for me.

George pulled me out of the shed and down a dirt track. Tiny grains of grit slipped into my sandals and were pricking the soles of my feet. Darkness swallowed everything save for the hazy flare of the torch. Wind swirled around us, waves thrashing violently against the rocks, the seaspray swept high and spitting on my legs.

“Come on, faster,” grunted George, his grip tightening painfully around my arm.
Trying to break free and run now would be hopeless, I thought. I could barely see in the dark, but I had seen the treacherous rocks earlier and knew it would be stupid to flee through them. I also had no idea where on the island we were. Lightning flashed suddenly, answered almost immediately by a rumble of thunder and I flinched. 

Offshore a dingy was moored. I could just about see its shape bobbing up and down. George pushed me into the water.
“Go on,” he ordered, the façade of the courteous, academic biologist wholly abandoned.
Even in this small cove, the tide was strong. The waves sucked at my ankles while my feet sank into the wet sand. My progress was slow, the water gradually rising up to my waist. George overtook me and sprang up into the boat. He placed the torch between his teeth and grasped me under the arms and heaved me up, the lip of the craft grazing my stomach and shins. I flopped down like a freshly caught fish floundering in the bottom of the boat.

Turning to the outboard motor, George yanked the pull start cord. The engine coughed, sputtered and then roared into readiness. George sat, hugging the tiller under his arm. His torch winked out and I heard the slight clink as he retrieved his weapon and pointed it at me. The dinghy chugged slowly out of the bay, skipping over the growing waves. My nausea and dizziness increased and I hoped I would not be sick. I lay back, encouraging more blood flow to my spinning head. But even prone the swimming continued, bile burning the back of my throat.

Suddenly, George opened the throttle and the dinghy skipped faster. I bounced up and scrambled to cling on. From the diminishing lights far off on the horizon, I guessed we were clear of the island and heading for the open sea. And then I really began to panic.