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57

‘Just cool it, bro.’

‘I told you to get packing, Reese. We’re leaving.’

‘There’s no point, bro. We may as well sit it out, relax, no one’s lifting off tonight. There are no planes taking off till tomorrow. It’s a mañana moment, bro. It happened here—it’s not civilisation as we know it.’

‘No shit, Sherlock! If I want your input I’ll ask for it…now get the fuck up and start packing.’

Reese lay back on the bed and rolled another joint. He watched Sophia play with Princess Pony. Terry was packing his things into a bag. Secretly, Terry agreed with Reese, there was no point in moving now—where were they going to go? They would have to sit in the airport for the night. But he wasn’t going to say anything, not for a minute. Reese was doing his usual trick of not fully understanding when someone was at breaking point. He just never knew when to shut up. The Teacher looked like he was scared—Terry hadn’t seen him like that before. Mr Cool, Calm and Collected was properly shitting himself about something.

Reese lit the joint and drew heavily on it, keeping the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling. He offered it to Terry, who shook his head and continued packing. There was a stark light in the room. The Teacher had insisted that they close the doors. The room was gaining heat—it didn’t bother the locals but the Teacher was sweating. His forehead had become speckled in glistening beads. His shirt was showing signs of wetness where it stuck to him.

‘Put the fucking air-con on—who the fuck switched it off?’

Reese shrugged and kept rolling. ‘It happens here, bro, it ain’t a conspiracy.’ But secretly it made Reese smile. He was going to roll himself a stash of joints. He thought he would need them tonight. He was damned if he’d do without everything—no sex, even his flirtation with the English blonde had been cut short—no fucking way was the Teacher going to spoil his entire night. If nothing else, he would get stoned.

Sophia stopped trotting Princess Pony over the furniture and stared at the Teacher, who had sweat dripping from the end of his nose. Her eyebrows knitted together. Then she started to giggle. Terry stopped his packing, looked at her and smiled, amused. Reese lay back on the bed and started laughing hard. His body was shaking with it. The hand holding the joint was banging on the bed and the ash was flying over the cover. Terry started laughing. Sophia continued her manic giggling. The angrier the Teacher looked, the more they laughed.

The Teacher went for Reese but he hadn’t bargained on him being so quick on his feet. Reese was nimble whilst the teacher was bulky. Reese could outrun him anytime. As the teacher went for him, Reese was out of the door. He ran the first stretch, till he was clear of the hotel and the lane and on the far end of the beach, then he dodged between the boats. The stars were out; the sky was frosted with them. He crouched and listened as he peeped over the top of the

barcas.

He never thought to look behind him. Noiselessly through the sand a man walked in the darkness. He came within three feet of Reese’s back before he lifted his dagger by the hilt and brought it down into Reese’s neck. It went right through, and came out of his Adam’s apple.

58

Becky left the foot spa and walked down the beach. It was as dark as midnight and the stars were out. She checked her phone—still no text from Mann. She stopped at the first bar she came to where she liked the music—‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles. The Flamingo beach bar was open on all sides. It had a few life-size plastic flamingos peeping out of plant pots at its corners and what looked like leftover Christmas lights across its palm-thatch roof. It was the local drinking hole for all those from the PADI diving school. On the beach end of the bar there were stacks of diving equipment and rinsed, dripping-wet wetsuits draped over a rail pushed into the sand. The men and women sat in their board shorts and swimwear, recounting the day’s thrills. Their sunny faces were alive and tanned but their lean and muscled bodies were white from lack of sun.

Becky sat at a stool at the bar. The news about Rosario’s daughters and the added information from Shrimp had made her adrenalin start racing. She knew now that Fat Harry and English Bob weren’t just hangers-on, or cashers-in, they were an integral part of the new trafficking ring.

She checked her phone. She had a voicemail message. She dialled and listened. A group of leering Brits began edging towards her but she stopped them with a look. A lonely, liver-lipped old American tried to tell her his life story but soon retreated back into the shadows. She pressed the phone to her ear and listened to the un familiar voice.

‘My name is Suzanne. I want you to know that I have

been having an affair with your husband Lenny for a

year.’

Becky ordered a margarita and drank the first one fast. She ordered another and drank it faster. She stared at her phone. What was that about? Suzanne? She had no idea who this Suzanne and Lenny were.

‘Mrs Black? May I join you?’ A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She was about to bite his head off when she saw who it was. ‘Can I call you Emma?’ The man with the ponytail appeared beside her. ‘Sorry, I missed you and your husband at the hotel. I’m the owner. My name is Bob English.’ His voice was raspy from years as a heavy smoker. His accent still had a hint of northern to it, but it was a clash of styles and adopted accents. He smiled at Becky.

‘Of course.’ Becky nodded and smiled sweetly. ‘Please sit. Nice to meet you. You have a great hotel.’

She shook his hand, repressing the urge to wipe hers afterwards. He had smoker’s fingers and a deeply lined face from the sun. Inside his open shirt his white chest hair looked albino against his tanned chest. His body appeared almost emaciated. He ordered a scotch and soda and another margarita for Becky.

‘How do you like it here? Is the hotel matching up to your expectations? If there is anything you need…’

Becky held up both hands and rolled her eyes skyward.

‘The place couldn’t be more perfect, thank you. It’s such a welcoming place. It’s amazingly friendly here.’

‘They are a happy nation, aren’t they?’ English Bob grinned. He obviously didn’t trust dentists; he had terrible teeth, uneven, broken and yellowed like a horse’s. Becky looked long and hard at English Bob—she felt a huge shiver of repulsion. He was as hideous inside as he was out.

A group of giggling teenage girls passed by along the beach. He took his time studying them. He watched them leisurely, lingeringly, like a lover would.

‘That’s what I love about them.’ He snapped back to her and picked up his drink. ‘No matter what happens to them in life, they are always such happy, positive people—foolishly optimistic in a way.’ He picked up his scotch and licked his lips as if it burned. She looked at him curiously. ‘Oh yes, they allow themselves to be taken advantage of. They practically rely on it. A very naive nation, loving, trusting. Even the bar girls—sorry—the guest relation officers…’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘These girls really believe that someone loves them, even if it’s just for a night. They dream of a foolish western guy falling in love and marrying them. It’s not a business to them.’ He laughed, loud and cynical. ‘It’s not a business to them like it is to the girls in Hong Kong or in Thailand—here it’s a vocation. Ha ha…’

Becky smiled politely and waited for him to stop laughing at his own joke. ‘They must be easy to take advantage of,’ she said, signalling to the barman that she would like another margarita.