He opened a hatch, exposing two large twelve-volt batteries. All four leads were in position, and secure. He tried the key again, with the same result.
She glanced over her shoulder. After they had cleared the passage, they had gone half a mile or so out onto the open sea. Now, carried by the swell, they were little more than several hundred yards off the line of surf marking the location of the reef. In ten minutes or so, possibly less, they would have reached the point where the waves would carry them onto the reef itself.
“Have you got a radio?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got my phone. We’re not too far out. We’ll get reception.”
She felt a surge of relief. “Then phone somebody.”
“Who?”
She frowned. “The police. They’ll know what to do.”
He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. As he did so, he looked about, scanning the sea. On the other side of the reef, in the protected waters of the sound, he could see three or four boats still bobbing at anchor round the sting-ray feeding grounds. He could make out the heads of swimmers in the water.
“Could we attract their attention?” she asked.
“I’m not carrying any flares. If we had a flare they’d see it. But I haven’t.”
She stood up and looked over in the direction of the knot of boats. She had been frightened, but the human presence not too far away reassured her. If the worst came to the worst, they could abandon ship and swim back through the passage in the reef. They would be seen then, or they could even swim over to join the boats at anchor. It was not as if they were far out at sea; and the water, as usual, was invitingly warm.
She saw that George was looking anxiously at the reef, to which they were slowly being carried by the swell. She looked down: they were in about forty feet of water, she thought, but as they approached the reef that would diminish. Could they not anchor and then wait for help – boats regularly used the entrance to the sound and they would not have to wait too long.
“Your anchor,” she suggested. “Couldn’t we …”
“Yes,” he said. “I was thinking that.”
He moved to the bow and opened a locker. Reaching in, he
lifted out a rather shabby-looking anchor to which a line of rusty chain was attached. He looked over the side of the boat.
“We’ll have to get a bit closer to the reef,” he said. “It’s too deep here.”
The swell seemed to pick up, and they found themselves being pressed closer and closer to the breaking waves and the jagged points of coral. When they were only a few boat’s lengths from the first of the outcrops, George heaved the anchor over the side, paying out the chain and line.
She felt the boat shudder as the anchor line took the strain.
“She might drag a bit,” he said. “We’ll have to watch.”
But it held, and the boat was soon pointed into the incoming swell, riding it confidently.
George sat down. He wiped his brow and smiled at her. “There we are. Emergency over.”
She scanned the sea. “No sign of anything.”
He seemed confident that help would not be long delayed. “Something will come by. A fishing boat. A yacht. Less than an hour, I’d say.” He looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry about all this. You went off to play tennis and ended up shipwrecked.”
“Not quite.”
“Near enough. And I rather wish I hadn’t disposed of the rest of the champagne.”
She made a sign to indicate she did not mind. “I’m fine.”
He was about to say something, but did not. She was pleased that he did not, as she did not wish to discuss what had gone before. Some lovers, she thought; some affair.
She steered the conversation to neutral topics. They discussed the plan to extend the system of canals to sensitive mangrove swamps. They discussed the ambitions of the developers who were
setting out to cover the island with concrete and pastel-coloured condos. He became animated on the subject of corruption. She listened, and found herself agreeing with everything he said. David was far less harsh in his judgement of developers; in fact, he spoke up in favour of them. That was the difference.
She looked at her watch. They had been anchored for forty-five minutes and there had been no sign of any boat. It was barely noon, and there were another six hours of daylight, but what if nobody came? Who would report them missing? David had no idea where she was and she did not want to ask George whether Alice knew that he was going out in the boat. If she did, then she would raise the alarm and they would send out a search party, but if she did not know, then it could be the next day before anybody came and found them. Did they have enough water, she wondered. And there was no food, although one could last for a long time without anything to eat.
“You aren’t worried?” he asked.
“Not really.” She hesitated. “No, maybe a bit.”
“We’ll be all right. In fact …” He broke off, as he had seen something and was standing up, shading his eyes with his hand. “Yes. Help’s on its way.”
She stood up too, and he pointed out the direction in which she should look. He took her hand in his, to do so, which was not strictly necessary – he could have pointed. But she felt a stab of excitement at his touch.
There was a boat in the distance – a powerboat churning the sea behind it, heading their way.
She squeezed his hand in relief, and he returned the pressure. Then he leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“See,” he said. “We’re saved.”
She felt herself blushing at the kiss, like an innocent schoolgirl. He should not have done it, she thought, because they had agreed, had they not, that they were not going to take this further. But she was glad that he had because the kiss had felt so wrong and so right at the same time.
As the boat approached, George began to move his arms from side to side in the maritime gesture of distress. Figures could now be made out on the deck of the other boat and there was a response. The boat slowed and changed course towards them.
“Thank God,” said George.
“A relief,” said Amanda.
“I’m going to have to get a new outboard after this,” George said.
The other boat was a rather larger cruiser, set up for deep-sea fishing, although not sporting any rods. Gingerly it came alongside, taking care to leave sufficient distance so as not to be pushed by the swell on to the anchored boat.
“What’s the trouble?” asked the man at the controls.
“Engine failure,” shouted George. “We’ll need a tow.”
The man nodded. “We’ll throw you a line. Ready?”
Amanda had been looking at the other skipper. Now she looked at the crew, of whom there were four. With a start she recognised John Galbraith, one of David’s partners in the firm. He saw her at much the same time as she saw him, and he waved.
“Amanda!” he called out.
She acknowledged the call.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he shouted out. “Are you all right?”
She cupped her hands and shouted a reply. “Fine. Absolutely fine.”
John gave the thumbs-up sign and then busied himself fixing
the line to a cleat at the stern of the boat. Then the other end of the line was thrown across to George. It went into the sea the first time, but was retrieved and thrown again. This time it was caught and secured to the bow of the stricken vessel. The anchor was pulled up and the rescuing boat took the strain.
Progress under tow was slow, but once through the passage in the reef there was little to do but to sit back and wait. Amanda went to the stern and sat by herself, deep in thought. The implications of what had happened were slowly sinking in. The odds against being rescued by somebody she knew were not all that high. The island was small and people knew one another. If she had imagined that she could go anywhere – anywhere at all – and not be spotted, then she was mistaken. Yet it was particularly bad luck that it should be John, of all people. He and David saw one another every day, for most of the day; he would be bound to mention that he had rescued his colleague’s wife.
She felt raw inside. Dread, she thought. That’s what dread feels like. Rawness. Hollowness. She would have to speak to John. She would have to ask him not to say anything. And that meant that she would have to confess that her presence on George’s boat was being kept secret from David. It was nothing short of an admission of adultery.
The rescuing boat took them all the way back to the canal. One of their crew jumped out onto the dock to pull them in, and they were soon safely attached. Amanda went ashore. The other boat was standing off and was about to leave to go back to its own berth at a marina some distance away.
John waved to her. “Happy ending,” he called out. “But I’ll have to claim salvage from David!”
She shook her head. “No,” she called out. “Don’t.”
He laughed. “Only joking.”
The other boat was beginning to pull away. She looked at John desperately. She was unable to shout out a request that he say nothing. She waved again, trying to make a cancelling gesture. He waved back, giving her a thumbs-up sign. Then they moved off, leaving behind them a wake that washed sedately at the edges of the canal. She heard the barking of the liquor store man’s Dobermann, and laughter from the other boat.
George was at her side.
“You knew him?”
She nodded miserably. “David’s partner.”
He was silent for a while. Then: “Oh. Not good.”
“No.”
He looked at her expectantly. “What do you want me to do?”
“You? Nothing.”
She thought of what she should do. She would go back to the tennis club, collect her car, and then drive straight to the Galbraith house and wait for John to come home. She would explain to him that she did not want him to mention to David that she had been out in George’s boat. She would tell him the truth; she would explain that there was nothing between them but that she understood that it looked suspicious. She would appeal to him through truthfulness.
10
John Galbraith lived on his own in a house overlooking South Sound. The house was older than others around it, having been built when the land in that area was first cleared. It was modest in scale compared with more recent constructions, and less ostentatious. A recent storm had brought down several of his trees but the house itself was still largely obscured by vegetation when viewed from the road, and it was only once on the driveway that one could see the full charm of the Caribbean-style bungalow. A deep veranda ran the length of the front, giving an impression of cool and shade. The exterior was painted light blue and the woodwork white – a local combination that could still be seen on the few remaining old Cayman cottages. It was a perfect colour scheme for a landscape dominated by sea and sky.
John, who was in his early forties, had been in the Caymans for almost fifteen years, having arrived several years before David and Amanda. He was now the senior local partner in the accountancy firm in which David worked, and would become, so everybody said, an international partner before too long.
He was unmarried – a fact that led to the usual speculation, but none of it substantiated. There were rumours about his private life, of course, about boyfriends, but if these ever reached him, he showed only indifference to gossip, and cheerfully enjoyed the company of women, who found him sympathetic and a good listener.
Amanda encountered John socially at drinks and dinner parties. She and David had been to his house on several occasions, and had entertained him themselves. As a spare man who was good company at a dinner party, he was much in demand by
hostesses seeking to balance a table. He could be counted on to talk to any woman he was seated next to without giving rise to any complications. He could be counted upon, too, never to mention business, which formed the core of many of the other men’s conversation. People said there had been a tragedy in his life somewhere, but nobody had discovered what it was. There was one wild theory – risible, Amanda thought – that he had killed somebody in New Zealand, where he originally came from, and had come to the Caymans to escape prosecution.
He was not in when Amanda arrived. She had thought that she would probably arrive too early – it would have taken time for them to dock the other boat – but she wanted to be sure that she did not miss him. She had no idea what plans he might have, but she thought there was a danger that he had been invited to the Hills’ – she knew he was friendly with them – and she would have to see him before that. At the Hills’ it would be too late, as he might say something to David.
She parked her car on his driveway under the shade of a large Flamboyant tree and began her wait. The minutes dragged past; after half an hour, she got out of the car and stretched her legs; after an hour she began to wonder whether she should write him a note and slip it under his front door. It could be brief – a request that he say nothing about seeing her in the boat and offering to give him her reasons later on, when they could meet to discuss it.
She had a notebook with her in the glove compartment of the car, and she took this out and began to compose the note. She was writing this when she heard the car and, looking up, saw John’s dark blue Mercedes coming up the drive. He slowed down as he drew level with her and peered into the car. Recognising
her, he gave a wave and continued to the garage at the side of the house.
Amanda left her car and walked up the drive to meet him.
“Twice in one day,” joked John. “Is everything all right?”
“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “But you dashed off.”
He smiled, and gestured to the front door. “Come in. I’ll make some coffee, or something cooler?”
She followed him into the house.
“I must say,” he began, “that I’ve often thought about what would happen if one lost power out there. I don’t have a boat myself, but I’d always have an auxiliary engine if I did. Something to get one back through the reef.”
She agreed. “It seems reasonable.”
He led her into a sitting room at the front of the house. From the windows at the end of the room, there was a view of a short stretch of grass and then, framed by trees, the sea. On the walls there were paintings on Caribbean themes: a Jamaican street scene, a small island rising sharply out of the sea, a couple of colourful abstracts.