I met up with the other members of the party, except our leader, Russell Whiteman, who was late. This, I discovered, was to be a common feature of the expedition. Poor Russell was simply crap at time-keeping.
I was dressed in my usual jeans and boots, with a tee shirt and pullover. I left the leather jacket behind, not really jungle wear. Besides, it was June 1st and too warm for leather.
Finally, with only minutes to spare, Russell arrived looking harassed and disorganised. He made the introductions, and we went through to the gate room. They had already called the flight, so we immediately boarded the plane.
The flight was full, and due to being late checking in, the party was split up all over the cabin. I was in an aisle seat next to an elderly couple heading off to America to visit their daughter and her family.
“We haven’t met the grandchildren yet,” she told me.
“How old are they?”
“Nearly a year old; twins, you see,” she said, showing me a photo of two identical babies.
Babies, yup.
I smiled.
“Very nice. Boys or girls?”
“Boys,” she said.
Oh my word, babies, and two at the same time. I shuddered inside. I could never imagine the time when I’d actually like the thought of babies, particularly two!
I was very tired, having come down by train the day before, and having not slept the previous night. I managed to sleep for most of the journey. I don’t eat airline food, so asked them not to wake me.
The photographer, whose name was Craig Stevens, fancied himself as a ladies’ man. As I was the only female on the trip, he immediately attempted to charm his way into my affections.
He got short shrift from me, so sulked for the rest of the day. We arrived at Miami and suffered the indignities of an abrupt immigration officer. We collected the baggage and equipment, and loaded our gear onto a large, rented bus. The drive down to the Keyes took a few hours, so I dozed in air-conditioned comfort all the way.
We arrived in the Keyes at about 6pm, where the weather was delightful. Russell had arranged for us to stay in a little hotel with a bar underneath called the Flying Fish.
We parked the bus in the parking lot, as Russell went in search of Captain Flynn. I giggled as I immediately thought of Errol Flynn, the Hollywood film star of the 1940s.
I sat on the wooden barrier overlooking the sea, feeling strangely at peace. It was nice here, so I let the others all fuss about the equipment and the van.
I became aware of someone standing next to me. I hadn’t heard anyone, so I was a little surprised. I turned my head, to see a very tall, broad shouldered man wearing a check shirt, blue jeans and boots just like mine. He was drinking from a beer bottle.
“It is kinda peaceful here, right enough,” he said. He had a deep drawl, with a very husky overtone, as if he had shouted too much over the years.
“Aye, ‘tis that,” I agreed. It was strange, he was a very big man, and yet I did not find him threatening in any way. Normally, I found big men made me feel very vulnerable, and as most of them saw me as a potential sexual conquest, I was wary of them. I instinctively felt that he was different. He looked at the sea, as it was if I just didn’t enter his consciousness as anything other than a fellow human.
He looked at me and smiled. His deeply tanned face was obviously the result of an outdoor lifestyle. This was no businessman on vacation.
“Are you one of the party of professors headin’ out to Death Island?” he asked.
“Death Island?” I said, a little concerned.
He laughed, a deep rumble, a nice sound.
“That’s what the fishermen call it. Sainte Mateus is its proper name,” he said.
“Oh, then yes. I’m Gillian MacLeish, I’m a languages specialist,” I said.
“That’s a beautiful accent you have there; Scots?”
“Yes; been there?”
“Once; I passed through on my way to Germany. I never stopped over, much to my regret.”
He took another bottle of beer from his pocket; opening it with his teeth. He handed it to me. I thought he was unaware of my expression.
“Have a beer Gillian. I’m Ed Ryan, US Marines. I’m coming along just to make sure no one gets hurt,” he said, holding out the beer in his left hand and his right for me to shake.
I shook his hand. It was warm, dry and leathery. His clasp was firm, without crushing me. I took the beer and he laughed again.
“I lost my real teeth in a fire fight in ‘Nam. These ceramic teeth are twice as hard as the old ones,” he said. “There are a few distinct advantages.” I became aware of just how astute he was at reading other people. He may be big and appear half asleep, but he was very switched-on indeed.
“So what are you after exactly?” he asked.
“I don’t know really, the chance to study the African language and to understand what has happened to them in the meantime,” I said.
He nodded, taking a long pull from his beer. I stared out to sea, and became aware that he was scrutinising me closely.
Without turning, I said, “And just what are you after?”
He laughed again, “I am seeking answers to questions I haven’t yet asked,” he said.
I turned and looked at him, this was very deep from a US Marine, I thought.
“We are not all ignorant grunts,” he said, grinning. “Due to an injured leg, I’ve come to the end of a phase of my life, and I need to assess where I am and where I go next,” he said, finishing his beer. He tossed the empty bottle into a bin, and took another from his pocket.
“Do you have an endless supply?” I asked.
“No ma’am, just when you get as big as me, you get big pockets as well,” he said.
I drank my beer, feeling curiously at home with this man.
Russell came out and said, “Gillian, I have met Captain Flynn, and he says that we can store the equipment on the boat tonight, so we will do that now, and then return here for a meal. I have yet to meet the US Marine, who is supposed to be here somewhere.”
“Russell, this is Ed Ryan, US Marines. Ed, this is Doctor Russell Whiteman. He is the organiser of this little trip,” I said, and the two men shook hands. I almost laughed at Ed’s expression as he encountered the damp trout.
“Ah, fine. I am please to meet you. Do you mind if I call you Ed, or would you prefer something else?” Russell asked.
“Ed’s my name, but if you like you can call me ‘First’,” Ed said, and I got the distinct impression the big man was teasing Russell.
“First? What does that mean?”
Ed grinned at Russell, who twigged that Ed was pulling his leg. Then the big American took a long pull at his beer.
“I am First Sergeant Edward J. Ryan, United States Marine Corps. You can call me what the hell you like, but once we hit that island, just remember one thing, what I say goes, no ifs, no buts. The safety of the team comes first, regardless of whatever priceless information you think you might lose, is that clear?” Ed spoke very quietly, but with such authority that Russell paled visibly.
Russell swallowed, trying to smile.
“Quite, yes, that’s fine, I accept, Ed. I think you are perfectly clear about that issue, and I couldn’t agree more. Right, I will go and see to the equipment. I’ll see you later. Gillian, are you coming?”
“I only have one bag. I will take it with me tomorrow,” I said. I watched as Russell hurried off. I was strangely reluctant to leave Ed alone.
* * *
Ed.
I was enjoying a beer sitting on my balcony above the wooden decking that surrounded the bar. A friend of Mickey’s owned the Flying Fish, so there were about ten rooms above. The whole party was staying, and it was a neat arrangement. I saw the van pull up, and all the pale-faced academics piled out. Their English clothes and accents were very pronounced.
I smiled, as it was hard for me to re-adjust back to being Ed Ryan again. This was despite the full debrief and re-programming by the Agency. Somehow the memories of that last life seemed very real, and I felt a yearning for whom I had been. I shook my head, the shrink had been right. I just wasn’t happy to be back!