‘I have a frozen piece of the sea, Justin,’ she cooed. ‘Look, doesn’t it remind you of me?’ Then she turned away from him and that sweet, delicate laugh he loved so dearly was swept away with the wind and swallowed up by the sea below. She held the glass in the palm of her hand. The light glittering off it made it appear like a green eye. ‘You look at it and it seems smooth,’ she whispered, stroking it. Then she turned it over, drew one slender finger across it and blood came to the surface. It formed a single droplet, which she pressed against Justin’s lips, then licked off the residue herself.
‘Don’t break your promise, Justin, we have a right to draw blood. We have waited so long. We need to make it happen, and make it happen soon.’ Justin was sure that, after this evening, at long last he had in his grasp the one person they wanted to bleed to death.
Chapter nine
It was after eleven when William finished his breakfast. He had been apprehensive about seeing Dahlia, but when he went into the kitchens she hardly acknowledged his presence. She had been reprimanding a delivery service about certain supplies that were due to be collected from the mainland. She behaved as if the previous evening’s events had not occurred. ‘Excuse me, Sir William,’ she said, cupping the receiver in her hand, ‘I won’t be a moment. The fruit I ordered hasn’t arrived.’
He gave her a rueful smile, and asked if Justin was back. At that moment the man himself breezed in. ‘You want a spin in the Sunseeker?’ he asked.
William followed him. Dahlia was still immersed in her phone call.
Sammy was waiting with the boat already uncovered and the engines ticking. William and Justin climbed aboard as Dahlia ran towards them, out of breath. ‘Can you pick up the groceries, Justin? They’ll be ready for collection.’
‘Fine,’ Justin yelled as he gave the signal for Sammy to move off.
William staggered backwards as the boat surged forward. Justin took off his sunglasses, and slipped them into his pocket. ‘I’d remove your hat and shades. The wind’ll whip them off. We’re going to open her up today. She can do sixty-eight knots, you know.’
William lowered himself deeper into one of the leather seats and did as Justin advised. The boat’s engines were so loud it made conversation impossible, but Justin tried nevertheless, shouting for William to look at the small navigational computer by the wheel, and then at all the various dials and speedometers. The wind billowed his shirt and ruffled his hair. Justin laughed with the sheer exhilaration of speed, then turned to William. ‘You want to take the wheel?’ he shouted.
‘Better not,’ William bellowed, then changed his mind. ‘Okay, show me what to do.’
He made his way to Sammy’s side, where the force of the wind was eased by the shelter of the windscreen. Justin stood right behind him, and at first he helped him steer, shouting instructions into William’s ear.
William felt like a schoolboy, bellowing at the top of his voice, ‘This is marvellous. I love it.’
Justin took over the wheel as they came in to dock at Wickam’s Cay on Tortola. The marina was crammed with yachts and cruisers of all shapes and sizes. Navigating a path between the buoys and moored boats, he pulled in as close to the delivery warehouses as he could get. As he manoeuvred into the marked collection zone, Sammy jumped out to catch the mooring ropes.
He and Justin tied up the boat and started off towards the warehouses. Turning back to check that William was following, Justin saw him staring into space. ‘William!’ he called. ‘Do you want to meet us up at the Harbour Bar? We’ll be about an hour.’
‘Oh, right, fine, see you there.’
William watched them for a moment, then patted his head. The sun was burning his scalp so he climbed back into the boat and retrieved his crushed Panama.
The Harbour Bar was a crude place with a straw roof and one long wooden counter with rows of bottles stacked on shelves behind it. An old-fashioned Coke dispenser stood on one side next to an ice-maker. On the other was a row of pinball machines. Formica-topped tables spilled out on to a small, shaded veranda. The bar regularly caught fire, so the walls were brown and discoloured; paint peeled from the doors, which were never closed. At night fairy-lights decorated the railings, curling round the posts that held up the roof. There was no air-conditioning, but two large fans spun in a slow, hypnotic cycle, more effectively whipping up dust than circulating cool air. The PA blasted out home-made tape recordings of local bands, mixed with a variety of pop, rock and disco. The mindlessness of the continual music was all part of the scene at the Harbour Bar, which was one of the main meeting places for anyone using the harbour.
Other more sophisticated bars and hotels, with elegant palm-filled air-conditioned saloons and waiters stood further along the marina. But none did the thriving business of the Harbour Bar, which was constantly packed. At night, the smell of ganja was strong and local bands played live. A small platform had been built just outside so that people could dance. Now it was peak season and the bar was heaving. White girls on holiday flirted with young black guys who hit on them for money. The local hookers led a carefree existence, their eyes roaming for rich pickings as they sat drinking Coke at the bar. William attracted no more than a perfunctory gaze before they returned to their conversations while he ordered a lager and lime. He felt hot and uncomfortable, his shorts chafing his thighs, and he could feel mosquito bites erupting. By the time Justin strolled up the steps of the bar’s veranda, he had consumed two more lagers.
‘Get you another?’ Justin called, but he shook his head and watched as Justin sauntered to the bar. The hookers slapped his hand and the barman was already fixing him a mixture of fresh orange and lemon juice with crushed ice. Justin stopped at two other tables, chatting and laughing, before he joined William. ‘We’re all stocked up. We can leave any time.’
William’s shirt was dripping with sweat and he took himself off to the shack at the back of the bar, which served as a lavatory. He splashed tepid water from a chipped basin over his face, but it didn’t cool him. He was looking forward to getting back into the boat for the air. His chest felt constricted and he could hardly breathe.
He and Justin walked the short distance to where the boat was moored at the harbour, passing charter yachts and gin palaces. One yacht, in the most prominent position with a wide wooden gangplank, had numerous white-T-shirted crew setting out a dining area under a canopy.
More crew were carrying on crates of fruit and drinks past the four people at the foot of the gangplank. The women wore skimpy, buttock-revealing shorts and bikini tops, their bronzed bodies gleaming. A blonde had a white baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, the other wore a wide-brimmed straw hat with a scarf knotted around the rim, flowing down her tanned back, over her sarong and matching bikini top. William identified them as English. One of the men, in a moth-eaten straw hat, was lighting a cigar. William recognized him instantly. Henry, Lord Bellingham was probably the same age as William, but looked at least fifteen years younger. The woven embroidered bracelet on his wrist gave him a hint of the hippie.
Bellingham oozed social confidence. He was the type of man who immediately made William feel inferior, the type that William had once wanted to emulate. Instead of succeeding, though, he had become the butt of their jibes. The Bellinghams of this world were involved in far worse scandals than poor William ever had been, but they never came to light: friends in the right places made sure of that.