Swimming at Night: A Novel (29 page)

There was a flash of white against the charcoal horizon. His board. It had been snapped in two and spat out farther down.

“There!” Jez shouted.

Noah’s head broke the surface. He bobbed in the seething water, a man amongst giants.

Behind him another wave loomed. He turned too late; the lip was already crumbling and it crashed down with a snarl that filled Mia’s ears. The sea turned white. She imagined him being rolled and dragged with the storm of water, his lungs burning.

She hugged her arms to her middle and waited. Beside her, Jez shifted from foot to foot.

“Thank God!” Mia cried when Noah surfaced.

This time, Noah began to swim. His movements looked awkward, as if he was using one arm. “He’s injured!” she said, turning to Jez.

But he didn’t answer. He simply stood on the shore watching, rain pouring from the hood he’d made of his jacket, his gaze never leaving Noah.

For several minutes they watched him making slow strokes towards the beach, diving beneath the waves as they passed, then clawing back to the surface. Wave after wave came, like an army with endless troops, and each time he surfaced he seemed to have been dragged farther offshore.

“He’s stopped! He’s not swimming!”

“Come on, you bastard!” Jez said. “Kick your fuckin’ legs!”

But he didn’t. He floated like a piece of driftwood, washing in and out of view.

Suddenly Jez threw his jacket to the ground and stripped off his T-shirt. His chest was paler than his forearms and Mia could see his ribs beneath the skin. He ran into the sea, launching into front crawl; his strokes were hard and nippy but he gasped breaths by lifting his head straight out of the water every few feet.

Mia rubbed her arms to keep warm as the gap between Jez and Noah closed.
He’s coming. Just hold on.

The sky continued to throw down more rain, which slid from her skin in chilled streams. Her fingers moved over the wet shells at her neck, pressing each like a rosary.

Finally, Jez reached him. She paced the shore, her footprints filling like puddles as she waited for them to swim back together. It looked as though Jez’s arm was hooked around Noah’s neck. When they were closer in, she saw Noah twist free of his brother’s grip.

He staggered out of the shallows and she could see at once the torn rash vest, the sleeve of blood. He was panting. His forehead was cut and rain washed the blood down his face, like red tears.

She moved towards him. “Noah—”

“You crazy fuck!” Jez yelled, cutting across her. His eyes were bright, livid. “What the fuck were you doin’? You want to drown out there?”

The snapped leash was still attached to Noah’s ankle and he looked like a shackled prisoner who’d attempted to escape. “I didn’t need rescuing!”

“Bullshit. You’d quit!”

They glared at each other.

“You want to see how Johnny felt? Is that what this is about?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Noah. Fuck you!”

Noah turned and stalked up the beach.

“Wait!” Mia called, running after him. “Let me drive you to the hospital.”

He didn’t answer her. Didn’t even see her. She stopped halfway up the beach and watched as he opened the car door, pulled himself in, and gunned the engine.

*   *   *

“There’s a spare towel in the truck,” Jez said, moving past Mia. She was standing in her sodden clothes, watching Noah’s car disappear through the swaying trees.

The rain began to thin to a steady patter as she followed Jez up the beach, clods of wet sand clinging to the soles of her feet. He opened the driver’s door and pulled out a thin blue towel that flapped in the wind. She took it and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Well, get in, then,” he said, and she did, sweeping aside wrappers and an empty can.

She dried her face and hair with the towel, which smelled of motor oil and cigarettes, while Jez put on a dry T-shirt. Then he leaned across her, took a polythene bag from the dash, and began rolling a joint. He worked silently with nimble, practiced fingers, and then lit the joint. Thick pungent smoke filled the truck and she watched his eyes flutter closed each time he inhaled.

“Here,” he said, offering it to her.

Mia placed it between her lips and drew in the warm smoke, feeling it reaching deep into her lungs. She exhaled slowly. “We had a fight. That’s why he was out there.”

“Noah has a private battle with the ocean. It wasn’t your fight.”

She thought for a moment. “What did you mean down on the shore when you asked Noah if he wanted to see how Johnny felt? He was your youngest brother, wasn’t he?”

Jez turned in his seat to face her. Rain had flattened the thin tufts of blond hair to his scalp. “He drowned.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, but his eyes had turned glassy.

“Here,” she said, passing the joint back.

“Take this,” he said, swapping it for a small bag of weed he dropped into her lap. “I’ve plenty.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t tell Noah about your stash. He wouldn’t
approve.
”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking it into the damp pocket of her shorts, somehow feeling a small victory.

Jez moved his head slowly from side to side, loosening his neck.

“Hurt your neck?”

“Old injury.”

“Surfing?”

He laughed. “No.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Fractured it years ago.”

She thought of the way he turned his whole body towards her when he spoke. She’d found the gesture odd, invasive almost, but now realized he didn’t have full mobility in his neck. “How did you do it?”

“
I
didn’t. I was punched in the back of the head.”

“That’s awful.”

He took a drag on the joint. “Yeah, it is when it’s your old man who’s done it. He’s pretty handy with his fists.”

Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.”

“Why would you?”

She thought for a moment. “Is that why Noah left home? He said he moved to Bali at sixteen.”

“Couldn’t hack it. He just left.” His eyes narrowed. “No fucking word to anyone.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

He glared at her. “Johnny was a fuckin’ thirteen-year-old. Would you leave a lamb in a lion’s cage?”

They sat in silence. Outside, the wind howled through the gleaming trees.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Jez hissed, “Get your window down!” He rolled down his window with one hand and ground the joint into the dash with the other.

She hesitated, confused by the sudden command. Too late she saw the policemen standing on either side of the truck. The passenger door clanked open and a Coke can fell onto the wet dirt with a clink. A policeman with heavy-lidded eyes and an oiled moustache wrinkled his nose at the smoke that curled from the truck.

Mia and Jez were instructed to get out and place their hands on the hood. The rain had stopped but left deep puddles on the ground. Mia’s bare feet sank into the murky brown water as she splayed her hands over the wet metal. The policeman searched her, pausing at the pockets of her shorts.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he pulled out the bag of weed.

Her blood ran cool.

“We don’t like drugs in Bali. No good.”

She felt light-headed; her lips tingled. She glanced across at Jez, whose search turned up nothing, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.

She was asked for her passport and the policeman flipped to the back. “English?”

“Yes.”

“You do drugs in England?”

She shook her head.

“Why in Bali?”

“I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

He clicked his fingers, signaling the second policeman. They
spoke in Balinese, the musical lilt of the language now sounding stern and threatening. “Come,” he said eventually, and she felt a hand pressing down on her shoulder as she was led towards a police car.

“What are you doing? Please! This is ridiculous!”

He opened the rear door and she was ushered inside. She smelled incense and polish, and heard the click of an automatic lock as the door closed behind her.

Panic felt like tiny electrodes prickling at her skin. Was she being arrested? Where would they take her now? The police station? She tried the door, but it was locked. She looked down. Her feet were bare, her shins mud-flecked. Everything she wore was wet and water gathered at the ends of her hair.

She pressed her face to the rain-smeared window and saw the blurred forms of the policemen talking to Jez. One of them raised an upturned palm and shook his head. She couldn’t hear anything. She twisted her necklace until it tightened around her throat, pressing against her voice box.

The window began to steam up and she cleared a circle with the heel of her hand. Through it she saw Jez handing the policeman something. The policeman nodded. A moment later he was walking towards the car. The door opened and she was instructed to get out.

“Very lucky,” he said, wagging his finger. “We have your passport information if this happen again.”

Dazed, she moved towards the truck where Jez was waiting, his hands slung in the pockets of his wet shorts.

“Get in,” he said, in a low voice.

She obeyed and pulled herself into the seat, slamming the door. The smell of marijuana and wet towels lingered in the truck. “What just happened?”

“A Balinese bonus.”

She was trembling. “You bribed them?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God!” she said with relief. “How much?”

“Ten million rupiah.”

Her eyes widened. It was a huge sum, near enough £800. “What about my passport?”

“Got it,” he said, tapping his pocket. “I’ll keep hold of it till you can repay me.”

She was about to protest that it was his weed that had caused the trouble, gift or not, but then he smiled. “Rough day, eh?” He squeezed her shoulder lightly as he turned the key in the ignition. She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but it felt as if he trailed the pad of his thumb along her shoulder blade before finally removing his hand.

(Bali, August)

K
atie gazed from the taxi window as they sped inland. Lush rice terraces staggered down the hillsides and were dissected by strings of irrigation streams glittering silver in the sunlight. Tropical flowers flanked the verges and she imagined that if she rolled down the window, the air would smell perfumed.

“I could only get us fifteen minutes at the British Consulate,” Finn said, turning to her. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his forearms looked lightly tanned. He’d been in Bali for a week now and his company had been like a beacon shining through the gloom.

“That’s all we’ll need,” she said.

The taxi pulled up outside a whitewashed building that dripped with bougainvillea. She stepped out into the thick heat and smoothed her skirt against her thighs.

They were greeted by a Balinese woman in a long crimson dress that matched the shade of the hibiscus she wore behind her ear. “Welcome. Mr. Hastings suggested the gardens for your meeting. Please, come this way.” They were led through sun-drenched
gardens filled with colorful plants. Butterflies dipped and fluttered near their heads. They were seated at a table positioned in the shade of a gnarled banyan tree and were brought glasses of iced water that sweated on a bamboo tray.

A few minutes later a slight man arrived, dressed elegantly in a light beige suit and polished tan shoes. “Good afternoon. I’m Richard Hastings.” He placed a notebook and green file on the table, then shook Katie’s hand, saying, “I would like to offer my sincerest condolences for the circumstances that bring you to Bali.”

“Thank you.”

He shook Finn’s hand, then hitched up his suit pants before lowering himself into a seat. “I know you’ve spoken to my colleague, Mr. Spire, from the Foreign Office in London. I’m pleased to have the opportunity to meet with you also.” He touched the thin gold frame of his glasses and she saw warmth in his eyes that his formal manner belied. “Now, I believe you came with some questions?”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure whether you’ll be able to help me with the first one. When I arrived in Bali three weeks ago I had my belongings stolen from a hostel I was staying in. The Nyang Palace.”

“I am so sorry,” he said, shaking his head slowly as if he were personally responsible.

“I reported it to the police, but they haven’t told me anything. I wondered whether you may be able to find out if there’s been any progress.”

“I would be pleased to make some inquiries on your behalf.” He took a fountain pen from his breast pocket and wrote something inside his notebook. Beneath it he drew the pen along the page, underlining it twice. “We are aware of a gang of Malaysians operating over here, posing as tourists. They have been targeting hostels
because the footfall is high and the security weak. The police are alert to their organization and, rest assured, if there is progress, I will personally let you know.”

She wondered how much the contents of her backpack would fetch. The only things of monetary value were her engagement ring and phone. Would they be sold on the black market here or shipped somewhere else? The image of Mia’s unread entries snagged at her thoughts again.

She sat forwards with a sudden idea. “My sister’s travel journal—I was told the police looked through it as part of their investigation.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did they make a copy of it?”

“I am afraid not. I believe it was felt that it did not contain anything that could be used as evidence, which is why they were able to return it to you.”

Hope was extinguished as quickly as a burning match. She tucked her hands in her lap.

“Are there any other questions I may help you with?”

When Katie didn’t answer, Finn took the lead. “We’d like to find out exactly where Mia died.”

“Of course.” Mr. Hastings drew the green file towards him and opened it, flipping through a series of papers. Locating a map, he placed it on the table between Katie and Finn. “This shows a series of sea cliffs in the Umanuk region. This is the route that the police believe Mia took to reach the cliff top,” he said, trailing his finger along a hyphenated line. “The beginning part of the track is well marked and leads to a lookout point, here. This is where Mia passed the witnesses. The cliff top is another two hundred feet up. The path to it has been disused for years and runs through
dense foliage. And this,” he said, tapping the map where a circle had been drawn in pencil, “is the spot from which Mia is believed to have jumped.”