The White Pearl (53 page)

She reached out and touched the crab’s hard shell, scratching her nail across it and into a crack where its leg was jointed.
‘But everyone has a weak spot.’ She smiled at him again because she didn’t want to argue. ‘And some of us are better than
others at hiding it.’

‘So, what’s your weak spot?’

‘Oh, it’s not so hard to guess.’

‘Your son, Teddy?’

‘Yes.’

‘He seems to like it here. In no hurry to leave.’

‘I know. He’s enjoying himself, finding out what he’s capable of.’

‘He’s not the only one.’ She felt his gaze on her face. ‘But you know it can’t go on for ever, don’t you?’

Connie flushed. She leaned back into deeper shadow. Since she’d been here, so many things had come undone, and clips and fastenings
within her – which used to be as tight and orderly as those on
The White Pearl
– were now prised loose. Here she was, dressed in appalling clothes, poking at a crab and talking to a pirate about her weak
spot. While Japanese planes cruised overhead at will.

‘Sometimes,’ she told him, ‘I feel as if I have fallen down
Alice in Wonderland
’s burrow into a new and disjointed world.’

‘That’s why I couldn’t live in England.’

She lifted her head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a dying world,’ he said, and she could hear the sadness in his voice. ‘A society built on fear and contempt. I found
it stifling.’ He examined her face, her chopped hair buffeted by the tropical wind, her clothes, the dirt under her fingernails.
‘I believe you will too, now.’

At the thought of returning, Connie felt a lurch in her stomach. Or was it at the thought of not returning? She shook her
head to dislodge the images.

‘Even here on this island of yours there are rules,’ she pointed out. ‘And certainly no shortage of fear and contempt.’ On
impulse, she removed the miserable crab from his grasp and tumbled it back into the water. ‘But I like it here, the way my
crab likes his pool. I fish for food, I sleep on a rough mat alongside the ants and wash in a muddy river. At the moment it’s
enough.’

‘And teach English to the kids, don’t forget.’

‘Yes, that too.’ She nodded at him with a smile. ‘I enjoy that.’

‘And watch your son turning into a fine soldier crab,’ he laughed.

Something warm and solid pressed tight against her heart. She reached for his hand and held it firmly between her own.

‘Fitz, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done.’

Her words seemed to float between them before the wind snatched them away and she became aware of the silence, except for
the pounding of the waves. She saw his expression change. Saw him retreat from her. Saw the tightening of the muscles in his
face. Nevertheless, she raised his hand to her lips and softly kissed the back of it. It tasted salty and smelled of crab
shell.

Fitzpayne withdrew his hand at once, creating a distance between them, and rose to his feet. His movements, normally so agile,
were stiff and awkward. ‘I came to tell you something,’ he said in a formal tone.

Connie stood. She looked him straight in the eye. ‘What is it?’

‘The Japanese pilot is dead.’

It was brutal the way he said it. She felt the edges of the world grow dim and sensed his hand at her waist, steadying her.

‘What happened to him?’ she breathed.

‘His throat was cut. In the hold of the
Burung Camar
. We don’t know who, most probably someone who got wind of his presence and decided the only good Jap is a dead Jap.’

He gave her time, let her gather herself, waited patiently till the rhythm of her breathing grew calmer. ‘I’m so sorry, Connie.’

She shook her head mutely. Neither spoke, but she leaned forward and let her forehead fall against his collar bone. She rested
it there. His arm encircled her shoulders and held her tightly as if he feared she might fall.

‘Why should I care so much?’ she murmured against him. ‘I tried to kill him myself, but …’ she hesitated, ‘… there
were too many voices from the past.’

He touched her hair. ‘Tell me what happened in the past.’

So she told him. Not about Sho; no, not about her dead lover. But she told him about the car accident. It all came spilling
out about killing Sai-Ru Jumat, about wanting to make up for it by taking care of the woman’s two children, Maya and Razak.
She struggled to explain that saving the Japanese pilot was supposed to repay a life for a life. To appease, to placate. To
display her penitence.

‘It was meant to make everything right,’ she whispered, ‘but instead it made everything wrong.’

His breath trickled over her skin at her temple and she could feel the heat of it. His arm still encircled her and held her
against him, not close enough to hear the beat of his heart but close enough for something to be drawn out of her by the stillness
of him. The turmoil of her anger and the intensity of her sorrow at the murder of the Japanese pilot drained away as she listened
to his soft murmuring.

He talked quietly. About taking what she needed from the past and leaving the rest behind, about knowing her own weaknesses
and, even more importantly, her own strengths. About making choices for her son and for her boat. Yet not once did Nigel’s
name pass his lips, or the concept of a tomorrow. Instead, his words brushed against her mind as he brought her to focus on
this moment, this place where they stood together beside a murky pool among the mangroves. Connected in some vital way she
didn’t understand.

He lifted her face from his chest and kissed her forehead, wrapping her in his arms without a word for so long that the shadows
grew shorter and she forgot that another bad death had come stalking her.

It’s not what your eyes see that matters. It’s what your brain sees. Connie pushed her way through the jungle and it struck
her that its light no longer seemed gloomy to her. It felt soft and shaded. The beetles on the bark were no longer ugly and
black, but iridescent
creatures capturing a rainbow on their backs, and the branches no longer crawled with the menace of snakes and spiders but
flourished with life.

It’s what your brain sees that matters.

Sweat still ran down Connie’s skin, cicadas still sounded incessantly in her ears and a troupe of monkeys still squabbled
unseen in the trees, as irritating as children fighting in a playground. But she smiled as she clambered over fallen trunks,
her limbs full of new energy, and her brain opened up to the immense beauty of the island. For the first time she looked properly
at the long, succulent leaves and the rich red soil under her feet. She inspected strange, finger-like creepers that twisted
up a hundred feet towards the light, and gazed at the butterflies that spun through the air in bright confetti.

Her brain changed what her eyes saw. Somewhere at the core of her a heavy coffin lid had lifted. It was the lid she had slammed
shut on her hopes and dreams, condemning them to the grave that was her marriage. But now it creaked open, and light flooded
into those dark recesses. How could she not have known? So blinded by death that she could no longer see life, could no longer
see love.

She still felt the weight of his arm against her shoulder blade where he’d held her, and the rush of awareness through her
bones when his lips touched her skin. She’d breathed him in, held the fineness of him in her heart, carried it close. Yet
a stern part of her mind made certain she did not forget who and what he was – a thief who stole boats and drank with cut-throats
who hanged people for fun.

She kicked at the nub of a tree root in her path, angry at him. Angry at herself, because she could not reconcile the Fitz
in the Kennel with the Fitz on
The White Pearl
where he was true and generous and dependable. For a moment she stood absolutely still. She let herself picture in her head
the constantly changing colour of his eyes, as mutable as the sea itself, and the way the muscles along his jaw flickered
when he was trying not to smile.

During the storm at sea, his hand on her arm had lashed them together in a bond that she had not understood until now. Abruptly
a twig snapped nearby, barely audible, but it made her open her eyes with a smile because she was convinced that Fitz had
come back to find her. But directly in front of her on the trail stood Nurul. Pinpoints of sunlight sneaked through the tree
canopy and speckled his mahogany face,
glinting off the gold tombstones that beamed in his mouth as he grinned broadly at her.

‘Good morning,
mem
. You lost?’

‘No. I’m heading back to the camp now.’

Nurul had been the one who broke up her moment with Fitz. He had approached them with a loud whistle among the mangroves and
told Fitz something in Malay, something that sounded urgent. Fitz released her reluctantly and she’d stepped back, feeling
the loss of him.

‘What is it?’ Connie had asked.

‘I’m needed in the workshop.’ He stroked her cheek briefly, a soft caress. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You go,’ she’d said. ‘Go and fix whatever you have to fix.’

‘You’ll wait here?’

‘In my hut. It’s more private.’

He’d nodded, his hair tossed across his eyes by the wind. But it was clear he didn’t want to leave her, and he lingered for
a moment more among the mangroves, his eyes unable to abandon her face. ‘This is a greedy and savage war,’ he said. ‘Promise
me, Connie, that you will take good care of yourself. Promise me now.’

‘I promise.’ She wanted to touch him again but didn’t, not with Nurul listening to every word and watching every gesture.
‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Fitz,’ Nurul interrupted, flapping his hands in the air, ‘you need hurry.’

Fitz vanished. In seconds his outline merged with the trunks as he strode away, but first he had stepped right up close to
her and brushed her lips with his own. That was when she finally understood.

Nurul was standing in her way now, blocking the narrow trail, still grinning at her and Connie was reluctant to go around
him. It would mean forcing her way through the undergrowth on either side with its leeches and vicious thorns.

‘Has Mr Fitzpayne finished already?’ she asked.

‘No, he work on
Pearl
.’

Still the grin. Still the path blocked.

‘Thank you for sailing my yacht safely to this island, Nurul.’

‘I happy sail.’

Still the path blocked.

‘May I pass, please?’ she asked politely.

The teeth vanished back inside his head, and the lines on his face that a moment ago had seemed so friendly suddenly rearranged
themselves and became arrogant. He swelled out his chest.

‘I like you,’ he said in a solemn voice.

A blade of fear slid under her ribs.

‘I am honoured.’ She bowed her head to him.

‘I like you much.’

His hand darted out and seized a lock of her hair. She recoiled, snatching it away, and wanted to run back the way she had
come, but she was wary of turning her back on him.

‘Nurul, you are a good friend to Fitz.’

He nodded. ‘He owe me.’

‘I don’t think he would be pleased that you are …’

He pulled a narrow box from somewhere inside his trousers and his eyes shone with pride. He held the box out to her. ‘You
like,’ he said.

It was a midnight-blue velvet case for a piece of jewellery, green mould freckling its surface. She started to shake her head.

‘No. Thank you, Nurul, but definitely no.’

His face creased like old leather and he jerked the box open. It was the most lavish necklace Connie had ever laid eyes on,
a set of shimmering diamonds the size of birds’ eggs held in a filigree of white gold. Her eyes widened in horror.

‘From a Russian princess,’ Nurul boasted. ‘Now for you.’ He pushed it at her.

‘A dead Russian princess?’

He shrugged, removed the necklace from its satin nest and lifted it to her neck.

‘No, Nurul. Thank you, but no. I am not interested.’ This time she took several steps backwards and continued to retreat down
the trail, still facing the man who wanted to buy her with looted Romanov jewels. Did all these pirates believe women were
for sale?

‘No!’ This time she shouted it at him.

He was coming after her. Her heart jammed in her chest, hot and unwieldy. Still she wouldn’t turn her back on him. It was
how she had always handled an ill-tempered dog – face it down – so that when Nurul shot out a hand to seize her arm, she was
ready and slapped it away.

‘Don’t! Stop this! I am not interested in …’

He struck her. The speed of the attack caught her off guard. She
reeled backwards, her head ringing where his fist had slammed into her ear. Before she could recover her footing he was on
her, throwing her against a tree, knocking the breath out of her with his body crushing hers. There was a scornful joy in
his black eyes as his legs forced hers apart while his hands pulled and squeezed and invaded. She screamed. But she knew that
the jungle would swallow her voice. She raked the side of his face with her nails. But his lips started to devour hers, thick
and suffocating. His fingers tore open her shirt and seized her breast.

He was too strong. Connie fought him, her chest heaving. She kicked and thumped and sank her teeth into his cheekbone, tasting
blood. But still his hands moved relentlessly over her body, dragging at the waistband of her trousers. A fierce drumming
raged in her head and she struggled to clear it, to think without panic because she wasn’t going to win this battle on strength
alone. She let her limbs go limp, allowed his mouth to take bites of her neck and his hand to crawl into her trousers, degrading
her. Belittling her.

Then, when he was panting hard, she opened her mouth and threw her whole soul into a cry. ‘Fitz!’ she screamed. ‘Thank God
you’re here!’

It was enough. Nurul jerked back, half turned his head to look behind him. In that split second when his attention was elsewhere,
she slammed her head against his nose with all her strength. Blood splattered over her skin and up into her nostrils as she
gasped in air. The pirate whinnied, high and ragged, his face a scarlet mask of fury, but before he could recover she crashed
her knee into his engorged groin. He buckled, but still one fist gripped her wrist. She leaned over him, snatched his knife
from his belt and drove the point of it so hard into the back of his hand that it stuck there, swaying. He made no sound,
but his fingers slowly opened up to release her and his eyes fixed on her with hatred.