upper deck of the bus, late for class, running computer models until two in the morning astonished to see the early May dawn, the planet titling on its axis while she tried to control the formulae governing the epidemiology of infectious tropical diseases, how they etched themselves into her mind like hieroglyphs in her dreams.
‘I don’t know what I want to do,’ he said. ‘This country – I can’t see where I fit in here but I don’t want to leave.’
‘From what I can see your father owns this country, or some of it.’ She was startled by the instant anger in her voice.
‘You don’t know anything about this place.’
‘Maybe not. But I’ve stitched hundreds of people back together who are from this country and their blood is on my hands.’ She held them out in front of her body, for his inspection. ‘You’ll never see it, but it’s there.’
She turned away. She no longer cared who Storm was, what he thought. She had regained herself. She felt momentarily free.
‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ He shot her another sideways look. ‘That’s why I don’t talk more. You’re older. You’re educated.’
They turned onto a smaller road. Soon their headlights swept across a sign made of a solid slab of concrete: on this Reef Encounters was written in flowing blue letters that mimicked waves. They passed through the gate. A bass thump greeted them. In a small clearing to the back of the hotel a black helicopter squatted.
The party was on the hotel’s front deck but spilled onto the beach. People stood in strips of magenta, pink, purple; a light deck was turned on the sand. The sea was invisible, lying somewhere beyond the illuminated struts of young people.
Storm lunged ahead into the crowd without a word. She followed him as if blind, one arm reaching for the small of his back. Storm’s elbow was snagged by a thin, tanned girl, wearing a bikini under a transparent vest.
She loitered for a while on the outskirts of their conversation. The girl swivelled towards her. She had a child’s nose and dark eyes rimmed in eyeliner. ‘What do you do?’
Storm spoke before she could answer. ‘Rebecca’s a doctor. She was in the army.’ There was an impersonal, tribal edge in his voice, family pride perhaps. She’d never had such a sentiment mobilised on her behalf, not even from her mother.
The crowd was thickening. The young men were tanned, with mops of unruly salt-stiffened hair. There was a uniformity to their faces, which were tanned, light-eyed, with the same static, rigid note she saw in Storm’s. The young women looked identical, sisters or cousins in an extended, prosperous family. They were all blond and their hair, while seemingly casual, flowing long and free, was on inspection surgically cut. They were beautiful in a lissome, easily ruined way, adorned with feather earrings and silver bangles they wore above their elbow, in imitation of the austere tribes people of the far north who guarded cattle wearing blood-coloured robes.
There were few black faces in the crowd, apart from the barmen, the busboys and security staff. The DJ was playing trance. Boys pointed kaleidoscopic light lasers into the trees, illuminating the red eyes of frightened bush babies.
She continued through the crowd, her eye on Storm’s back.
‘Would you like a drink?’ She turned to find Evan beside her. ‘I’ll get you a beer, stay there. It’s mayhem at the bar.’
A surge of people nudged her from behind. She inserted herself into Evan’s wake. As she followed him she was struck by a jolt of déjà vu. Each detail of the scene – Storm’s swathe through the crowd, Evan’s broad and muscular back, the pounding trance anthem on the sound system, the thin boy from London on the turntables, the tubes of plastic-covered fairy lights that entwined the anorexic figures of palm trees – she had lived before, so vividly she could have drawn it.
Evan had reached the bar. Behind him she was shoved,
‘I don’t know what I want to do,’ he said. ‘This country – I can’t see where I fit in here but I don’t want to leave.’
‘From what I can see your father owns this country, or some of it.’ She was startled by the instant anger in her voice.
‘You don’t know anything about this place.’
‘Maybe not. But I’ve stitched hundreds of people back together who are from this country and their blood is on my hands.’ She held them out in front of her body, for his inspection. ‘You’ll never see it, but it’s there.’
She turned away. She no longer cared who Storm was, what he thought. She had regained herself. She felt momentarily free.
‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ He shot her another sideways look. ‘That’s why I don’t talk more. You’re older. You’re educated.’
They turned onto a smaller road. Soon their headlights swept across a sign made of a solid slab of concrete: on this Reef Encounters was written in flowing blue letters that mimicked waves. They passed through the gate. A bass thump greeted them. In a small clearing to the back of the hotel a black helicopter squatted.
The party was on the hotel’s front deck but spilled onto the beach. People stood in strips of magenta, pink, purple; a light deck was turned on the sand. The sea was invisible, lying somewhere beyond the illuminated struts of young people.
Storm lunged ahead into the crowd without a word. She followed him as if blind, one arm reaching for the small of his back. Storm’s elbow was snagged by a thin, tanned girl, wearing a bikini under a transparent vest.
She loitered for a while on the outskirts of their conversation. The girl swivelled towards her. She had a child’s nose and dark eyes rimmed in eyeliner. ‘What do you do?’
Storm spoke before she could answer. ‘Rebecca’s a doctor. She was in the army.’ There was an impersonal, tribal edge in his voice, family pride perhaps. She’d never had such a sentiment mobilised on her behalf, not even from her mother.
The crowd was thickening. The young men were tanned, with mops of unruly salt-stiffened hair. There was a uniformity to their faces, which were tanned, light-eyed, with the same static, rigid note she saw in Storm’s. The young women looked identical, sisters or cousins in an extended, prosperous family. They were all blond and their hair, while seemingly casual, flowing long and free, was on inspection surgically cut. They were beautiful in a lissome, easily ruined way, adorned with feather earrings and silver bangles they wore above their elbow, in imitation of the austere tribes people of the far north who guarded cattle wearing blood-coloured robes.
There were few black faces in the crowd, apart from the barmen, the busboys and security staff. The DJ was playing trance. Boys pointed kaleidoscopic light lasers into the trees, illuminating the red eyes of frightened bush babies.
She continued through the crowd, her eye on Storm’s back.
‘Would you like a drink?’ She turned to find Evan beside her. ‘I’ll get you a beer, stay there. It’s mayhem at the bar.’
A surge of people nudged her from behind. She inserted herself into Evan’s wake. As she followed him she was struck by a jolt of déjà vu. Each detail of the scene – Storm’s swathe through the crowd, Evan’s broad and muscular back, the pounding trance anthem on the sound system, the thin boy from London on the turntables, the tubes of plastic-covered fairy lights that entwined the anorexic figures of palm trees – she had lived before, so vividly she could have drawn it.
Evan had reached the bar. Behind him she was shoved,
Similar Books
