The Dhow House by Jean McNeil Page B

hard, in the ribs by a knot of teenagers. She was unnerved, her heart raced. How could she get out of here? She could get a motorcycle taxi back to Kilindoni, even though that would take an hour, and riding pillion on the highway when the overnight juggernauts of buses were passing was a known way to die.
    The sea of young bodies parted. She felt a finger, or a hand on her elbow. She turned to find Storm beside her.
    A press, three people thick, blocked her way to the bar. The press of the crowd behind them intensified. Storm’s thigh pressed against her hip and something – his hand? – rested in the small of her back. They were thudded from behind by bodies.
    His hand had fallen somewhere near hers. Without any awareness of what she was about to do, she reached for it. She took two of his fingers and encased them in hers.
    Her heart constricted. She turned her head to catch his eye, but he was staring ahead. She had made a mistake. If she released his fingers now she could claim she had been seized by anxiety, that she hadn’t thought about what she was doing.
    But an instant before she did this, he encircled her hand in his and held it. More bodies piled on them from behind. Pinioned in her position behind him, she could not see his face. His hand gripped hers until he had to reach for their drinks, and at last he released her.
    She left them and went to the wooden railing that overlooked the beach. She needed to gather herself. Her heart was still pounding.
    The tide was in; waves patrolled the concrete edge of the deck. Julia had told her that Bill’s father had built Reef Encounters in the 1950s, when the only tourists on this stretch of coast arrived with camping equipment. She tried to imagine it then, a strip of thick riparian forest, the shallow scoop of the bay speckled with local boats, no flat-bottomed snorkelling boats shuttling back and forth, no white-washed houses perched like giant egrets on the shallow rise above the ocean.
    Near the position she had taken up, three men stood in a row with beers in their hands, looking out to sea.
    She tried to look studied and serene, as if she had come only to stare at the ocean. One of the man-boys of the trio peeled himself away and approached her.
    ‘Enjoying the view?’
    ‘It’s one of the most impressive I’ve ever seen.’
    ‘It is.’ He nodded outward, as if saluting the sea. ‘Here from England?’
    ‘Yes, for a couple of months.’
    ‘That’s quite a while.’
    She struggled to make out the detail of his face in the darkening light. He was dark-haired with a receding hairline, a little stouter than the other men at the party, perhaps older, too. On the deck tables small electric candles had begun to appear.
    ‘I’m Rebecca.’
    ‘Tom.’
    Storm appeared, just as suddenly as he had vanished. He nodded at Tom. ‘This is my cousin, Rebecca.’
    ‘We’ve just met,’ Tom said.
    ‘Great.’ Storm departed. As he left, he cast her an uncertain glance. Tom must have caught it, because he raised his eyebrows to her.
    ‘So what do you think of the party?’
    ‘I think everyone knows each other except me.’
    ‘Yes.’ He gave her a rueful look. ‘That’s a pretty good description of things.’
    ‘I’m not great at parties in any case,’ she said. ‘I’m always asking people to repeat themselves. As soon as I arrive I start wondering how I’m going to get home. I suppose that means I’m old.’
    ‘Not old, just wise.’ Tom smiled. ‘I’m staying in Kilindoni. My folks’ house is there. I can drive you.’
    ‘No, really. I wouldn’t want to take you away from the party.’
    ‘I’m not up for staying much longer either. My dad’s not well. I said I’d be home by midnight.’
    On the way out they stopped at the table where Evan and Storm sat. She had to fight her way through bodies to reach them. ‘Tom is going to give me a lift home,’ she said.
    For a moment Storm looked confused. Then he looked at Tom. ‘Thanks, man.’ He