From Nemesis Island
From Nemesis Island
Christine Mustchin
Copyright © 2010 Christine Mustchin
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental
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ISBN 978 1848 764 064
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
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Typeset in 11pt Book Antiqua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Cover photo: Lake, boat, dock, volcano
istockphoto/©Whit Richardson
To my family
Contents
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
PART THREE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
EPILOGUE
Prologue
‘Stand up.’
He grabbed her arms like an animal seizing its prey. She was next. The man’s eyes held no mercy and Kia looked away. Her heart beat faster with fear. She’d heard the girl before her scream. She thought of struggling, running away, hiding, but his grip was too strong. She had no chance of escape. She could shout out, but there was no one to hear, at least no one who would care what happened. She could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. He marched her into the bare room. Its walls were lined with mirrors. Several other young men stood in a group, waiting expectantly. She could see the pleasure of anticipation in their eyes. They took turns to hold her. When the whip struck, she was silent, only a small reflex flinch betrayed her pain, a second time and she steeled herself for more. If she took it well, perhaps they would stop sooner. It was the first lesson in obedience. She had been told. She closed her eyes to stop the tears from falling and let her head drop a little.
‘Look at me, girl.’ One of the men lifted up her chin: a rough hand holding her jaw tightly. She opened her eyes.
‘Now smile.’
The cruelty of the command cut into her more than the whip. She twisted her mouth upward, a grotesque attempt to obey.
She heard the men laugh and the whip struck again. She saw a drop of blood fall to the floor and then a voice called out.
‘Enough.’
The word reached her like a distant echo across the room.
‘Take her back.’
She let a breath of relief escape from her.
Now she was lying on her bed, her face buried in the pillows. Covered only by a satin sheet, the blood had dried on her body but the pain persisted. She breathed gently along with its rhythm. Around the bed the opulence of the room mocked her. Luxury and brutality: a fine match. This was not how she’d meant it to be. A silent sob rose up inside her. She stifled it. She needed to be strong, but she wanted the pain to end. She would take the risk. They wouldn’t expect her to leave her room.
She dressed and went out. The corridor was dim. Outside the afternoon light was keen and sharp. It shot into her eyes and the taste of the salt sea reached her tongue, a sea that was her jailer and her comfort. It held her prisoner on the island as sure as any wall, but it was a companion too, whose ebb and flow would murmur to her of freedom. She turned towards the nearest cliffs. She saw no one. The loose sarong fluttered against her raw skin as she walked. She no longer noticed the touch. The path sloped down towards the edge. She knew it well. Suddenly she turned away, squeezing herself between a crack in the rocks, scarcely penetrable. Dropping carefully down across the sharp stones she reached the sand. The small beach was held in a tight crescent of steep crags. Too far from the mainland to offer a chance of escape, it was her secret: a pool of water that was hers alone. It was her refuge, and, with one small solitary act of defiance, she let the sarong fall and walked slowly into the sea. Its depths closed around her and she floated, her eyes fixed on the blue expanse above, as the seawater healed her wounds.
PART ONE
1
Richard threw the brochure onto the table. The café terrace was deserted. There was no one to see his irritation. He squinted into the sun and then frowned. He might have escaped the grey cloak of London weather but he was bored. Ennui. Things usually sounded better in a foreign language. It even came with the pedigree of French Existentialism. He let out a sigh. He’d given up all that university philosophy a long time ago. No, he was just plain bored. Reporting on an organised trip to some foreign island or other – the assignment was hardly stimulating. He hadn’t wanted to take it on, but his editor had insisted. What’s more, he had told Richard to make his own travel arrangements and to decline the hospitality offered. ‘Under less of an obligation that way,’ he had said, and refused to elaborate. Odd really: Don was usually very direct. And now there was a delay. He would just have to put up with it. It had been his own idea to stay put and write a travel piece on the place. After all, it was a beautiful, undi
scovered part of the Adriatic coast. He was at a loss, though. Apart from the scenery, there was nothing much to say.
He drank his coffee. It was very good: strong and sweet. Not like the muck they served up at head office. Shameful really but it didn’t seem to matter back there. He picked up the brochure and read it for the tenth time. The philanthropic tone was all hype no doubt, but only to be expected. He couldn’t see the point of the trip. He would go to the island, file his report with the others in the group and go home. The exercise had been repeated many times before. No one had ever found fault with the island and the education it provided. He couldn’t imagine it was anything but a tedious rubber stamp job.
He wondered what was happening back at base. He would email Dougie later. At least you could tell things straight to an Aussie. He could text Trish too. She never answered her phone. ‘Too busy, Dick, you know how it is.’ Pity she wasn’t here now. He could do with the company, and with some sex too, for that matter. He looked up. The café terrace overlooked the harbour. The small fishing boats were idle now. Beyond them the island could clearly be seen. Dominated by an extinct volcano, it lay across the sea not much further than the Isle of Wight from the mainland back home. It was all very picturesque but of little comfort to him. He watched a man striding with purpose along the harbour wall. His dark robes flapped a little as he walked. His steps were clearly headed for the café. Richard watched his approach with idle curiosity.
Father Piontius approached Richard’s table bringing his measured gait to a gentle halt and introduced himself. Richard replied politely, wary of his new companion.
‘You are English?’ The priest’s words were heavily accented.
‘Yes, Father.’ Richard winced at the unfamiliar form of address. ‘Accent’s a give away, I know.’
‘May I join you?’
‘No problem.’
A waiter appeared with a coffee.
‘It is my usual,’ he said by way of explanation.
Richard smiled as the priest took a long sip, only then allowing himself to relax his posture as though off duty.
‘You too like to reflect?’ he asked, waving a wrinkled hand across the view from the terrace.
‘I’m afraid I’m idle by force rather than design. There’s been a delay to my schedule.’
‘Though the body may rest, our mind should never be still.’ The priest spoke quietly.
The familiar dualism: another debate that time had consigned to the dustbin of Richard’s thoughts. He doubted he could even recall the arguments. His Ph.D. thesis was a vague memory now. He took a slug of coffee and shrugged, uncomfortable and ungraciously silent.
‘Forgive me,’ continued the cleric, ‘I forget myself. There is so little opportunity for discussion in this place. Your face had promise.’
The words were well composed, like a textbook, and Richard felt a flush of sympathy for the man, an intellectual prisoner in such a small town.
‘You are to visit the island?’
‘That’s right,’ said Richard. No one seemed to refer to it by name. ‘It seems that the rest of them can’t get here till next week. Not sure why. I’ve really got plenty of time to go off on another assignment but I’ve decided to have a few days here.’
‘You have the brochure?’ The priest lowered his eyes.
‘Yeah. That’s it on the table.’
‘I should very much like to see it.’
‘Sure.’ Richard handed it over. It was all PR-speak and in American English. Father Piontius read slowly and with concentration.
‘I thank you,’ he said at last, returning the brochure. ‘The visits are always the same; at regular intervals but with different people.’
‘What sort of people get invited?’ Richard asked more out of politeness than curiosity.
‘That I could not say.’ He got up abruptly. ‘And now I must go. We shall meet again.’ He seemed certain. He took Richard’s hand in his, with a gesture that was half a shake and half a blessing, and said goodbye.
Richard was grateful for his departure but not for the frustration of the solitude that he left behind. The wait stretched ahead endlessly. He’d had an idea that he would enjoy a few days alone, away from the pace of his usual existence. What a mistake. His thoughts fell to Trish. He saw her body against the sparkling waves, its nakedness a teasing mirage. What a time they could have here. Days of freedom: primed by the heat. He saw their bodies together in a tangle of sweat, moving and groaning with pleasure. He pulled out his mobile then changed his mind. It could wait till later. For now anticipation was the only joy he had.
2
Trish cupped the brandy glass in her hand and let the soft leather of the armchair mould itself around her. The others were settling themselves variously around her as she took up the dinner table discussion.
‘We were talking about power as a political concept, but what about the power of the individual?’
‘In what sense?’ David came and sat next to her.
‘I was thinking about women actually.’
‘Picking up the feminist torch, are you?’
‘Not if you mean all that twentieth century feminist ideology.’
‘No I don’t see you as one of the “burning bras brigade”.’
‘Hardly the main point of feminism, was it? In any case it simply highlighted a belief that women had to free themselves from female stereotypes before they could start realising their potential.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘As an idea it hasn’t achieved anything. Just look what’s happening in the twenty first century.’
‘Meaning…….’
‘WAGS, for example. How come they’re such role models now?’
‘WAGS?’ Geraldine had just come into the room from the kitchen. Trish was not surprised by her question. Geraldine was renowned for being out of touch, strange for someone who was so good at throwing parties.
‘Wives and girlfriends of celebrity footballers.’ David was often the one to gently update her.
‘What’s your theory?’ he continued, looking directly at Trish.
‘Well, these are girls who are spend their time shopping, thinking about the latest fashions, all those so-called girlie pursuits, until one day they find they have landed lucrative publishing deals or modelling contracts simply because they married Mr Celebrity. They get their independence simply by capitalising on a female stereotype.’
‘Doesn’t that beg the question that personal autonomy and financial independence are one and the same?’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t see any signs of the revolution that the twentieth century feminists promised. What the twenty first century gives us is girl power instead, based on the premise that we can exploit our sexuality rather than ignore it.’
‘Isn’t that a step backwards?’
‘Not if you think that the WAGS are showing up the great flaw of feminism – pretending that sexual differences don’t exist and don’t matter.’
‘OK, but what sort of power are we talking about here? The power to go shopping whenever you want to?’ Fi joined the discussion. Fi’s shopping trips were legendary.
Trish opened her eyes wide at the irony but Fi cut short any comment.
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the sum total of my life. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘Well what’s a Hedge Fund Manager supposed to do in her spare time?’ Trish could not resist a bit of teasing.
‘Keeps our consumer based economy afloat, I suppose, but that’s not the point is it?’ David put the discussion back on track.
‘No. My point is that these girls show how you can use your sexuality to achieve independence and autonomy. These girls are not being exploited, they are totally in control.’
‘Well if that’s the case, they’re lucky. There are vast numbers of girls who would disagree, even in our so-called free society.’
‘Who for example?’
‘Prostitutes.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s their choice.’
‘Come on Trish, you know that’s just not true for most of them. Think of all the illegal immigrants tricked into it by promises of a better life. It’s all right for you in a top job, earning good money and protected by law against sexual discrimination. You can talk of power and choice because your education and upbringing has allowed you to, but there are many women in the world, including the UK, whose gender has turned them into slaves.’
Trish looked up from her glass.
‘Okay, that’s not right. But there’s always going to be two sides to a coin.’
‘Not always. I see young girls who have no choice at all. They end up physically abused because that’s what their culture requires.’
‘Time for after dinner treats, I think,’ said Geraldine, directing attention to the coffee table where rows of white powder had been carefully set out.
Trish held back and manoeuvred David into a corner.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you really want to know? I think Geraldine would prefer me to shut up.’
‘No doubt, but I want to know what you’re getting at; you look quite angry.’
‘Have you heard about female circumcision?’
‘Of course I have, but I don’t know much about it.’
‘Most people find they’d rather not go into detail, and it’s happening here in England. I work in a special clinic once a month so I’ve seen quite a few cases. Some people think it’s to do with religion but, in fact, it’s the mothers-in-law that ensure the practice is passed from generation to generation. No one seems to know why it’s done. It’s illegal but that doesn’t stop it happening.’
‘So what do they do?’
‘It depends. Sometimes they just cut off the labia and sew up what’s left. Sometimes they do a complete job and remove the clitoris as well.’
‘That’s gross. How do you pee afterwards?’
‘They leave a hole for that. It can cause problems if it’s too small.’
‘And what happens if you want to have sex? No, don’t tell me, I’ve heard quite enough.’