Requiem (67 page)

She got into the back of the car next to him and let the driver close the door for her. The heating was on, the seating soft.

‘This could get too much, you know,’ she remarked, only half joking.

He almost smiled, and she noticed that a couple of times after that he looked at her surreptitiously, as if to remind himself of what it was like to experience something thrilling for the first time.

After a few minutes the car slowed and turned in at a decrepit security gate manned by an elderly guard who peered at them myopically and waved them through.

They entered what appeared to be a shipyard, one that had seen better times, with rust-streaked cranes, vast sheds with patchwork iron roofs, and barren docks with long empty wharves.

The car picked its way carefully over the ruts, came to the end of a long shed and rounded a corner. The contrast could not have been more dramatic. In front of them was a flash of blinding, brilliant newness: a great, gleaming sea creature, immaculate and dazzlingly white, with shining metal trim and, high on the upper storey, sinister-wraparound black-tinted windows.

The craft was out of the water, sitting at a backward tilt on a slipway. Maybe it was the low vantage point, maybe it was the sheer height of the hull, but the thing looked enormous, like a vast shark. It must have been close on two hundred feet long. It was sleek in an aggressively modern way, the front very sharp, the lines severe. Two enormously tall masts and a web of rigging rose from the deck, looking like later additions. Daisy supposed the yacht – or maybe it was a ship – carried sails, though from the ruthlessly aerodynamic lines it looked as if it ran on rocket fuel.

‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘What an outrage!’

Nick shot her a quick glance and shifted in his seat. ‘It’s only a thought,’ he said with a slight edge to his voice. ‘I haven’t decided anything yet.’

Getting a sudden idea of what this was about, Daisy murmured a diplomatic, ‘Ah-ha,’ and shut up.

A succession of ladders and platforms took them up the side of the vessel to the deck. A two-man reception committee stood waiting for them, like something out of a royal visit. One introduced himself as the agent, the other as the captain. The captain came complete with white uniform and brass buttons and scrambled egg on the shoulder.

The captain led the conducted tour. Not a stereo socket was missed from the inventory, not a built-in TV, heating control or en-suite bathroom. Each stateroom was close-carpeted in a different theme colour, every curtain and bedcover was ruthlessly co-ordinated. Even the loo-rolls matched. The kitchen had everything that baked, froze and chopped. The bridge was straight out of
Star Trek
, with wall-to-wall controls and raised swivel chairs, like the ones on sport-fishing boats. Desalination plants, air-conditioning, ice-making machines: there was nothing this floating palace didn’t possess, except, perhaps, the smallest suggestion of atmosphere or heart.

At one point they were asked to admire the Jacuzzi in the master suite, complete with gold taps and built-in stereo. Nick said nothing, but she saw his eyes roll slightly, though whether from disbelief or disapproval she wasn’t sure.

When it came to the engine room, Daisy developed information fatigue and slowed down, intending to give it a miss, but Nick, turning back, widened his eyes in silent entreaty and beckoned her forward.

‘I need moral support,’ he whispered.

‘Stay around here, and you’ll be needing more than that!’

‘Tell me what to say,’ he asked in mock panic.

‘Me? I don’t know a cylinder from a carburettor.’

‘Nor do I,’ he said and gave a slight giggle.

‘Pat the machinery – isn’t that the thing? Give it a good stroke!’

He giggled again, a wonderfully infectious sound, before turning a serious face to the sales agent.

The ridiculousness of the vessel, the echo of that giggle, caused the bubble of suppressed laughter to rise in Daisy in ripples, and she had to look away until she had regained some sort of control. But for a time the laughter was never far from both of them, she could see it in the quiver of his mouth, and it wasn’t until they returned to the sitting room – termed by the captain, the saloon – that she dared to look him in the eye.

Even then she thought it safer not to face him as they had coffee, and she sat next to him on the sofa while he talked with the captain and the agent. Yet in that moment of laughter in the engine room, something had overturned, had shifted inside her, and she found herself unable to keep from watching him, watching that wonderfully mobile mouth as it went through the motions of looking serious, of contemplating a question, of smiling suddenly, and noticing how these smiles were not always reflected in his eyes. Noticing, too, how beautiful his hands were, and how restless; seeing the way his hair curled on his neck and even, for a moment, seeming to catch the scent of him, woody and warm.

These were signs that even an idiot could read, these were warnings a mile high, and choosing to read them well, needing time to absorb the implications of this sudden bolt of feeling, she unlocked her gaze, leant over on the sofa arm, and paid studious attention to the captain.

Leaving the saloon, the sales agent smoothed his way through some last well-practised selling points, and then they made their way back down to the ground.

‘Well?’ Nick asked, as they walked towards the car.

‘Well what?’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘Ah. Well … I think it’s – um’ – she made a show of trying to find the right word – ‘I think it’s
unbelievable
.’

He cast her a sidelong glance, trying to gauge her meaning. ‘I thought I might take off for a year,’ he explained seriously. ‘You know, get away. Sail somewhere nice. Explore.’

‘
Explore?
It won’t exactly make it up the Amazon.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of – ’ He made a face. ‘You’re very hard on me,’ he commented without rancour. ‘You really didn’t like it?’

‘I thought it was
dreadful
!’ she laughed. ‘
Really
. I mean, that’s one seriously vulgar object, Nick.’

They got into the car. The driver sped round to his seat and they started off.

‘The owner went bankrupt in the middle of the refit,’ Nick said. ‘And now if the yard don’t manage to sell it, it could bankrupt them too, put people out of work.’

‘But the yard’s already broke, isn’t it?’ she cried, waving a hand. ‘I mean, the docks are empty. You can’t buy a horror like that just to bail out a boatyard, Nick.’

‘But it’s something to take into account – ’

‘Not if they’re going down the chute anyway.’

‘And I thought you were the idealist, Daisy.’

He had spoken in a bantering tone, but there was a dart of seriousness underneath. ‘Ouch!’ she said, with feeling. ‘But what I do – that’s different, that’s – ’ She creased her face into a grimace. ‘Okay, well, maybe it isn’t
entirely
different,’ she conceded. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that the boat’s a stinker, Nick. It’s for flash-merchants, the sort who drive gold Rollers and wear shades in the dark – retired arms dealers and property developers and men with shiny suits. The kind who buy their friends like they buy their clothes. You’re not that loud, really you’re not.’

It was out before she could stop it. ‘I mean – ’

But he was already saying solemnly: ‘You don’t think so?’

‘I mean’ – she felt the laughter simmering between them again – ‘you’re
better
than that.’

‘Well, thank you.’

The irony came through in his voice, and seeing that she had made him smile again, she looked out of the window at the rows of gloomy houses in a state of sudden and quite unjustified happiness.

The pilot said he’d stay in the aircraft and have a sandwich there. It occurred to Nick that he was being diplomatic, that he thought the expedition had been organized for some romantic purpose. Realizing, Nick almost asked him to join them, but thought better of it. He and Daisy did, after all, have things to discuss, though they would be very far from what the pilot had in mind.

Taking the cool-boxes, Nick led the way across the springy turf towards a small rise. Carrying the rugs, Daisy strode along beside him, all energy and life, her chin set, her face tilted towards the sky, her eyes half closed as if to absorb the light.

Breasting the rise, a vast panorama opened out before them: to the left the hills of Islay, so close that they looked like a continuation of the land they were standing on; far to the right the long craggy outline of Mull, and, ahead, lying dark and low in a sparkling grey sea, the islands of Colonsay and Oronsay, conjoined in a single elongated reef. Beyond them, there was nothing but sea, the vast sprawl of the western ocean, stretching towards an invisible horizon.

‘Where are we? Where are we?’ Daisy gasped. Then in the next breath: ‘No, no, don’t tell me!’

He saw a perfect picnic place a short way below, an area of close-cropped grass within a circle of heather, and carried the cool-boxes down. He took the rugs from Daisy and shook them out. Opening a box, he offered her a drink.

She seemed dazed, only half listening. ‘What?’ she said, tearing herself away from the view. ‘I’ll have wine, thanks.’

He opened a bottle and poured her a glass.

She sat down on the rug with a long sigh. ‘This place …’ She exhaled, then shook her head, as if words could never adequately describe it. ‘Is it an island?’ she asked suddenly.

He nodded. ‘A large one.’

‘Don’t tell me the name! Don’t tell me anything about it! I don’t want to know. I never want to know.’ She stretched her arms lazily towards the sea as if to embrace it and gave a low almost sensual chuckle.

He recorked the wine bottle and poured himself a mineral water. He was aware that she had turned and was watching him.

‘Not quite like when we last met,’ he said, going carefully. ‘How did I behave? I mean, was it bad, or just plain embarrassing?’

‘You behaved immaculately,’ she declared. ‘You gave me all that money.’

He gave her a look to show that hadn’t been what he meant.

‘No, you were fine,’ she said, with that quick open smile of hers. ‘I mean – considering …’

‘Not, I hope,
loud
?’

‘Ha, ha.’ She grinned. ‘
Not
loud.’

They looked out over the sea, which from this height seemed hard and flat, like steel. Eventually Daisy said: ‘You know, you look at all this and you can’t believe there’s anything wrong with the world – you know what I mean? Everything seems so strong here – so incorruptible. It seems unbelievable that we can screw it up so effectively.’

‘I’ll tell you what I see,’ he said, loading his bread high with salmon. ‘I see the sea.’

There was a pause while she thought about that. ‘You think I’m bullshitting,’ she said, her voice coming alive with the possibilities of a friendly argument.

‘No.’ He took a mouthful. The salmon was tender as butter. ‘But I think you worry too much.’

She gave a short sigh. ‘You’re right, of course you’re right.’

This sunny, reasonable, languid Daisy – was it an act? Even as Nick considered it, he thought it unlikely. She was too spontaneous, too transparent for that. She was like a guard dog whose ferocious exterior hides something quite different beneath.

She sipped her wine and, leaning back on one elbow, arched her neck until her head lay back against her shoulder. She had a long neck, he noticed, long and smooth.

‘An island,’ she murmured, her voice soft and low. ‘Cut off from everything.’ She half turned to him: ‘Ever fancied an island? I mean, having one all to yourself.’

‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘In the Seychelles.’

She propped herself up on one hand and stared at him. ‘God, you’ve done it all!’ she accused. Then, in further horror: ‘It must be
awful
to have done it all!’

He thought about that for a moment. ‘Not in my work, I haven’t. I’ve still got a long way to go there.’

She accepted that. It satisfied her work ethic. But she didn’t let him forget the island, not for a while anyway. She kept looking at him and sucking in her breath gently and shaking her head.

When they had finished eating they went for a walk, striking off parallel to the sea across the hilly moorland country. Daisy was well equipped in Doc Martens, he less so in trainers. They walked between dense patches of gorse and thistle, through knee-high heather, over wind-scrubbed slopes spotted with the occasional black-faced sheep. It was a while before they hit anything that resembled a path, and then Daisy was all for leaving it and making across rugged terrain towards a hill.

‘You forget – I’m unfit,’ he panted, hearing the wheezing of his lungs.

But she wasn’t having excuses and urged him up the hill at a great rate. Twenty minutes later they reached the summit, he gasping, she triumphant. She would have led him down the following valley and up the next hill if he hadn’t insisted on returning to check with the pilot.

The walk seemed to exhilarate her. As they retraced their steps she talked easily and rapidly, asking him about his childhood, his early life, listening with concentration, offering occasional comments. Her remarks were perceptive in an oblique off-beat way; they were also kind. The word echoed in his mind:
kind
, and he was aware of feeling a new trust in her. Even when she touched on dangerous territory – Alusha’s illness, the inquest – he was able to answer with something like ease.

Back at the picnic site he left her sitting on the rug and went to find the pilot, who said it was all right to stay another half hour. When Nick returned, Daisy had dozed off. The way she lay – head tucked on one arm, mouth slightly open – and the suddenness with which she’d fallen asleep, reminded him of a child.

He sat close by, smoking steadily – too much, as always – watching a hawk hovering head-down over the heather, seeing the way the ocean glittered under the path of the sun.

When he next glanced down at Daisy she was awake, peering up at him through half-closed eyes. She smiled softly at him, and he smiled back.

She sat up and stretched. He said reminiscently: ‘That day, the day of the accident. There was a plane. I only remembered it when I was in Arizona. I had a dream one night, and it was there – in the dream. And when I woke up I could see it. A light plane. I don’t remember anything special about it, no spraying gear, nothing like that, but then I only saw it for an instant. The plane was coming down Loch Fyne, heading straight for Ashard.’