Chapter Thirteen: No Flowers By Request
“Night in the tropics comes very quickly.”
• • •
He had discovered them on the beach. It had been the car that had given them away in the first instance. Normally, he would not have given it a second glance, but it had looked so conspicuous, and for the very reason that someone had obviously gone to some trouble to make it appear concealed. It had been driven off the road, although deep track marks in the soft earth revealed not so very long since, and dried, brown, ragged-edged palm fronds had been draped across the bonnet, although not conscientiously enough to disguise either its automobile shape or indeed its number plate, if someone had wanted to be particularly picky. Stuart, in all honesty, was not so observant, it was just that there were not that many maroon Renault hatchbacks on the island, and having been squashed in the back of one only a matter of hours beforehand, Stuart was bound to show some sort of interest when he came across another in a position, which could only be described as suspicious.
They had looked like startled rabbits, caught in the headlights of an on-coming lorry, when he had emerged from the darkness of the trees, and innocently hailed them from across the short stretch of sand, “Hey, what are you all up to?” Was it his imagination, or had Mike made a move to strike him, before realising that the new arrival represented friend, not foe?
“Oh, thank God, it’s only you,” said Jenny, running across to him, almost throwing her arms around him before stopping herself short.
Stuart did not know whether to feel flattered or not by this reception. Next to Jenny, the other group of four were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, in a line, hands behind their back, looking for all the world like a row of naughty school-children queuing up outside the headteacher’s door, awaiting punishment for a crime recently discovered, or perhaps a wall of footballers attempting to block a free kick. The row shifted from foot-to-foot, shuffling, uneasy, like nervous soldiers on the parade ground awaiting inspection. Foolish fancy again, or were they moving closer together in a clumsy attempt to try to conceal something hidden behind them on the sands? Stuart was amused and puzzled, asking once again, “Come on then, what’s going on?”
It was Ian that cracked, “There’s been a terrible accident.”
Mike made an attempt to silence the smaller man, moving towards him threateningly, “Shut up, you fool,” but Norbert caught the New Zealander’s arm, saying to him quietly and in a level voice, “It’s too late for that,” adding in louder tones, obviously meant to include Stuart too, “Stuart is our friend. He may be able to help.”
“Help? Accident?” Stuart was worried now. He had left a happily sozzled party, all of whom he had imagined would be quietly sleeping off their hangovers by now, back at the dormitory, instead, he had encountered an anxious, edgy tribe, acting peculiarly on a secluded stretch of sand in the moonlight.
Norbert seemed the only person who was maintaining a veneer of normality. Whereas, now that he was closer, Stuart could see that his other friends were all looking rather wild-eyed, Jenny in particular was shaking uncontrollably and Mike had a shiny, film of sweat across his face, which glistened in the lunar glow, Norbert appeared quite calm. He had obviously nominated himself spokesman for the group. “Ian is quite correct,” he said, “there has been a terrible accident.” He turned to Jenny, “You look exhausted, Jenny. Why don’t you take Stuart off ...” he pointed vaguely in the direction of the deep darkness, where the waves, beach and trees met and merged, “and explain to him what has happened. Everything that has happened,” he stressed, as Mike tried to interrupt and say something to the contrary. “We will finish off here,” he added.
Stuart looked blank, but Jenny regaining some sort of composure, visibly strengthened by Norbert’s commanding words, or perhaps just relieved to be quitting that stretch of beach, took his hand and led him across the sand until they were out of sight of the others, where they discovered a toppled palm tree, which served as a convenient seat. One end of the slender bole was half submerged by the dark, lapping waves and the few remaining leaves still attached to the trunk floated on the water’s surface, caught up in the breaking froth of white swell. They sat in silence for some seconds, listening to the rhythmic noise of the ocean; the little sounds that had been carried, uninterrupted over so many hundreds of miles of water, like Chinese whispers washed up on this distant shore. It was rather romantic. Two lovers meeting for a secret tryst. Alone. Silent. It was how he had imagined this evening might have ended. Stuart closed his eyes and made a wish that this silence would forever remain unbroken.
It was not to be, of course. How could it be? The moment was lost the second Jenny said the words, “It’s Stefan.”
She had gone on to explain in faltering, largely incoherent sentences, but by asking pertinent questions at the appropriate points, Stuart had been able to piece together the sequence of events that had brought his former drinking companions to their present location. And predicament.
They had left the bar, the five of them, Jenny, Norbert, Corrie, Mike and Ian, that much he had witnessed with his own eyes. Remembered where they had parked the car: Norbert had elected to drive again. He had had a few drinks, he was the first to admit as much, but then hadn’t they all? Corrie had joined him up front, Jenny, Mike and Ian had squeezed in the back. Jenny and Mike: he could just imagine they had. The road was empty, barely a car in either direction, and they had sped along, I mean, not sped sped, just a good, sensible speed for a clear carriageway in the middle of the night. I mean, Norbert is an excellent driver, don’t get me wrong. They had all been chatting, laughing. It had been a fun evening, everyone was in good spirits. Mike was saying this, and Norbert was saying that, and Corrie was laughing, and Ian ... when, bang! He came out of nowhere. It wasn’t Norbert’s fault. None of them had seen him. One minute nothing and then, bang! Jenny had held her head in her hands at this point, “He must have been in the middle of the road. It was horrible.” Stuart shifted closer to her along the log and put an arm around her back and felt the weight of her head rest heavily on the top of his shoulder. She stayed like that for some minutes, not crying, almost as though she was trying to fall asleep, and on waking up rid herself of this particular, unpleasant dream. Stuart waited for her to resume speaking and then when she didn’t, asked, “So what happened then? Where is Stefan now?” He did not need to have the question answered, he had a sudden recollection of five startled faces turned towards him on the beach, and the pathetic line of guilty figures trying to conceal something behind them on the sand. “You can’t ...” he began.
Jenny was suddenly animated again, “And why not? We talked about it. Don’t think we didn’t. We decided it was for the best.”
“The best! How can burying a body on the beach be for the best?”
“Think about it,” Jenny reasoned, “It was an accident. A terrible accident. No one’s fault. Just an acc...”
“Yes, OK, I know,” Stuart was almost shouting, “an accident. So you report it to the local police and they see it was an accident, and that’s that.”
“Oh, get real.” Now it was Jenny’s turn to sound annoyed. “We had all been drinking. Norbert wasn’t drunk, but he had had enough. I don’t know if they have breathalysers over here, but drink driving is drink driving in any country. And it wasn’t Norbert’s fault. It could have been any of us. I had offered to drive, and I was in a far worse state than him.”
“Yes, but ...” Stuart tried to reason.
“There is no ‘yes, but’. Don’t you think we talked about this. It was all of our first reactions to report what had happened, but then we got thinking...”
“And?”
“What did we have to gain by it? It wasn’t going to help Stefan. He was dead. He was dead the instant the car hit him. Yes, of course we checked,” said Jenny, seeing that Stuart was about to query this fact with her, adding with unnecessary relish, “If he wasn??
?t dead when we actually hit him, he was certainly dead when he landed back on the road.”
Stuart sighed. Up until this point he had been thinking about the accident purely in detached, academic terms. A problem had occurred; a solution had been found, for right or for wrong; a course of action had been taken. Suddenly, he realised that it was Stefan that they were talking about, not a faceless individual, this was the person he had shared his first night of his travels with, and every night since, if it came to that; the person he had journeyed across the ocean from Tahiti with; the person they had all shared drinks and conversation with. Stefan. Stuttering, pedantic, guide-book consulting, thoroughly decent, Stefan.
Jenny was explaining again, “The others told me about the conversation you all had the other evening.”
“Which one?” said Stuart, puzzled by the turn of the narrative.
“When you were asking about which of you would be missed if you were, what was it you said, un-invented?”
“But that was talking about characters in a book.”
“And real life too. Stefan said that there was no one to miss him. Think about it. A young man. No family to speak of. No close friends. Where was it he said he worked? A bank? Hardly a vocation is it? His colleagues would just presume he had decided to stay on in the sunshine. No one to miss him. It sounded as though you were all in the same boat. Ian. Maybe Mike. You.”
“Not me,” Stuart vainly started to defend himself.
“What does it matter,” interrupted Jenny. “What mattered was Stefan. Yes, we had messed up big time. Yes, it was terrible about Stefan. But why make things any worse for all of us, when by keeping quiet we could do ourselves a favour.”
“And no one to mourn Stefan?” asked Stuart, sarcastically.
“Exactly,” said Jenny, coldly.
“And did you all come to this same decision?”
“Yes,” said Jenny, a slight hesitancy creeping into her voice.
“Really?”
“Norbert thought that it would be the best course of action.”
“And you all agreed?”
“We talked about it for a long time.”
“This is ‘I was driving and have the most to lose’ Norbert that we are talking about, is it?”
“Don’t be like that, Stuart. I said, it could have been any one of us. It could have been you, if you hadn’t just walked off like you did.”
Stuart realised the truth of her words. He would never have actually condoned drink driving, but he was able to acknowledge his own readiness to get back into the car that evening, if only nature hadn’t made alternative plans for him. He still wasn’t so sure that he would have resorted to the kind of cover up Jenny had described to him though. But what was the alternative? His head still felt rather fogged by drink. And he had never been the best of ideas men. Instead, his mind turned to potential pitfalls. “But what about the car? You might be able to hide the body, but you have still got to return the car. Won’t it show some ... traces.” Stuart shuddered as he said the last word.
Jenny was almost too quick to answer, “No, we looked at that. There was a bit of a mark, but Ian washed it down, I don’t think anything shows. The car was already pretty dented, which was lucky. You know what these Polynesian drivers are like. It’s been hard to check for sure in the dark, but I’m pretty sure the car is clean.” Jenny had lapsed into the speak of an American gangster B-movie, but the situation had a sort of movie unreality about it.
“And you’ve just buried him, out there, under the sands?” Stuart pointed back across the beach. “Won’t someone find him? Did anyone see you bury him?”
“There’s been no one else around. We heard a few passing cars on the road, but no one stopped. Why should they? It’s a bit off the beaten track here. No houses around, nothing. The boys managed to dig quite a deep hole. I don’t see how anyone could find him. Not unless ...”
Even in the dim light, Stuart could see Jenny looking pleadingly at him. Was this part of the discussion they had all had too? Get Jenny to come over and chat to him; flutter her eyelashes and persuade him to join in their conspiracy? No, he was being paranoid. Their fate might all lay in his hands, but he was not to be so easily swayed by the persuasions of a young woman. If he decided to side with them it would be his own decision and no one else’s.
Corrie was coming towards them, her silhouette was framed in the moonlight, barefoot, walking along the line where the sea met the sand, her feet washed with each new wave.
“It’s done,” she called out. “Are you coming?”
Stuart felt Jenny’s hand upon his arm. “Are you coming?” she said, quietly.
He hesitated for a moment, but it was only a moment. “Yes.”
Section Two: Red Herrings