Sun Dance (16 page)

‘South Rampart Street Parade,’ romped into, ‘I can’t give you anything but love, Baby.’ A full blown Dixieland jamboree stomped the night away. Engine thumping, paddles flailing, its skipper gyrating round the bridge, the good ship Clare de Lune, steering a slightly erratic course, cleaved a mighty bow wave down Lake Geneva.

Cheeks like bellows, a black trumpeter leant back, blowing notes at the stars ten to the bar. The pianist beat out the rhythm one handed, wiping sweat with the other, a drummer kept the bass drum going, swigging his fourth pint. Clarinets circled the jiving crowd. The saloon rocked, the boat swayed, churning paddle wheels kept a glistening tempo. Midnight, moonlight, ships lights zig-zagging across dark waters and the great Alps sparkling like diamond tiaras spread a backdrop only Hollywood could rival. Love was in the air and in several cases, against the ships rail.

And the music, baby, baby--- it roared across the lake, swept from ordered vineyard slopes into tippling wine glasses, rosy red, rosy lips, ‘That’s a -plenty,’ the tempo hot, bodies in a frenzy, top notes on that screeching trumpet hitting the pleasure button. Oh boy, could her hips move, eyes flashing with lust. It’ll be an instant, knee bend stand up romance if I don’t watch her, the bitch. The Agent’s eyes followed his prancing secretary, burning with a mix of hate and jealousy. That fucking young Yank who’d got her up to dance, third time now, swinging her between his legs, nearly had her fucking dress over her head and she’s laughing. The cow, I don’t think she’s got any knickers on. One step too far and and I’ll…. I’ll…’ His fists clenched.

The Agent glowered. Another large whisky made no difference. The day had gone badly, really bloody badly. It kept revolving through his thoughts. Ten in the morning she was still in bed, in the next room, wouldn’t let him in for the night, the ungrateful cow and me in the head office of this damned stupid Hadron Collider contraption. Total waste of cash. ‘Would I care to see over the installation?’ He took another gulp, God--- that burnt his throat. Fuck fast colliding particles, I should‘ve had more sense, through tunnels, along gantries, tubes and pipes everywhere, stupid bastard droning on, bored the arse off me.

Rage was smouldering. His normally white face flushed bright red. He felt the pressure mounting at his temples. A totally wasted day, I’ll have to cover this job some how and now this carry on. He glared at the couple. The Yank was right up against her, a smoothie dance. Let him put one hand near her arse. The Agent’s jaw tightened. Oh hell, I don’t need this, the bitch, she’ll pay.

The day wouldn’t get out of his edgy mind. Had he overplayed his role as a director of a London Insurance Group? The card had got him in, the bloke, pleasant enough but another of these bloody white coated drones, introduced himself as leader of the main team of physicists. In spite of the racket beating his ears, The Agent’s thoughts dwelt on the bits of their conversation that mattered, “We’re here for a short break, a spot of jazz, thought I’d look up one of my London pals. I know he’s a jazz fanatic, Is he about? Hector MacKenzie, I think he works here.” The leader bloke had crossed his knees. The bugger’s uneasy, had I sounded genuine? “Isn’t he a key member of your project?” No response- maybe I didn’t make it casual enough? The Agent remembered asking, “Where does he fit in, what does he actually do? The chaps down the club often pull his leg about it, bit of a boffin, you know the sort of thing.”

A real faux pas, the boffin blinked, straightened his ‘specs’, “Yes, yes, his work is quite a vital part of this whole project. Indeed it’s central to the success and er..er.. the safety of our work.” Here he paused, glancing to the door. The Agent noted the guy fiddled with a pencil. The bastard’s going to lie to me. “I’m afraid he’s, he’s not available at the moment, actually went out just before you arrived.” Lying wanker. “Pity. I had a spot of news to give him. Does he live in Scotland by any chance? It’s a Scottish enough name.” The white coated arsehole appeared just a mite flustered, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Fuck it!” The Agent cursed himself out loud, I went too far. Did I cover my tracks well enough? He remembered leaving with the words, “Not to worry, give him my best regards.” “Of course, of course,” and the scientific wanker had enquired, “What‘s the name again?” Fuck it, oh fuck it, The Agent’s memory of the meeting had him cursing again, “Fuck me, oh fuck it!” All this bloody, buggering woman trouble, that’s why I forgot the name on the card I’d produced. The Agent smarted mentally at the thought of his parting remark to the bloke, “Just keep him guessing, I’ve a big surprise waiting for him.” Fucking right there is, when I catch up with him.

‘Sweet Georgia Brown’, drove these disturbing thoughts out of his head. The Yank had her up against the bar. The Agent downed his half glass of whisky in a oner. Striding to the bar, he pushed between the couple, catching the Yank roughly by the elbow. The man staggered back. Letting his hands hang loose, The Agent snarled softly, “Hit me now, you poxy bastard.” Three steps backwards lost the man in the crowd. Crushing his secretary’s hand in a fierce grip, without looking at her face, he dragged her to the gangway. The steamer berthed alongside a jetty, “You and me’s going home honey.” He stopped a taxi. The Agent’s voice, quiet and insinuating, frightened the woman. No more words passed between them, nor did the Agent look at her.

Though the chandeliered reception hall, the heavy carpets muffled their footsteps up the broad curving stairway. Since dragging her from the boat, his grip had not slackened. Now it tightened even more. They stood in the dimly lit corridor outside her bedroom door. “Just leave me, let me go, please just go, please,” she pleaded, half weeping. “Open that fucking door,” he rasped, screwing her arm up behind her back. She’d left the key hanging in the lock. She fumbled. “Make it snappy, darling,” he whispered and with a soft mocking sneer, “just in case your friendly Yank has followed us.”

The panelled door swung open. She made a lunge to get in. He spun her round. Quick as lightening her knee shot at his crutch. Twenty years of training, The Agent took it on the thigh. “Baby, I like the way you’re feeling,” he hissed.

In a jerking Half Nelson, he threw her on the bed. Petrified beyond screaming, she lay. He ripped at her clothes. “No pants eh? That’s nice, you filthy cow,” he snarled holding her down. Short sharp punches to her stomach. Winded, she gurgled for breath. A hand gripped her throat. He forced his way. Brute force.

Flinging bed sheets over a naked, quaking body, The Agent panted softly, “One word of this little bit of fun gets out and believe me darling, you won’t be seeing your baby girl again.”

The Agent left her sobbing….

and believing him.

The lithe, bronzed body of Company Chairman, Andrew Anderson relaxed on an inflatable li-lo. Another morning’s unbroken Caribbean sunshine required his dark diving goggles to cut out the glare as he turned over to view, not without a measure of pride and affection, the majestic, twin masted, auxiliary schooner. She lay motionless at anchor in a secluded cove of vivid turquoise. Her sweep of white curvaceous lines, from a slender bowsprit to a long counter stern, fully justified her name, ‘Sea Nymph’. Beguiling as the Sirens of old who lured sailors into the watery abyss of Charybdis, so his yacht drew Nuen’s Chairman towards the whirlpools of financial turbulence.

His Caribbean crew, smart in their white tee-shirts and navy flannels, coiled and recoiled ropes, no splice without a whipping nor clove-hitch left un-tightened. Painting, holystoning of decks, her fresh white canvases lashed immaculately to varnished boom and spar, every touch of seamanlike attention matched the lustre of her extensive brass fittings. Much care and considerable company expense had been lavished upon this aristocrat of the ocean’s paths and byways. To emphasis the flowing lines of her femininity the golden hair of a gloriously full breasted mermaid entwined with the elaborate scrolling of her carved name plates. She epitomised the grace of an era when sail was paramount and the men who heard the winds throb, who knew the thrill of a canvas full and drawing, loved their ships above all else.

The sun seemed slow to reach its zenith. That morning the Sea Nymph’s anchor chain hung without a ripple. The scent of coconut palms added heaviness to the languorous stillness of a cove upon which the tallness of his yacht’s varnished masts stretched with an unbroken image. Indeed the perfection of sunlight and tranquility mirrored the eons of an existence before the decadence of wealth and hurry brought screaming power boats and security men flaunting armpit holsters.

The islands canopy, dense and green, fringed an idyllic beach whose pure mica sand would already burn any bare feet which might venture upon it. Not that this was likely; the small isle was strictly private. Detracting somewhat from the cove’s serenity, a large sign in bold red letters read, ‘Strictly No Landing. Unauthorised Visitors will be Prosecuted.’ On a bluff, above verdant plumes of natural forest, the wide veranda of a spacious wooden bungalow enjoyed whatever cooling breeze might be drawn from the breadth of a shimmering ocean.

From a swivel chair on the bridge, the skipper ordered his crew to holystone the teak -laid foredeck, “Don’t go aft,” he warned them, aware that the Chairman’s wife would be sunbathing topless, or more likely nude. He’d gone astern on one occasion to find the lady stretching on a sun lounger. She’d looked up and smiled. The crew was certainly not to be indulged. His gold braided peak cap lay on the navigating table as he watched the li-lo for any signs of the returning owner.

Splashing a little water over himself, the Chairman turned onto his back and glanced at his Rolex; important visitors due in half an hour. Blast, I’ve stayed out here too long. Coffee, working lunch, bungalow for dinner, maybe a powerboat zoom to a night club on the main island. On reflection, maybe not. Anyway, business, business--- this nuclear programme is beginning to drag. Action on cash flow, must get action out of this meeting. Pressure built, he knew the problems of febrile thinking. It mustn’t show; cool, confident and casual does the trick. Turning over abruptly he sculled rapidly towards the yacht.

One of the crew stood waited on the boarding platform with a towel and robe. Scrambling off the li-lo, Anderson grabbed the towel and took the steps two at a time, calling over his shoulder, “Stay here until a launch arrives, then bring the guests to my Stateroom.” At the stern of the yacht, as he hurried to the Master cabin, his wife lay naked, tummy up, tanned and glistening.

“Darling, I need oil,” she reached over, pulling at his trunks as he knelt beside her, “and darling,” her voice dropped, “and a big bit of you.” He bent and nuzzled her, before jumping to his feet, “Muffty darling, these chaps will be here any minute.” With equal alacrity, she sprang to her feet, “You bastard, you horrible bastard,” and covering herself with a towel flounced along the deck. “Oh God,” he groaned, hurrying to dress, “three days of sulks and silence.”

Twin outboards at full throttle and a huge curve of thirty knot foam screamed into the cove. A powerboat roared alongside the yacht’s boarding stage, stopping dead. The stage rocked violently, a following wake raked up the beach. A crewman steadying the craft helped onboard the green faced Sir Joshua Goldberg. His companion, affecting boldness with a fixed grin, ignored the crewman’s proffered hand and stumbling at the foot of the ladder, clung to the rope.

“Welcome aboard, Josh,” Andrew Anderson at the Sea Nymph’s rail raised a smart salute. Goldberg, ignoring the welcome, nodded, “Do you mind if I use your toilet?” “Of course, of course not.” A steadying hand on the polished brass banister guided the ungainly bulk of Sir Joshua down the vessels wide companionway into the yacht’s luxurious teak panelled Stateroom. Its cream coloured carpet rose and fell alarmingly. Goldberg groaned. “Here you are, Joshua.” Opening a side door, the Chairman helped the company’s scientific advisor inside, not a moment too soon.

Sun tanned and boyish in spite of thinning hair, the ex-incumbent of Westminster’s highest office, whistling a Bill Hailey number, wandered round to the aft deck, inadvertently disturbing its sun worshiper. “Oh, oh no, goodness me, I’m so, I, I do, didn’t mean…” Removing his sunglasses he loitered over a fawning apology. Apart from strategically placing her reading material, she ignored him. Recovering his composure he sauntered down the companionway, entering the State Saloon in casual style.

A black Caribbean cabin attendant, smart in white ducks, shirt and blue Company tie, stood awaiting an order. “Grind fresh coffee, Marley.” A curt nod from Anderson sent the man away. Goldberg emerged at that point, his sagging face restored to its normal pallor. “Andy, so glad to see you.” They clasped shoulders in a light embrace before Sir Joshua turned, “Andy, this is my friend, Anthony,” and looking hard at his Chairman, “I may have mentioned him to you before? Anyway,” he risked a smirk, “as luck would have it, he happens to be staying down the islands with a pop star friend and I persuaded him to fly up here for the day.” Pleasant a visual experience as his deck encounter may have been, Anthony could but assume her to be the Chairman’s wife. This conclusion, a shade disconcerting, tempered his manner to a degree. He said nothing.