Dark Mirrors (29 page)

The hum of the engine and the sway of the titanium wings, like a gentle lullaby, provided a brief interval of calm, lulling her into a confused daydream. He was there. There beside her. She could smell him. Taste him. His face, his manicured hands. What was he saying? He was calling to her but she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Speak up!” she called to him. But as she summonsed him, his image, slowly diminishing, eventually lost clarity, until he was nothing more than a wisp of vapour somewhere in the distance of her imagination.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

The hand on her wrist, like a red-hot iron, burnt her to the point of pain, extracting her rudely from her reverie. Esmée pulled back, instinctively bringing her arm up to her chest, and backed herself defensively against the wafer-thin walls of the plane.

The wizened fingers and manicured nails threw her. She was not as expected, this groomed old woman peering at her like a prim schoolteacher over bespectacled eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I. . . I . . .” But the words wouldn’t come out.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” the woman said, polished nails reaching out to touch Esmée’s arm, the maternal pat reassuring in a patronising kind of way. “You were miles away. Are you all right?”

“Not quite,” she smiled uneasily. If only she knew! “More of a nightmare really,” she qualified, smiling an insecure smile at the old lady. “A little scary. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Not at all, my dear.” Taking off her glasses, she turned towards Esmée, her tone lowering as if imparting some secret divination. “You know, your dreams are nothing more than the expressions of yourself. Unlock your dreams, my dear, and you unlock the answers to your soul.” With an air of finality she turned back in her seat, replaced her glasses on the end of her nose and returned to the idle page-flicking of her magazine, ignoring Esmée for the rest of the journey.

Mad as an American soap opera was the conclusion Esmée came to, finding it difficult not to sneak the occasional glance at the woman. But, even though the woman’s statement bore the sentiment of mystical nonsense, there was something about it, something that actually rang true in a mad spiritual sense, if you were into that sort of thing.

She dreamt again and, in her dream, she saw him.

His body, floating face down, heaving with the rise and fall of the undulating waves. His arms stretched out, weightless, grasping at the dark viscous liquid – and his hands, his hands clenched and tight. Swollen and full, the roundness of his thighs apparent as the grey wool fabric of his trousers clung tight, strangling his legs while his shirt, turgid with water, meshed about his grossly engorged torso. And around his head a matted mess of thick brown hair spread out like a fan. And his feet, his bloody feet, thick, bloated and bare.

Chapter 21

Travelling light for a fast turnaround, Esmée easily wheeled her compact case through passport control, past customs and out into the long and dowdy arrivals hall. Keeping her head down, she tried as best she could to be alert to those behind her as well as in front. Ignoring the neatly uniformed and evenly tanned travel representatives who, smiling broadly, wafted branded name cards above their heads, she passed them swiftly to scan the small groups of people gathered along the main hall, obviously waiting on their travelling friends and families. Dressed in a light blue-and-white-striped cotton dress, blue cardigan and flip-flops, she moved through the arriving groups and eagerly sought out amongst the waiting crowds someone, anyone, who showed any interest in her. But none did, they all looked through her, seeking out their own familiar faces that, they hoped, were following close behind. Her inexperience made it next to impossible to be discreet as she walked the length of the barrier towards the exit and slowed, unsure as to what she should do or where she should go.

But there, right at the end of the concourse stood a man clad in shorts and a clean white polo shirt. She guessed him to be about forty and, with his head of thick black hair, dark-brown eyes, sallow skin and tanned feet he certainly wasn’t Irish. She read the oblong card he held in his manly brown hands. In black block letters . . . was that her name?

ESMÉE MYERS

And so, like a cog slipping into its notch, the first part of the puzzle was coming together. They watched each other awkwardly as she approached and eventually came to a stop in front of him.

“Señora Myers?” he asked, raising his eyebrows while pointing to his placard.

Slowly she nodded, too afraid to speak.

“Come.”

Stepping forward, he took hold of her small case and without introduction waved for her to follow him through the doors from the air-conditioned terminal to the dark and stiflingly hot enclosed car park. He moved so fast she had no option but to do as she was bid, almost running to keep in step beside him.

“Where are we going?” It took all she had within her to prevent the question from sounding like a screech. Be calm, be calm, she mentally instructed herself, quelling the nausea that threatened to spill her airline lunch all over the baking concrete.

“I take you to hotel,” he replied while navigating expertly the many double-parked cars and the busy single lane of traffic, before stopping at a small white Fiat that had, long ago, seen much better days.

He opened the boot, threw her case in and slammed it shut before running around to her side. Opening the rear passenger door he indicated gallantly for her to get in. She looked first at the grimy leather back seat and then at his smiling Spanish face, quickly appraising both with equal scepticism and disbelief.

Despite herself, her head shook involuntarily. “You’re joking, right?” she asked, mainly because the car didn’t look like it would make it to the exit never mind a destination she assumed to be further away.

“Come!” he encouraged impatiently, ignoring her insult, once again gesturing towards his less-than-appealing chariot.

“Who sent you?” she asked, moving not an inch and looking to him for an answer.

“Eh?” A confused look crossed his face. “We go? Yes?” His eyebrows closed in on each other as he pointed to what Esmée assumed to be the general direction of their intended route.

“Who asked you to collect me?” she asked, keeping her tone calm and her diction clear and slow.

“I not understanding,” he shrugged, shaking his head hopelessly and wiping sweat from his brow.

That left her with no option but to throw what little caution she had to the wind and just get into the car to find out for herself.

Smiling at his success and raising his eyes to the gods in relief, he slammed the door shut and scampered around to the driver’s side. He started the engine and manoeuvred expertly through the steady stream of beeping cars and impatient drivers, all eager to lead the way out onto the motorway.

As they pulled out of the concourse, Esmée turned to note the cars behind. There were so many coming at them from all sides, but she tried to register as many as she could, paying real attention to the notion that one of them might be tailing her.

Her carriage was loud, bumpy and smelt like an ashtray – already she felt carsick. Picking up speed they cruised easily down the motorway. She opened the window as the heat and stench inside threatened to swallow her and closed her eyes to the warm wind, relieved by its cool rush on her flushed face and the feel of it blowing through the moist strands of her hair. How she knew it would be a long drive she wasn’t sure – maybe it was the way he settled into his seat with his arm crooked comfortably out the window, or perhaps it was their fixed cruising speed in the fast lane as they rattled past, and ignored, the exits for one tourist resort after another.

She considered asking her courier again who had sent him but given his response at the airport knew it would be a waste of time and chose instead to cautiously monitor their progress out of the open window, watching the road signs and mentally calculating the distance from their starting point.

After what felt like hours the car slowed, moved into the inside lane and he indicated his intention to exit the motorway. The slip road circled up and around to the left until they joined a narrow minor road and began their ascent up a steep incline and into the mountains. Round and round the road weaved, snaking further up, ascending into the mountain like a shimmering black ribbon, knitting its way through the tiny hillside towns, each with more spectacular views than the last. Mile after mile the angst she felt bore down, increasing in sympathy with the augmenting altitude. The wait was killing her, the anticipation of what was coming at the end of the journey agonising.

She turned her attention to the transient view. Row after row of neat symmetrically placed trees and shrubs charmed her as they went by, their tended aspect a testament to the fertile landscape that despite the heat wasn’t as scorched as the terrain below. And in the distance dark clouds rumbled, their load fermenting in broody readiness to overflow onto the parched land.

The winding road made their progress slow. They journeyed another half hour before, in the distance and stretching high above them, a castle exposed itself from around a corner. Perched on the edge of the emerging valley it seemed as if, with a gentle shove, it might just topple in at any moment. Its grey outline glowed against the background of the menacing sky.

The car struggled as the road narrowed and took a sharp angle skyward. Esmée hoped it was the final ascent to their destination. It took no more than a quarter of an hour to reach the fortified but picturesque and surprisingly busy town of Santa Alamosa, its name carved out of an enormous rock pitched proudly on the roadside on the way into the town.

Esmée couldn’t silence her slow intake of breath as they crawled through the awesomely pretty streets and crossed the tiny squares. Lined with orange and lemon trees, their surrounding buildings were adorned with beautiful blooms which hung lavishly from shuttered windows overhead. And the people – perhaps it was the sun, but they all seemed so handsome, so vibrant, wearing the brightest of colours, busily going about their daily routine, chattering loudly, completely oblivious to the tired and emotionally confused woman passing them by in the beat-up car.

A firm believer in fate, that the behaviour and actions you bestow on others will come back to serve you, Esmée asked herself what it was she had done to deserve this? What had she done that had been so appalling, so immoral that its returning measure was to cast her into this nightmare? A nightmare that was confounded by the sheer beauty of this, the most romantic and idyllic setting she had ever experienced. Her heart was breaking. This was the kind of place you came to with a lover to hold hands and kiss, to dance, eat glorious food and laugh at sunset and fall asleep in each other’s arms at sunrise. Yet here she was. Alone and scared and very, very angry.

When they eventually stopped it was at a door punched into a long amber stone wall. She stayed in the back of the Fiat, examining the exterior of the austere and unimpressive three-storey building, unsure if she should follow the driver and get out. He went to the boot and removed her case before opening her door and, extending his hand, invited her to join him.

“
Señora
,” he said with a smile, “
este es vuestra hotel – vamos
!”

Taking his hand, she allowed him to help her out of the battered car, her legs and neck stiff from the journey. She found the air heavy and thick with not so much as a breeze to take the edge off the powerful heat that seemed to engulf her. She immediately felt beads of sweat form and trickle slowly earthward from between her breasts. Taking hold of the iron hoops attached to the imposing timber door, her escort pushed against its weight to reveal behind its bulk a wide-open space filled with sunlight, cool air and an array of lush green foliage. In its centre, a grand fountain released its water into a central reservoir that poured easily into a raised square pool.

“Wow!” Esmée exclaimed, turning on the spot to admire the beautifully tranquil interior, amazed by the cleverness of the walls round and above her which were punctured symmetrically by windows opening into the planted ecosystem. It smelt of sweet jasmine and honeysuckle and sounded like a heavenly paradise as from somewhere birds chirped in harmony with the calming cascade of the spilling water.

“Come,” he said, holding open another door.

Taking a little time for her eyes to adjust to the dull light, she followed him down the chilly stone corridor which took them through an atrium and up a central mahogany staircase into a reception room. She had just enough time to scan the high walls and delicately frescoed ceilings before a deep mahogany panel opened on the opposite wall, through which came what must be her hostess.

“Señora Myers, welcome!” she greeted, pushing runaway stands of her thick black hair back behind her ears.

She couldn’t have been much older than herself, Esmée guessed, admiring the woman’s slender figure as she extended her hand. Returning the smile, she took the presented hand.

“I am Isabella,” the woman announced politely with a slight bow, her welcoming smile glowing from the deep pools of her dark eyes and the grip of her hand revealing a slender bone structure.

“I hope your journey was not too tiresome?” Her accent was heavy but seductive, and she was obviously well versed and trained in the English language.