The Lost Swimmer (20 page)

‘Is everything all right?' I asked, alarmed.

‘Yes, of course. This place is magical. It's taking my mind off this looming road trip.' He stood, brushing dirt off his shirt. ‘Come on.'

He pulled me up and hand-in-hand we continued down the hill, the sea bobbing in and out of view as if we were playing hide-and-seek. Birds called in the still air, their cries haunting and foreign. The heat baked into us and I imagined myself as Odysseus on an enchanted island, expecting Circe to appear at any moment to whisk me into a den of forbidden pleasure.

Hotel Della Mare was casting a spell.

We passed under a spreading plum tree laden with fruit, and a single plump orb dropped onto the path behind us with a dull thud, breaking open to reveal its bruised, purple flesh. A blackbird flew down and gorged on it.

‘Can't spy the lido yet,' said Stephen craning his neck over the cliff as we came into an opening. Below, the water swirled, cool and inviting. A breeze fluttered my light cotton dress and I felt a thrill of excitement.

We scrambled down to the next section of path, which was steeper and covered in tiny pebbles. I lost my footing and one leg shot out in front. Stephen grabbed me and held me up. ‘You okay? Don't hurt yourself, not down here.'

I glanced back to the steep slope and realised just how far we'd come. I tested my leg. ‘It's fine. Good catch.' Pecking him on the lips, I led on.

As the ground fell away and the roar of the sea drew us onward, the temperature dropped suddenly. We rounded a bend and a flat rocky ledge came into view, gripping the side of the cliff and ending with a two-metre plunge to the water. There was no beach, no sand: only this thin wedge of stone.

‘Is this it?' Stephen stood with his hands on his hips, disappointed.

‘I guess so.'

A wave rolled in and exploded high into the air as it hit the rock, then sucked back down in a greedy, roiling mass.

‘This isn't a beach, it's a blowhole!' Stephen gazed in disbelief. ‘I'd really been looking forward to it too.'

He paced along the stark ledge, staring forlornly out to sea as another emerald wave crashed in, soaking us, before slurping into itself in a roar of froth. I leaped back in fright and slipped on the wet surface. Again, Stephen caught me.

‘Please God, let there not be a third time. You might not be there, like in a fairy tale,' I joked.

‘Of course I will.'

Stephen folded me in his arms and bent to kiss me. Then we both felt a presence and turned. At the far end of the rocky ledge, two sets of eyes lay staring at us: a mother and her teenage daughter, both topless. They were as surprised as two deer caught in headlights, their respective aged and nubile bodies slicked with oil, exposed and vulnerable. Neither moved, as though hoping we might not see them.

‘Hello,' Stephen called, neutrally friendly.

The mother nodded, the teenager rolled over and put her head to the stone, sunbaking.

‘Do you think they locked the gate?' mumbled Stephen. ‘Their own private beach.'

‘Come on.' I waved and turned away. ‘You won't be swimming here.'

But Stephen's attention had focused on a string of white buoys about fifty metres from the blowhole, and as we walked back we noticed an old rusty ladder dropping down into the water from the ledge.

‘Wow, people really do swim here!' He bent and touched the ladder. ‘It's firm. Properly attached.'

A huge wave rolled in and he jumped back, but not quickly enough to avoid another drenching.

‘You are
not
swimming here,' I repeated. ‘Don't even think about it.'

He grinned and grabbed me, transferring salty water in a sharp blast. I squealed.

He took my hand and we moved off, laughing, to the other end of the ledge where it widened enough to allow a thatched hut and tables to be tucked against the cliff-face.

‘My God, they must have functions down here!' Stephen looked around. ‘Is there a lift? How would they get stuff in?'

It made an eerie sight, like a wedding with no guests. Some of the thatch had torn off the roof and flapped crazily in the breeze. Stephen clapped a damp hand to my head and I squealed again in fright.

F
rom the tiny back seat of our car I watched Marco's neck, as slender as a swan's, as he steered us effortlessly to Positano. The erratic wasp-trails of the scooters and the buses with their snorting turns didn't seem so bad with Marco in control. Beside him, Stephen's body was a rigid block of nerves.

As the blazing bougainvillea at the turn-off came into view I was sad that we had reached our destination. Marco roared down and stopped beside a pink building marked POLIZIA.

A tall, thin man in a smart blue uniform, Giotto, pulled faces dramatically as he inspected the damage: the crumpled red boot and curled bumper bar looked like a giant had punched his fist into it. Giotto brought forth a small notepad, looked at Stephen's photographs and took the details of the offending youth's car along with our own. Then we went inside to an atmosphere of convivial bonhomie and sat in a neat, windowless, whitewashed room. Giotto typed up his report while two other young policemen joked with Marco and asked where we came from, insisting on making us espresso coffee, hot and sweet.

Finally Giotto handed over a copy of his report, shook Stephen's hand then my own, and told us how sorry he was that this had happened. ‘Definitely not locals,' he concluded.

‘That's what I thought,' I replied and he grinned, clapping me on the back. ‘You could be a local,' he said and Marco agreed so enthusiastically I blushed.

‘The police are lovely,' I commented as we headed off, leaving the sparkling blue water of Positano behind.

‘They are good men,' replied Marco. ‘I went to school with most of them. They even like their Commissario, the district boss. One big, happy family.' His eyes twinkled. ‘The Amalfi coast is a very inviting place. Perhaps you will stay longer?'

•  •  •

By the time we sat down it was almost ten o'clock and the terrace was filled with well-dressed diners surrounded by strings of fairy lights beneath a star-filled sky. The nights here had an old-fashioned feel, like a charming ristorante from the fifties. The clientele ranged in age from early twenties through to elderly couples who were chattering animatedly in Italian.

‘Clearly a favourite spot for the locals. Always a good sign,' said Stephen but the comfortable tone in his voice didn't match his face, which was lined with worry.

‘Hungry?' I asked, watching him, concerned.

‘Famished.'

‘Then you must have the sea-a bass.' A waiter who looked like he'd walked straight out of
Night of the Living Dead
loomed above, flesh grey and eyes sunken, in a formal black suit. ‘I'm Alessandro,' he said curtly, glaring down at us with disdain. ‘Two sea bass and two salads? Primi has finished for the night, so we'll go straight to secondo.' He left as quickly as he'd arrived, giving us no chance to choose something different. After shouting our order through to the kitchen, Alessandro slunk back to attend to the mother and daughter we had seen sunbathing earlier. He fawned upon the young girl and we were close enough to hear her effusive replies to his questions. She had a thick Russian accent and they spoke together in English while the mother looked on, quiet and intent. Alessandro was in his late sixties, the girl no more than seventeen. My neck stiffened, as the mother seemed to be encouraging Alessandro's attention to her child, which was in no way fatherly.

‘I reckon he locked the gate,' whispered Stephen wryly. ‘Probably heard Marco tell us to go down.'

‘I wonder why Marco has him here?'

‘Bad taste?' Stephen shrugged. ‘A shocking judge of character?'

‘Marco's just gone to a great deal of trouble for us.' My phone bleeped and I casually pulled it out of my handbag and onto my knee where Stephen couldn't read the text:
Sofia was blocked when she tried to access the papers. She thinks something fishy is definitely going on. Has a plan for tomorrow. More then, love B.

‘Who's that?' asked Stephen.

‘Just Burton with some gossip. What's for dessert? I need a sugar hit.'

Sfogliatella, the local specialty – flaky pastry filled with sweet ricotta custard – was served bitterly by Alessandro. His slate grey eyes met mine. ‘Did you enjoy your sea-a bass?' he quizzed intently.

‘Yes, very much.'

His expression was cunning. I couldn't fathom why he had taken such an extreme dislike to us, but suddenly I wondered with horror if he had slipped something awful into the dish. He turned and left the table, disappearing into the shadows to resume staring at the young Russian girl. He reminded me of a big black spider viewing its prey.

‘Creepy,' said Stephen in a low voice. ‘I hope our door locks.' But my attention was taken by Marco, who had changed into a white linen suit and now made his way from table to table chatting animatedly with our fellow diners, most of whom he knew well. An elegant woman and her husband laughed gaily at his jokes and the woman clearly found Marco attractive. Her eyes followed him jealously to the next table, where two middle-aged women melted under his attention. At the subsequent table, a husband glowered while his well-built wife told a long and boring story about her day's sightseeing. Marco hung off every word, occasionally passing comment, and the woman reached up and touched his hair, running her plump bejewelled fingers through in a highly charged manner.

‘Ten quid the husband will punch Marco's lights out if that goes on much longer,' said Stephen. I wanted Marco to visit us but a startling burst of singing in a striking soprano suddenly took all our attention. One of the guests, a chic, immaculately groomed woman in a tight silver dress, had risen from her table of friends and, with a heaving chest, flinging her arms around wildly, was performing from
Madame Butterfly
. Her voice soared and dipped magnificently as she waited loyally for her beloved Captain Pinkerton to return. Marco beelined for her, pulling up a chair at her table, resting his delicate chin into his hands and watching captivated, like a small boy.

He didn't move for the rest of the night, as the singer sang one famous aria after another, peppered with wildly enthusiastic, deeply reverent applause from the adoring Italian crowd. Finally the diva indicated that she had finished, and amid deafening cries of ‘Brava, Brava!' diners raced to beseech her for an autograph. A man at a nearby table playfully picked up a napkin and passed it around, soliciting money from us all, which he placed cheekily at the soprano's feet. We applauded again until our hands stung and finally, with mock reluctance, the grande dame sang again, her voice soaring out across the water, floating towards Capri, as she died, heart-breakingly, in
La Traviata
.

•  •  •

The next morning at breakfast there was no sign of Marco or the diva, and as Alessandro came to take our orders, he kicked a poor mangy cat hanging around the tables.

‘Hey,' I cried as the cat moaned and hid under a chair.

Alessandro scowled and muttered something in Italian that I couldn't catch. A man at another table threw a scrap of bacon to the forlorn creature whose ribs stuck out at right angles through its sparse coat.

‘Please do not feed the vermin,' spat Alessandro and turned to stand over us. ‘What do you want?' he said sharply.

‘For you to not hurt the cat,' I replied. Alessandro rose like a cobra about to strike and a death-look flashed through his eyes.

‘I will bring you eggs and bacon.' He stalked off furiously and Stephen burst out laughing. Alessandro reeled around. ‘Is there a problem, sir?'

‘Eggs and bacon will be fine,' said Stephen. ‘I think the cat could use some too.'

Alessandro froze, and everyone assembled turned to watch.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,' said Alessandro, walking slowly towards Stephen.

‘Please just go and get the breakfast,' Stephen waved a hand dismissively. ‘If you're cruel to animals don't expect us to give you the time of day.'

Alessandro looked like he might spit. He came close to Stephen, who suddenly stood up.

‘Stephen!' I called, alarmed. Stephen walked up to Alessandro, who was now backing away.

‘Yeah, kick me. But I'm bigger than the cat.' He loomed above Alessandro, not only younger but much stronger. ‘What are you waiting for?' Stephen asked.

Alessandro scowled and left. The cat rubbed around Stephen's legs, purring loudly. Stephen bent to pat it and was nearly hit by a huge steak, which came flying from the kitchen. It was raw and bloody and the cat bit into it with a pleasure so intense it brought tears to my eyes.

‘Satisfied?' Alessandro glowered beneath the eaves of the building, then disappeared inside.

‘Jesus.' Stephen rose and came back to the table. ‘That guy's a lunatic.'

I took his hand and kissed it. ‘I love you.' Stephen's phone bleeped. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.' He walked rapidly to an overgrown path and his body deflated as he spoke to the mystery caller. When he finally returned he was sombre.

‘What on earth's wrong?'

‘Nothing.' Stephen sat heavily and briefly met my gaze, which was fixed nervously on him.

‘Are the kids okay?' I couldn't stop my voice from trembling.

Stephen sat back. ‘Oh, Bec, it's nothing like that.'

I waited. Alessandro shoved plates laden with egg and bacon under our noses and slunk off. Stephen put some of his food onto a napkin that he placed gently in front of the cat. The cat ate noisily, purring.

‘Please tell me what's happened?' I asked. ‘I can see it's something serious.'

Stephen's body heaved in a long sigh. ‘It's nothing to bother you about.'

I wondered yet again whether he was seeing someone, but his mood didn't seem that of a jilted lover. I took a stab at the vice I knew. ‘Is it to do with your investments?'