The Lost Swimmer (22 page)

‘I'm so sorry.' Marco looked genuinely sad and came smoothly up the tiny ladder, throwing himself onto the baking rocks beside me. ‘How long ago?'

Stephen followed Marco out with a splash.

‘I was a teenager. Fifteen,' I replied.

‘An awful time to lose your father.'

I tried to keep my emotions in check but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Being on the Amalfi coast, where Dad had always wanted to come; sitting here by the sea. ‘He was a fisherman.' I met Marco's gaze – he was so understanding I found myself continuing. ‘I was with him. In his boat, in the place we'd been a thousand times. The fish were biting and we were reeling them in. Then suddenly the change blew in.'

Stephen sat on my other side. I could feel his cool body as he leaned close, protectively.

‘We didn't know there'd been a flood upriver. Water rushed into the sea like a tidal wave from the wrong direction. Everything went dark.'

I stopped.

Marco's eyes were shining pools of sympathy. Stephen put his arm around me.

‘I lost my parents in a car accident,' said Marco quietly and my gaze of surprise met his raw vulnerability.

‘On this road?' asked Stephen.

‘No, just outside Naples. They were driving home after my sister's first performance. That was my sister Bianca last night. She's a soprano with the Milan Opera. My parents had flown up and were coming back from the airport. I was meant to be with them but I'd decided to stay on with Bianca.' Marco paused for a long moment and no one rushed to fill the silence. Birdcalls echoed hauntingly through the trees on the hillside. Waves lapped calmly against the rocks.

‘It changes things,' said Marco.

‘My father told me to swim to shore and get help. He'd been hurt when the boat capsized and didn't think he could make it.' My voice cut starkly into the mellow evening air that smelled ever more strongly of lemons as the sun dropped and shadows spread. ‘I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't save him. I took too long.' It was strange to hear the words that I berated myself with every day drift out across the water. ‘My mother never got over it. She died six years later from cancer.'

Stephen's arm gripped tightly. He knew what I wasn't saying: that my brother John had been nineteen when my mother died. He'd blamed everything on me and run off to America. In that year, when I was twenty-one, my family had simply vanished. I'd met Stephen shortly after – and my life had changed again.

Our gaze reached to the sea, as if trying to find my lone father bobbing in the gentle swell. The buoys rose and fell, and further out a ferry cut a white swathe into the deep blue as it made its way to Positano.

I
n the restaurant that night Marco introduced us to his older sister Bianca. Up close I could see a resemblance, but where Marco was lean, Bianca was full-bodied. She was bolder, with an ego that matched her talent.

After a short, polite conversation, Marco and his sister went off to a table near the bar as a bleak Alessandro led us to our place.

‘How are you feeling?' Stephen asked worriedly as we settled in.

‘Okay.' I shrugged. I'd surprised myself opening up to Marco; I had so much on my mind, things were seeping out unexpectedly. I was desperate to contact Burton but Stephen was sticking close like a supportive limpet.

I ran through excuses I could use to leave the table. A huge plate of grilled squid drizzled with lemon was served, and as we ate, Stephen received a call that he felt compelled to take. When he disappeared down the gloomy overgrown path I pulled out my phone and rang Burton, who picked up immediately.

‘Bec, I'm so glad you called. We've managed to sight the paperwork. It was amazing – your passport and photo, your signature. If I didn't know you I'd think you were lying. It all looked thoroughly official and correct.'

My heart started thumping. ‘Burton, it wasn't me.'

‘Then it's fraud on quite a big scale, isn't it?'

‘How could anyone have had access to my passport?' I desperately tried to think if someone could have taken it from the drawer in my bedroom, used it, and then put it back. Who visited our house? Friends and tradespeople.

‘Who'd want to do this to you?' quizzed Burton.

‘Priscilla hates me but I doubt she'd go that far. Would it need to be someone who knows me? Could it be organised crime or something? Maybe they got the details through Customs or Immigration?'

‘Was your passport ever stolen?'

‘No. I wish it had been. It would make all this seem more plausible.'

‘We're going to try to make copies. We couldn't today because we almost got caught. I'll scan them and send them to you.'

‘Please be careful, Burton. I couldn't live with myself if I got you and Maria into trouble.'

‘There's no stopping that one now. It's taken about twenty years off her life doing this.'

My nerves swelled at the thought of the intrepid Maria, a tiny ant next to her giantess cousin. With Burton in his wheelchair completing the trio, they'd hardly disappear into the woodwork. They'd be as obvious as a beacon.

‘Are you all going?' I asked, hoping he'd say no.

‘We travel as a pack.'

‘Can't the cousin do it alone?'

‘She needs us to keep lookout. Sofia's bribed an administrator to let us into the archives. But there are others who come down and that's who we have to be careful with.'

‘Promise me you won't get arrested?'

Burton's nervous giggles echoed down the phone. ‘It's not in our game plan, Bec. And I certainly don't fancy doing time in a Greek prison.'

‘I wish I was with you,' I said plaintively.

‘Me too,' replied Burton. ‘Bec, we're going to sort this out. I promise.'

‘Please take care,' I said. ‘Have to go, here comes Stephen.'

‘Stay in touch.' I barely caught Burton's last words as I dropped the phone into my handbag.

Stephen sat heavily, eyes glistening with intensity. Burton's news rang in my ears. I would have to tell Stephen now – the fraud had gone far beyond anything I would have thought possible. My thoughts raced as I tried to decide how to raise it, but Stephen barely seemed to register me. He picked up his cutlery and ate the squid as if it were warm and delicious, not appearing to notice that it had gone cold and rubbery.

‘Is everything all right?' I asked. ‘Who was it?'

‘Doesn't matter, everything's fine. Just a colleague.' He kept eating mechanically.

‘About your conference paper?'

‘Hmm. Which now needs even more rewriting.'

‘Should we cancel going to the Grotta Verdi tomorrow?'

Stephen shook his head. ‘Marco and Adriana say we mustn't miss it. It's okay, I'll get an early start and write before you're up.' His eyes softened. ‘And then tomorrow afternoon I'll hear your paper.'

‘Okay,' I smiled, ‘that sounds great.'

Stephen rose stiffly. ‘I don't feel like dessert, do you?'

‘Saves another table visit from Alessandro.' The man in question came out on the terrace and glared.

As we headed down the path, tiny lights guiding us like fireflies, I knew I had to tell Stephen about the fraud allegation tonight; just let it all come out. It would be a great relief sharing my predicament with him once we were through the recriminations that would surely come from having kept it from him. But as soon as we were in our room Stephen flicked on the television. Channel surfing, he grew ever more intent, finally stopping on an English-language news service.

I stripped off and let my tired limbs stretch out on the bed, a numb throbbing in my feet from the hard cobblestones of Pompeii. My ribs twinged with a dull pain. Waiting for Stephen's attention, I felt sick with what I was about to reveal: that I had let Burton and Maria know before asking for his help. That was the awful problem with secrets – the longer you kept them, the worse they became when you finally told the truth.

Insecure, I reached for my phone and sent a quick message to James and Erin, checking how they were and if Big Boy was coping. Then I tried again to decipher the riddle. Who could have copied my passport?

Stephen tensed as the stock market report came on. The refined tones of a BBC announcer stated that it had been a good day in Europe and the United States. They did a quick summary around the world: stocks had shot up in Asia and Australia too.

‘That's good,' I said – at least something was going in the right direction. Stephen pretended he hadn't heard. ‘Stephen? You said you had some shares, so that's a good thing, isn't it?'

He turned and his face was drawn tight, his eyes black burning holes.

‘What on earth's wrong?' I blurted.

‘I wasn't even watching. What was it?' He glanced back at the television; the news broadcast had raced on to the weather. I didn't believe him. ‘Looks like it'll be a fine day tomorrow,' he muttered. ‘That's good for the grotto, it needs to be calm, doesn't it?'

He switched off the television, flicked off the lights and walked into the bathroom to clean his teeth. I wanted to quiz him further – something was definitely disturbing him – and now it didn't seem wise to raise my problem tonight after all. In the darkness, exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed me.

I dreamed I was in Pompeii, struggling through pitch-black streets as pumice and ash rained down and collapsing buildings flamed bright, consuming me. I woke choking at first light, my mind aching with images of tortured bodies found in the ruins, brought to life in their death throes through concrete casts. It struck me we hadn't seen these yesterday. We hadn't taken in much at all. We had each been lost in our own world. The lost among the lost.

A movement on the balcony distracted me. Stephen sat tapping into his phone. Quietly I slipped out of bed and tiptoed towards him, desperate to see to whom he was communicating. Instinctively he turned.

‘Morning,' I said and my voice caught. Stephen was as white as a ghost.

‘Hope I didn't wake you. I've been up half the night. I think Alessandro slipped something bad into our food. How are you?' he asked.

‘I'm fine. That's strange, we both ate the squid.'

‘You have a stronger constitution,' he smiled. ‘Mind if I miss breakfast? Call me when you've finished and we'll meet?'

He went back to his phone. I wouldn't be able to tell him my problem just yet. I needed to find the right time – and perhaps later today I'd have a scanned copy of the application. Things might be clearer.

•  •  •

There was a queue at the elevator that took tourists down to the Grotta Verdi. Stephen had wandered off, still tapping into his phone, as soon as he'd arrived. ‘Sorry, I'm right in the thick of changing my conference paper.' He still looked fragile and drawn.

I texted the children and replied to their overnight assurance that Big Boy was missing us. I had a deep desire to be back on the beach with him.

I wanted to call Burton for an update but the working day had only just begun; there'd be no news yet. At breakfast I'd tried to work out who could have accessed my passport but there were just too many people who'd been through the house; we'd had parties with so many academics and friends. Nothing made sense.

The massive elevator doors opened and people poured out. I couldn't see Stephen and we needed to enter. I phoned him and was directed straight to his message service; I texted, standing back to let others pass, a happy throng of travellers.

Stephen ran up, breathless and strangely flushed, and we were the last admitted. The doors clunked shut and we shot down the mountainside in a stomach-churning drop. The air was thick with the scent and sweat of too many people in an enclosed space. I fought off claustrophobia, the dread of being trapped in this stifling tomb with no air. But finally the doors opened and I was jettisoned out into a fresh breeze.

The sea lapped calmly a little way below and we followed other tourists along a rocky ledge that led, enticingly, to a narrow entrance in the cliff-face. The bright sunlight was quickly extinguished as we stepped inside and were swallowed into a world of darkness.

Fine translucent stalactites the colour of parchment dangled elegantly from the ceiling, and submerged knobbly stalagmites, thick and ancient, thrust up from the sea floor.

We were in a cave. Blinking like newborn kittens, we waited until vision in the low light was restored. A huge subterranean lake glowing with the colours of every green imaginable slowly formed.

‘Come this way. Prego. This way.' A tiny wizened man, hunched forward as if into a prevailing wind, herded us towards small rowboats as he took our money. The water was a pale lime at the edge, the colour of milkshakes I'd drunk in my teenage years. There was an odd thickness to it.

‘Deutsche?' guides called. ‘Française? English?'

I stared apprehensively at the boats lined up like death traps: insignificant bits of wood glued together in feeble defiance of the strange water. I wanted desperately to run.

‘We don't have to do this, Bec,' said Stephen.

‘We've come this far,' I replied, taking his hand and leading us to the English tour.

Stephen leaped aboard, causing the craft to sway and receiving a swift reprimand from our captain, a tall, gaunt, string-thin man with an unnaturally broad smile that did not convey happiness. His skin was such an unearthly pallor it seemed he had lived his entire life underground. He reminded me of albino spiders found on the ocean floor in the deepest depths. An underworld twin of our waiter Alessandro.

‘You will have to-a swim if you do that again,' the White Spider said in a thick accent to Stephen. Around us people chuckled and I fought to control my panic.

‘It looks inviting in,' replied Stephen. As I glanced further out the water did seem a more pleasant green, like new shoots in spring. The White Spider laughed, a grim, hollow sound like the brittle crack of ice. I held my breath as he started to row, gently and confidently, transporting us as if on a thread of silk across the smooth water and further into the darkness of the cave. I tried to imagine I wasn't on a boat.