The Lost Swimmer (23 page)

We drew away from the tour behind, whose guide was singing
O Sole Mio
in a rich tenor, serenading his passengers. His voice bounced around, magnifying. I kept reminding myself I was in a cave, not in the middle of the ocean. It didn't make me feel better.

‘I am-a Charon,' the Spider announced, his voice echoing off the smooth limestone walls, ‘and if you wanna return from your trip today, you give me a coin. Or many coin.' The group dutifully laughed. ‘Anyone who is-a bankrupt must wait forever there.' He stopped dramatically and pointed to a thin rocky ledge. Stephen froze.

‘It's okay, honey,' I whispered. ‘I'm doing fine.' I stroked his arm, silently fighting the impulse to scream in the dark enclosed space.

‘You are a beautiful woman,' the Spider said suddenly to me. I looked up into his pale grey eyes with alarm. ‘You will-a be my princess.' Stephen put his arm around me and Charon grinned, a cruel, lopsided smile splitting his face. ‘Look-a!' he cried and plucked his oar from the sea. A thousand tiny emeralds, an intensely vivid green, cascaded with the richness of iridescent silk. They trailed into the water that now gleamed a clear, pristine emerald. ‘See-a what I give you, my darling?' He dipped his oar and brought forth more brilliant jewels. Around us people thrust out their hands to catch the droplets, mesmerised. Even I was taken by the illusion.

‘I'm a rich-a man.' The Spider flipped his oar a third time and the tiny gems distracted me as they tumbled merrily through the black until they merged with the glowing water. These sparkling treasures – shining so briefly and then gone – struck me as a microcosm of civilisation's quest for wealth. A mortal could hang on to an emerald no longer than this droplet existed, its fall to the sea as inevitable as death.

‘Beyond-a here lies Erebus,' Charon continued, ‘where lives the Furies. They hear-a complaints. Have you done wrong in the world above?' Charon fixed Stephen with his pale stare. ‘They will punish you, sir.' He poked Stephen with his foot and Stephen flinched. ‘They will-a chase you relentlessly, with their snakes-a for hair, wings of bats and devil eyes. Victims die. Horribly, pain-a-fully.'

Stephen's jaw tensed.

‘It's just an act. Don't let him get to you,' I whispered.

‘Still,' Stephen squeezed my shoulder.

‘Maybe you are a guilty man! A fool!' roared Charon.

‘Leave off,' said Stephen forcefully. ‘Enough, Charon. How was this grotto formed, anyway? Why's it so green?'

‘Yes, we'd love to know that,' said an American lady sitting in the stern.

‘Me too,' said another.

‘There's an underwater opening that allows-a this light,' said Charon, clearly bored with the change of topic. ‘Sinner!' he denounced, pointing at Stephen.

‘Leave him alone,' said the lady.

‘Silenzio!' boomed Charon.

‘He's unhinged,' whispered Stephen hotly in my ear and the hair on my arms stood on end.

‘Do good in the world, sir, or you may-a be back here for life!'

‘Yeah, right, mate,' said a man behind us. ‘How big is this grotto?'

‘You have eyes, look-a,' snapped Charon and turned the boat abruptly.

‘Thank goodness we're heading back,' I whispered to Stephen. ‘I'm feeling trapped.'

‘Silenzio! Or I'll drop-a you in the water!' Charon glared at me and Stephen stood abruptly. The boat rocked wildly and everyone gasped. A boatman on another tour stopped his singing and called, ‘Bene?'

I pulled Stephen back down. There was a frightened silence as Charon rowed us smoothly, staring at Stephen. ‘A guilty man,' he whispered in a hiss of stale air. Stephen looked away as the man behind us called out angrily, ‘Aren't you going to point out formations in the cave? You know, Garibaldi on horseback, that sort of thing?'

Charon glowered. ‘I am an artist. I read-a the future.' Reluctantly he shone his torch on a formation that looked like a horse and cloaked rider. ‘George Washington,' he said flatly. ‘Thank-a-you for your company today.' He rowed swiftly to the ledge, where we alighted. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope-a you enjoyed your tour to the Underworld.' He held out his hand for tips. Not many people obliged. To my surprise Stephen passed him a twenty-euro note.

Charon smiled cockily. ‘Trying to tell-a me you are not guilty, sir? Charon cannot be bribed.' But he pocketed the money swiftly and turned to help an elderly woman off the boat.

‘Why on earth did you tip him?' I asked as we emerged into the delicious sunlight, and warm air brushed over us like a reassuring blanket.

‘Everyone has to make a living.'

‘But he mocked you!'

‘I'm made of sterner stuff.' Stephen laughed unconvincingly.

‘It was a terrible tour. I'm so sorry I chose it.'

‘You're not to blame. We just got the wrong guide. Luck of the draw. Everything's luck of the draw, Bec. Shall we have lunch? I need to line my stomach after that.'

•  •  •

Cool, white wine calmed our nerves as we gazed from our balcony towards the misty silhouette of Capri. Stephen was extremely attentive, quizzing me about my keynote address as we ate salad fresh from the hillside, aromatic tomatoes, orange and capsicum dancing on our tastebuds. He encouraged me to air areas I thought might be weak, and offered his ideas. I felt comforted that he was so much better.

I opened my computer and made the changes we'd discussed, and then read my paper aloud, keenly watching Stephen's response. At the end, he was fulsome in his praise.

‘Really? You don't think it needs more refining?'

‘It's absolutely ready.' He kissed me tenderly on the forehead. ‘I wish mine was half as good.'

The heat of the afternoon was upon us and we lay down on the bed. The crisp sheets soothed my tired limbs and Stephen rolled close, his breath caressing my skin as he fell into a light sleep. I started to drift off, pleased to stop my mind from worrying about news from Burton, and I promised myself that later, when I'd had an update, I would tell Stephen everything.

As the warmth rose in the stillness, Stephen lapped an arm across me.

‘I love you,' he said, kissing me tenderly on the lips. I tried to wake and respond, but the wine was strong; I couldn't lift my head.

I love you too, so much
, I thought as my dreams carried me far away.

By the time I woke an hour later, Stephen was not in the bed. I yawned, momentarily sprawling in comfort then grabbed my phone and checked my messages. Nothing from Burton. I flicked through emails from work, replying to a few.

Robert and Rachel had sent messages hoping I was having a good time. Things in the department were getting worse and there were rumours that a wave of forced redundancies was about to hit.

I panicked and phoned Burton. I'd be the first one out if I didn't find the answer to the fraud.

‘Can't really talk, Bec,' he whispered. ‘We're at the archive. I'll phone you.' He hung up abruptly.

Someone was trying to destroy me. But why? And who? The more inexplicable the activity in Athens became, the more I began to wonder whether I even knew the perpetrators. Academics weren't known for their espionage skills. Well, at least not at Coastal in this day and age. It was possible I was a random target of organised crime.

The air in the room was stifling as I slipped into a sleeveless cotton sundress. I pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge, filled a glass with ice, and carried them down the mountain to a refreshing glade that looked out to the Tyrrhenian Sea, cobalt blue now, rich and deep. As I drank the sweet, cold juice I craned my neck to see the beach below, where I assumed Stephen was swimming. I had only a partial view: the sea was glass calm; the white buoys bobbed gently, tiny specks. The afternoon was so hot the birds had stopped singing. I debated whether to send an email to DiStasio enquiring how things were going. I knew she'd see that as unprofessional.

I read a book instead, one I'd picked up at Naples airport about the lost civilisation of Pompeii. I'd meant to look at it before we went, but at least now it held more immediacy. I became quickly absorbed.

Cicadas shrieked in the forest above, and after a while my eyelids grew too heavy to prop open.

By the time I wrenched myself awake it was growing dark, so I hurried back to the room.

‘So sorry, you must be starving!' I called into the gloom.

In the silence there was no trace of Stephen. I glanced around for his wet bathers, expecting to see them hanging off the balcony rail. A thick mist, an ethereal pale blue, had settled over the sea. But the balcony was empty.

I dressed quickly for dinner, hurrying to join Stephen in the restaurant. I waited for the lift but it didn't arrive, so I went outside and climbed the steps. I was still putting on my lipstick as I crested the hill and walked onto the patio full of noisy diners beneath the cheerful fifties fairy lights – I couldn't see Stephen among them. I approached Alessandro, the only staff member in sight. His chilly reply was unequivocal. ‘Not tonight, signora. He has not been here tonight.'

I went down to reception and rang the bell. No one appeared, but I did see a pile of German and Russian passports sitting unattended. I rang the bell again, its tinkle echoing thinly against the walls.

‘Marco? Adriana?' I called. Finally Adriana appeared, a little dishevelled. ‘So sorry, my dear. Can I help you?'

‘I can't find Stephen. Have you seen him?'

‘No. You were together?'

‘I think he went swimming. There's nowhere else he could have gone.'

‘Have you checked down at the beach?'

‘How stupid of me. No. But wouldn't it be late for him to still be there?'

‘It's a beautiful night.' Adriana shrugged. ‘We have the lights on. Marco was thinking of going down later with his friends.'

‘Oh, I see.' I wasn't convinced.

Adriana picked up the telephone and spoke rapidly in Italian. Moments later Marco appeared, dressed from top to toe in white. He'd had his hair cut, short and stylish at the sides, longer on top. It made him look even younger and more handsome.

‘I've just come back from Napoli. I had business. So, you can't find Stephen?'

‘I'm going to look at the beach. He was sick this morning. Do you think he might have got into trouble?'

‘I'll come with you.' Marco extracted a heavy torch from behind the counter. ‘Come,' he said and took me through a series of rooms to a private staircase that led down onto the mountainside. ‘So, Stephen was unwell?'

‘Early on. But he felt better later. He thought perhaps it was something he ate.'

‘But you ate here.' Marco was concerned.

‘It was probably just a slight virus. I've been fine.'

‘No one else was ill. What did he eat?'

‘The squid. So did I, and I'm okay.'

Marco nodded, relieved. ‘My friends arrived, I think, perhaps while I was out? On a hot night they hurry to the sea to cool themselves. Stephen's no doubt chatting and lost track of time. Have you tried phoning him?'

‘I'm not thinking at all, am I?' I pulled out my phone and dialled but it went straight through to his voicemail.

Bile rose as my lips went dry. It seemed so unlikely that Stephen wouldn't come back as dusk fell, knowing I'd be waiting to eat. I tried not to give in to the panic that was taking over my body, thinking of my father engulfed by waves. The sea today was calm. Stephen had eaten lunch, he'd been fine.
I mustn't worry
, I chanted internally all the while fearing the worst. Another loved one lost to the ocean.

Stephen's a strong swimmer. Stephen's fit and clever. Stephen would never go anywhere dangerous. Whatever stomach bug he'd had overnight was out of his system. He really had been healthy at lunch.

I remembered the blowhole in action the first day we saw the private beach and my body wrenched. Marco turned. ‘We'll hurry. It will be all right, I promise,' he purred in his rich, warm voice.

A plum dropped heavily onto the path behind us and I started. Marco grabbed my hand and led me on.

‘No one has ever drowned here. It will be okay.'

If I lost another, if I couldn't save him, I didn't know how I would survive. Stephen loved me – he'd told me so just this afternoon. An emotion so strong it almost tore me apart ripped through and tears sprang into my eyes.

Marco looked at me, alarmed.

‘Sorry,' I muttered. ‘It's just the sea . . .' My voice trailed off in a sob. I breathed in deeply and angrily brushed away the tears that were salty and hot and stinging my eyes.

We scrambled down the hill, faster, Marco caught up in my panic as I now led the way. Pebbles rolled noisily underfoot, I could see only a blur as the tears and sweat fogged my vision. An overhanging branch tore at my face and blood gushed out. Marco stopped in concern.

‘It's okay, keep going,' I barked. Marco pulled out a linen handkerchief and dabbed my blood. I grabbed the handkerchief and applied it tightly to the wound. ‘Marco, I can't hear anyone talking, can you?'

‘We wouldn't necessarily expect to, we're still too far away.' He looked worried, though, and I was sure he wasn't telling the truth. We were almost at the bottom of the path. A plum fell on to me, staining my shirt purple as the rocky ledge came into view and I ran flat out.

‘Stephen?' I roared at the top of my lungs. ‘Stephen?' I cast my eyes in every direction: the sea, flat, calm, was devoid of people; the rocky ledge was empty. There was no sign of him – or any clothes or towel.

‘Stephen?' I called again, even louder. The quiet hush of the Tyrrhenian Sea answered, sighing against the cliffs.

We hurried to the tables and chairs under the thatched roof. Deserted.

‘Where are your friends?'

‘They mustn't have arrived yet,' said Marco quietly. He walked back to the rusty ladder that led to the water and stood stock-still, squinting out to sea.