28 – The Stowaway’s Secret

In 2009 I took a shot at writing a children’s mystery of the sort I grew up on (Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, The Hardy Boys, etc). Revisiting it, I was as much in thrall to J.D. Salinger as to Carolyn Keene. It remains unfinished but I’m open to offers 😉

Intro

Benjamin Riddle-Smith wasn’t happy. His summer had started badly, and right now it was sunk deep in the doldrums. I feel like this stupid yacht, he thought, staring across the deck from his lounge chair, stuck here boiling under the sun and never getting anywhere. Benjamin’s face folded down into a deep frown as he remembered the events of the final few days of school, which had cost him his freedom this summer.

Despite their looming eleven-plus exams he and his best friend Tod had been having a jolly time. They were both sport mad, and spent every spare moment climbing, swimming, and playing rugby or tennis. That wasn’t a problem until their housemaster decided on long, boring mandatory study sessions in preparation for their eleven-pluses.

Tod and Benjamin had never seen eye to eye with the headmaster on the subject of studying versus sport, so they shouldn’t have really been surprised when he took a dim view of them sneaking out to play games during library hour. The more Mr. Hawkins watched them, the harder they tried to get around his rules, until one night they executed a daring free climb right up the stone and ivy façade of Ashford House.

Worst of all, they made it cleanly to the second floor, and were only feet from the safety of their shared room when their prank was discovered. They were at the room next door, to be precise, and Thomas Smyth’s shriek of surprise as they tumbled through his open window had woken most of the corridor. Mr. Hawkins would have dearly loved to see the two mischief makers gone for good. But luckily Benjamin’s father Alfred Riddle was an extremely wealthy and persuasive man, and Tod’s nearest relative was his elderly uncle – a close friend of the queen’s.

There had been a lot of fuss about it, but in the end the real punishment didn’t come from grumpy Mr. Hawkins but from Benjamin’s parents who agreed that instead of spending the summer with his mother in Switzerland he would spend it with his father on his yacht, the Icarus. It was a huge, triple deck floating palace, packed with gadgets, and Benjamin enjoyed spending the occasional weekend there. But eight hot weeks? No thanks! Ben loved climbing more than anything. Now, after months of waiting for summer in the Swiss Alps, where he could climb every single day, he couldn’t believe he was stuck baking slowly on deck.

He stood up and shuffled over to the edge of the pool. The water was perfectly still. Peeling off his tee shirt he dove into the pool and started swimming lengths. It wasn’t as much fun as climbing, but he’d been swimming since before he could walk and he liked the steady rhythm of his arms and legs. Plus, his little sister Jasmin couldn’t keep up with him, so the swimming pool was about the only place he could get a minute’s peace.

Chapter One

It never lasted long though. No sooner had Ben gotten back to his cabin, changed, and settled down to tackle the next level of Prince Of Persia than she came running. “Benjamin! Bennnn-ja-miiiin!” Her high-pitched voice carried through the corridors and portholes till it bored right through the door. Benjamin was squinting in concentration, but his thumb slipped and his lifeline fell into the red. With a grunt of irritation he put down his PSP. There wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until he answered Jasmin’s piercing call.

“What?!” he shouted, pulling open his cabin door with a bang, “I’m down here. What is it?” A minute later his seven-year-old sister came flying down the passageway, bare feet slapping like wet towels against the polished surface.

“Daddy says you’re to come up to the third deck, aft, as soon as possible. She-hike Sullyman is visiting and Daddy wants you to come greet him.”

Benjamin let out a very deep sigh. Along with Jasmin he spent his summer holidays with his father. Being called to meet and greet an assortment of politicians, business moguls, and celebrities was inevitable. Since Father had bought Icarus there had been a lot more visitors like Sheik Suliman.

“Honestly,” he said, thinking out loud. “You’d think the Sheik would have seen enough yachts – what with having three of his own – that he wouldn’t need to come and snoop around ours.”

“Come on Benj,” Jasmin whined. “Daddy told me to tell you to hurry up!”

“Ok, ok,” he replied, “just a second.” He saved his game, switched off the PSP, then locked the door and pocketed the key before following the slap-slap-slap of his sister’s footsteps.

19 – Ibiza Noir Chapter 1

The following is an excerpt from the first chapter of my novel Ibiza Noir. Available here.

Photo by Aaron Barnaby on Unsplash

Lou ducked instinctively as a jet lumbered through the syrupy air, landing gear down, scarred white belly near enough to touch. As he did, an upward-flying elbow glanced off his chin. He straightened and put a hand to his jaw as a thicket of tattooed arms rose to hail the passing plane. Whoooo! Vamos! Ibiiiizaaaa! Exhaust caught in Lou’s throat as he tried to join the cheer. Spluttering, he set down his canvas bag and wiped his eyes.

He had been standing on the same patch of gravel for over an hour, listening to a single bass note thunder from a small white building next-door to a vegetable patch. “Best party on the island,” the bartender told him the night before. “The last great day rave. Full of nutters that’d put Bedlam in its heyday to shame. Pure madness, mate, if that’s your thing.”

Lou stared at the cerulean sky and shivered with the heat. He didn’t know if this was his thing, but he was willing to try. The bus from Ibiza Town didn’t stop outside the club, though. It took him almost an hour to walk back to join the restless horde of party-kids waiting to be admitted to this inconspicuous techno temple.

Heat waves shimmered above the dirt parking lot and bolts of fierce light reflected from the cars. Were tattoos a form of heat-proofing? Lou wondered. Sweat was running off him like snow-melt but everyone else looked perversely cool. His initial sense of comfortable anonymity was gone. He was too tall, too dark – even in a crowd of Spanish and Italians – and above all too plain. Everywhere he looked were pierced lips, tongues, eyebrows, and cheekbones. Jewels glittered in girls’ cleavage and accented their wrists. Men in denim cut-offs and skin-tight tees flaunted bulging muscles. Scraps of cloth stretched over silicone globes on the chests of women who would otherwise pass for underfed boys. The ubiquitous sunglasses with enormous, bug-eye lenses made him feel like he was trapped in a swarm of colourful flies.

Some people were dancing in place, kicking up puffs of dust. He had a feeling they would continue, music or not. Others alternated gulps of neat whiskey and warm coke from the bottle. Nobody made any effort to conceal the wraps passing from hand to hand, or the mounds of powder being inhaled off credit cards and hotel keys. The girl beside him was so pale she looked albino but her arm was solid black from shoulder to elbow apart from an artful smattering of stars. It was the first negative tattoo he had seen. He’d also never seen a hoop as big as the one hanging from her septum. Her boyfriend had silver studs through his cheeks; his left calf and right arm were covered in tribal ink.

Photo: Cila Warncke

Lou shaded his face with his hands, wishing he had water, or a hat. The heat was making him light-headed. How much longer can it be? A long horn-blast sounded, as if in answer to his question. The bodies around him kept moving, eyes obscured, heads tilted up to the sun or down to the ground. Only Lou looked around to see green-and-white jeeps marked “Guardia Civil” bearing down like a fighter squadron. Officers in forest green jumpsuits and caps leapt out, shouting in Spanish. They wore white latex gloves and worked methodically, checking IDs, patting pockets, running hands up legs and down arms, pulling people aside as they found stashes of pills and powder.

Six years in the navy had taught Lou how to deal with this type of authority: keep your eyes down, follow orders,don’t give them a reason to notice you. He reached inside his bag. Time stopped. His heart beat on his ribs, looking for a way out. Sidling backwards, he found an empty patch of ground and dropped to his knees. Inshallah, let it be here. Subtly as he could, Lou groped through his seaman’s bag, feeling neatly folded tee-shirts, combat trousers, a frayed khaki jumper. He slid his fingers inside the pockets of a waterproof and fumbled with his shaving kit, feeling a disposable razor, a bar of soap wrapped in a rag, and assorted coins, but no passport or wallet.

Someone shouted as he walked away but Lou didn’t look back. Without a passport he couldn’t get in the club, or on a plane; he couldn’t even book a hotel room.

There was an abandoned newspaper on the bus shelter bench. Leafing through, Lou stopped on a back page. He knew enough Spanish to read the headline: 14 migrants drown when boat sinks off Alicante. A photo showed bodies laid out like a row of parcels. One face was visible: boyish, with dark, curly hair, a Roman nose, and high cheekbones. Lou ran a hand over his regulation military cut. It was growing fast, the natural curl coming back. He looked at the picture again. Apprehension balled his stomach like a fist. Normally if you lost your passport you went to the police. But the rules were different when you were a young Muslim man. He didn’t look like someone they would help. He looked like someone they might let die.

A bus arrived and halted with a huff of pneumatic brakes. Lou found an empty seat amidst a group of bongo-toting hippies and wedged his bag between his feet. Not that it mattered now. Where did it happen? Trundling along the motorway past billboards advertising “Cream @ Amnesia”, “Privilege: The World’s Biggest Club”, and “Pacha Ibiza” he mentally retraced his steps. The marina. A walk through town. Beer in some basement dive bar. Giving coins to a wandering violinist. Returning to the harbour and ascending to the walled old town. Following a narrow road on the seaward side till he reached a cluster of fragrant pines. Lying beneath the trees catching glimpses of starlight between breeze-blown branches.

He had woken with the sun, which rose from the sea beyond the city. Birds twittered over the softer whirr of insects. After brushing off the pine needles he shouldered his bag and walked the few minutes to Plaça del Parc where he breakfasted on black coffee and a buttered baguette. Then he caught a bus to San An and walked the beach all the way to the end of Sunset Strip. His next stop was an internet café: “Merde.” Someone must have been watching as he took out his wallet and the plastic folder with his passport, discharge papers and other documents. He didn’t remember the name of the place, only the smell of sweat and stale smoke; he probably wouldn’t even recognise it.

Photo: Cila Warncke