In the morning a chill wind was gusting up out of the bay. It tinkered with the leaves and wheezed through the cracks. The sky was leaden and tattered.
‘We’re nearly out of smokes,’ Sykes said. He was propped up in bed, the ashtray balanced on his chest.
‘Maybe we could take a walk over to the village,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of a hike but we need some food too. And some booze.’
‘It looks a bit wild out there, can’t we get a taxi or something?’
‘No phone. And anyway, I think there’s only one cab on the island. With a bit of luck we might be able to hitch a ride up on the main road.’
We bundled up in layers of sweatshirts and I found an old fishing mac and a pink plastic raincoat that must have belonged to Lizzie’s mother. Sykes unearthed a frayed straw hat, which he tied under his chin with a scarf, and a floral umbrella.
‘The Full Catastrophe,’ he grinned, striking a pose in the doorway. And indeed, with our shopping baskets, we did look like a couple of old bag-ladies. ‘Come on daughter,’ said Sykes, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’
We made our way up to the track, past the wild, overgrown hydrangeas. Their last yellowed bouquets tossed in the wind that thrashed up the valley from the sea. Inside the bush everything was in motion. The kanukas swayed and moaned. The leaves on the bushes quivered as though there was something swarming through the undergrowth. Sykes stumbled and tripped over a fallen limb.
‘Shit,’ he hissed. ‘If this is country life you can shove it. I’ve served my time as a land girl, remember? How much further?’
His temper worsened as the incline of the track increased. By the time we reached the gravel road that ran along the top of the ridge, he was tight lipped and sullen. He strode ahead while I stopped to catch my breath, his raincoat billowing.
There was the sound of a car in the distance. Sykes stopped in the middle of the road and, as it approached, raised up his arms. Feebly, I stuck out a thumb. The vehicle was an old van. It had been painted black and emblazoned with gold and silver suns and moons and the signs of the zodiac. All the windows were painted over. Hippies, I thought. There were three people in the front seat. A man and two women. One of the women had a turban of scarves knotted around her head, elaborate silver earrings that reminded me of those that Sykes had thrown into the bush, and heavy, theatrical eye makeup. The other was asleep with her head thrown back and her mouth open. She looked drugged.
‘You’ll have to get in the back,’ said the driver, a raddled looking man with long grey hair and gaps in his teeth. We clambered into the back of the van onto a pile of cushions. It reeked of patchouli and marijuana. Slowly my eyes acclimatised to the gloom and I realised there was somebody else in the van. He was half reclining, sunk in the cushions with his back to the curtain which separated us from the front seat. The walls of the cabin were draped in purple velvet. He struck a match and lit a candle that was jammed into the neck of a bottle on a low table. The flame guttered as the van jumped out of a pothole and I thought to myself, if that bottle tips over we’re done for.
‘Howdy,’ said Sykes. The man looked at him and then at me. He didn’t reply. Then he took a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket, lit it and passed it to Sykes. Sykes took a hungry drag and then another and passed the joint to me. I shook my head. I could feel something disintegrating and something else evolving. I wanted to stay clear. I longed for this trip to be completed and for me and Sykes to be back in the beach-house, safe from the gathering storm.
At first glance the man seemed to have extremely short hair, but when he turned his head I saw that it was drawn back in a tight pigtail. He had high, Asiatic cheek bones and unblinking green eyes. His loose muslin shirt had fallen open revealing his smooth brown chest.. There was a silver ring in one of his nipples.
We sat in silence as the old van jolted over the rough road, the gravel ricocheting under the floor. The man didn’t take his eyes off Sykes as they passed the joint back and forth. Then the gravel gave way to tar-seal and I knew that we must be nearing the village.
Finally, we rattled to a halt and the door slid open. It was starting to rain, huge plummeting drops that suddenly multiplied into a torrent. I climbed out of the van and put up the umbrella, waiting for Sykes.
‘You go ahead,’ he said, ‘I’ll catch you up when it eases off.’
‘How about we meet in the wine bar,’ the driver said. ‘Then, if you like, we’ll give you a lift back. It’s just across the road from the store. You can’t miss it.’
I raced around the aisles of the shop, scooping up an armload of provisions, a frozen chicken, potatoes, coffee, cigarettes, and then splashed across the road to the liquor store for a bottle of vodka and a cask of red wine. I couldn’t negotiate both the shopping and the umbrella and by the time I reached the wine bar I was drenched.
The wine bar was on the second floor, overlooking the ocean. The windows were streaming and the waves were hurtling in out of the mist, sending up curtains of spume as they struck the rocks below. The bar was dim and almost empty; the hippies were sitting at the far corner with their backs to the glass. There was a carafe of white wine on the table. The driver was rolling a cigarette; the turbaned woman was shuffling a pack of cards. The other woman was hunched over her wine glass, twisting it with both hands as though she was trying to screw it into the table. The man signalled for me to join them. I ordered another carafe.
‘Where’s Sykes?’ I asked.
‘He went off with our mate,’ said the man. He grinned, exposing his ravaged teeth. ‘They’ve gone to score. Shouldn’t be long. Cheers, man.’
‘Would you like me to do your cards while we wait?’ said the woman with the scarves wound around her head. ‘It’s only five bucks for a full reading.’ She was laying out the tarot cards on the table. The other woman was staring at me, then she started to laugh, a low dry laugh, as though something was smouldering in her throat.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No thanks.’ The future seemed to be capsizing and I was trapped, unable to save myself. I didn’t want to hear about it. I looked anxiously at the door.
‘Don’t worry man. He won’t be long. Rosie’ll take care of him.’ The hippy refilled my glass.