As life filtered back, it seemed to Sheard that someone had not only split open his head, but had also emptied some of the riper contents of a dustbin into his mouth. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a curving ceiling which was so close that he thought it was descending to crush him. He whimpered as he struggled to move from wherever he was to wherever he could get to; his head struck something yielding. Despite the additional agony this promoted, he tilted his head up until he could see what he had touched. A pair of feet.
After a while, he managed to lift himself up on to one elbow. The feet belonged to a young woman who wore a pair of lime-green pants and occupied less than half the settee. Because she was on her back, he could see the mole just below her left breast. The mole seemed about to prompt a memory, but his confusion proved to be too great.
He looked to his right. Lying on the floor was a second young woman; she wore nothing. He could no longer support himself and collapsed. It might look like heaven, but it felt like hell. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. He regained consciousness and, despite the continuing agony in his head and vile taste in his mouth, became aware of an unusual warmth about his legs. He propped himself up, looked down at his naked body; from the middle of his thighs downwards, he was in sharp sunshine. He visually followed the shaft of light through a doorway and saw rails, a flagstaff, and brilliant blue sky.
The flagstaff unlocked his memory.
Lewis had been the first to spot Kirsty and Cara. They had been strolling along the pedestrianized front when they saw the girls watching a human statue. Lewis had started talking to them and after a short while, correctly judging Cara’s off-hand manner to be no more than the initial declaration of I’m-not-the-sort-of-girl-you-seem-to-take-me-for, had suggested they move to one of the cafés for a drink.
Kirsty had been friendly, Cara had maintained an air of boredom until Lewis had suggested that they have one more drink then take a trip across the bay in his motor cruiser. Cara had jeeringly called him a liar who didn’t have so much as a rowing boat, but had accompanied them along the eastern jetty and when Lewis had identified the Aventura as his, she had been the first to board.
They’d cast off and with Lewis at the helm had made their way out of harbour and into the bay. They’d sailed around for a while – getting to know each other – and had then anchored off the Hotel Parelona. In the saloon, Lewis had opened a cupboard and brought out two bottles of whisky – one nearly empty, the other full – four glasses, and a pack of cigarettes. Cara had cast off any suggestion of boredom and the evening had proceeded along accepted lines. Initial refusal, token resistance, much giggling. But then things had not gone according to plan …
Sheard suddenly knew he was going to be very ill. He slithered off the settee too quickly and had to grab for support. As his stomach looped the loop, he realized he’d no idea where the heads were. Necessity also being the mother of improvisation, he staggered out of the saloon on to the deck and leaned over the rails to be far sicker than he had thought possible. It was a while before he overcame his misery sufficiently to notice the anchored yacht a hundred metres across the glinting sea on which two men and one woman were laughing. He remembered he was naked.
As he returned to the saloon and slumped down on the end of the settee, Cara began to move, then sat up. She stared at him, eyes bloodshot, expression drawn, looking older than she claimed to be. ‘God, I feel awful!’
‘No worse than I do.’
‘How the bloody hell d’you know?’ She moved a hand to her stomach and was surprised to discover she was naked. ‘I’m going to be sick. Where’s the loo?’
‘I don’t know.’
She struggled to her feet, lost her balance and grabbed hold of Kirsty’s hip for support. Kirsty made a sound that was midway between a grunt and a cry. Cara made for the for’d doorway.
He lay back and closed his eyes.
Cara returned. ‘The loo’s up the corridor but I can’t get the bloody thing to work. It’s all handles and wheels. What do I do?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ve known dead dogs more useful than you.’ She slowly searched through the clothes that littered the deck and found hers. She pulled on panties, T-shirt, and skin-tight jeans. ‘I feel I’m being choked.’ She stumbled out on deck, grabbed the rails, and breathed heavily.
‘What’s happening?’
Kirsty’s voice so startled him that he turned sharply; pain surged through his head. ‘She needed more air.’
‘It wouldn’t do you any harm from the look of you. I said not to drink so much.’
‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.
‘If it wasn’t the booze made it impossible, what was it?’
‘What was what?’
She giggled.
Only a feeling of intense lethargy prevented his telling her how stupid her giggling sounded.
Cara returned to the saloon, tottered over to the starboard settee and collapsed on to it. ‘I swear to God, not another drop if I live to be a hundred and fifty.’
‘I told you, you were all drinking too much,’ Kirsty said sanctimoniously.
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose Neil’s even worse than you two?’
‘I bloody hope so.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Who cares?’
‘We’d better find him so he can take us back.’
‘You find him if you’re in such a hurry.’
Kirsty climbed off the settee, picked up her clothes from the deck and got dressed. She went for’d, soon to return. ‘He’s not inside so he must be outside.’
They said nothing.
She went aft and out on deck and they could hear her climb up to the flying bridge. When she came back, she said, worry edging her voice, ‘He’s not anywhere.’
Sheard opened his eyes. ‘He’s got to be.’
‘Then you find him.’ She came up to the settee. ‘Move.’
‘Why?’
She grabbed him and pulled. Cursing, he put his feet to the deck and stood. The effort threatened to bring fresh disaster, but by repeatedly swallowing heavily, he was able to persuade his stomach not to revolt a second time. He dressed.
He checked the wheelhouse, heads, for’d locker and flying bridge. Back in the saloon, he said: ‘You’re right.’ He sat.
‘Then what’s happened to him?’
‘Stop getting so excited,’ Cara snapped. ‘He’s gone ashore.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wanted to.’
‘How’d he get there?’
‘If he’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he walked.’
‘Skinny and with all the people from the ritzy hotel and on the other boats watching?’
‘He’d love it … Anyways, how d’you know he was starkers?’
‘His clothes are still on the floor.’ She pointed.
Lying about the deck were a shirt, pants, jeans and sandals.
‘He can’t have gone ashore without his clothes,’ Kirsty said.
‘If he ain’t on the boat, he must have done.’
‘Why would he do a thing like that?’
‘How would I know? Jeeze, you’re making my head ten times worse. Can’t you shut up?’
‘Suppose he fell overboard? This could be terribly serious. Don’t you understand?’
‘Yes. You’re being a bloody pain.’
‘If he’s missing, we’ve got to tell someone.’
‘I’m not stopping you.’
Kirsty turned to face Sheard. ‘Get us back.’
‘Look, if we…’
‘Move,’ she shouted.
Anything for a quiet life. He stood and wished he had not.