Big Fish

Chapter Twenty: Ill Met By Moon Light

  “The past US army involvement in the islands is still only too apparent today.”

  • • •

  Mike was leaving too.

  “...to a retreat up in the hills.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Whereabouts?” Stuart asked.

  “A place called Chez Ato. It’s in the guidebook.”

  Stuart had heard of the place. “There’s a track to it half way between here and Viatape, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” admitted Mike. “It’s not far away, but...” he left the rest of the explanation unfinished.

  “Why so suddenly? I thought you were going to stick around.”

  “No, I think it’s time to move on. It’s like Ian said...”

  “Ian?”

  “Yes, I talked to him quite a bit just before he left. He was quite philosophical. Hadn’t taken him for that at all. Thought the guy was just an air-brain.”

  “Ian?” Stuart queried again.

  “Yes, he said that we all had to put this incident behind us. He said it was an opportunity to... what was his word? Reinvent ourselves. Do you know what the little fellow wanted to do?”

  “I have no idea,” admitted Stuart, mystified.

  “Said he had always wanted to be a travel writer. You know, a journalist, or something. He said that this experience had galvanised him to really try to make something of his life, not just waste it in some boring, shit-hole office job, like he had been doing.”

  “I’m amazed,” said Stuart, “I was talking to him the evening before he left and he never said anything of the kind to me.”

  Mike ignored the comment and continued with his own train of thought, “It’s time I did the same.”

  “Be a journalist?” asked Stuart, sarcastically.

  “No, move on. Staying on here is just clinging on to the past. We can’t change things. None of us can. We can’t bring Stefan back. So, we just have to move on.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It can be, besides...”

  “What?” Stuart recognised the note of tension in Mike’s voice. It was the same hint of anxiety that he had exhibited the morning that he had shown Stuart the tyre tracks on the beach.

  “There has been another note.”

  “From the cheese-thief? I know, Norbert...”

  “No, another one. It came this lunchtime, while you were out. That was when it was discovered anyway.”

  “The same accusations?”

  “No,” elaborated Mike, “this time he said he wants to meet.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “I only wish that I were.”

  “Where? Who?” Stuart blustered, “I mean, does he want to see all of us?”

  “Norbert has volunteered to meet him alone.”

  Stuart was visibly relieved, “Where are they planning to meet? I presume that he is not coming here?”

  “No. Apparently he suggested the coastal defence platform just past the public beach, at eight o’clock this evening, I think.”

  “I don’t know it,” said Stuart, adding as an afterthought, “It will be dark by then.”

  “I imagine that he has not overlooked that fact,” said Mike.

  “And has he asked for money?”

  “Not yet. But I think it is more than likely. He is clever, this man. He obviously doesn’t want to have any evidence of his blackmail down in writing.”

  Stuart’s mind had been thinking at tangents. He asked, unexpectedly, “And you trust Norbert?”

  Mike looked quizzical, as though he had never entertained doubts, “Of course, why shouldn’t I?”

  “And yet you are leaving, all the same.”

  Mike made no attempt to maintain his previously well-cultivated image of nonchalant machismo, “I’m not proud of myself. I don’t generally like to run away from a fight, but this...” He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t see any other alternative.”

  “And the rest of us?”

  “What rest?” Mike was more belligerent now, “You talk as though we are all joined at the hip. There is only you, Norbert and Corrie left. Take my advice, leave too. Put this episode behind you. It’s for the best.”

  • • •

  Stuart remembered when he had been interested in the Second World War. He imagined that all schoolboys must be at some time or other. It was a phase you go through, like dinosaurs, or skateboarding. At one point in time he would have been able to name the main generals at Stalingrad, to recall the dates of the most important battles in the Desert War, to be able to distinguish a T-34/76 battle tank from a T-34/85 from no more evidence than the briefest glimpse of turret ring. He was quite relieved that this was all forgotten knowledge to him now. Like so much else he had learned. Even back then, though, he had very limited knowledge of the Pacific War. He was not interested in the Americans’ skirmish with the Japanese. Europe had been where the action was happening. Such was the egocentric naïvety of the child - the ultimate agnostic - nothing exists outside the limit of your experience. How different he was now: the global citizen. Although, he had to confess that his knowledge of the Pacific War was no more extensive now than it had been in his youth.

  So, the defence guns on Bora Bora had come as something of a surprise to him. Jenny had taken him on a minor detour during their round-the-island cycle ride, to see the impressive emplacement at Tuivahora Point. He remembered her words as she had quoted from the guidebook she had borrowed for the excursion. “Over four thousand US servicemen were stationed on Bora Bora - or Bobcat as it had been code-named - including a seaplane squadron, a naval construction detachment, and crews for anti-aircraft and artillery guns. There were four major coastal defence gun batteries on the island, three of which still remain largely intact today, and of which, the one at Tuivahora Point is the most spectacular.”

  Looking out over the calm, turquoise-blue lagoon to where the white crested waves were breaking over the exposed reef at Motu Tofari, Stuart could not help but think the servicemen who had been stationed here were perhaps the fortunate ones. “Did they see much action?” Stuart had asked Jenny.

  “Only with the local women,” Jenny had replied with a grin. Reading from the book, she had continued, “The guns on Bora Bora were of limited tactical value and were rendered redundant after the Battle of Midway.”

  Jenny. Where was she now? Perhaps it was a question that he could find an answer to tonight.

  In his imagination, Stuart pictured the venue for this evening’s proposed rendezvous between Norbert and the cheese-thief to be similar to the gun emplacement he had already visited. After Mike had departed, Stuart had looked up the location on his map. He was surprised how close it was to Chez Pauline; barely a few hundred yards along the road, a short distance up on the hillside, accessible from a path leading from the Hotel Matira. It sounded easy enough to find. He did not know how he had never noticed it before. Of course, it might be more difficult to locate in the darkness, but there was a good chance that there would be a moon to illuminate his progress for some of the way. Not for one moment did he consider telling Norbert about his intention of gate-crashing the meeting. In all truth, he had no desire - or intention - of coming face-to-face with the mysterious message-writing Pimpernel, particularly in an unfamiliar environment and on terms evidently chosen to best advantage him. He was more interested to eavesdrop on the clandestine conversation unobserved, to make sure that Norbert reported back the substance of it faithfully, even presuming that he showed up at all. Mike might trust the Swiss man, Jenny might have had faith in the close-knit couple, but Stuart needed proof. And then some.

  It is surprising how dark the night can be, away from any artificial lights. It is also surprising how easy it is to get disorientated even in the smallest of forests. Combine these two facts together and it should come as no surprise to discover how scary
it is being lost in the woods in the dark. Stuart was beginning to regret ever starting out on his nocturnal excursion. He was already cut from several wicked branches, which had slashed his unprotected flesh like whips, and he could feel the prickly mulch of plant debris seeping into his sandals, making it increasingly uncomfortable to walk. He had given up any pretence of a stealthy, quiet approach long ago and was now blundering on blindly and noisily, fixed on some instinctive pre-set co-ordinates towards his target rendezvous. He must have over-shot by now. It seemed as though he had been walking for hours. He had been OK as far as the hotel, it had been the path since then which had been his downfall. It had started off well enough, but then, either he had taken a wrong-turn, or the path had petered out, whichever, he now found himself in a region of low scrub and dense trees, inhospitable environment to any but the most intrepid of jungle explorers. Thwack! Just when he thought that he might be emerging into a slight clearing, another flexible branch, sprung like a headmaster’s disciplining cane, caught him a smack square across the face, sending his glasses into an orbit away from him. Stuart heard the precious items land relatively close by at his feet and knelt down, feeling around at his ankles, cautious not to tread on the delicate frames. The case for contact lenses part three: although he was thankful that the spectacles had absorbed the worst of the blow from the tree and protected his eyes from potential damage. He was on his hands and knees when he heard the sound of a footfall. It was unmistakable. Not quite the classic dry crack of a breaking twig, but a padded crunch of someone attempting - and failing - to move silently. Stuart tried to assess the direction of the sound. It had been close, he knew that much, but it had happened so quickly, and had not been repeated, that he could not decipher the signals his senses were relaying to him. On the ground, he was relieved to feel the cool, smooth surface of glass beneath his fingers. The return of his spectacles did not greatly add to his vision in the near total darkness, but somehow they made him feel less vulnerable. Stuart held his breath, trying not to make a sound. He wondered if the wood’s other occupant was doing exactly the same. There was no noise at all. Not the sound of the wind through the high branches; not the distant lapping of the waves on the beach. Even the nearby hotel was silent. It was as though the whole world was momentarily on hold. Waiting. Expectant. One long, slow exhalation, which he knew could not last forever, before his lungs would cry out for relief, and he would be forced to gasp in all the silence, like a vacuum cleaner sucking up every resisting particle of dirt.

  There was a faint rustle as a light breeze of air took hold of the drying fronds of a group of palms and shook them gently like a baby experimentally toying with its rattle. Stuart seized the opportunity to take a breath in. The slightest noise of his body sounded loud in the silent blackness. He expected to be discovered at any second: a rough hand grabbing him by the collar or an exclamation that he had been seen, but there was nothing. He had to get his breathing under control. It was coming rasping and erratic. He was thinking about it too much. Keep it natural, unconscious. He attempted to relax his whole body, but the snap of a leaf beneath him brought him back to full attention, still squatting on all fours, but rigid and alert, ready to jump at the slightest sound.

  A minute passed. Nothing. He did not see how the other person could have moved on without Stuart hearing him, at the same time, he did not know how someone could be so close and yet remain so soundless. He began to doubt his previous perception. Time plays strange tricks on the brain; an instinct trusted unreservedly, the mind can be persuaded to ignore with the passage of time. It would be easy to convince himself that he was alone again in the undergrowth. He uttered a sharp ‘ha’ of self-admonishment, instantly clasping his hand over his mouth, amazed at how loud the noise sounded. Stuart tried to logical assess his situation. He was behaving like a little, frightened animal. What was he so scared of anyway? OK, so he did not want to confront the cheese-thief under such circumstances, but in all possibility the noise he had heard had been made by Norbert. Somehow, that thought was no less alarming. It had been a foolish decision to come out here at all. What did he realistically hope to achieve? Given the opportunity, he would willingly beat an inglorious retreat, and swap the promise of enlightenment in the dark wood for the security of his dormitory room and eternal ignorance.

  Several more minutes of uneasy calm passed. Little by little, as his hearing became more attuned to the minute noises of the night, Stuart found that he could make out the gentle lullaby of the sea. Straining to concentrate on the distant, soothing sound, Stuart found all other thoughts were gradually expunged from his mind, it was almost hypnotic the effect. Other tiny noises were audible too: a truck rattling along on the road; a rapid, scuffling of a small rodent; the crackle of branches and thud of something dropping from one of the trees. Stuart wondered how much further he would be able to reach out and perceive. With his eyes virtually redundant in the dim light, his ears were his prime locaters; they described his universe around him. He could imagine the infinitesimal sounds of the earth itself: with his head bent so low to the ground, he could imagine listening to the very breathing of the soil and of all the little insects and plants that interlaced its fabric with their tunnels and roots. It was like reaching out and feeling for the planet’s pulse. A steady beat. A comforting, regular rhythm. Stuart realised that he was feeling calmer and the noise that he was picking up was the bounced back signal of his own body’s output.

  Nothing was going to happen now unless Stuart initiated it. That much was now apparent. Like so much else in life it is always the hope that events will turn out to personal advantage without any specific involvement. In actual practice the passengers on life’s roller-coaster never manage to escape from their short, pre-determined circuits. Still fearful of being discovered, but determined now to exit this place, Stuart started crawling forward on hands and knees, picking a route through the thick scrub. Although the undergrowth was still dense, now that he had regained his composure Stuart had no real fear of getting lost: the wood was on a fairly steep incline and it was obvious that as long as he continued to keep heading downhill, he would eventually strike the open grounds surrounding the hotel, and ultimately the road and the sea. He actually reached the clearing far sooner than he had imagined he would, and felt rather foolish suddenly emerging into an area of relative illumination, still bent double like an old man. He realised his mistake almost instantly. Rather than the thatched bungalows of the hotel complex, what he actually saw in front of him was the massive cement platform and dark, looming guns of the very emplacement he had been struggling to find all evening. All was quiet. If the eight o’clock rendezvous had already taken place there was no sign that either Norbert or the cheese-thief had hung around to savour the night atmosphere. Stuart looked at his watch, but could not clearly make out the time in the dim light. He held his wrist up towards the sky. Eight twenty? Not sure. The moon remained steadfastly hidden behind a cloud, but there were a good smattering of stars, flecked across the black canvas above him. They were very different to the stars back home. There it was always too difficult to escape the various artificial illuminations of street lamps and house and car lights to be able to properly appreciate the heavens. Here it was only too easy.