Michael Dibdin: And then you die

Even Tommaso's state-of-the-art echo sounder couldn't cope with the depth of water under the hull, returning only nonsensically shallow readings based on some passing shoal of fish, but according to the chart they were in a zone over three hundred metres deep. Zen cut the motor and scanned the sea around them, first with the naked eye and then the binoculars Gemma found for him. The Italian coast was a ghostly memory swathed in haze, and the only vessels in sight were two freighters and a ferry, all hull-down on the horizon.

They carried the corpse out of the saloon and laid it down on the aft decking, leaning up against the gunwale. It was stiff as a board by now, and much easier to handle. Zen climbed down the steps to the bathing deck suspended over the water aft, while Gemma levered up the other end of the body and tilted the whole thing over the edge while Zen took the weight and guided it down on to the plastic deck. He then returned for the anchor, while Gemma followed him down with the length of mooring line.

So close to the sea, the air smelt fresh and invigorating. Little wavelets splashed them from time to time as they wound the rope round and round the corpse at the neck and ankles. Zen then secured each end with a series of half-hitches and passed both through the eye of the anchor, before finishing off the job with a final set of knots and tying the two loose ends together in a reef knot. He rose, surveying his work.

'That ought to hold him.'

'Should we say something?' asked Gemma.

'Say what?'

'I don't know. Isn't there some service for a burial at sea? "We commit thy body to the waves and thy soul to Almighty God." Something like that.'

Zen grimaced.

'Let's just take care of the body part. You roll it over, I'll lift the anchor.'

They worked the bundle to the very edge of the platform, where Zen laid the anchor gently on top of it like a wreath.

'Right,' he said with a sigh of relief. 'One, two, three…'

The resulting splash was almost derisibly insignificant. For a few moments they were able to make out the white form spiralling down through the water, gradually shrinking and losing substance until it disappeared altogether. Gemma crossed herself.

'What about the gun?' she asked. Zen clicked his fingers. 'Good point.'

They climbed back up the ladder to the afterdeck. Zen went into the saloon, removed Lessi's pistol from the drawer where he had stowed it, returned on deck and threw it overboard. Gemma emerged from the bathroom, where she had been washing her hands.

'What do we do now?' she asked.

Zen looked at her standing there in the sunlight with her sturdy, expectant expression. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but it didn't seem the moment, particularly since he had not washed his hands. Then he had an idea so totally crazy that he knew at once he would have to do it.

'Let’s have lunch,' he said.

Gemma wrinkled her nose.

'Motorway cheese and salami? I don't think I'm that hungry.' 'I have other plans.'

He went back up to the cockpit and consulted the chart. Yes, there it was. He clicked around, set the new course and engaged the engine. The boat nosed about towards the south-east and set about its business of showing the waves who was boss.

'Where are we going?' asked Gemma.

'I'm going to sleep. Keep an eye out for other shipping, and wake me in plenty of time if anything is getting too dose.' 'All right, but where are we going?' Zen smiled mysteriously. 'To prison.' 'Prison?' He nodded.

'Like in that board game. "Go to jail. Go directly to jail.'" 'What are you talking about?' 'I'll tell you later.'

Being born is confusing. Dying may well prove to be even more so. Even waking up is pretty damn confusing. Such were Aurelio Zen's initial thoughts on emerging from a seamless, dreamless sleep. Why me? Why here? Why now?

The answer to these questions, when it popped up, seemed incontrovertible. In his mindless exhaustion, he had lain down on the very spot where Roberto Lessi's body had been lying for all those hours. This surely meant bad luck. Even monks and nuns were threatening enough, their presence demanding a discreet jiggle of the testicles as an antidote against that other world of chastity. But there was no gesto di scongiuro effective against death, and he had been rubbing up against it for hours, and asleep, to make it worse.

But was Lessi's spirit a threat, he wondered, still lying in the shallow depression which he and his victim's corpse had made in the leather cushions. His mother had spoken to him in the apartment in Rome, but that had come as no surprise. He had always known that she had the power to get in touch with him at any time she wanted. But Lessi? 'We commit thy body to the waves and thy soul to Almighty God.' No, Lessi didn't have that kind of power, of that Zen felt certain. Maybe his friends did, though.

'They don't put the bottles in the box, they wrap the box around the bottles.' That teasing phrase was clear enough now. He had been telling himself that there was more than one solution to a problem. His mind had always worked like that, in a facetious, allusive way, but its insights usually turned out to have been correct. Too bad he hadn't understood them at the time. And what had his mother told him? 'Just don't ever turn your back on them, that’s all. Don't look them in the eye and never turn your back.' She'd been right, as always. He'd got away with it this time, but as he stood up he vowed never to turn his back on anyone ever again.

It was only once he was vertical that he realized the real reason why he had woken in the first place. The boat was completely still and silent. His first thought was that the motor must have failed again, but that wouldn't explain the lack of motion. Really disturbed now, he ran out on to the afterdeck. A pile of woman's clothing lay strewn on the planking. He looked about him. The first thing he saw was land, some kind of rocky shoreline. They must have run aground, he thought guiltily. He'd fallen asleep and Gemma had somehow stranded the boat.

But where was Gemma? No sign of her in the cockpit or on deck, apart from her discarded clothing. He called her name loudly several times. No answer. God, no! Had she fallen overboard, as he himself so nearly had?

'Ciao, caro!'

The voice came from behind him, from the land. He turned and beheld through the midday heat haze the figure of Gemma waving to him from a sandy beach. Zen looked about in puzzlement. The boat appeared to be securely moored at anchor in a few metres of water in a small bay protected from such wind as there was by a low headland. The land behind the beach rose steeply in a jumble of shrubs, bushes and stunted trees. There was no sign of any paths down to the water, and no other boats in sight.

'It’s lovely here,' called Gemma. 'Come on over.'

'How?'

'Swim! I did.'

'I don't have my costume.'

'Neither do I. This is underwear.'

Zen gestured vaguely. There didn't seem to be any way out. He returned to the saloon and stripped off, then ventured back out on deck. Feeling as embarrassed as a schoolboy, he climbed down the ladder to the bathing deck again, then dived in and swam ashore. The water was warm and silkily salty. He shook himself off and walked up to where Gemma was lying, then threw himself down beside her on the hot sand.

'Where on earth are we?' he demanded.

'It’s called Gorgona. I noticed it coming up on the left and it just looked so gorgeous I drove over to take a closer look. Then I saw this bay, and came in and parked.'

'You should have woken me! There might have been rocks under water at the entrance. You could have wrecked the boat!'

'Well, I didn't. And isn't it wonderful? No one here, and not a single sign that anyone ever has been. It's paradise! Much nicer than wherever you were planning to take us.'