Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

Ben handed it over, and the captain searched briskly through it. He scrutinised Ben’s driving licence, put it back and riffled through the thick wad of banknotes. ‘A lot of cash to carry around,’ he noted. ‘Especially for a student.’

‘I don’t use credit cards,’ Ben said. ‘And I don’t carry my passport in there either.’

‘You are a very unusual man. Someone who would travel over a thousand miles rather than talk on the telephone. Who carries thousands of euros in cash, uses no credit cards. And checks himself out of hospital before his injuries have even begun to heal. It’s my job to notice unusual things like this. And I have to ask myself why you were in such a hurry.’

‘You think I’m involved in this?’

‘I think you are not telling me everything,’ Stephanides said. ‘And I think you should reflect carefully about what you would like to tell me. We will talk again. You may go now.’

Ben was heading for the door when Stephanides called him back. He handed Ben a black plastic rubbish sack. ‘Your belongings,’ he said pointedly. ‘Those that did not burn in the fire.’

Ben took it and left.

He walked out of the police station in a daze, clutching the plastic bag. He hardly took in his surroundings. He just kept walking, one foot and then the other, staring down at the ground. His thoughts were screaming in his mind. He wasn’t thinking about the conversation with Stephanides, or that he’d let the cop entrap him with his questions, or that he was getting deeper in shit, or that he had no idea what was going on.

My child will never know its father .

You’re a fucking murderer .

God damn you, if you can live with this on your conscience .

The words were like knives stabbing into his brain. He kept walking, trying desperately to shut them out. He wandered away from the town and found himself on a quayside, some moored fishing boats drifting lazily on the water below. He made his way down a crumbly flight of steps and walked out onto the soft sand. The deserted cove curved round in an arc, with the rocky shore sloping upwards behind and a thick pine forest edging the shoreline all the way to the horizon.

He slumped against a rock and tossed the garbage sack down between his feet. He closed his eyes. It felt as though all his strength had left him.

He gave way to despair. He could see Charlie’s face in front of him. Rhonda’s voice was still screaming in his head. She was right. Charlie was dead because of him. He’d led him right into it, telling him how easy it would be.

Why did you assume that? When was anything ever that easy? You, of all people, should have known. And now Charlie’s dead .

He felt sweat prickling his face. He needed a drink, badly. He reached out and untied the knot in the garbage sack. In amongst the charred remains of his duffel bag he found his wrecked phone. He groped around for his flask. His fingers closed on something solid, and he pulled it out.

It wasn’t the flask, but his old Bible, the leather cover scorched around the edges. He stared at it for a moment, then tossed it down in the sand and reached back into the sack. Finding the battered old flask this time, he unscrewed the top and took a long swig of the warm whisky. It burned his tongue and he felt the glow immediately. It would take some of the edge off. But nothing like enough. He closed his eyes again and sighed.

When he opened them, the first thing he saw was the Bible lying there in the sand next to him. He picked it up and held it in his lap, gazing at it. He stood up, feeling the pull on his injured neck and his aching muscles. Still turning the Bible in his hands, he walked slowly towards the water’s edge.

He stared again at the book, and thought about the direction his life had taken. The choices and paths that lay before him now. He’d tried so hard to get away from trouble, and to find peace. It was all he wanted, to be a normal person, to get away from all this, to lead a simple and happy life. That was what the Bible meant to him.

But trouble had followed him, just as it always did, like a demon treading close behind him everywhere he went.

Would it ever stop? Was there no escape? He understood, in that moment, that there wouldn’t be. It seemed to be his destiny, somehow.

The surf hissed in across the sand, caressed the tips of his shoes and then edged away again.

And where was God? he thought.

He looked up at the clear sky. ‘Where are you?’ he shouted. His voice echoed off the rocks and across the cove.

There was no answer. Of course not . There never would be. He was alone.

Molten rage and frustration suddenly burst through him. He drew back his arm and hurled the Bible out to sea. It arced up high against the blue. For an instant it seemed suspended, as though it would stay up there forever. Then it came tumbling down, pages flapping, and dropped into the waves twenty yards out with a dull splash.

Ben walked away and took another long swig of whisky. Wandered aimlessly up the shoreline, feeling emotion rising high in his chest. In the distance were some houses clustered at the sea’s edge, with steps leading down the gentle cliffside to the beach. He heard voices on the breeze. A small group of people was ambling down the hill towards him. They were a couple of hundred yards away, but if he kept walking he was going to meet them. He didn’t want to be near people. He turned and walked slowly back the way he’d come, towards the inviting cover of the pine trees. The surf kept hissing softly in and out, as though it was breathing. The tide washed over his shoes and he felt the cold wetness on his feet. Something nudged his toe and he looked down.

It was the Bible. It had come back to him. He stared at it for a moment, stooped down and picked it up. Stood holding the dripping book in his hand. Drew his arm back again to fling it right back out to sea, further this time so the surf wouldn’t wash it back up onto the shore.

But something made him stop. His arm went limp. He stared at the book again. There was a strand of seaweed hanging from the cover. He wiped it away. Then he walked on, still clutching the soaking wet Bible in his hand.

Zoë could see that it was night through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. She leaned back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Five days now since she’d been flown off the island. She had no idea where she was, but it was a lot colder here. Her captors had given her a heavy sweater to wear, and a pair of woollen trousers and thick socks. She spent most of her time just sitting there, helpless, resigned, trying desperately to remember.

It was coming back to her, slowly. As the days ground by, fragments of images kept returning to her, like a forgotten dream gradually seeping back into her conscious mind. Things that had been completely out of reach were there again now, little floating islands of memory slowly merging together into coherence. The smiling faces of a man and a woman kept coming back to her. Her parents, she thought. Trying to peer further into the mist, she saw a little white dog. He was hers. What was his name?

Bringing up these lost memories was like trying to catch a sunbeam in her hand. Sometimes a half-formed impression would dart into focus, she’d try to concentrate on it and it would be gone. But other things were sharp and clear. The villa, for instance. She could picture it clearly. But the name of the island was lost to her. And what had she been doing there?

In random flashes, she saw herself on a motorbike. Remembered the wind in her hair. Lights in her mirror, and the feeling of fear. She tried to piece it all together. She’d been chased. Then she could vaguely recall the horrible moment of falling. She must have come off the bike and whacked her head on the ground. She rubbed the bump. There was hardly any pain now.