David Nickle - The 'Geisters

She made her way across the coral—itself a huge living entity, maybe seven kilometres across, if you stretched the definition of living and entity.

The water deepened and she was able to stand straighter, and she went deeper into that strange, drifting land, and thought: I could get used to this place .

That was when the fish struck.

Later, the guide would proclaim it a parrot fish, so named because of the hard, beaklike jaws it had, perfect for biting off pieces of coral. It was not a fish known for its aggressive tendencies. It was not a very big fish.

But it could bite.

Ann actually watched it approach. It came close, circled her waist, spiralled down her legs. It slowed as it reached her knee. It was then that it made up what passed for its mind.

Ann screamed more in surprise than pain—although the bite certainly hurt. The fish took a small piece of her left knee with it as it spun into the deeper parts of the reef. Michael splashed over to her side, accompanied by two of the Venezuelans and a guide.

“Fuck!” she shouted as she hurried back to the boat. The mask dangled from her neck. Her knee hurt fiercely. She explained, at some volume, what had happened and that she was probably bleeding. The guides shouted to the others to come in.

“Sorry,” she said aloud.

It wasn’t as bad as she thought, but it was bad enough. The Calypso Empress had a first aid kit on board and the guides were trained. To take her attention away from the pain, the guide handed her a cold bottle of Red Stripe, and asked her to describe the fish. When she was finished, he nodded. “Parrot fish. Eats the coral, not the tourists. You didn’t make much of a meal for it if that makes you feel any better.”

“She is a pale girl,” said one of the Venezuelans, and his friend punched him, and added, “skin like alabaster, he means,” and the first said, “like fine coral.”

Michael held Ann’s shoulders and gave a squeeze.

“Maybe we should get a bit of sun tomorrow,” she said to him, “just as a precaution.” And she reached around and stroked his chin, and he laughed.

“Maybe,” he said.

Ann got the injury looked at properly at a clinic in Scarborough that Steve recommended, and after that they had a meal of fresh-caught sea bass and plantain, grilled for them by Thea, their housekeeper.

That night, they had another go at it in the bedroom.

It would be wrong to call it a failure, at least from Ann’s point of view.

Michael Voors was an attentive lover. He had a box of scented oils, which he would apply with great assurance, using hands here, a feather there, the tip of a tongue in the tricky spots. He would kiss her, and do this and then that—and then, with a piratical leer, he would vanish beneath the sheets for quite some time to “bring the boat home.” Ann wondered how he managed to get any air during these dives, but she didn’t want to discourage him, so kept the question to herself.

As far as it went, that was fine—wonderful, really. She only wished she could return the favour so adeptly.

In a series of failed attempts, she had developed a solid repertoire of tricks, and she drew on them that night, mixing up the order of things.

First—rather than waiting for him to roll off her, disentangle him from the sheets, she slid her right leg underneath him, brushing against him lightly with her calf, sliding up to tweak him with her toe. In the past, she’d lingered there to diminishing effect. This time, she pulled away, and rolled out of bed. She walked naked to the French doors, taking time to stretch with calculated languor. She glanced back at him, noted his eyes on her, and flicked the latch. She complained that she was freezing. But the moon was very nice. Michael obligingly got out of bed and joined her. He put his arms around her, rubbed warmth back into her arms.

Got him! she thought.

This was a new trick, and she held out great hope for it. With a nudge and a bit of pull, she manoeuvred his hands from her arms to her breasts. Hands free, she reached down behind her, and took hold of him. “Nowhere to go but up,” she whispered, too quietly (and just as well), because he only said “Hmmm?” as she pressed him against her hip.

Ann smiled to herself. This seemed to be working; Michael was stiffening appropriately, his breathing was quickening as it should. But she didn’t declare victory yet: they’d been here before.

So she proceeded with care. She turned. She pressed. She stopped pressing. Turned. Led. Sat. Stroked. Kissed. Stopped kissing, then started again, now with the tip of her tongue—in a different spot than the night before. Made sure to keep eye contact, as she drew him into her mouth.

“How is your knee?” he asked.

“What do you like?” she asked some time later.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. What’s your fantasy?”

“My fantasy?”

“Deepest and darkest.”

“Hum. I must think about this. My deepest, darkest fantasy…”

“Give it up.”

“I’m thinking. Why don’t you tell me yours?”

“I just wish I knew what you liked.”

“Don’t be worried,” he said, and stroked her hair.

And she said, “I’m not worried.”

What she was, was more than a little pissed.

While Ann was busy being pissed, Ian Rickhardt was on his way from Toronto. It was not until he touched down in Grenada for fuel, at about four in the morning, that anyone knew he was coming.

He contacted Steve with instructions: get a car to the airport at Piarco, and work out a route to meet the fast ferry: Rickhardt didn’t want to get on another plane after all this flying. It gave Steve just enough time to arrange a car at the airport. They drove through the morning to make it to the docks on time.

“Shall we call ahead?” Steve asked. “I have the numbers for Michael’s Blackberry.”

No.

“Do they have any idea you’re coming?”

“None.”

“Do you think they’ll be pleased to see you?”

“Don’t call.”

Ann and Michael weren’t expecting him, and they were out for the day. When they came back, they ran into Steve at the roadside by the drive to the beach house, sipping shandy and munching a double.

“He is inside,” said Steve, after filling them in on the back story. “Try to act surprised. I think he wants you to act surprised.”

The beach house smelled of the sweet curry that had been simmering stovetop for the afternoon. Thea was sitting in the dining nook with Ian. They could hear her laughter from the steps from outside.

“Surprise,” said Ian when they came in. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and nylon walking shorts. He had trimmed his beard down to white nubs. His bare feet were propped up on a chair. Thea, dressed as usual in a long red skirt, her hair tied under a yellow kerchief, covered her mouth and looked at them apologetically.

“Dinner’s comin’ up,” she said.

Ian nodded. “It’s fantastic. Coconut prawn curry on rice and peas. Side of okra. And there’s a fresh case of Caribe in the fridge. I brought it myself. Surprise,” he said again, and grinned.

Ann waved her hands at shoulder height, and said, “Surprise.” Michael took the hint, and went to fetch the beer.

“Sit down,” said Ian, moving his feet, and before Ann could say anything else, “Thea tells me you were bitten by a parrot.”

“A parrot fish, Mr. Rickhardt,” Thea said.

“Of course. It all gets mixed up in my mind. While I was at the airport, in Piarco—I picked up one of the local newspapers. There was a story about a widow who was convinced that her dead husband had been reincarnated in the body of her pet parrot.”