Mark Morris: Dead Island

‘Nothin’ happened to me,’ replied Sam. ‘I’m right here.’

Mohawk guy laughed, as if he had made a joke. ‘Sure you are. But how come you didn’t do no more music after that one song?’

Sam closed his eyes briefly. He had answered this question so many times that he had grown to dread being asked it.

‘I was young,’ he said. ‘Young and stupid. At nineteen I thought I knew it all. Took me a long time to realize I didn’t know shit. That song was a blessing and a curse, y’know? It was a hit all over the world, made me an instant star, but it was too much fame too quickly.’ He tapped the side of his skull with his forefinger. ‘I was just a dumb kid from New Orleans and success went straight to my head. I lost track of my roots, deserted the friends I’d grown up with to party with the rich and famous.’

‘And you stopped writing music?’ asked mohawk guy.

Sam shrugged. ‘I couldn’t take the pressure. The more people told me I needed to come up with anotherhit, the more it paralysed me. I started off playing big hotels in Vegas, then seedy lounges in Reno, then third-rate cruise ships.’ He shook his head. ‘But why the hell am I telling you this?’

‘Because you recognize a kindred spirit?’

Sam snorted a laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

The stewardess returned with mohawk guy’s drink. ‘Anything for you, sir?’ she asked Sam.

Sam shook his head. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

The stewardess smiled and walked away. Mohawk guy opened the miniature bottle and took a swig. Smacking his lips, he turned back to Sam. ‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’

‘Should I?’

Mohawk guy paused and said, ‘I’m Logan Carter.’

Sam looked at him blankly.

The other man, Logan, looked a little put out. ‘The football star, Logan Carter? First round NFL draft pick?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Sorry, man. I don’t follow sports.’

Logan gaped at him. ‘You don’t follow sports? That’s like saying you don’t follow life.’

Sam shrugged again. ‘Sorry.’ He was silent for a moment, and then, almost reluctantly, asked, ‘So … you still play?’

Logan’s face darkened. He drained the rest of the bottle in one gulp. ‘No, I … er … had to retire.’

‘Why don’t you tell him why?’ said a voice from the seat in front.

Logan blinked and jerked upright as though someone had slapped him. ‘Excuse me?’

The passenger turned and knelt on her seat, herheadrising above the seat back. She was startlingly beautiful, her skin the colour of teak, her hair a silky black waterfall. She had a snub nose, plump, almost purple lips that Sam guessed could be wide and smiling but were currently pursed in something like disapproval, and wide, dark, penetrating eyes.

‘I said why don’t you tell him why you had to retire?’ the girl repeated, her voice husky and warm.

‘What the hell has it gotta do with you?’ Logan asked.

The girl pointed at him. ‘He didn’t recognize you, but I do. I know what you did.’

‘What I did? I didn’t do anything.’

‘You killed a girl.’

The accusation was so blunt that for a moment nobody moved or spoke. Then Logan, his face reddening with anger, spluttered, ‘I didn’t kill nobody.’

‘No?’ said the girl, tilting her head to one side. ‘So what would youcall it?’

‘I’d call it an accident. And that’s what the judge called it too. So get out of my face, lady!’

For the first time the girl turned her attention to Sam. He felt a stirring in his gut as her dark-eyed gaze swept over him, a sensation somewhere between desire and unease. The girl was incredibly beautiful, but in the way a panther was beautiful. Sam had a feeling she could be predatory, dangerous.

‘ Youever killed anyone, Sam?’ she challenged.

Sam’s first instinct was to ask her how she knew his name, but then he realized she must have been listening in on their conversation. He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Glad to hear it. The guilt of it twists you up inside. Isn’t that right, Mr Carter?’

Logan glared at her. ‘What part of “get out of my face” didn’t you understand?’

Sam raised his hands. Peacemaker wasn’t a role he was accustomed to, but then again he wasn’t often in the presence of people who seemed even more fucked up than he was. ‘Let’s just cool it down a bit here, OK?’ he said, turning to Logan. ‘Listen … Logan. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

Logan gave a bad-tempered sigh, glancing balefully at the girl. She smiled.

‘Yeah, Logan, why don’t you do that?’

‘I don’t have to justify myself to you,’ Logan said to the girl.

She shrugged as if she couldn’t care one way or the other, a faintly amused expression on her face. Sam touched Logan’s arm briefly.

‘Hey. I’dlike to know, man. I’m interested. And I got an open mind here. Hell, I’d never even heard of you till ten minutes ago. No offence.’

Logan almost smiled at that. Then he pushed himself upright in his seat and said, ‘I need another drink.’

‘Why don’t we allhave one?’ proposed the girl. ‘On me. Sam?’

Sam shrugged. ‘I’ll have a soda, I guess.’

‘Nothing stronger?’

He nodded at the empty miniature scotch bottle on Logan’s table. ‘I had enough problems of my own with that stuff. I ain’t going there again.’

The girl attracted the attention of a stewardess andorderedtheir drinks — same again for Logan, a soda for Sam, a white wine spritzer for herself.

When the drinks arrived, she said, ‘So, Mr Carter?’

Logan squinted at her. ‘What are you, a cop?’

‘Used to be,’ she admitted.

‘That figures.’ He took a small sip of his drink — having poured the scotch into a plastic cup this time — and said to Sam, ‘I guess, like you, I was young and stupid. Unlike you, though, I had it all. I was a football star in high school and college, so I was … protected.’

‘Spoiled, you mean?’ said the girl.

Logan scowled. ‘Look, who’s telling this story? Me or you?’

The girl held up her hands, as if allowing him the floor.

Still scowling, Logan said, ‘We don’t even know who you are.’

Shrugging as if it was no big deal, the girl said, ‘My name’s Purna.’

‘Purna?’ repeated Logan. ‘What kind of a name’s that?’

‘It’s Australian,’ said the girl. ‘Aborigine actually.’

‘You’re an Aborigine?’ said Sam, interested.

‘Half — on my mother’s side.’ She turned her attention back to Logan — and suddenly smiled. Sam almost gasped. Her smile was every bit as radiant as he’d imagined, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ‘You were saying, Mr Carter?’

For a moment Logan looked bemused, as if he’d been bewitched by her smile too. Then he nodded briefly and said, ‘So … er, yeah. Like I say, I was protected. I had pretty much whatever I wanted — fame,money, women, fast cars.’ He grimaced. ‘That last one was my downfall. Well … those last two, I guess. I shoulda looked after myself more, but well … there were a lot of parties back then. A lotof parties. Anyway, this one night, I’d had too much to drink, snorted some coke … you know how it is. And this one guy, he started ragging me about my car, calling it a piece of shit, all that.’

‘What kind of car was it?’ Sam asked.

‘Porsche Spyder. Like James Dean used to drive. Classy car, man …’ For a moment Logan’s face softened and he looked almost as if he was going to cry.

Sam nodded brusquely. ‘Sure thing. So what happened?’

Logan took a deep breath. ‘I challenged him to a race. His fucked-up old Buick against my Spyder. I mean, he had no chance, but the dumb fuck took me on.’ He shrugged. ‘I wanted to teach him a lesson. Not just beat him, but reallybeat him, you know.’