Mark Morris - Dead Island

‘But you ended up beating yourself, didn’t you?’ said Purna softly.

Logan snorted a laugh, but it was hard, without humour. ‘You could say that. Took a bend too quickly. Lost control. Hit a wall at … I dunno … eighty, ninety miles an hour?’ He shuddered, took a drink. ‘Shattered my knee. End of my career. But that wasn’t the worst part.’

Sam glanced at Purna, and then back at Logan. ‘The girl?’ he asked.

Logan nodded. ‘Her name was Drew Peters. She came along for the ride. She took the full impact …’

‘But you got off,’ said Purna, her voice unreadable.

Logan nodded and glanced at her, his face almost defiant. ‘Yeah, I got off. What can I say? I had a good lawyer.’

‘Money talks,’ she said, and this time there was a definite bitterness to her tone.

‘It’s what makes the world go round, baby,’ Logan murmured. ‘Always has, always will.’

Before Purna could respond, there was a crackle from the intercom and the voice of their pilot, who had introduced himself earlier as Captain Avery, announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be beginning our descent to Banoi Island airport. Could you please now return to your seats, put on your seatbelts and return your tables to the upright position. It’s a beautiful day on the island today, with temperatures in the region of 27 degrees Celsius, that’s 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and the local time there is currently 11.52 a.m. In a few moments we will be descending through cloud cover, whereupon those of you on the right-hand side of the plane will be able to see the island as we begin our approach. I hope that you have all had a pleasant flight, and on behalf of New Guinea International Airlines, I thank you for flying with us today.’

The pilot’s voice clicked off, and a few seconds later the engines began to rise in pitch. Purna, Logan and Sam strapped themselves in, Sam gripping the arms of his seat and looking out of the window as wispy white clouds billowed past the aircraft. He was not a nervous flyer, but he was anxious about what awaited him on the island. The gig at Banoi’s top resort hotel, theRoyalPalm, had fallen into his lap like manna from heaven and he was determined not to blow it. This could be his last chance to prove he was not a joke, maybe his onlychance to showcase his new material in front of a sizeable audience. And who knew, if even one or two of the record executives his manager had informed about the gig made the effort to turn up, it could even lead to a new record deal, his first in over six years. He was desperate to show the world he was not a one-hit wonder, that there was far more to him than ‘Who Do You Voodoo, Bitch’. He swallowed to clear the pressure in his ears as the plane swooped towards the ground, but his mouth was dry.

‘Hey, would you look at that!’ said Logan beside him, craning forward as far as his seatbelt would allow. Sam followed his gaze and saw a lush tropical paradise below, surrounded by an ocean so placid and clear it seemed to sparkle like a plain of blue-white diamonds. On the nearside of the island was the resort area — hotels, restaurants, bars and stores clustered around a vast beach of pristine white sand. Beyond that, covering a good seventy per cent of Banoi, was dense tropical jungle, which eventually gave way, on the far side of the island, to a bare and jagged mountain range, rising up from the greenery like the gnarled back of some prehistoric beast.

‘Looks like paradise, all right,’ Sam said, though he still couldn’t quell the nerves in his belly.

Logan pointed to the right of the island. ‘What’s that?’

Maybe a couple of miles offshore was a much smaller island, little more than a rock maybe half amilein circumference, with a grey rectangular building situated on a plateau in the centre. The building resembled a huge but grim-looking office block, and was dominated by a flat-roofed tower at one end that jabbed up into the glorious blue sky like an accusatory finger.

‘Looks like a prison,’ Sam mused, noting the high electrified fence that encircled the building.

Purna’s face appeared in the gap between the seats. ‘It’s Banoi high-security prison,’ she confirmed. ‘Full of psychos and terrorists. The locals call it … well, I can’t remember the actual word, but it translates as “hell in heaven”.’

‘How come you know so much?’ Logan said.

‘I read a lot,’ replied Purna. ‘You should try it.’

The prison wheeled away from them as the plane banked slightly on its final approach to the island. Logan looked at Sam with eyes a little bleary from drink.

‘Welcome to paradise,’ he said.

‘ROYAL PALM HOTEL. How can I help you?’

As she dealt with the customer request, Xian Mei wondered, not for the first time, what she was doing here. She hated living a lie, hated being out on a limb, and most of all she hated the fact that her life currently seemed to have no direction. She had been told that she was doing ‘important work for her country’, but what was so important about observing the habits of a bunch of wealthy western tourists? Banoi wasn’t exactly the front line, and being a receptionist on the desk of a luxury hotel in the middle of nowhere, far from her family and friends, was a long way from how she had envisaged honouring the memory of her father.

Xian Mei still remembered that terrible night in October 1999 as if it were yesterday. She had been twelve at the time, at home with her mother, Jiao, her homework spread out on the kitchen table of their sixth-floor apartment in Beijing. She had been trying to finish early because her grandmother, Li, was coming to visit. When the front-door buzzer sounded, Xian Mei had at first assumed her grandmother had arrived early. Jiao, who had been preparing mutton dumplings for supper, raised her eyebrows good-humouredly at Xian Mei and strolled out into the hallway, drying her hands on a cloth. When she answered the buzzer, Xian Mei had been surprised, and initially a little relieved, to hear a man’s voice crackling from the intercom. Her first thought had been that she might have time to finish her homework before her grandmother arrived after all. She had no way of knowing at that moment that her homework would never get finished, that the mutton dumplings her mother had been preparing so lovingly would never get eaten, and that her life, and that of her mother’s, would never be the same again.

The visitor was her father’s friend and partner, Detective Sergeant Paul Ho. Many a time Paul and his pretty wife Huan had been guests at her parents’ house, and their evenings together were full of laughter and good fun, and often — for the adults — a little too much wine. Xian Mei liked Paul, not only because he was full of jokes and compliments, but also because he often brought her a little present — a bow for her hair, a pocket-doll for her collection, a money box in the shape of a fat smiling cat.

Paul did not bring her a present on this evening, however. Nor was he full of jokes and laughter. It had been raining and when he turned up on their doorstep he had water running down his face and dripping off his jacket. He mumbled an apology, but Jiao told him not to worry. She fetched a towel, and as he dried his hair and face she asked him in a hushed voice — almost as if she was afraid of the answer — what was wrong.

Looking back, what Xian Mei now particularly remembered about that evening was the strange and uncomfortable tension that accompanied Paul’s arrival. It was almost as if it clung to him, a kind of darkness that caused her stomach to tighten, her mouth to dry up, the ends of her fingers to tingle unpleasantly. She felt it as soon as he stepped through the door. It was so strong that it drew her, almost unwillingly, from the kitchen. She felt as though Paul was a magnet and she was a shred of metal being dragged helplessly towards him. She sidled into the hallway but held on to the edge of the door, the only way of anchoring herself. Paul glanced up and saw her standing there, peering almost fearfully at him, and his eyes filled with such sadness and pity that it terrified her.