remains of the former crew members too. It hadn’t been such a bad job, all things considered, compared to washing away the carnage of battle.
They’d wrapped Pete’s body in a blanket and stored him in one of the galley’s huge freezer units. He had once told Jules that if he ever bought it, he’d want his ashes scattered at an awesome surf break somewhere. Wouldn’t matter which one. Mavericks, Pipe, Margaret River… they were all good. Just as long as it was pumping when he took his last ride.
They had gathered in the upper salon, one of the magnificent yacht’s cosier, less formal spaces. A couple of olive-green two-seater lounges, hugely overstuffed and obscenely comfortable, sat around two sides of a giant brown ottoman. A pair of white single-seaters took up another side, where floor-to-ceiling bi-fold windows offered an expansive view of the sea far below. Jules had bathed and showered for two hours, to rid herself of the stink of the man she’d killed and the irrational guilt she felt at living when Pete hadn’t. A couple of hundred dollars’ worth of French toiletries had helped a little with the former, although she still felt as if some corruption had worked its way under her skin. And she knew she was going to be down about Pete for weeks. It was harsh, but she was more affected by his death than by the weird shit happening to the north.
She sipped at her drink, feeling lonely and abandoned, as she stretched out on the lounge and burrowed deeper into the waffle-weave bathrobe she’d found in one of the cabins. ‘You know what,’ she sighed, ‘Dan was always a bit of a maddy, but even he wouldn’t start a fight like that without good reason.’
‘He had good reason,’ said Fifi, who’d recovered some of her composure. ‘Fuckin’ Jane Austen on full volume. Drives me nuts when you play those vids, Julesy.’
Jules managed a sad smile. Fifi still held a grudge about having to sit through
‘It’d make me go for the gun locker too. Stupid m… mo… motherfucker,’ she mumbled before lapsing back into tears.
Jules downed her drink in one long pull and stood up unsteadily, looking for the gin bottle. ‘I’m sorry about Pete,’ she said. ‘I’ll cry myself to sleep later, but we don’t have time to wallow. This Twilight Zone rubbish is going to upset the apple cart in the worst way possible, and it’s likely to happen very quickly. I suspect Dan was simply ahead of the curve. Well, him or someone who paid him. His operation didn’t normally run to go-fast boats and hired
‘Shoeless Dan always most unimpressive,’ declared Mr Lee as he cleared away the first-aid kit. ‘First I ever hear of him was of red-headed giant trying to sell stolen dog food to Vietnam criminals. Tried to say real dog in can. Vietnam tie bag of cans to Shoeless Dan and throw him in water. Only escapes because they cannot tie knot well.’
‘No,’ said Jules as she handed Fifi a Tasmanian beer, ‘they probably tied those knots fine. But there were some things Dan did know well. Knots, sails, boats, tides, who’d take a bribe and who wouldn’t, the range and speed of every Coast Guard cutter in the Keys – anything to do with smuggling by sea and he was good for it. But piracy was not his gig.’
‘Yeah, well, he surely wasn’t worth a pinch of shit as one,’ sniffed Fifi.
‘So, what was the story today?’ asked Jules, as she picked a sandwich from a silver platter on the ottoman in front of her. She wasn’t really hungry. It was just something to do. Fifi had found half a turkey and a leg of Iberian ham in one of the giant double-door refrigerators down in the main galley and she’d thrown together a small feast of cold cuts and salad. She wasn’t eating either, and Jules suspected that preparing the meal was more about therapy than hunger. Long before Fifi had taken up smuggling, she had qualified as a commercial chef.
Fresh bread rolls, slathered with melting butter, lay in a pile next to a big bowl of baby spinach leaves, walnuts and slivers of pear and Parmesan. The drugs Jules had taken had begun a slow waltz with her gin and tonic, and she let the warm waves of sleepiness wash over her.
‘Yeats, my friends. The story today was Yeats,’ she said, answering her own question, if somewhat impenetrably. ‘“The centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” That’s where we are right now. On the edge of anarchy.’
13
HONOLULU, HAWAII
The early evening drive down to the Governor’s residence in downtown Honolulu was enough to convince James Ritchie that the Hawaiian islands were going to go down a tube at high speed unless someone got their act together. The curfew seemed to have had no effect and the state government no interest in enforcing it. Thousands of people were milling about the streets, many of them agitated and besieging any place where they could buy emergency supplies of food and water. Large, increasingly unstable crowds had gathered outside travel agencies and airline shopfronts, which remained open well after normal business hours. Every gas station had a trail of vehicles snaking away from its bowsers, leading Ritchie to wonder where the hell these people thought they were going to escape to in their SUVs and family sedans.
His latest reports from Gitmo and Canada spoke of a strange glow, as if from a distant furnace, emanating from the energy wave, and as their route down to the Capitol District allowed Ritchie glimpses of the Pacific reaching away back east, he couldn’t shake the impression of a sunset that seemed denser and richer than normal. Long, slow lines of surf banked up in sets of three off the beach at Waikiki, a strong offshore breeze blowing thick foam back off the lip as they crested. The weird, almost ethereal light lent the spray a bright, burnished cherry colour, and seemed to paint the mass of surfers and body boarders bright pink as they carved up the barrels.
The Capitol District was less crowded, probably because it offered little in the way of supplies that could be bought up and hoarded. Police and state troopers were out in force, however, and the pulsing lights of over a dozen Honolulu PD squad cars bathed the district in a rich, electric red that overwhelmed the otherworldly light Ritchie had noticed before. His BlackBerry buzzed as the staff car swung off Beretania Street and in through the gates of Washington Place. It was his wife.
IN LONDON. WILL CALL L8R.
