The Network - Jason Elliot [96]
We walk to the beach with the fins and snorkels. For the next couple of hours, hardly aware of the time that is passing, we float on the water’s surface, gazing into the silent world in front of our masks. The water is spectacularly clear, and every fish we see is a strange and unexpected shape, and each one seems as bright and delicately coloured as a living rainbow. Then we walk along the sand together, picking at shells until she notices the redness of my shoulders and suggests we return to the shade above the shoreline.
I collect some wood from under the canopy of trees, and when I’m out of sight of Jameela take the satphone from its waterproof case and send our exact location to Seethrough via the GPS function on the keypad. He’ll relay it to the buffoonish Halliday at the embassy in Khartoum so at least he’ll know where to find us if, as I fantasise, I get stuck on the island with Jameela. Then I make a small fire, wait for it to burn down, wrap the fish we’ve bought in thick green leaves and put it into the embers. The white wine I’ve procured from the regional security officer who doubles as barman at the Pickwick Club is slightly warm but hits the spot, and in the heat it makes us pleasantly drunk. It’s the first time I’ve seen Jameela drink wine. She allows me to feed her slices of mango, and we let our faces get very messy.
She sees me look at my watch and asks when we have to leave. We need to fly before dark, I tell her. I can fly at night but I’d rather not.
She looks pensive. ‘Let’s stay,’ she says. ‘Here on the beach. Under the stars.’
I have, as it happens, considered this possibility, and brought two nylon hammocks with us for the purpose. She’s impressed, as I hoped she would be.
I tie them between the trees, side by side a few yards apart.
‘Separate beds. I must be old-fashioned,’ I say.
There’s a force of attraction between us that’s no longer a secret. It’s invaded my body and thoughts. I wonder how long we can preserve its innocence, which is a fragile thing that won’t survive if we both cross the line that we’re now drawing towards and from which it will be impossible to turn back. But we both know what intimacy is and the pain that comes with its dissolution, and perhaps it’s this that gives us the strength to approach the line more cautiously.
‘Thank you,’ she says, but then she doesn’t make things easier by drawing her body against mine and resting her head on my shoulder, so that I can look down the muscles of her long back towards the swell of her hips.
I build up the fire and we sit by it as the sun falls into the sea and the world turns to shadows. Jameela’s face gleams in the light of the flames and seems more beautiful to me than ever. When I add wood to the fire a shower of sparks rises and imprints itself among the stars overhead. They’re so bright, and there are so many more stars than are visible in England I can’t even make out the constellations I can see at home.
We clamber into our hammocks. She’s close enough for me to hear the sound of her hand against her skin as she rubs mosquito repellent over her arms. We’re tired and happy.
‘I enjoy our friendship, Jameela,’ I say, half to myself.
‘Moi aussi,’ she answers from the edge of sleep.
When I wake, Jameela’s not in her hammock and I have a sudden sense of panic until I catch sight of the splash of her fins. She’s already in the sea, snorkelling. We breakfast on