Killing the Beasts

Chapter 4

May 2002

At times the sky merged seamlessly with the ocean below and it felt like they'd been hanging in a bubble of blue for hours. Looking up, the only thing Tom could find to provide a reference point against the all-enveloping colour was the sun stabbing down above him.

Eventually the angle of their approach changed and, as their descent began, he was able to look through the tiny Perspex window and watch the shadow of the plane racing over the surface of the motionless sea. Soon the pilot announced that the Seychelles were now visible to those on the right-hand side of the aircraft. Charlotte immediately leaned across him for a look as Tom said with a note of apprehension, 'Well, let's make the most of this. It's the last time I'll be coming up for air until August.'

After clearing the tiny customs hall at Victoria International airport on Mahé, they transferred to a worryingly small eight seater Air Seychelles plane for their onward flight to Praslin Island. They touched down minutes later on a small runway constructed of crudely interlocking slabs of white concrete. Standing next to the plane, waiting for their luggage to be unloaded as if from a bus, Tom could feel powerful waves of heat bouncing up from the ground: it felt like someone was holding a hairdryer under his chin. Once their bags had been placed on a small cart, they were led across to the low building by the edge of the runway. Standing inside the open doorway was a slightly built man in a light cotton suit.

'Mr and Mrs Benwell, I am Daniel Gedeon from Coco de Mer Resort. Welcome to Praslin.'

They shook hands, walked through the small terminal building and out onto the road. An old Mercedes taxi stood waiting for them, its boot already open. The porter from the airport placed their luggage inside and they were just about to climb into the back when Tom spotted the ox standing on the other side of the road. Across its neck was a roughly hewn yolk, carved from bulky sections of timber. Attached to the other end was a cart with two rows of sideways-facing seats under a pale blue canopy.

'Daniel,' said Tom. 'Can we go in that instead?'

Daniel looked confused. 'It will take you twenty minutes to get to the resort in that.'

Tom shrugged. 'We're on holiday. Who cares about time?'

He winked at Charlotte, who giggled and said, 'You're bloody mad.'

Daniel smiled. 'I'll go ahead with your baggage. 'He strode across the road and spoke quietly with the driver in a language that resembled French then handed over some crumpled rupee notes. 'OK, I will see you at the resort. Enjoy your ride.'

The driver goaded the beast into a slow amble, while Tom and Charlotte sat back on the wooden seats to enjoy the scenery. Passing a cluster of palm trees, Charlotte squeaked with disgust: hanging from their lower fronds was a mass of interlocking webs. Dotted around were hand-sized spiders, swaying gently in the breeze.

'Oh, how gross. Do you reckon those things are poisonous?'

Tom leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed to the webs. 'Dangereuse?'

'Non,' the man said with a languid shake of his head. 'Ils peuvent piquer,' he jabbed at the back of his hand to indicate it being stung, 'comme un abeille.'

'OK, merci, 'Tom replied, sitting back. 'They can sting like a bee.'

At the resort Daniel led them across the lawns to a bungalow, which lay behind a straggly cluster of palm trees, the veranda leading directly down on to the thick white sand of the beach.

'Oh my God,' whispered Charlotte. As soon as Daniel had gone they tore open their suitcases and yanked out swimming costumes. Charlotte darted into the bedroom while Tom just stripped off where he stood. Seconds later, Charlotte re-emerged in a bright orange, low-cut number. Tom eyed the perfect profile of her breasts as she raced for the door, then raised his eyes upwards in thanks that she was his. He pulled on his swimming shorts, pausing for a moment at the desk and checking the wall behind for an extra phone socket for his laptop's modem. Then he too ran from the bungalow. The sand was bleached white and so powdery it squeaked every time his feet connected with it. Charlotte was standing motionless in the shallows, the water boiling around her knees as the recently collapsed wave was sucked back out to sea in a mass of hissing bubbles. He drew level with her and wordlessly she pointed across the water.

Over a backdrop of purple islands rising from the horizon, a distant flock of seabirds was crossing the sky. The slow flap of their wings caused shimmering sunlight to glance off their white underfeathers, making them glint and flash like a shoal of fish in a hazy sea.

'It's so beautiful,' she murmured dreamily, as he curled an arm around her waist.

Half an hour later, dripping wet from their swim, they staggered across the sand, hanging on to each other, bouts of breathless laughter making them unsteady on their feet. Back in the bungalow, neither said a word. Instead they made straight for the bedroom, leaving damp, sandy footprints on the tiled floor behind them.

Shrugging the shoulder straps of her swimming costume off, Charlotte unrolled it down to her waist and lay back on the white sheets. Tom gazed down for an instant before climbing on to the bed. Staying on his knees, he leaned over her, swept wet tendrils of hair to the side and began kissing her damp neck. The draft from the ceiling fan above made him aware of the droplets of seawater still clinging to his back as he brushed his lips across her breasts, tasting the salt water on her skin, licking where it had pooled in the hollow of her navel, working his way further downwards before slipping her swimming costume off completely.

The next morning they were just finishing off two tropical fruit salads in the huge timber-framed resort restaurant when Daniel wandered over and asked if they would like to book a 'Discover Scuba-diving' course.

'The Seychelles have some of the finest reefs in the world,' he proudly announced. 'I can recommend it as the thing to do during your stay. Our diving instructor, Sean, is from Cairns in Australia. He says what we have here is equal to anything you'll see on the Great Barrier Reef.'

Tom looked at Charlotte uncertainly — he'd never so much as snorkelled before. 'Can we?' she asked.

Tom sat back. 'Why not?'

'Excellent. I will let Sean know,' replied Daniel. 'When would you like to start?'

'Let's not rush anything. Tomorrow, after lunch?' said Tom.

After breakfast the next day Tom said with a sigh, 'Well, I suppose I'd better check back with the office and make sure everything hasn't collapsed.' They walked back to the bungalow and he plugged in the laptop and modem. Once the machine had booted up he tried to go online, but a window soon informed him that it could not make a connection. 'Shit!' swore Tom as the screen popped up for the second time.

'What's wrong?' Charlotte called through from the kitchen.

'No bloody internet connection.' Angrily Tom unplugged the laptop and put it back in the carry case. 'It'd better not be something wrong with the computer.'

In the resort's office he was able to link up to the internet without problems. 'So it's the socket in the bungalow,' said Tom. 'Can you get it fixed immediately?'

Daniel made a call, spoke briefly in the French dialect before looking mildly sheepish. 'An engineer can come out from Mahé in two days' time,' he told Tom.

'Can we move bungalows, then? I stipulated that office facilities were essential when I made my booking. 'Tom was irritated at how, even in such idyllic surroundings, his businesslike tone had reappeared so easily.

Daniel's embarrassment deepened. 'Your bungalow was a last-minute cancellation. All the others have been booked for months. But we can clear a desk for you here — you can make use of all our facilities until the problem is resolved.'

Tom looked around the cramped room, catching the eye of the receptionist, who looked like her entire future happiness depended on him saying yes. 'OK, it will have to do.'

Eagerly they cleared the desk in the corner and he sat down. As soon as he connected to his mailbox a message marked 'Urgent' appeared at the top. 'Lorzo's gone into receivership. Please call asap. Ges.'

Tom stared at the screen, totally stunned. The printers were their sole supplier of building wrap posters and were midway through at least half a dozen jobs. He couldn't believe they'd gone bust.

'Everything OK?' asked Daniel, nodding his head as if that could influence the answer.

Tom looked up at him. 'I'll need to make a phone call. Could I have some privacy, please?'

Daniel waved the girl from the room and closed the door behind him.

'Ges, tell me that's a joke,' said Tom into his mobile, knowing it wasn't.

At the other end of the line Ges said, 'Sorry, Tom. We heard yesterday. Anthony's buggered off back to Italy. His son's left here to pick up the pieces.'

'How could they go belly up? They were raking it in from our business alone, surely?'

'Everything was leased. They were so heavily into the bank you wouldn't believe it. You know how costs have come down now everything's gone digital; they were doing our stuff for next to no profit. Anyway, they missed too many payments and the bean counters decided enough was enough.'

'I don't believe it. Erection dates are due for at least three of those fucking building wraps. Email me the contracts. I'll have to see how much liability rests with us if we miss the deadlines.'

Tom opened the top drawer of the desk, vainly hoping a packet of paracetamol might be inside.

When Charlotte knocked on the door at 2.30 Tom had to blink several times to adjust from the view on his laptop screen to his real-life surroundings.

'Tom, you've been in here for hours! It's our diving lesson now. Do you need some lunch first?'

Tom nearly burst out in hysterical laughter; his appetite had completely vanished. Instead he looked at his watch, deciding that nothing major was likely to occur in the next couple of hours. 'No,' he said, attempting a smile. 'Let's go for it. 'Plugging his mobile into the charger, he locked down his laptop and stood up.

'Problems in the office?' asked Charlotte breezily as they walked across the foyer.

'Yeah, a few hiccups.'

As they approached the small hut by the swimming pool they could see a figure lounging in a hammock off to the side, one brown leg dangling above the grass. As they got nearer the well-toned torso of a young man, face hidden beneath a straw hat, was revealed to them.

'Are you Sean?' asked Charlotte.

The hat was removed and a handsome face appeared, all sparkling blue eyes and white teeth. Sean eased himself from the hammock and held out a hand. 'Charlotte and Tom, yeah?' he asked in an easygoing Australian accent.

'That's us,' answered Charlotte, smiling.

'Cool,' he said, looking up at the sky. 'I thought we could cover the theory bit today — about two hours' worth — and do the pool bit tomorrow. Sound good?'

Thinking that he had to get back to events in Manchester, Tom quickly agreed, 'Yes, that's fine.' Hearing his own uptight tone, he looked at Charlotte and added more gently, 'No point in rushing anything, is there?'

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders in passive agreement.

'No worries,' answered Sean. 'Let's sit in the shade out here. I'll get the flipcharts. You guys want a Coke or anything?'

The theory consisted of going over the basics of how the equipment worked, including the instruments on the tank and the rubber mouthpiece, known as the regulator. Finally he explained how an actual dive was conducted, pointing out that he would be divemaster and they would be each other's dive buddy. Tom found his attention kept wandering back to the office as he ran over in his mind how they would reschedule their printing jobs now Lorzo's had ceased trading.

The end of the afternoon and early evening was spent exchanging emails and the odd phone call with Ges and the London office. It was 10 p. m. in the Seychelles and 6 p. m. in England when Tom finally conceded they would have to call it a day and resume tomorrow.

In their bungalow he threw off his shirt and lay back on the bed, mind still racing. A light caress took him by surprise and he looked down to see Charlotte's fingers drawing a lazy circle across his stomach. Instead of instant stirrings of desire, all he felt was irritation at her touch. He turned away and, as her hand fell on to the mattress, he mumbled that the flight had finally caught up with him.

*

The phone began to blast out tinny music. Sly paused, the carapace of a live cricket held between one finger and thumb. At the bottom of the vivarium the tarantula's eight eyes fixed on the waving legs of the insect above and its own legs shuffled slightly in readiness for the coming meal.

When Sly saw whose name was glowing on the display screen, he dropped the cricket to its death, slid the hood back over the vivarium and picked up the phone.

'Hey Dan, where are yous?' Manchester accent almost pushing the words through his nose.

'Outside the building, man. You ready?'

He looked round the interior of his brand new Urban Living flat, eyes settling on the ornately carved wooden box sitting on the arm of the reclining chair that was positioned directly in front of the widescreen TV. 'Fancy coming in for a smoke or a toot before we get started?'

'Nah, man, it'll be light in a few more hours. Let's get going.'

Sly sighed and looked at his watch. 'OK.' Crouching down, he watched with pride as the spider crept stealthily towards the chirruping cricket, bunched legs rising and lowering as if controlled by a puppeteer's strings. Grinning, he stood up and put on a Helly Hansen jacket, then positioned a Burberry baseball cap over his ginger hair. After grabbing his little kit off the peg in the hall, he opened up the industrial-style metal door and stepped out onto the decking that bordered the feng shui courtyard shared by the flats in the renovated mill.

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Making their way towards him were his immediate neighbours. On seeing him, their conversation had instantly dried up.

He looked the woman up and down, sucked his teeth and raised a forefinger. 'Now I don't want you two coming back from your clubbing and rousing the rest of us with your boom boom music.' He smiled, knowing the reverse was usually the case. Avoiding eye contact, the couple huddled at their front door while the husband tried to get the key in the lock.

Laughing quietly to himself, Sly jumped down on to the freshly raked white gravel making up the Zen part of the courtyard and strode across its middle, his trainers crunching out a trail of footprints behind him. He could feel the couple's eyes burning into his back and he imagined how pissed off they must be — over a hundred grand for a one-bedroom city-centre flat and they end up with a gangster like him for a neighbour. Fuck 'em.

Beyond the front gate of the building, Dan's Ford idled on the street outside. Sly pressed the unlock button on the side panel and the gate slid slowly back into the wall. Stepping through, he crossed the pavement and leaned down to the driver's window.

'Dan, my man,' he said, letting a touch of Jamaican patois creep into his accent.

The black face smiled up at him and they pressed their knuckles together for an instant. 'Sly. Ready to roll?'

He nodded in reply, walked round the vehicle and slid into the front passenger seat.

'I thought we'd take a little drive out Wilmslow and Alderley Edge way,' Dan said. 'Our friends are still looking for BMW A5s, preferably black. Plenty of folks out there need them for getting over those nasty bumps in the Marks and Spencer's car park at Handforth Dean.'

Sly laughed, 'Yeah — or maybe we should find a footballer's house. Half those wankers playing at Old Trafford turn up in them on match days.'

The car pulled away.

'They still after Audi TTs?' Sly asked.

'Always.'

'Let's go via Didsbury, then. I want to check on that house from a couple of weeks ago — I've got a longer garden cane to play around with this time.'

Jon Spicer's radio finally came to life. 'Unit one here, we have a scrote alert. Blue Ford Mondeo turning into School Lane, two male occupants, passenger wearing a baseball cap.'

Jon was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked Golf VR6. He'd been scanning the deserted Didsbury Street while listening for any sort of contact on the police radio for almost four hours.

Parked at strategic positions in the area were three other unmarked cars, each one waiting to catch a glimpse of the gang taking high-performance vehicles in the south Manchester area. Jon looked up. They were parked at the intersection of Atwood Road and Catterick Road, six streets away from School Lane.

The voice on the radio continued, 'Unit three, if he continues along School Lane you should see him on your right any second.'

'Unit three here; I'm looking,' Jon replied, leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the stretch of road leading down to School Lane. Twenty seconds passed and no car crossed the intersection. 'Nothing has shown, Boss,' he announced.

'OK, units two and four, anything?'

Both cars answered negative.

'Unit three, have a little scout around. There's not many side roads he could have turned down.'

Next to him, Sergeant James Turner of the Tactical Vehicle Crime Unit took the last sip from a can of Tango, crumpled it and dropped it into the small box on the floor behind the driver's seat that served as their makeshift bin. He started up the engine and turned right on to Catterick Road, then on to School Lane itself.

He cruised to the end of Ladybrooke Road and was slowly turning around when unit one came over the radio. 'We have a member of the public reporting a prowler on Moorfield Road. Some guy fiddling at the letterbox of number sixteen.'

Jon flicked on the interior light to look down at his blown-up page of the A to Z. 'That's the next street,' he said, thinking the address somehow rang a bell. Turner accelerated back up to School Lane and turned right. As they were about to enter the junction for Moorfield Road, a dark blue Ford crossed the road in front of them and Jon caught a glimpse of the driver. 'The Ford has just crossed in front of us, going into Parrs Wood Road. One occupant only.' He craned his head to the left. 'Registration Alpha 478 … I've lost the rest. Shall we go after him?'

'Negative,' answered unit one. 'We'll intercept him. Get to number sixteen and see what's happening.'

They had got halfway along the street, trying in vain to spot a number on any of the dark houses, when a car reversed sharply out of a driveway ahead. It quickly swung around, headlights sweeping across the front of Jon's vehicle, making his pupils contract so quickly his eyeballs hurt.

'Is it him?' Turner said.

By now they were level with the car. Jon looked to his right, saw the silhouette of the driver, a baseball cap on his head. He realized it was an Audi TT, and everything suddenly clicked. They were at Tom Benwell's house. 'Yeah, it's him! Turn around!'

Turner yanked the car sharply across the road and executed the fastest three-point turn Jon had ever experienced. As he was thrown back and forth against the seat belt, Jon said, 'Unit three here; we're following an Audi TT. It's turning left, left, left on to School Lane, repeat School Lane.'

Keeping in second gear, Turner floored the Golf and it accelerated up to forty in seconds. He shot out of the junction with School Lane, skidding slightly as the car veered to the left. Thirty metres in front the Audi suddenly bolted forward like a spooked animal.

The radio blared, 'Unit four here; we're at the junction of School Lane and Wilmslow Road. I'm parking sideways across the street.'

'Unit three here,' said Jon. 'He knows we're after him.'

A couple of seconds later unit four responded. 'I can see his headlights approaching! Come to Daddy you little bastard.'

The Audi showed no signs of slowing down. It raced past La Tasca's then, at the last second, cut up a tiny alleyway, joining Wilmslow Road metres away from unit two.

'Shit!' came the shout from the side-parked vehicle.

Turner mirrored the Audi's manoeuvre, bouncing out on to the main road. 'He's turned right, right, right on to Wilmslow Road, repeat Wilmslow Road,' announced Jon.

'Unit one here; no sign of the Ford. For God's sake maintain visual contact with the Audi. I've requested helicopter assistance for you!'

Turner raced along the high street, the trendy shops and bars thinning out as they left the village. 'He's heading for Kingsway and the motorway junction. We don't want him to make that — if he gets back onto home ground he can lose us in some maze of a housing estate, 'Turner said.

Jon nodded, eyeing the road as it opened up in front. They were now doing almost eighty, whipping past a church on their left. Suddenly the Audi began losing speed.

'What the hell is he doing?' asked Jon, unable to understand why the car should be suddenly slowing up. Turner was laughing. 'He can't find a gear, the prick.'

They had nearly caught up with him when the driver finally got the car in gear. But his speed had been lost. He turned sharply to the left, cutting between two traffic islands and into a narrow lane running alongside a huge cream-coloured pub.

'What the…?' said Turner, screeching to a halt and spinning the wheel around.

'Oh, superb,' said Jon, slapping his free hand on the dashboard. 'It's a dead end. Just leads towards Didsbury Toc H's pitches. Beyond that is the River Mersey.' He lifted the handset to his lips. 'Suspect has turned right, right, right on to…' he looked up at the side of the pub as they entered the lane,'. . Stenner Lane, repeat Stenner Lane. It's a dead end. Where's the helicopter? He's likely to be on foot soon.'

'About five minutes away,' answered unit one.

The Golf clattered along the uneven surface, its lowered suspension making every bump jar through the seats. Up ahead the red taillights of the Audi jerked up and down as the car also struggled over the cobbles. Suddenly the trees seemed to close in as a gate reared up from the darkness. Unable to stop, the car crunched into the thick gatepost at its side. The driver jumped from the car.

Thirty metres behind, Jon watched it all happen in the glare of the Golf's headlights. 'Suspect on foot, heading along the lane past Didsbury Toc H Rugby Club and towards the River Mersey.'

Before they had come to a halt, Jon's door was open and he was clear of the vehicle. Vaulting the gate, he began sprinting along the footpath, sets of white rugby posts just visible through the screen of trees to his right. He heard the sound of feet on wooden steps, reached them seconds later and bounded up. He was on a footpath. To his right he could just make out the dark figure running away, rasping breath clearly audible in the still night. He knew that up ahead a footbridge led over the Mersey to the next stage of the Trans-Pennine Way, a walk connecting Liverpool on the west coast and Hull on the east. 'I hope you enjoy running,' Jon shouted out, resuming the chase. 'You're on a pathway that's over three hundred and fifty kilometres long.'

Now gasping for air, it was the last thing Sly needed to hear. Worse, the pig who had shouted it didn't even sound out of breath. Emerging from the darkness in front was a bridge. He ran halfway out over the river and looked back. The dark figure was racing towards him. It looked like the huge bastard would never slow down, never give up. Sly's bottom lip began to go as a wave of self-pity welled up: he was going to be caught. He looked at the inky blackness below, climbed up on to the waist-high metal railings and leaped out into space.

Jon heard the splash and looked up. The silhouette had vanished from the bridge ahead. He got to the end of it, straining to hear anything. Silence except for the sound of the river gliding quickly past. He stepped back and went to jump down the grassy bank to the water's edge. The dark green cast-iron post caught him full on the left kneecap and before he knew what had happened, he was lying with his face pressed into thick grass that reeked of dog's piss. He had been kicked in the kneecap during rugby matches and knew that it was the next worst thing to being booted in the testicles. All he could do was lie still, clutch the sides of the joint in both hands and wait for the agony to pass. The searing pain didn't dissipate outwards or convert to a gentle throb — instead it remained concentrated in the bone itself, losing strength with the speed an oven cools down. Several minutes later he was able to hobble to his feet, just as he heard the thrum of the approaching helicopter. He realized his radio was in the car.

Tom was working in Daniel's office when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the phone's display and picked it up. 'Jon, how are you?'

'Fine Tom, cheers. Are you at work?'

'You could say that. I'm in the Seychelles, but believe me, it's no holiday. There's been a disaster at work.'

'Oh,' said Jon. 'I'm afraid I'm not ringing with good news either.'

'Go on. It can't get any worse.'

'Your Audi was taken off your driveway last night. I actually chased the guy. He crashed your car into a gatepost and, I hate to say, escaped. The car's pretty much screwed. It's in the police compound now, being dusted for prints.'

Tom let out a long sigh. 'They didn't do the house too, did they?' 'No,' said Jon. 'Just hooked the keys through the letterbox.'

Tom groaned. 'And you bloody warned me.'

Jon said nothing.

'Oh well, 'Tom continued. 'Cheers for letting me know. Look, I'd better go — there's all sorts going on.'

'OK mate, phone me for the number of the police compound when you get back.'

Two thirty arrived and with it Charlotte rapping on the door. Tom had spent the morning writing to his clients with the nearest deadlines, explaining their problems with the printers. He'd been able to speak with Ges at one o'clock, only to learn that the other two companies in the Manchester area with printers capable of producing building wraps were booked out for weeks with council-paid banners for the Games.

'OK, OK,' he answered irritably. 'Just shutting down.'

She came in and looked at the untouched sandwiches a staff member had brought into him an hour earlier. 'You've missed lunch again?'

'What? Oh yeah, I'm not hungry. It's this heat,' he said, even though the room was air-conditioned.

At the pool they stripped down to their swimsuits and climbed in the shallow end. 'Right,' said Sean. 'Tom, let's get yours on first.' He hoisted the single tank on to Tom's back and then pointed out how to tighten the straps. Turning to Charlotte he did the same for her. Tom noticed him gently reposition her shoulder straps, letting his hand brush against the outside of her breast as he did so. She glanced up, but Sean's eyes were hidden behind his mirror shades.

Once his own gear was on, Sean said, 'So, the way the regulator works is simple. You put the entire thing inside your lips and up against your teeth. When you want air you bite down on it and breathe in slowly. Of course, opening up your lungs goes completely against your instincts once your head is underwater, so take your time.'

Looking suspiciously at the black mouthpiece, Tom sniffed it then slipped it into his mouth. Immediately he found the size of it intrusive, the rubbery surface nauseating. It felt similar to the type of gum shield rugby players wore. He could never face using one of those during his playing career. Slowly he tried to bite down on the inner part, but the sensation was unpleasant — like chewing on especially tough gristle. His tongue made contact with it and he realized that it tasted the same as it smelled. Suddenly the presence of it under his lips and against his teeth was too much. He began to retch and pulled it out.

'Made you feel sick, yeah?' asked Sean.

'Yes. 'Tom wiped his lips, looking at the glistening object.

'Don't worry mate, plenty of people spit their dummy out to begin with. Just try again; there's no rush.'

Tom looked at him, wondering if the reference to dummies was part of some diving lingo or an attempt to belittle him. Gingerly he tested the mouthpiece in his hand, feeling its pliability and imagining all the other mouths it had been in before, picturing their saliva coating its surface, particles of food catching in its crevices. Meanwhile Charlotte, used to snorkelling, had sunk slowly below the surface. Aware of Sean watching him, Tom tried again. But as soon his lips stretched round the rubbery object, the retching returned, this time with some burning liquid at the back of his throat. He had to swallow quickly before its acrid taste flooded his entire mouth. 'I can't do it. I'll puke.'

Sean waded slightly closer to him. 'It's called a gag reaction. Plenty of people experience it. You want to give it another try?'

Tom looked down at the sun-dappled form of his wife beneath the water. Every so often a stream of bubbles rose to the surface. 'Can she continue the course without me? You know … the buddy system you described.'

Sean flicked a strand of sun-bleached hair from his face. 'I can buddy for her; that's not a problem.'

No, thought Tom, I bet it isn't. But he couldn't insert that disgusting thing in his mouth again. Old memories began to stir, ones he tried to suppress: the days of struggling with physics and chemistry, lying awake in the early hours of the morning wracked with worry. The dream still recurred now whenever he was under pressure: him looking at the timetable in the corridor at school and realizing there was an exam that afternoon for which he had completely forgotten to revise. The dread sense of impending, and completely unavoidable, failure.

Full of trepidation, he raised the mouthpiece to his lips once again. Immediately his stomach constricted and, as he felt the bile rising at the back of his throat, his mouth formed into an 'o' in readiness to vomit. He dropped the regulator into the water. Attached to his tank by a long black tube, it snaked lazily off to the side.

Not looking at Sean, Tom moved over towards his wife, bent down and held a hand beneath the water to touch her. She got to her feet, breaking out into the air, water cascading off her. Plucking the regulator from her mouth, she swept back her streaming hair. 'Everything OK?'

Tom tried to mask his sense of humiliation with humour. 'It's bizarre, but I can't do it, babe. There's something about the rubberiness of the regulator. All slippery and bouncing off my teeth.' He shuddered in disgust. 'It makes me want to puke more than a shot of tequila. Listen, Sean here can buddy you, so carry on without me. I need to try and sort out this work stuff anyway.'

Charlotte placed a hand on his arm, 'Are you sure? You really can't stand the feel of it in your mouth?'

'No.' He shook his head, grinning. 'But hey — the only fish I like to see come served with a lemon wedge. You enjoy yourself.' Before she could object further he began shrugging off the canister.

After a quick shower Tom hurried back over to the hotel's office, head bowed as he picked over the problem. He realized he was now barely noticing the beautiful scenery around him.

By the end of the afternoon they had located a printer in London who could, for a price, print two of the building wraps over that weekend. Once they'd negotiated a price for transporting the wraps and the printer crew up to Manchester to actually hang the things, that was two of the four jobs with the most imminent deadlines taken care of. Next Ges suggested looking for printers in Europe or even North America.

'Jesus,' answered Tom.' But what about the logistics? And do we know if they even use the same Vector and In Position software as us?'

'Well, unless you can come up with anything else, I suppose we're going to have to find out,' Ges answered, now sounding as stressed as Tom felt. That evening, as they ate red snapper cooked on a barbecue by the side of the main pool, Charlotte asked if everything had been sorted out yet.

'We're getting there, babe,' he replied. 'Two of the most urgent jobs are sorted, and we're now trying to find another printer for the remaining two. Problem is, we're talking twelve-floor-high images here, and that takes a specialist…'

Seeing her eyes beginning to wander, he cut off his reply, claiming he'd had enough of work. Instead he asked her how the diving was going.

Immediately Charlotte perked up. Taking a large gulp from the ice-cold bottle of Seybrew, she began telling him how great it had been gliding along the bottom of the pool, listening to the rumble of bubbles as they flooded over her ears. Even as Tom sat back, content just to watch his wife describe something that so obviously delighted her, office issues were pinging up in his head like emails arriving on a computer.

After a few more beers they ambled back along the softly lit path to their bungalow. Inside the air conditioning was gently humming and Charlotte headed straight for the bedroom. Tom paused at the desk in the dining room and sat down to write out some reminders for himself the next day. A few minutes later Charlotte called out, 'Are you coming to bed?'

'Yeah, in a second, 'Tom replied. But the stress he was under had obliterated any desire for sex and he knew he was deliberately delaying. Anxiety flickered in his stomach. The thought of slipping into bed next to her had only ever created a primal urge welling up inside him. Until now. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the desk in frustration. What was happening to him? By the time he wandered through to the bedroom his wife was already asleep.

While Sean took Charlotte out on her first open-water dive the next day, Tom carried out a fruitless search for a printer who could help them. 'What about America? What's the score over there?' Tom asked Ges.

'I've got an email back from a firm in San Francisco. They do wraps for a lot of film promotions round Hollywood. It looks promising — I'll forward it on to you. Thing is, with the time differences, they're opening up just as we're going home: and I've got to take my mum to hospital this evening.'

Tom didn't hesitate. 'Put everything on email, I'll contact them myself. So when can I ring them?'

There was silence as Ges worked out the time difference. 'Nine in the morning for them is nine in the evening for you.'

Great, thought Tom; there goes my night with Charlotte. 'OK,I'll call them as soon as they open. How's other stuff? Have we signed up any more merchandise promotions?'

'Julie's chasing Kellogg's. Oh, and there's something come through for Ian from X-treme, a chewing gum company. They're doing a special limited edition flavour for the Games. Free samples with a handout for a holiday competition at Piccadilly station. I'll put it in the crate on your desk.'

'Crate?'

'Yeah. Your inbox isn't big enough.'

Tom tried to laugh.

Charlotte got back after lunch, ecstatic about the dive. 'It was like being in a big aquarium, Tom. All those fish you see in pet shops — striped ones, luminous blue ones, they're all out there. Shoals of them. And there were Moray eels, poking their heads out of crevices in the coral, doing a weird opening and shutting thing with their lower jaw. Like that politician off the telly. You know, Gordon someone.'

Only hearing her last comment, Tom turned away from the sea and looked at her. 'Gordon Brown?'

'Yeah, that's him.'

'What's he got to do with your dive?'

'Nothing. It's the Moray…' her enthusiasm abruptly vanished. 'Oh, never mind, you've obviously got more important things on your mind. Office stuff, by any chance?'

Tom chose to ignore the mocking tone of her voice. 'We need to speak to a printer in San Francisco. Thing is, they only open when it's nighttime here, so we need to eat early this evening. I have to get on to them as soon as possible.'

'Fine,' said Charlotte, picking up a magazine and walking off towards a sun lounger on the deserted beach.

Tom called the San Francisco printer the moment it reached nine. A receptionist dealt with him at first, before putting him through to the voicemail of the new business director. Reluctantly Tom left a message, then sat by the phone listening to guests come and go in the foyer outside. Just before midnight his mobile went and he eagerly picked it up.

'Tom Benwell? Al Nevitt here. I understand you got some urgent business to discuss. How can I help you?'

Tom sat back in the seat, relieved to be speaking with someone who sounded so friendly. Al worked quickly and efficiently, reporting back within the hour that, with payment in advance, they could take care of both jobs within days.

Tom held up a fist in silent triumph — at last the worst of their disaster was over. He put the phone down and wandered out into the reception. The area was lit by a small lamp behind the desk and another in the corner. A couple of moths were buzzing lazily around them, watched hungrily by a smattering of geckos on the walls. The elderly night porter was sitting behind the desk, a book open on his lap. Looking at the clock, Tom was surprised to see it was the early hours of the morning. He stepped round to the customer's side of the desk, a smile on his face. Lifting an imaginary bottle to his lips, Tom said, 'A beer, please?'

'Biere?' the man replied. 'Oui.' He unlocked the fridge to his right and took out a bottle of Seybrew then prised off the lid with the opener mounted on the wall.

'Merci,' answered Tom, before giving his bungalow number and walking through the open doors and into a night lit so brightly by the moon that he cast a dark shadow across the silvery lawn. He sat down on the grass, rotating his shoulders to ease the ache in his neck. Then, almost reverently, he shut his eyes and raised the chilled bottle to his lips. As he tilted his head back, he wished every sip could taste as magical as the first.

Opening his eyes, he saw the night sky above him shimmering with an immense spray of stars. They twinkled with such intensity it seemed strange to Tom they weren't making any noise. Instead the canopy just hung there, incredibly vibrant yet utterly quiet.

He lay back and stared upwards, making out layer upon layer of stars, misty washes of faint ones lying behind brighter clusters, mind-numbing distances between them. He had never, apart from a few vague memories of childhood camping holidays, seen a sky like it. A sense of profoundness filled him and he felt on the verge of some revelation: as if the heavens themselves were about to speak. But the sky just carried on sparkling, as it had done since the dawn of time and as it would do for long after he was reduced to mere particles of dust.

After a while he began to try and spot which clusters of stars might form signs of the zodiac or other constellations he had heard about. Thinking back to those camping holidays he recalled that the only thing he could ever spot was the saucepan-shaped grouping of seven stars known as The Plough.

After shuffling round through three hundred and sixty degrees he eventually located it. The constellation was much lower in the sky than he expected and standing on its end. Of course, thought Tom, reasoning that being far nearer to the equator must have a bearing on the constellation's relative position in the sky. He began walking across the lawn, taking a shortcut through the palm trees for his bungalow. As he stepped between the first two trunks a web enveloped his head. It felt strong enough to trap a large bird. He stopped in his tracks, realizing that the owner of the structure couldn't be far away. Carefully he stepped backwards, relieved to feel the sticky strands slowly springing away from his face. Only when he was fully clear did he dare to look up, slowly making out the spider's black silhouette hanging like a bad omen against the glittering sky.

Sucking his teeth, Sly leaned forward in the chair in front of his widescreen TV. 'Seriously, they were trying to ram me off the fucking road. One of those big Range Rovers you see on the motorways. Souped to fuck because it caught me in no time.'

Dan nodded away.

'So this pig is trying to slam me into the wall all the way along Wilmslow Road. We get to a sharp bend and I see that they've only got a stinger set up ahead. Two vans, filth everywhere. I take the gap between these two traffic islands at sixty, car nearly flips, just get it under control and shoot down the side of this pub. Now I'm on a little narrow road, dark as fuck. It's only a dead fucking end. This Range Rover is still coming at me, so I smash the Audi into a post, jump out, flick him a V and sprint off down the path. End up on the banks of this river, lungs bursting, this pig still after me. Like being chased by the fucking Terminator. I run halfway over the bridge, climb up and shout at him, “Fuck you and fuck your mum.” Then I jumped.' He sat back and crossed his arms.

'Nah,' said Dan. 'That's how you got away? You jumped in the river?'

Sly nodded. 'I knew he didn't have the bottle to go after me. And I had my Helly Hansen on. It trapped the air like a life jacket. I just bobbed off down the river.'

'Where the fuck to?'

'Dunno. I floated for a while watching the cop-copter flying around with its searchlight on in totally the wrong place. Climbed out after a bit, walked over a few fields to this estate, wired a shitty old Astra and drove home.'

Dan held up a fist and they pressed their knuckles together. 'Safe, man. They're gonna love hearing that one in the Athenaeum.'

The prospect of making an impression with Manchester City's firm thrilled Sly. 'So what's on the list tonight?'

'Mercs,' Dan answered, getting up.

They had got out on to the Mancunian Way when Sly said, 'Let's go back to Didsbury. I want to check on that Audi address again. If his insurance company are any good he might already have a replacement one.'

Dan kept looking at the road in front. 'You sure after last time?'

Sly nodded, enjoying the feeling of recklessness. 'The pigs won't still be there. Besides which, the Audi guy owes me.'

'How?'

'I had to chuck my Rockports away after that swim. That guy is going to pay for them with his car.'

'You developing a vendetta against this guy? Remember Sly, this is business.'

Sly just chuckled.

As the car passed in front of Tom Benwell's house both men saw the driveway was empty.

'No one home,' Dan stated, starting to accelerate away.

Sly held up a hand. 'Pull in. It could be in his garage.'

'Since when did we start breaking into garages?'

'Since tonight. Now fucking pull in.'

Sly walked up the driveway and round the side of the garage. Cupping a hand over the end of the torch, he turned it on and held it against the window, but a tarpaulin or something similar was shoved up against the glass, obstructing his view in. Sly's eyes narrowed with irritation as he went round to the front of the garage and examined the lock. Nothing a decent screwdriver wouldn't take care of, he thought.