One of Us Is Dead

70 Wednesday 12 October 2022

James Taylor had been looking forward to a week of relaxation in pure luxury and making the most of Tommy Towne’s generosity. Sun, glorious sea swimming, massages, great food. Catching up on his reading, and watching some movies in his large suite. But it just seemed a shame not to be sharing it with someone.

Someone called Debbie Martin.

His thoughts, ever since his meeting with John Baker, had been a jumble. He spent a sleepless night, his brain whirring, presenting him with conundrum after conundrum. Maybe it had been irrational, he thought, to have expected the shark man to have laid his suspicion that Rufus was still alive, to rest. But that’s what he had genuinely hoped for. Confirmation that Rufus had died at sea. Confirmation that he’d been mistaken about him in the church at Barnie’s funeral.

Instead he was now more certain than ever that his old school pal was still alive.

So what should he do next?

He thought about it during a long swim, then over a sushi lunch with a couple of beers, followed by a large glass of rosé wine. He needed to talk it through with someone, someone he could trust.

Debbie Martin.

He was thinking about her constantly. She was under his skin, he knew. Taking him back to schoolboy crushes. He wished she was here, with him. Then, waking on his sunbed sometime after lunch, with a wild thought, he texted her.

He looked at his watch: 3.21 p.m. England was five hours ahead. It was 8.31 p.m. for her. What the hell? He sent it.

Then he planted the flag beside his sunbed into the sand. It was a signal for one of the beach staff to come over. And when the smiling young man did, Taylor ordered a Martini. What the hell? He was on holiday. Might as well get smashed.

But before his drink had even arrived, his phone pinged with a text.

It was from Debbie.

When he read her message, totally surprised, he beamed with joy. And, later, he barely slept a wink that night.