Personal Demons

FIVE STAR

Celia wiped her forehead and checked her watch again. Sweat was dripping in her eyes. 'If the worst comes to the worst,' she said, 'we could go down to the crossroads and wait for the local bus. They're apparently quite reliable.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Trevor, 'the whole point of booking a cab is to avoid having to mix with the locals. I've seen enough locals to last a lifetime. All those deformities.'

Celia shuddered. A drip of sweat fell from the tip of her nose. 'That blind man with the flying snakes. Ugh.'

'Exactly. That's the whole point of staying in a five star hotel. They make their ice cubes with Evian. They have French chefs. Showercaps. Fruit baskets. Slippers under your bed. If it wasn't for the outside temperature you'd think you were at home. The beach and the bar are for the use of residents only. Safety is not in numbers, safety is in five stars. Ah.' Trevor looked up at the sound of the vehicle and tilted back the brim of his straw hat. 'Better late than never.'

The filthy taxicab that hoved into view was Russian in origin. It looked like a child's drawing of a car, a grey tin box with squared-off corners and bashed-up fenders. The dashboard was filled with every kind of gaudy religious icon imaginable, the centrepiece being a barebreasted madonna with a pale green wobbly head that looked suspiciously as if it might glow in the dark. The vehicle slewed to a stop in a spray of brown dust and its driver alighted. He batted his sweat-stained shirt with his cap and opened the trunk so that their Louis Vuitton luggage could be stowed beside the greasy pumps and jacks, then stepped back to watch while the couple struggled to fit their cases. He spoke good English but had no intention of revealing this talent, for if he did so he would inevitably be drawn into arguments about lateness, overcharging and the unavailability of change. Instead he picked his teeth with a match while the skinny pale English lady fussed and tutted around her useless-looking husband.

He knew at once that they were upper class. They had that pinched look the posh English so often had, a look created by a lifetime of making false economies. The upper-class English always found new corners to cut while clinging to the lavish lifestyles they felt were their birthright, as if a reduction in the porter's tip would somehow pay for their next trip to Gstaad or Glyndebourne. The woman was bitching at her husband now, something about getting grease on her dress, and he was just nodding apologetically. Poor bastard. If he was any kind of a man he'd shut her mouth with a slap. Wearily the driver reached in and adjusted his wooden-beaded seat cover before heaving himself back into the car. They trundled off and around the corner, surprising a goat who was searching the road for a cool spot to give birth.

'Well, check-in time is two hours before departure, which already makes us over half an hour late,' said Celia, checking her compact mirror for facial anomalies.

'That's for passengers in Economy,' said Trevor, staring from the window as they passed a herd of perilously undernourished cows. 'We can turn up mere minutes before the flight if we wish. They have to wait for us. We're the ones who keep the airline running by paying full fare, not those lager-swilling chimps you see on the bargain package tours. Christ, it's hot.' The sea was a wall of blue at their backs, the air stagnant and still beneath the sun. The taxi wound its way inland, past derelict mills and bleached fields of dead brown crops. 'If only we could have gone to the house in St Raphael,' said Celia, fanning herself, 'instead of having to come here.'

'You know very well we couldn't do that. The press would have been expecting it. We'd have had no privacy.'

'Do you honestly think things will be better back in England?' she snapped. 'I've had people come up to me in the street and make accusations to my face!'

'Darling, you'll be surprised how quickly people forget. They have the attention spans of goldfish. We're yesterday's news. Trust me.'

He knew he was right. Twenty-four days ago his name had been dragged across the front pages of all the national dailies, but by now the press had already moved on to the next big scandal. He'd been in some tight squeezes before, but damage limitation was easy if you knew the right people, and no minister worth his salt got far in the cabinet without making decent connections. He made sure that the rumours about his private life could never be confirmed. The call-girl who had sold her story to the press about their sexual escapades had been paid to recant her version of events, and the whole thing had been parlayed into a photo opportunity featuring Trevor Colson, stalwart Conservative MP, hugging the loyal wife who stood by him. There had been the exposure of his vested interests with the nuclear lobby, the accusation of insider trading, and the homes-for-votes cover-up, but all of it had remained innuendo, and any journalist who had dared to suggest otherwise was vigorously pursued into the courtroom.

But this last business was a little more serious. Colson had acted as financial adviser to a banking syndicate that had run foul of international trading barriers. As an MP he had been expected to foresee such problems and remove them for his partners. But he had failed to read up on the new laws and take appropriate action in time to prevent the bank at the centre of the syndicate from going bust overnight. Investors had lost fortunes, institutions had collapsed, and the Right Hon. Trevor Colson and his wife had decamped to the sun, to spend three weeks incognito in their five star hotel waiting for the fuss to die down.

The taxi swerved on to the two-lane blacktop leading to the centre of the island, and the airport came into view. It consisted of little more than one runway, an oblong white box which housed arriving and departing passengers, a few concrete sheds and an unfinished air traffic control room with rusted iron rods sticking out of one end. There was also a dead pelican. It had been lying on the verge of the runway when they arrived, and was still there.

As the cab pulled up behind a cluster of hotel minivans, Trevor watched the disembarking passengers with a scornful glare in his eyes. Looking at their sunburned faces, their smutty-joke T-shirts, their shoddy luggage, their hideous screaming children, he almost felt glad that many were returning to find their savings wiped out. It would teach them to invest more wisely in future.

The collapse of the bank had affected the common man in the street, about whom he cared not a jot, but it had also damaged some businesses it didn't pay to annoy; the collapsed bank was, after all, built on Russian and Sicilian money, and the further back you followed the paper trail the murkier the finance connections became. Still, he was confident that his long-term prospects were unharmed; a few lunches with the right people had seen to that.

There were holidaymakers sitting on the airport steps, which seemed odd. It looked as if they'd been there for quite a while. Inside, Trevor's worst fears were confirmed; their plane had failed to arrive, and the ground staff had no information as to the current whereabouts of the inbound flight. Stephanie, the hard-faced little airline representative who was striding around the check-in area with her clipboard, informed him in the most extraordinary nasal voice that it was likely the flight had not yet left London, so the delay would be considerable, and as there were no other flights available they would just have to sit tight. Leaving the vicinity of the airport was impossible once they had checked their bags, and if the plane failed to turn up within the next three hours they would probably all have to stay overnight as the airport was not licensed for flights during the hours of darkness – but, she promised, they would be issued with vouchers for a free lamb stew and complimentary glass of house red.

Stephanie had a tough time making herself heard before the Economy passengers, several of whom had stripped down to shorts, climbed up on the roof of the departure lounge and were now dancing to blurred techno from their portable music system. The island had a healthy rave culture that attracted clubbable youngsters from across Europe.

'Look at this shower,' spat Trevor. 'The roof's covered in pirouetting queers. Presumably they have no future appointments arranged in their empty lives and don't need to worry about reaching Heathrow on time.' He mopped his forehead angrily. 'Stay here, Celia. I'll find out what the hell's going on.'

'You're entitled to a complimentary sandwich from the buffet,' promised Stephanie, her hard little face and voice hardening still further as Trevor glared at her. 'And a Sprite.'

Trevor looked suddenly lost. There was no social order here in the airport. There seemed to be no-one with overall authority, and there was no foreseeable escape route that could be accessed with the wave of a credit card.

'Well, we can't stay here,' he snapped, and found he was talking to himself. Celia had wandered over to the gift shop, which was selling mutated ceramic donkeys, headsquares printed with out-of-register pictures of the island's hotels, phallic bottles of sickly yellow liquor and week-old copies of El Pais. 'Celia, for God's sake!'

'I was looking for stomach pills. If we're going to be eating- '

'We're not going to be eating anywhere,' hissed Trevor. 'That stupid girl has no idea what's going on.'

'So what do you suggest we do?'

'Excuse pliz?'

A short, overweight taxidriver was standing behind them in a sweat-stained tropical shirt. 'Are you speaking to me?' asked Trevor, horrified.

'There will be no plane here tonight.'

'What do you mean?'

'This happen every week.' He held his thumb and forefinger together, counting out the words. 'There – will – be – no – plane – tonight. It come in morning, eleven or twelve, not before. Never before this hours.'

'Are you quite sure?'

The taxidriver smiled, revealing an unbroken row of gold teeth beneath his ratty moustache. 'You smart gentleman. Would I lie to you?'

Trevor queued to use the only pay-telephone that was working, and eventually managed to speak to their hotel manager. 'But you must have a vacancy,' he shouted, 'if my plane doesn't turn up, you'll have no guests arriving on the incoming flight, will you?' The argument ended with Trevor slamming down the receiver.

'What did he say?' asked Celia, fanning herself with a postcard.

'They're overbooked. Some sort of conference. He's already installed new guests in our room.'

'You should never have tipped him so much,' she sniffed. 'It gives them airs.'

'Don't you see, if our own hotel can't put us up for the night, that ghastly woman will try and put us in one of her disgusting tavernas.' Suddenly aware that their conversation was being overheard, they turned to find the little taxidriver watching them happily.

'And what on earth is he grinning about?' asked Celia loudly.

'Pliz, I have a cousin.'

'How very nice for you.' Celia snapped her sarcastic smile off and turned back to her husband. 'Well? We can't just stand around here with all these appalling people.'

'Pliz, I have a cousin who has hotel, very nice, very clean. Everything else booked.'

'We're not interested in your – '

'Wait,' said Trevor, gingerly touching his sweat-slick arm. 'Why is everything else booked?'

'Start of high season,' came the reply. 'School holidays.'

'Why isn't your cousin fully booked, then?'

'Hotel not finished yet. He can't get his licence until government inspection.'

'Then he's not supposed to take in guests until then.'

'He needs the money. Don't worry, no-one knows you stay there.'

'Where is this place?'

'Trevor, you're not seriously thinking of – '

'Do you have any better ideas?'

Behind them, Stephanie was organising a queue for sandwich vouchers. Celia shuddered as she watched the sunburned line shuffle forward.

'My name is Gregor.' The taxidriver wiped his hand on his shirt and proffered it. 'You like my cousin's hotel, I promise. If not I drive you back here, free of charge, okay?'

'Okay,' commanded Trevor, as droplets of sweat bulged on the tip of his nose. 'Lead on.'

Unlike the earlier driver, Gregor was happy to load their luggage into his ancient Mercedes without assistance. As the thumping from the speakers of the airport's unconcerned revellers dwindled into the distance, they turned from the main road on to a pot-holed single-lane track and spent the next twenty minutes bouncing around in the back of the car until they felt sick. The sun had passed its white-hot zenith, and a kind golden light now swathed the banks of dessicated eucalyptus trees. The rasp of cicadas sounded like a hundred lawn sprinklers. Celia tried to wind her window lower, but it was stuck. God, how barren the land was before irrigation! Ahead lay a gentle downward slope to the sea, but no sign yet of a hotel, unfinished or otherwise.

Gregor did not speak as he drove. He had no need to. He knew all he needed to know about the discomfited couple jiggling in the back of his car. Without a doubt the man was Trevor Colson, the crooked financier and British member of parliament who had been featured on the front page of his Daily Mirror nearly every day for the past two weeks. The pinch-faced woman next to him was too plain to be anyone but his wife.

Gregor had many, many cousins. He also had quite a few brothers, two of whom operated a chain of highly successful takeaway shops in England. Every month they sent money home so that Gregor and his cousin could complete the building of their hotel in time for the start of high season. But this month no money had arrived, because the brothers had lost every penny they had ever earned when their bank – their sensible English bank – had collapsed and vanished overnight.

Thanks to the tabloid press, Gregor knew all about the fiend in human form who had triggered that collapse, and now the gods had miraculously delivered him into his hands. He knew that revenge was a dish best served cold, but in this land nothing was cold for very long. He prayed he would at least be able to keep his temper until justice had been meted out.

Justice was the problem; Gregor was a civilised man, not given to violence. His creed was a simple one. He believed men made their own destinies. It was not in his nature to be cruel, or to encourage cruelty in others. How, then, to take revenge fairly?

'It's beautiful,' whispered Celia, nodding to the white-washed villa that had appeared to the right of the car. Bouquets of scarlet bougainvillea were stippled across a curving white entrance, before which stood the empty marble basin of a fountain. Trevor returned a pout and a raised eyebrow, meaning perhaps we're not being ripped off after all.

The hotel's open-fronted foyer was deep in shadow, its tiles cooler to the touch. An emerald lizard skittered across the floor like a clockwork toy and vanished behind the check-in desk.

'I'm sorry no lights,' puffed Gregor, setting down their luggage. 'But hot water and electric fans all work. You sign in please.' He pointed to the guest-book on the desk, mentally improvising possibilities; Colson's signature might prove useful to him at a later point. Trevor dug a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and scrawled his name across the top of the page.

'We're your first visitors, I see. Quite an honour.' Beware my husband loud and jovial, thought Celia. He sounded so false when he was being nice to the natives. She never bothered; it required too much of an effort. 'Is your telephone working?' she asked. She wanted to call Sebastian at his boarding school and warn him of their late return.

'No, not yet, next week maybe. This way pliz.' Gregor hoisted their bags and led them off along a gloomy marble corridor, thinking frantically.

'How many stars will the hotel merit when it's finished?' asked Trevor, addressing their host's back.

'Pliz?'

'Stars – how many will this hotel rate?'

'I don't know yet. But now I already have one star here, yes?' Gregor chuckled softly to himself – a good joke that Colson clearly did not get, which was probably just as well.

The room was spacious, cool and very white, with red Moroccan rugs and long white cotton curtains that billowed across an elegant Louis Philippe bed. 'Are all the rooms like this?' asked Trevor, taken aback.

'Not yet. This is – how you say – show-room. Please make yourself comfortable. I see to dinner.'

'Are you going to cook, Mr -?' Celia had decided to reward their host by asking his name, even though she had been told before.

'Gregor. I make traditional dish for you tonight, my special guests. You would like to eat at – ' he consulted his watch, ' – eight o'clock?'

'That would be convenient, yes,' agreed Trevor with a flicker of a smile as he gently closed the door in Gregor's face.

'You see, it won't be such a hardship after all,' said Celia. Her mouth was a coral O as she reapplied her lipstick in the mirror, 'although I would have liked to call Sebastian to tell him where we were. Absolutely nobody knows we're here, and we don't know this man – he might be anyone.'

'That may well be a blessing.' Trevor stepped on to the balcony, buttoning his cuffs. A warm zephyr ruffled the leaves of the eucalyptus bushes that grew beneath their windows. It was the kind of air that soothed the sinuses and freshened the eyes. The night sky was diamond-dust tossed on to velvet. The reflections of the stars spackled the sea like mica drifting through oil. He felt safe here, far from the baying hounds of the press and the querulous complaints of his constituents. If only this tranquil, luxurious privacy could last for ever…

'I feel overdressed for tonight,' said Celia, realigning her decolletage. 'I mean, he's a taxidriver, for heaven's sake.'

'He's a property owner,' Trevor replied, feeling his moment slip by.

'Part-property owner. He barely speaks English.' She, of course, spoke no other language. 'Well, I hope they manage to make a go of it, he and his brother, cousin or whatever. This could become a very smart place providing it attracts the right sort of clientele. I hope he's not cooking anything too exotic. Earrings?' She held the glittering clusters either side of her head.

'A little too much. We'd better go down.'

The dining room had calibrated glass panels that opened on to a series of small mosaic pools. Wrought iron candelabras set at either end of the room threw wavering aqueous reflections on to the ceiling.

'What a clever idea,' said Celia, waiting for Trevor to pull out her chair. 'I must remember this for the new conservatory.'

Gregor entered bearing a large metal baking dish, which he set down on a cream marble side table. He had changed into a clean white shirt. 'This very special local dish I make for you.'

Celia smoothed a napkin into her lap. 'I hope we didn't put you to too much trouble.'

'Is no trouble. My cousin and I, we catch fish here every morning. I make for you the fish baked in special herbs, with garlic.' He removed the lid of the tureen and a rich aroma flooded the room. Gregor's gold front tooth shone in the candlelight as he grinned at them. 'I hope you are very hungry.'

Celia watched as her plate was filled, then waved her host away. 'Goodness, that's ample.' It looked and smelled very foreign indeed.

The fish was delicious, light and flaky to the touch of Trevor's fork, leaking pungent juices. Gregor brought over a huge glass bowl filled with a crunchy absinthe-green salad that smelled like fresh-cut grass. He poured them generous measures of an agreeably chilled Chablis.

Celia eyed the white meat on the end of her fork suspiciously. Her stomach was delicate at the best of times. Her husband was shovelling his food down, so she supposed it had to be safe. She took a bite, savoured the sauce and found herself pleased.

'A very decent wine,' murmured Trevor appreciatively as he examined the bottle's label. 'Rather out of fashion these days. I fear it's been elbowed aside by all these overpoweringly fruity colonial Chardonnays.'

'My cousin – he chooses the wine. I show you list.' He passed Trevor a handwritten sheet. The MP beamed with delight as he read it. 'Well, well! Small but perfectly formed, as they say.' He handed it back.

'Pliz?'

' – A good list.'

'Ah. Thank you. My cousin – his hobby.'

'Ah.'

The limits of language had made themselves felt, and silence prevailed. Celia picked up the conversation effortlessly, just as she did on a thousand other dining nights in London. 'You have a lovely view here. Was the land expensive?'

'He does not own the land.' No, the land was owned by a British company, thought Gregor, a company that would have no compassion about foreclosure as soon as it realised the payments had ceased.

'Are you married, Mr – um?' asked Celia.

'Yes, but she died.'

'Ah.'

They ate peacefully, listening to the distant sea as the conversation lulled. Gregor cleared away the plates and brought them strong dark coffee, which he served on the verandah with a selection of almond biscuits. Trevor had drunk a fair amount, and seemed intent on explaining the benefits of a capitalist society to Gregor, who merely smiled and nodded.

'People have to build their own lives,' he insisted. 'Then, if they make a hash of it, they only have themselves to blame.'

'But what if – something – go wrong beyond their control?' asked Gregor.

'It's up to them to find a way of putting it right, of course. Like you and this place.' Gregor's heart skipped a beat. For a moment he thought that his guest had seen through him. 'You and your cousin could have decided to buy a little one star Bed & Breakfast hotel, but no, you went for the best, borrowed – a considerable amount of money, I imagine – and good luck to you.' He drained his coffee cup and looked around, smacking his lips. 'Time for a digestif? A drop of brandy, perhaps.'

'Pliz, on the side table, help yourself.'

Celia watched as her husband rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the array of amber bottles gathered at the rear of the room's marble serving board.

'Darling, a snifter for you? Help you sleep?'

'Just a small one.' Trevor was one of those men who preferred his alcoholic company to keep pace with him. 'Gregor, will you join us?'

The little taxidriver stood beside the man who had ruined him, and poured himself a grappa. 'This is very good. You should try.' He held up the bottle for his guest to see.

'Rather too rough for the European palate, I fear,' said Trevor dismissively, ignoring the fact that his host was also European. 'Good heavens! This cognac! Do you know what you have here?'

Gregor shrugged. 'I know nothing of brandy. Is good?'

'Good? This is – ' He stared down at the bottle in amazement. He had been about to say, this is the best, a quite unique '34 that stands head and shoulders above any other costly cognac in the world. But then he saw the amount that was left and knew that he could – would – easily finish it, and changed his remark to 'this is a very pleasant drink. May I?' And of course Gregor agreed with a hospitable smile, sipping his grappa as Trevor brought the bottle to the table and carefully poured a measure for his wife, then filled his own glass to the brim.

Celia and her husband finished a bottle of the most expensive cognac either of them had tasted in a very long time. Trevor rested his head on the back of his chair and listened to the hushing sea. It seemed to be speaking to him – calling – soothing – beckoning. Gravity was crushing down on him. His lips felt numb. Something was dripping on them. He raised his hand to his face and his fingers came away stained with spots of blood. As he slid from the chair and fell heavily to the floor, cracking his head on the flagstones, Celia gave a little scream and was shocked to find that she, too, was suffering from a nosebleed.

'What's wrong?' she gasped, staring incredulously at Gregor. A hot brick of pain thudded into her chest. She could feel blood pouring down the back of her throat. Trevor was convulsing on the floor beside her.

'All I could find was poison for the rats,' Gregor explained apologetically. 'Very strong taste. But hidden in brandy, I think. Especially after spicy food. Mrs Colson. I let your husband choose.' Gregor raised his hands in a gesture of personal absolution. 'He chose the best.' He turned the label of the cognac bottle to show Celia the row of golden stars, but her eyes stared past him, reflecting only pain, terrible endless pain. 'Five Star, see. Very good. To be fair, this bottle was the only one I put poison in, out of so many. Always a man like that has to have the very best, no?'

Gregor waited for the bodies of his two guests to stop twitching, then stripped and dragged them to the open basement door, kicking them down into darkness. His cousin was due to have the area pumped full of cement in a week, to stop the foundation piles from shifting. It would be an easy matter to bring the delivery date forward. He wondered how long it would take him to forge Mr Colson's signature from the visitors' book. A man like that always came abroad with plenty of travellers' cheques. After locking the door, he walked down to the jetty and plunked the empty brandy bottle into the sea. A terrible waste of a fine cognac, he knew.

Tonight, though, a glass of homemade wine would taste just as well.