Adrift, p.1
Adrift, page 1
ADRIFT
M. A. HUNTER
For all those with a dream: never stop chasing it!
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
More from M. A. Hunter
About the Author
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
1
PRESENT DAY
Sometimes it’s the scars we can’t see that take the longest to heal. That’s why I can’t help my mind wandering as I stare out at the sea, so blue and endless, hiding a thousand secrets of its own, but none as great as the one that claws at the farthest embers of my memory. It laps gently beside us as the party rages above the surface. It’s all I can see in every direction. We could scream blue murder and there isn’t a soul who would hear us. Why then do I feel like I can hear something calling to me from the dark depths? A warning that danger is lurking.
‘You ready for a fresh one, my brother?’ I hear Harry’s singsong Dublin accent gently break through my thoughts, as he reaches for the brown bottle I’ve been nursing for the last hour.
I don’t want to tell him that I’m already feeling light-headed, so when Harry pulls the bottle from my grip, I do my best to plaster on a grateful smile.
He turns to face the others and shouts over the rock music pumping out of the Bluetooth speaker. ‘May I remind you, gentlemen, that this is supposed to be a stag do for our good friend Fergus? There is an icebox bursting with Guinness, this pish you lads call beer, and enough vodka to go blind on in the galley, and I’m not going to be the only one suffering at sunrise.’ He waits until their voices die down. ‘Now can we all get fucking wasted, please?’
A roar of laughter and excitement breaks from those splashing about in the hot tub, and Harry stumbles towards the hatch into the galley in search of fresh supplies. The yacht rocks from side to side, but I seem to be the only one ill at ease. The air is a cocktail of sun lotion, rotting fish, and testosterone.
It’s only a couple of days, I remind myself.
There was a time I would have done anything for these guys. I shiver at the memories, which are trying to scratch their way through.
A shadow passes in front of my eyes, followed by that of a bikini-clad Sophie dropping onto the cushioned bench beside me. ‘This really is a piece of paradise, isn’t it?’
I imagine being alone on a yacht of alpha males might make most women feel vulnerable or at risk, but not Sophie; she’s shown so many times that she’s more than capable of holding her own. She’s always been regarded as ‘one of the lads’ and is probably the only woman my sister would be comfortable with allowing to come away with her future husband. And I’m certain if any of the rowdy group tried to take advantage, Sophie would soon put them back in place.
But I’m not so sure I’d regard this as paradise. A long weekend with university friends and an unlimited supply of warm weather and alcohol sounded perfect when Harry first suggested it, but now we’re here, it’s every bit as awkward as I feared it might be. Can I ever be at ease when so much water has passed under the bridge? Nobody has mentioned that night, but it’s all I can think about. I shouldn’t have come.
I watch as Sophie leans backwards, closes her eyes, and allows the sun’s warm rays to wash over her. At thirty-two, she and I are the oldest of the group, but despite Sophie being a week younger than me, she’s always been the matriarch, pulling the strings. And I’m surprised she agreed to come on this extended stag weekend, knowing that alcohol would be flowing freely. Maybe she’s testing her new sobriety. Or maybe there’s another reason. I can’t ignore the voice in the back of my head reminding me that the Garden of Eden had snakes in the grass.
‘It certainly is paradise,’ I say when I realise she’s looking over, awaiting a response.
‘I’ve not always been a fan of Harry’s plans,’ Sophie continues, a bead of sweat escaping from behind her fringe and running the length of her slim face, ‘but on this occasion, I’m prepared to admit he’s pulled it out of the bag.’
As if on cue, Harry reappears from the galley, with five bottles of lager poking through his fingers and that cheeky grin I remember so well. He glides effortlessly across the deck, dispersing the bottles, while keeping one eye on Elena, our yacht’s hostess for the next three days.
She catches him looking at her, and smiles back, her face as golden brown as the arms poking out of the short sleeves of her white shirt. Is she already falling under his spell as so many others before have? Unsurprisingly, Harry’s eye isn’t the only one she’s caught since we boarded four hours ago. Elena is native to the islands in this area, but she has a decent grasp of English, and from the way she hasn’t yet complained about the noise and Harry’s and Rhys’s outrageous flirting, I’d say she’s used to hosting stag parties for excitable Brits. I won’t be mentioning her presence here to my sister.
The captain, Joaquín, who looks more than capable of handling himself in a fight, pulls on a handle, and the engines quieten, slowing our trajectory. Harry moves closer to Elena, and whilst I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, I’ve no doubt the lines are tried and tested and as sweet as honey. She certainly isn’t rebuffing his advances. Her long jet-black hair is tied neatly in a ponytail, and in any other circumstances she could be mistaken for a catwalk model or siren. Certainly out of both of our leagues, but Harry’s never been one to shy away from a challenge. Joaquín watches on, but makes no effort to interrupt.
I force myself to look away and press the dripping bottle of lager to my forehead, but it offers scant consolation from the burning heat.
I notice Rhys is shooting daggers at Harry and Elena. It’s a look I’ve seen before, and the breath catches in my throat as I recall the night I was on the receiving end of that glare. I stand and quickly move across to Harry, pulling him away and over to the bench, plonking him beside Sophie. I look back to check that Rhys is happier now, but can’t see him in the hot tub. Then I spot him disappearing into the galley, presumably hurrying after Elena, who’s probably gone to prepare snacks to soak up some of the alcohol.
‘Can I get you another orange juice, Soph?’ Harry asks, his eyes fixed on the galley steps.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine,’ she replies, reaching for the sun lotion and squirting a generous amount into the palm of her hand. ‘Either of you two want a top-up?’
As if on cue, Harry unfastens the garish blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt he’s been wearing since we met at the airport, and flexes his biceps.
Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘If you think muscles and manscaping impress me, you’re going to be disappointed. You might have more luck with our hostess – that’s if Rhys doesn’t get there first. Pretty sure he’d win in a pissing contest too.’
Harry clutches his gut as if wounded, but his face breaks into his usual careless grin. ‘Well, you know, you and me never did hook up in the house, so maybe it is time you discovered what you’ve been missing. Pete here will tell you I never leave a woman unsatisfied.’
He slaps me on the back, and I nearly drop the bottle, but before I can respond, he moves away, bored of such mundane conversation, crosses the aft, and steps down into the hot tub, clinking his bottle with Fergus and Christophe.
‘I think I’m good at the moment, thanks, Soph,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to do your back?’
‘Please.’ She shuffles around on the cushion, and passes me the bottle.
I tuck her ginger plait over her shoulder, and apply the lotion, massaging it into her fair, freckled skin. I remember a few times when we lived together, when she’d sunbathe in the back garden, and wasn’t so careful, ending up resembling a walking lobster. There were so many warning signs back then that I should have paid more attention to, but with the pressure of it being our final year, and everything else that went on… I shake my head, not wanting to be drawn back there. In truth, this is the first time we’ve all been together in years, and I’m surprised they all agreed to reunite for Fergus’s final weekend of freedom. Credit to Harry for convincing them.
‘Oh, wow you have the hands of a god,’ I hear Sophie say, and realise the lotion has soaked in, and I’m just massaging her shoulders absent-mindedly.
My cheeks blaze as I lower my hands. ‘Sorry. You’re all done.’
‘Don’t apologise! That was possibly the best massage I’ve ever had. If you weren’t already spoken for, I’d be giving serious consideration to dragging you below deck.’
It’s her turn to blush, and I desperately want to fight against the awkward silence that suddenly grows. There’s way too much history to overstep that boundary. And besides, Carly and I are happy, and our troubles feel far behind us.
We both look away, striving to find anything to break the tension. It’s Sophie who is first to speak. ‘It’s great to see the old gang back together again. Who’d have thought we’d all be thriving ten years on?’
My stomach lurches as Rhys returns to the deck and climbs back into the hot tub. He doesn’t mention what he’s been up to with Elena, and although Harry gives him a questioning look, Rhys keeps his lips closed in a tight smile. Maybe Sophie is right about the potential pissing contest; I’ll have to make sure Harry doesn’t get in over his head.
My phone vibrates on the cushion beside me, and I smile when I see my sister’s face. I accept the video call, and my heart warms instantly when I see Carly next to her, dancing. The muddy fields of Somerset are visible just over their shoulders.
‘Finally, someone who’s prepared to answer their phone. Hello, big brother, is my fiancé having a good time?’
I look over to Fergus, tempted to call him over and let them speak, but he has his back to me, and with the others hanging on to his every word, I imagine he’s regaling them with one of his many anecdotes about growing up in the rugged Highlands. Of all the men my sister could have chosen to fall in love with, why did it have to be Fergus? She always had a string of admirers when we were growing up. I don’t know if it’s the shock of uncontrollable fiery hair, his bear-like girth, or because I can never tell when he’s withholding the truth, but my skin crawls when I see them together.
I turn the phone’s screen round instead and point it in the direction of the hot tub. ‘I think you can say that.’ I call out his name but either he doesn’t hear or isn’t interested, so I eventually turn the screen back to my face. ‘And are you ladies having a great time at the festival?’
I can see they’re both wearing glow stick necklaces and sipping from cans of supermarket-brand lager.
‘Glasto is immense!’ Carly shouts out, and again I’m so relieved that my girlfriend and sister have become such close friends. I wish Fergus and I could be as close.
I’m certainly not envious of our opposing destinations. Despite the lurking threat of seasickness, I’d choose the yacht over a weekend in a muddy field any day of the week.
Something catches my sister’s attention, and she disappears from the screen, leaving me to stare into the beautiful brown eyes of the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. I want to tell her as much when Sophie suddenly snatches the phone from my grasp, and takes it around the others gathered in the hot tub so each can say hi to my better half. They’ve all known Carly almost as long as me. Of course, one of them has known her longer, and it still rankles even after a decade of love and intimacy.
I shake the memory away, determined to try to let the past rest. It needs to stay buried.
Harry takes control of the phone and introduces Carly to Elena, who has now reappeared on deck. I wish he hadn’t, though. I would never cheat on Carly, but I know she has insecurities and I don’t want anything to spoil her weekend either. The yacht quakes as Joaquín restarts the engine, and opens the throttle.
I stand unsteadily and go to collect the phone from Harry before disappearing into the galley, wanting to speak to Carly privately.
There are six cabins stretching out to the left and right of me, and I head down to my room – the last one on the right where the yacht’s Wi-Fi is strongest – and close the door behind me.
‘How are you doing? How’s the weather?’
Her eyes dart to the darkening clouds overhead, and she wrinkles her nose. ‘Supposed to chuck it down later, but that’s part of the fun.’
I don’t agree but keep it to myself.
‘Looks sunny where you are, though,’ she continues.
‘It’s gorgeous here. You’d love it!’
‘What happened to the storm that was supposed to be heading your way?’
I think about the long-range weather forecast I’d checked when packing. ‘No sign of it yet. If we’re lucky, it should just hit the mainland.’
‘That’s a relief,’ she says. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than being trapped on a boat in rough sea.’
‘You’d love this yacht if you saw it too,’ I continue. ‘I’ve no idea how Harry got such a good deal for it.’
‘I’m glad you’re having a good time. I just wanted to call and tell you I love you.’
My heart could burst. I’m about to reciprocate when the silence is broken by an ear-splitting alarm.
2
PRESENT DAY
I race out of my room, still clutching my phone, as my whole body convulses. My heart is racing. I don’t cope well in emergency situations. Is there a fire on board? Something worse?
‘What the hell is that noise?’ I just about hear Carly say as I race into the galley, but I don’t stop to tell her I have no idea.
Sprinting up the stairs, I count four of the group leaning over the back of the yacht: Fergus’s hairy back and tattoo sleeve, Christophe’s black trunks and olive-skinned legs, Sophie’s rainbow-coloured sarong, and Harry’s pasty white sparrow legs.
I can’t see Rhys anywhere.
‘Man overboard!’ Sophie shrieks, hurrying to the port side to grab the orange ring-shaped lifebuoy. She hurls it out into the water.
Joaquín has already stopped the engine, and is hurrying down from the raised platform; I can only assume Elena’s the one who sounded the alarm. She rushes to join the others, looking over the edge. It’s now I realise the music has stopped. A deathly silence fills the air as the ground bobs. It reminds me of just how isolated we are out here.
‘I’ll have to call you back,’ I tell Carly, quickly ending the call, and throw my phone onto the cushioned bench.
I squeeze between Harry and Christophe, and see Rhys splashing his arms, trying to keep his head above the water. The lifebuoy floats just out of his reach. We must have been travelling at some knots when he hit the water, as he’s a good ten or so metres behind us.
I don’t understand why he doesn’t just grab the ring and swim back. Out of the whole group, he’s the only one who’s maintained any real level of physical fitness, running half marathons every couple of months.
Despite Sophie’s obvious concern, it doesn’t seem to be a feeling shared by the rest of the group. Fergus can’t seem to stop laughing.
‘Don’t thrash about,’ Joaquín calls out. ‘Grab the ring.’
Rhys throws his arms out, but his fingertips brush against the edge of the plastic, inadvertently pushing it further away. His head dips below the water, and when it emerges, he is coughing and spitting out water. I genuinely think he might drown if someone doesn’t get to him.
I don’t think twice, lifting my leg over the safety rope, but then I feel Joaquín’s clammy fingers coil around my arm.
‘No, I will go. I am responsible. You must all stay on the yacht.’ He looks back to Rhys, and holds out his arm, fingers splayed. ‘Try to keep still. I’m coming.’
He pulls the white shirt over his head, revealing carefully sculpted abs, before yanking off his white shoes and socks and diving over the edge. He glides through the water, quickly swallowing up the distance between Rhys and the yacht. He grabs the lifebuoy in one motion as he passes it and quickly tucks it over Rhys’s arms, just as his face disappears below the waterline again. Joaquín tugs him back up, and ensures the lifebuoy is tucked below his armpits, before surveying the top of the sea.
