Chapter 48 - Freediving

Image by Patrick Tomasso from Unsplash

The plane nosed into a dense mass of dirty white where it seemed to hit a row of potholes. Gary's sweaty fingers clamped around his phone, and the elderly lady patted his hand. "There, there, everything will be all right. These planes are much sturdier than the passengers."

It might have been the movement or the human touch that did it: Something shook loose in his brain, and suddenly Serious Study Tours rang a bell.

The boss of the outfit, Brian something or other, had sent these ridiculous takeover letters. Absurd because the other tour operator was no bigger than LiteraTours, only not as new. More established, perhaps, but not more successful.

To the contrary, from what Gary heard, Brian was a cranky sort of person, quick to fall out with suppliers, guides and guests alike. That wasn't at all conducive to business, and it must show on the chap's bottom line. Not that he knew him all that well, they had never met face to face, another reason to chalk up that ridiculous offer as a joke.

He turned towards his companion. "Did you enjoy the trip?"

"Oh, it wasn't bad. Too much free time, you know? I'm sure they could arrange for more stops if they wanted to. When I book an educational trip, I want to learn something and not be told by some underage student, I am to spend my precious time shopping. As if anybody cared for that."

A sad sniffle from the dog at her feed echoed the snort at the end of her comment.

Gary could name at least two females among his acquaintances who cared about such frivolous pastimes. But the thought slipped from his mind and another one took its place. "How recent was your excursion?"

"Let me think. Two, no three months ago?"

Not recent then. Whatever idea had stood up in his mind, waving, sat down again.

"And the chappie who called himself the manager was downright beastly."

"What do you mean by beastly?"

"Snapped at his little helpers, all the time. No idea why they tolerated it. Well, yes I do, it's all about money. He was their employer. Plus, he went after everything that wore a skirt rather shamelessly. Not me, though. Not that I usually wear them." She giggled, and for a fleeting second, the ghost of her youth haunted her wrinkles. Then her eyes narrowed and busted the poor spectre. "With me, he tried to play a game of comeuppance."

The plane burst through the cloud cover, and Gary couldn't help a smile. "Let me guess. You won?"

She laughed. "Oh, yes. I'm not a historian, by no means. It's a hobby I took up when I retired, but by now, I know my stuff. Enough to hold my ground. I was glad when he went, he was such an obnoxious person. Mind you, I expect he got some pretty devastating reviews afterwards. I certainly gave him one. I mean, at the beginning I felt sorry for the guy, but he does have an unfortunate way of going about things."

"Why would you feel sorry for him?"

"Ah, the poor bloke's in a wheelchair."

Wheelchair. As the cabin window flooded with sunshine and the blue of the heavens, the clouds fogging his brain lifted, and he realised what he had seen in the picture.

Or better said: who.

###

This time, Ike noticed no smells. All she got was the blandness of office paper and the chemical reek of ink. Nothing welcoming about this letter, no well-crafted plot, characters to follow or scenes to view. Just a bland, terse business document from which hostility wafted upwards in vibes.

Risky?

No doubt about it.

Ike grabbed the glass of water on the table and swallowed to moisten her parched throat.

Beatriz's words echoed in her brain. "It doesn't have to be literature. Any odd message will do. As long as it's written down somewhere."

Well, the dive into Cecilia's testament had worked. And that had been a copy. Sort of. This was an original.

Funny, the rubbing had never bothered her that much, she had just plunged ahead.

This letter—was something else.

The Sibyls seemed comfortable with their gift. Knew all about it. Had they dived into letters?

"Any odd message will do . . ." Like a mantra, Beatriz's voice circled in Ike's head.

Only one way to find out.

The coffeemaker to her left, the tattered version of Miss Marple on her right, her fingers resting on the letter in the middle Ike inhaled, like an apnoea diver going for the world record, then she let the tension flow out with her breath. Her gaze never wavered from the letter until the words blurred, shimmied and went into their familiar spin, a dizzying vortex, dancing faster and faster before her eyes.

Air whistled in her ears, a piercing shriek she had never heard before.

Wrong, something is wrong!

Too late, the letter had sucked her in.

###

Gary checked the image again. Yep, there he was. Brian whatshisname, the manager of Serious Study Tours. In his wheelchair, a blurred figure to the left of the group. Hard to spot unless one expected him to be there. Even then the face was smudgy, unrecognisable, Gary could only tell by the bluish bruises on his trademark muscular arms that were, in reality, a thorny thicket of tribal tattoos. The reddish smudge in his face had to be the beard.

The man looked and acted like a thug, despite his obvious intelligence and education. Brad had caught him propelling himself along, zipping past the other guests, not part of the group. Which probably was what had happened. Brad had caught him on camera just as Brian was propelling himself towards the hedge. Then, Brian had positioned himself in there and waited for the LiteraTours guests to arrive.

He was the brains behind Serious Study Tours, he would have known about the earthquake, like Gary did. He must have found out about Lord Byron's head no longer being as firmly attached as it should have been. Brian also must have been the one to cancel the dinner.

That really was taking competition a tick far.

But the man had no motive. Gary, who believed in justice, refused to condemn somebody he hardly knew.

But the thought kept niggling.

When and how did somebody turn into a killer?

###

In the letter, Ike found—nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing looked white, felt dry, tasted and smelled of—nothing. Where there should be people, voices, images superimposed on each other, a film protecting her from whatever was out there, the only thing around was Ike. With the realisation came the panic, a terror so sudden and sharp it squeezed her heart.

She struggled for breath, drew in air that wasn't there.

Another stumble and start from her heart. Greyness seeping into the edges of her vision.

And still, she couldn't breathe.

A tightening in her throat, pain in her chest.

Her heartbeat overloud in her ear. Stomp, stomp like the footfall of a monster.

Stumbling. Failing.

A roar in her ears, blackness creeping into the white.

She would die here.

Alone.

In a letter.

The lemon's voice sounded in her head. "An early edition will do the trick."

A cruel joke. The Sibyls had tricked her into believing she could cope, could dive into anything written down.

Wrong!

Breathe, she had to breathe.

"An early edition . . ."

But she was holding one?

Suddenly, there was air.

Breathe deeply. In. And out. With a squeaky gasp, Ike sucked in precious air. One breath at a time.

Slowly the panic released its claws from her chest.

The stomping was still there, but the monster got no closer as Ike's galloping heart slowed to a canter.

A movement stirred the greyness as it leached back into white. Shapes appeared, moving about. White ghosts on a white background but undeniably there.

A scene. She had found a scene.

She heard voices, whispering in the fog. Not voices plural. Only one. It didn't sound friendly. Ike's hands shot out, and yes! there was the familiar film, protecting her from whatever was out there. Slick and taught under her fingertips, it felt real, something to hold on to as the mist stirred and moved and suddenly was there no more.

Where was she?

White walls, a white desk, a computer screen, white blinds covering the windows. Was there no colour left in the world? Oh, yes, a grey carpet. Industrial strength and somewhat dirty.

An office, then.

The voice became more distinct, an incessant stream of obscenities rushed along by hatred so putrid she feared for the screen, for herself, and snapped back her hands.

Massive paws hammered on a keyboard as they wrote the letter.

The typing was fast, fluent competent.

The swearing was scary. But far less shocking than the strong emotions that billowed from the scene like noxious fumes, past the screen, wrapping her in a cloud of hatred so strong, it became a presence of its own.

Hatred.

For Gary, because he dared to open another tour company when there were so many around all jostling for space. For him having a family when he, Brian, did not. For him being a lord, a unique selling proposition, he would never have. For ignoring him, spurning him. Not taking him seriously.

Hatred.

For all the trollops who dared defy him. The stupid girls working for him. Useless, all of them. And what did they see when they looked at him? A cripple, not a man. Pity was all he got. He didn't need effing pity.

Hatred.

For that stupid bitch who he had given a job. A student only and an American to boot. He didn't like Americans. He just didn't. Didn't like Russians either, come to think of it. Or Germans or whatever else crawled the planet. Still, he acknowledged her, and what did he get in return? The bimbo dared to refuse him. Not only once or no. He gave her another chance, and what did she do?

Rejected him again.

Because of that accident. Life had been nothing but a mess after that stupid accident.

A visual cut across the rant.

With load roars and stinky exhaust fumes, three motorcycles, racing along a narrow lane in the dead of night. Not giving the other an inch.

A curve there's a curve!

A rock.

The scene vanished in an explosion, and the rant returned.

It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair.

And he knew, oh he knew, his oh-so-superior lordship would reject this letter.

Brian always got rejected. But he would take it no longer.

You just wait. He would show them once and for all.

The torrent went on, and on, and on, but Ike had heard and seen enough and willed herself out of the letter.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.