Canary Islands Mysteries Collection

Chapter 11

I squint. Sunrise brightens the otherwise dingy room. I should be grateful I"m awake, but I"m stiff limbed, adding to the darts of pain shooting down my arm. The leg is not much better. I reach for the water bottle, careful to take only a sip, then rummage in the rucksack for the other half of the protein bar I ate last night. Feeling around inside, not wanting to extract Gloria"s present, my knuckles press against something in the interior pocket. I realise in a flash it"s the document folder. At first, I"m puzzled. Then I cast my mind back. I put it there last week planning to visit Pedro to discuss a strategy for dealing with the situation. Neither of us was keen to hand over the documents—copies of an illegal development plan, emails, transcripts of text message exchanges—to the police. Besides, I wasn"t sure we had enough to prove anything, hence the meeting. Only, what with the birthday party, the commission and the imminent storm, our meeting was forgotten, by me at least, and I"ve been carrying those documents around in the rucksack ever since.

It suddenly occurs to me the oversight has put both Pedro and Paula in even greater danger. If whoever has been sent to recover the documents were to find them, then maybe he would leave, satisfied. Maybe. No chance of that now. A wave of anxiety and self-recrimination washes through me. I"m an i***t.

An i***t who has to be practical.

I heave myself up using my good leg. The dog could be out there, watching, but I have no choice. A puncture wound, and the leg might heal, but the animal tore at my flesh and would have bitten a chunk right off if it hadn"t been for my pants. I need to do something with the wound or infection will set in, if it hasn"t already. I don"t like to think of what was last in that animal"s mouth before it bit me.

I scan the beach and the reef through the window cavity. No dog. No guarantee it isn"t out there. I grab the plank of wood and hobble outside.

As I head towards the beach I keep an eye on the steps leading up to the street above. The ocean is calmer, the tide low, and I take a few tentative steps on the soft black sand before it dawns on me I can"t use the beach if I want to avoid leaving a trail. I walk backwards, obliterating the evidence of my footsteps as I go, then head across the rocky reef to the water"s edge.

The going is uneven. I need to walk slowly and watch each step, yet I"m acutely aware of the exposure and keep turning back to scan the village and the ridge behind me. In any one of those windows an eye might be sighting me down the barrel of a g*n.

I kneel close to the waterline, not trusting the ocean much either, knowing how easy it would be for me to fall in if a wave takes me by surprise. I release Gloria"s scarf, pull up my trouser leg and bathe the wound as methodically and quickly as I am able. I wash out the scarf, then I unzip my fly and release my pee into the ocean, and hobble back to the safety of my hideout. Letting the wound and the scarf dry, I turn my attention to my arm.

It needs a sling. I eye the scraps of fishing net and sift through what"s there. I spend the next hour tying together loose ends of the nets, wincing with every tug and pull, fashioning a makeshift triangle as best I can. Thinking ahead to how I"ll tie it around my neck, I use a length of thread to measure the distance from my shoulder to elbow, make a mental guess and tie a knot, hoping I"ve got the sling height right.

Satisfied it"s the best it can be, I grab one of Gloria"s stray socks I found lurking in the bottom of the rucksack and ram it into my mouth. Biting down hard, I ease my arm into my sling. The pain makes me roar inwardly but I"m convinced I made no audible sound.

The sling is a good fit but pain relief is a long time coming. I distract myself by assessing my supplies. Half a litre of water a day will get me to Wednesday, so that"s the day I have to leave. I figure if I hold out until then, whoever is looking for me will assume I"m dead or long gone.

My food supplies match the water. I have two protein bars, two chocolate bars, a small pack of peanuts and some chick pea snacks. If I spread that over two days, and leave early on the third, I should survive, and if I save the nuts, they"ll give me enough energy for the walk.

The day drags on. I feel myself weakening by the hour and my state of mind isn"t helping. I keep asking myself if all my campaigning is worth it? There has to be a better way, a less dangerous way forward. I"ve put my loved ones in peril out of my own stalwart drive. It hits me like a hard slap that all these years I"ve been selfish in my treatment of Paula. I"ve not respected her enough for who she is, not only as the mother of my child, but a shrewd, capable, caring woman who gave up her life to be with me. She doesn"t deserve this. She doesn"t deserve to lose her life twice, once when she came to the island, and a second time because of me. Tears well and spill. I brush them away. I need to get a grip. I"ll walk back on Wednesday. I"ll be there when the commission winner is announced; to celebrate or not, I don"t care. I picture Gloria"s pretty face, her adorable if impetuous nature, I picture Bill and Angela, who came to be near their only daughter and granddaughter. All of them I am responsible for and I should have stepped up to that responsibility long before now.