A few more bends, none as sharp as the hairpin, and she was pleased when they were in open country, the road a wriggling snake following the rough terrain of the mountain range.
Another kilometre and the road turned to dirt. The mountains towered up to one side and the land – mostly coated in scree – fell away at a reasonable gradient at the other, but the road snaked around every curve in a seemingly endless series of blind hairpins. There’d been no rain on the island for almost a year, evident in the potholes and corrugations. Clarissa thought Francois might have slowed, but no, he maintained a steady speed, even over the corrugations. It was enough to make your teeth rattle. The plastic bottle rolled every which way, no one attempting to retrieve it. Perhaps it belonged to a passenger
