Chapter 1

A small island somewhere in the Caribbean.

I suppose it must have been about eleven o’clock, when I eventually dragged myself out of bed that day. To be honest it was just too damned hot to lie there anylonger, because my beach house had no air-conditioning. Shit, hardly any private homes on the Island did. Unless anyone had their own generator, I doubt there’d enough juice in the local grid to run air-con for about a quarter of the homes on the island anyway.

After looking around and finding no evidence of the woman who’d climbed into my bed with me a few hours previously, I took a quick swim in the sea to wash the cobwebs away and cool down a little; then washed the salt from my body under my outside shower. I donned a clean pair of suitably ragged cut-offs and a tee shirt that Phyllis, my cleaner cum housemaid, had left out for me. Like most mornings, Phyllis had come and gone whilst I’d been dead to the world, sleeping off the previous evening’s indulgencies. I then began my daily stroll along the beach to Jimmy’s bar for breakfast.

Jimmy’s bar was far enough away from the only two modern hotels on the other side of the island, that few tourists found their way to it during the daylight hours. They -- the tourists -- much preferring to lie under the sunshades of the hotels’ private beach areas, or by the swimming pools, during the hotter part of the day.

“You late man, your steak almost burnt!” Jimmy said with a grin, as he settling into the seat across from me placing an ice-cold beer on the table before me.

“Heavy night, Jimmy!”

“Yeah man, I saw ‘er. That was one ‘andsome sort you sneaked off with last night!”

“That was this morning, anyway she damn near killed me, man!” I replied with a grin.

“So will her man, if he finds out who she disappeared with, Tom.” Jimmy grinned back at me.

“She’s here with a guy? No wonder she sneaked away a bit sharpish. Er ... husband?” I enquired. I wasn’t really concerned, but its handy to know if some bugger might be gunning for you.

“Don’t fink so man, no wedding rings or nuffin’! She’s probably a bit of spare he picked up from somewhere and brought out here to screw. Most likely, he couldn’t keep up with ‘er.”

“Whatever, the sort done a runner on me during the night. I got a little worried,” I said feigning concern.” I thought I might-a disappointed the lady or something.” I grinned back at the equally grinning Jimmy.

“No chance of that man, you must have something special ... for a Honky!” Jimmy winked. “Most of them come back looking for second ‘elping the following day!” he added with that dirty grin of his.

“They’re here on holiday mate, looking for a bit of fun on the side!” I replied. “You know that man. You score with enough of the buggers yourself.”

“Yeah man, but most of the ones I get are just looking for a bit of naughty away from home. I dunno what you got mate, but most of yours always seem to want to try to tame you.” he said with a chuckle. “One of them is gunna get you one day man, you mark my words; you white blokes always get hooked in the end.”

“Been there once Jimmy my boy, and it cost me the best part of everything I had. I’ve no intention of getting roped in again.” I commented with a more serious expression on my face.

Jimmy suddenly went quiet, I believe he realised we were unintentionally straying into an area that I’m not keen on discussing. But the silence was soon broken.

“I’ll rope the bugger one day.” Sis -- Jimmy’s reputed sister, who had been slaving away in the kitchen preparing my charcoal grilled steak -- suddenly commented as she pushed the plate in front of me.

“Sis my darling, you’re the best cook on the whole damned island. I’d marry you tomorrow, but wouldn’t your old-man have something to say about it?” I replied smiling.

“Maybe that’s a good idea; he wouldn’t notice anyway. And well ... maybe I could kick your lazy arse out of bed in the mornings and then I wouldn’t be cooking during the hottest part of the day.” The big-busted woman replied with a wide grin. “Anyway ‘andsome,” she went on, “there was a man in earlier; you got yourself a charter tomorrow morning.”

I looked back over at Jimmy.

“Yeah man. Small party of six, American. They wants a trip out round the outer islands. Maybe some swimming; full day, you know, the usual crap.”

“Cash?”

“Dollars, Tommy, up front!”

We were talking money. Jimmy’s -- not quite convincing -- Caribbean accent had suddenly vanished completely, demonstrating to all within earshot, that, black skinned and looking like a local or not, he had been bred, born and brought up in the London area somewhere.

“I took ‘alf, to knock off your tab, Okay man?” He added, pulling a bundle of notes from his pocket and placing them on the table.

“Jimmy, I told you before, if my tab gets too big, give me a bill and I’ll write you a cheque.”

“Hey brovva, that ain’t the way we do things around ‘ere, remember? We’re all supposed to be down on our luck. Shit, what would the taxman say if I started paying big cheques into the bank?” Jimmy’s face broke into that wide grin again.

I have no idea where Jimmy got the money buy his bar and/or his other island interests, but it had always been obvious to me that he -- like myself -- wasn’t exactly short of the readies. Although we both played the part of poor local businessmen, struggling to make ends meet in the backend of nowhere, it was an act that helped keep us low profile.

To be honest, I’ve never been too sure his name is really Jimmy. I do know -- just from hearing him talk -- that Jimmy had spent more than a few years languishing at Her Majesties Pleasure back in the UK. And, I’d worked-out that when he got out of nick, he headed for the Caribbean as fast as his long legs could carry him. Where he bought Jimmy’s bar from the old guy who’d owned it. Who the man had been, before he became “Jimmy, of Jimmy’s Bar” to everyone, I have no idea and I didn’t really care. Jimmy was always straight with me and that was all that I worried about. Whatever, I was pretty sure that Jimmy’s bar was really a way of him hiding some ill-gotten gains, and possibly himself, from the world as well.

As for his sister Sis - or it could actually be Cis (I’ve never seen it written down and pronunciation of names locally appeared to be optional). Sis had arrived with Jimmy and shared the little house out back of the bar with him. She wore a wedding ring and talked of a husband who no one that I ever met, had ever seen. Was she really Jimmy’s wife? I have no idea! But if she were, then why would she allow him to lay any passing holidaymaker that took his fancy? That’s if I didn’t get in there first.

Sometimes life is easier if you do not to ask too many questions. And, if you don’t ask too many questions, then you don’t tend to get asked too many yourself, and that was the way I preferred things to go. Well, if I’m being honest that’s how most of the few ex-pats’ on the island preferred it. Including our local holy man, I might add.

Having consumed my breakfast -- and a few more beers than is good for me -- it was time for me to stroll down to our little harbour to check-out Cassandra. Cassandra is almost seventy feet of sleek fibreglass hull, nowadays sporting a simple ketch rig. She was at one-time my home and I’d had her greatly modified for “all-but” single-handed sailing before I left the UK, on my trip to the south seas. That was until I’d stumbled across this idyllic little island and chose to settle down there instead. Nowadays I use Cassandra for the odd charter cruise, my only apparent income.

A sign at Jimmy’s bar advertises day sailing trips around the outer islands. It doesn’t display any prices though, Jimmy (or me) make them up as we go depending on the apparent affluence of prospective customer.

Come on, I might as well be honest with you, probably the main reason my travels came to a halt at this particular island was that the two guys -- who were sharing my trip with me -- were all-but high-jacked by some Yank who’d been taken ill and wanted his own boat taken back the States for him. His misses had waved some green backs under their noses and the next thing I know I’m high and dry without a crew. Cassandra could just about be sailed single-handed, but it was kind-a hard work. The two guys must have picked up other work in the States because they never did return. But then again, they might have got a little pissed-off with all the agro we got when we docked Cassandra in any new jurisdiction.

There was no sign of Donny, the local lad who regularly crews for me on these little cruises, or his sister Jaz who serves drinks and food to the paying guests, usually dressed in one of the smallest white bikinis ever made. It sure stands out against her dark skin and shows off that fine figure of hers to perfection, and she’s convinced it will catch her a millionaire one day.

I had it figured that Jaz and Don had probably gone home again after cleaning the yacht as they did most mornings; they’d be back later to put her to bed. By the time I arrived that day, it was way after one, and you know that old saying, only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun. Jaz and Donny were probably enjoying a nice siesta somewhere.

After checking over Cassandra myself, I left a note telling them that we had a trip the following morning and details of the party that Jimmy had relayed to me. Then I set out on my way back to Jimmy’s where I’d spend the rest of the day, and most of the evening. Although I’d probably have a swim or two during the afternoon to show off my fine physique to the tourist birds when they showed up as the day cooled down a little. If I weren’t so choosey I could probably lay a different bird every night, but it had actually got to the point where I couldn’t really be bothered anymore.

During the evening I partied with some of the locals and as usual drank far more than was good for my health. But then, besides Jimmy, Sis, Jaz and Donny ... and well, maybe Phyllis as well, who gave a monkey? I know I didn’t!

At some time the bird who’d shared my bed for a while the previous evening arrived, escorted by her man. That night though he kept her on a short leash and laid-off Jimmy’s Rum Cocktails -- and I suppose all the other questionable products available around Jimmy’s bar -- himself. One would suppose that it was those more questionable supplies had effectively put him into “never-never” land the evening before.

I never have been too sure what Jimmy put in those cocktails of his either; but they can have startling (and often unexpected) effects on those who aren’t used to consuming them.

Some tourists tended to behave like kids let loose in the sweet shop, when they discovered how freely available that sort of thing is in our little corner of the world; sometimes with -- as I’ve already said -- some pretty catastrophic results. Many’s the tourist who has found herself waking up in one of the local fishermen’s beds in the morning. And many’s the guy tourist who’s discovered that all his ready cash has gone after he’s gone for a walk on the beach with one of the local hotties.

That night the woman’s partner -- or whatever he was -- watched her like a hawk. He also had a foul look for every guy in the place who ever dared to glance her way, holidaymaker or local. It was obvious he had a good idea what had happened the night before, but not of with whom. And to say that there was a blatantly chilly atmosphere between him and his woman, would be putting it mildly.

I retired earlier than usual that evening, because of the full day charter the following morning and I was soon dead to the world - that is until Phyllis woke me at the unearthly hour of seven o’clock.

I never have discovered by what mechanism Jimmy -- or maybe it was Sis -- let Phyllis know on which days that I have charters. But on those days she always makes sure that I’m awake at the required hour. As I said, sometimes it’s better not to ask questions.

Phyllis had laid out my smart blue shorts and one of my white tee-shirts with a picture of “Cassandra” printed across the back. It also had a little logo on the left breast, with the words Captain Tom under it.

I have no idea who was responsible for getting the tee-shirts printed. They were most likely made by one of the many tourist type small workshops that turn out stuff for the visitors. But Donny and Jaz had a nice little sideline in flogging them -- for what I believe are exorbitant prices -- to the charter passengers. I didn’t object -- or demand a cut – as that was how folks earned enough to live cash on the island: taking the tourists for every penny they can.

My breakfast steak -- and beer again -- were already on the table when I arrived at Jimmy’s. Just the one beer that morning, then I walked down to the little cove come harbour which served as a base for the local fishermen and Cassandra.

Donny had the engine cover open and was checking the oil etcetera, when I arrived onboard. He ran the engine up, then left it ticking over to warm up -- it’s safer passing between the sand bar and coral reef that protect our little harbour with a warm engine -- and then he went below to change into his clean blue shorts and white tee-shirt. He’d just disappeared into the cabin as Jaz escorted and assisted by two young boys of about twelve years old came along the jetty carrying the makings of that day’s lunch.

Jaz was wearing her Cassandra tee-shirt over that little bikini of hers; her shapely legs modestly covered by a dark blue sarong to match Donny and my shorts. Nimbly she stepped aboard and then deftly placed a kiss on my cheek. The two boys, still holding their loads, stood on the jetty waiting, with expectant expressions on their faces.

“Yeah, come on then, it’s only a small party today.” I said, bringing wide grins to the two boys faces as they jumped onto the deck and then dashed bellow with their cargos.

I’ll admit I did have an agreement with the boys’ parents and one of the teachers at the local school. He frequented Jimmy’s bar on occasions and would tip me off if the boys skived off from their studies. The deal was simple, if the boys ducked their schooling, then they didn’t get to help crew Cassandra.

Within seconds they reappeared dressed in Cassandra tee-shirts and smart shorts. I looked across at Jaz who was sorting through the purchases she’d brought aboard.

“Well, they are with us so often when schools out, Donny and I figured they might as well look like proper crew.”

You might well guess that my two West Indian crew members took these cruises somewhat more seriously than I did, and they kind of forced a much more business like approach from me. I’d done my years sucking up to others and it really hadn’t got me that far in the long term, so by choice, I played everything but safety, as if it was unimportant.

Of course the other point is, that I really didn’t need the money these cruises brought in. I was living as an incognito rich man on a poor island. Yeah, I arranged for certain finances to be made available to the local clinic and the school, but no bugger knew where that cash actually came from, basically for reasons of my own security. Flashing lots of cash around in a poor community isn’t conducive to ones long-term health. Sorry, but that is just a fact of life!

I didn’t answer Jaz; I just smiled at her. To be honest, it was good having the two youngsters aboard when charter parties included children. Whilst under sail I prefer that all children – well all of the passengers really - wear life jackets. What with Cassandra pitching and rolling, and boom swinging about when we tacked, there was always a slight danger of the unexpected happening and some bugger going over the side. Even if the passengers can swim well, the Caribbean is a big expanse of water. Anyway the boys had been trained – after a lot of argument – to don their life jackets the moment we hoisted sail. Passengers’ children were less likely to argue about wearing life preservers, when they saw the boys put theirs on.