Mike Lunnon-Wood - Angel Seven

The man was lying beneath the boat which lay in a cradle, hull down beside the house. His brown legs protruded from beneath and bare feet the same colour showed he hadnt worn shoes in daylight for some time. He was caulking the hull, smearing the long strips of marine sealant into the cracks in the old clinkerwork.

Up on the veranda an old dog lay in the shade of a huge flowering bougainvillaea in amongst the neat rows of yellow air bottles and crates of beer empties. An outboard was half stripped on a bench by the door and a big chest freezer took most of the remaining space at that end of the veranda. Below the big picture windows a wicker table twisted with the years and sunshine was surrounded by warped chairs also of wicker, but made comfortable by once lovely embroidered cushions. The garden, dry except for the free-flowering hibiscus, fell away with a spectacular view to seaward. Below and nestled to the right was the Halcyon Bay Hotel complex in amongst the trees and lush watered gardens, and on a good day Barbuda lay visible across the sparkling blue waters of the Caribbean.

The man reached from beneath the boat, groped for the tin of sealant and finding it empty swore softly. It was then he heard the car coming up the drive and the dog began to bark. He didnt stop what he was doing, wanting to get the last of the white putty-like substance on to the boat and off his fingers. The car stopped and he flicked a look across at the pair of legs walking towards him. He had an advert in the local paper to sell the Evinrude on the bench, but this pair of legs didnt look like the type that buys outboards. They looked like the type that walked the halls of academia. Hush Puppies, woollen socks and expensive slacks with turn-ups.

Unless you have a tin of sealant in your hand you can bugger off, he said from beneath the boat.

There was a pause before the visitor spoke.

Mr Carson, I would like to talk to you for a few minutes. I may have an offer to make you.

Carson pulled himself out from beneath the boat, sliding on the flattened cardboard box he was lying on, and looked up.

He was lean and good-looking in an offbeat way, brown hair parted on the right and brushed back over his temples. He had green eyes and a long nose that had been broken once and a strong jawline. The overall effect was softened by crowsfeet round his eyes which deepened as he squinted in the harsh sunlight at the man standing over him.

What sort of offer? he asked, his face dropping into a lopsided grin as he looked up at his visitor, but the grin wasnt in his eyes. They were piercing and knowing and seemed to see the dark side. The visitor wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

Could we go in out of the sun? he asked.

Carson nodded and indicated the house and the welcoming hum of the air conditioners. They eased into chairs in the sitting room before Carson remembered his manners and offered the man a drink, walking to the kitchen.

No thank you, the man called, surveying the room as Carson poured himself a glass of water from a bottle in the fridge. It was a room as functional and masculine as the veranda. Rattan furniture covered in brightly printed fabrics sat in a blaze of colour on the polished sprung wood floor. An ageing stereo system played a tape obviously recorded from an old album: it scratched and hissed, betraying its era. A pile of magazines sat in a neat tower in one corner and on the sideboard an underwater camera lay on its side, its flash unit pointing upwards as if to highlight the blowups on the wall all of fish, dolphins and coral and in one a large shark evident in the hazy blue of the print. On the other wall was a scale map of the island and pinned beneath it, like an afterthought, a group of pictures of young men in G-suits clutching helmets beside what the visitor recognized as the EFA project fighter aircraft.

Carson came back and sat down again. He looked at his visitor, I dont fly drugs, he said, and I dont fly weapons.

The man looked back quickly. He was nearer old age than middle and sat tightly in the chair, disciplined and ordered. His hair was short and grey and he did have the look of a university man, but one of the old school where they commanded respect for their knowledge. Behind tortoiseshell glasses his eyes were clear and quick, and as he wiped the last trickles of sweat from his forehead he seemed composed and confident.

What makes you think I want a pilot, Mr Carson? he said carefully.

This island is full of divers, they are a dime a dozen, to use one of your American expressions so it had to be the only other skill I have for sale, Carson replied.

He had correctly picked the mans nationality; many confused it with Canadian.

Can we run over some details, Mr Carson? the man said, and without waiting for a reply he continued, My name is Donaldson and we know rather a lot about you, my colleagues and I.

Carson cut in then, speaking softly, and the smile had left his face. Just who might you and your colleagues be? he asked, sipping his water, his eyes never leaving the other face for a second.