Lemon Seas

Neil Beardmore

Description

Have Goa - this was the break Rich had looked forward to after a broken marriage and his mother's death. At last he could breathe again on a beach lined with palm trees. The discovery of the body of an Indian dancing girl as he arrives shatters his expectations and he's quick not to get involved. Nina, the wild young singer in a band provides romantic distractions. Dinesh and Frank befriend him and all is going well. Until his world is turned upside down when interrogated by Lakshya, the local Police Chief, a clever, well-educated man who's strong on accusations.When other dancing girls go missing and another body is found, Rich is prime suspect. The heat is on and proving his innocence is not going to be easy - there's only one thing for it: follow the trail through a tropical paradise of forests and beaches to find the truth. But can he trust those around him? Who can he count on when he goes on the run through the shadows of the underworld? The conflicts of death, a fiery romance and trying to chill become intertwined. Will he be able to stay alive long enough to expose the deceit and cover ups and enjoy this place of paradise?

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782284253
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Lemon Seas


Neil Beardmore
Copyright
First Published in 2016 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing Lemon Seas Copyright © 20 16 Neil Beardmore Neil Beardmore has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work Cover illustration from ‘Indian Dancer’, an original painting by Neil Beardmore Mobi eISBN: 9781782284246 ePub eISBN: 9781782284253 PDF eBook eISBN: 9781782284260 Paperback ISBN: 9781782284239 Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
A novel is never the product of one person alone but of many. Thanks firstly therefore go to my wife Ashra Kumari Burman without whose inspiration, wisdom and support this book would not have been possible and to my close family, Paul and Linda. I wish to remember here also my late parents, and my brother Alan and his partner Jane, all of whom have given unfailing love and encouragement from as early as I can remember. Guy Russell’s meticulous editing skills helped hone the piece into a novel of quality, and his work along with Judi Moore’s helped me develop as a writer. Apu Bagchi’s guidance was invaluable, as was Richie Beale’s. Novelists Sue Hampton and Leslie Tate have never been far away when I needed help. In Goa my good friend Rupesh was an unfailing source of information and detail. Tricia Cunningham has championed my writing for well over twenty five years and has consistently given me hope and practical suggestions. Two fond friends going back many years passed away while I was writing Lemon Seas – Lance Taylor and Andy McMaster – writers and artists themselves, both gave years of mentoring, advice and encouragement especially at low moments. Likewise Sabiha, who is no longer with us.
Other family members have offered encouragement, including Sue, Michael, Wendy and family, as well as my brothers-in-law Billy and Seany, the Burman family and the Fitzgerald family.
Many others have directly or indirectly contributed to my writing life who deserve mention and thanks: Martin Brocklebank and Speakeasy Writers, Carol Barac, Caroline Davies, John Thynne, Rosemary Hill, Mike Elliston, John & Penny Best, Lisa & Arun Gupta and family, The New Bradwell Writing Group, Lubna Haq, Ronny & Brian, Richard Hancock, Merryn Williams, Toddington Poetry Society, Bob Devereux, Ian McEwen and Ouse Muse.
BBC Documentary maker Michael Yorke sent me much detail, while writer and campaigner Catherine Rubin Kermorgant has only been an email away with information and support.
Finally, Mrs Vivian Akinpelu of Pneuma Springs Publishing has been ever supportive and patient, seeking perfection over deadline. Lemon Seas could only have been written with the belief of all the above mentioned: my thanks to all.
Dedication
For young Laxmi and her mother in Goa who inspired the writing of Lemon Seas
1
The sun was losing its brilliance over the beach. Her eyes were open. Like in a painting on a wall where the eyes follow you, stare in yours wherever you go. He had seen one dead body before: his mother. Rich shuddered. A woman in a blue sari leaned forward and covered the girl’s left breast, then retreated with her fingers to her mouth. The girl of about thirteen lay in the remains of an orange and green salwar kameez, one earring held on to her right ear, the other was lost in the sea or in the forest. Chatter had lulled, now it was a group gaze, mostly men. Fishermen in baseball caps sniffed, women in saris with wide midriffs edged in with elbows. The hiss of words was asking who she was, who she belonged to, whether she came from Bagolem. A man raised a handkerchief to his sweating brow, his wrist with a red tattoo.
Palm trees frilled the fringe of forest leaning the arms of their trunks out over the sands. Rich’s bag seemed to gain in weight by the minute.
The sea tried to creep up to her hair, pulling the dupatta, her long scarf, but fell away.
‘Who is she?’ Rich asked a man with a broad grin. There was a mark on her forearm like a faint circle with a figure inside.
‘Not from here.’ The man pointed at the mauve-blue hills behind. ‘They say her name is Sunita.’
Men in uniform were shouting, pushing people back.
‘How did she die?’ A sliver of fear suddenly coursed up through Rich.
The man shrugged and looked away.
‘Bruises on the neck?’ Rich said.
The man with the grin shrugged again, then smiled: ‘No one asks question.’
The police were cordoning her off. Rich thought she might smile, then straightened himself, pushing away the tiredness of his journey. A big man with wide waist bawled for the people to give his men space and pushed a smaller thin man ahead. People stared silently now.
‘You want a place to stay? I have a very nice hut.’ Rich’s new friend broadened his grin again revealing two lines of teeth browned at the edges.
Rich suppressed a sudden feeling of sickness in his stomach. They should close her eyes so she would not keep staring at him. ‘Where?’ He had to move.
The men in khaki were shouting for people to go home; no one shifted.
‘This is your first time in Goa? You have holiday? Not dead people every week.’ He laughed: ‘Dinesh.’
The bus driver had assured Rich he would easily find a cheap chalet to stay in along the beach front. He shook the extended hand, ‘Rich.’ Dinesh was about the same age as him, he guessed – late twenties, with thick black hair combed back on top and short at the sides. Rich’s hair was a fainter brown, his nose shorter and straighter than Dinesh’s, and Rich’s skin was sallow and untanned, his eyes brown, but not the rich black-brown of the man who was leading him now.
Dinesh laughed again: ‘You are Rich, very rich. I like.’ And led him on to a white-washed brickwork chalet with an unevenly tiled roof that steeply came down over the short veranda, it was the end property of a terrace of six.
Rich wiped his brow with his sleeve, pushed his fingers through his hair. This was not the start he had wanted. The white ball of sun pounded its afternoon rays on the back of his head, and he could not take the image of the dead girl’s face from his mind.
Having pushed the door back, Dinesh held out his arm for Rich to enter the darkness. Another girl – a thirteen or fourteen-year-old like the dead girl – bounded out. This girl, with uncombed hair and wearing a dirt-worn salwar kameez of purple and green braved a cheeky grin at them, throwing Dinesh off balance and making Rich flinch. Their attempts at recovery were arrested by her abrupt smile, but it wasn’t enough to curb Dinesh’s anger and he yelled something at her causing her to step back. But quickly regaining her balance she held an open palm under Rich’s chin, a fragile hand of thin fingers pointed together in a delicate cone. Henna lines crawled over the skin of her palm and wrist.
Dinesh yelled again and she smiled before scuttling away and disappearing into spaces between palm trunks.
‘Who was that?’ Rich said.
‘Nobody.’
‘Does she work for you?’
Dinesh motioned for him to enter, and seeing the ruffled bed clothes darted ahead and smoothed them. Rich’s eyes took time to search the sudden blackness he had entered, take in the bed with faded green and gold covering, the wardrobe-cum-cupboard, the bedside table and wicker chair. It could have been a hundred years ago. A fan – dark brown painted – beat overhead, clunking in its fixture and a bare light bulb swung in time with it.
‘Her name?’
‘Dead girl?’
‘No. The other. The one in here. Does she sleep here?’
‘Lalima.’ Dinesh sneered. ‘Beg. Dance.’
Rich liked the sense of daring in her eyes, of excitement and lack of fear.
‘She’s like a cat – look round – then fall asleep.’ Dinesh curled up his lips in disgust. ‘We must lock the door always.’
When Dinesh had gone Rich lay on the bed staring up at the helicopter blade swinging overhead. Ten hours on a plane, three on a bus. Sleep. Nothing else mattered: no Tina, no little Jeanette, no girl with the smile of death on her lips, no begging girl lying where he was now.

*****
‘Frank -’
Rich estimated he was in his late fifties, his thin grey hair barely covering his now tanned crown, his nose slightly out of alignment as though it had been broken in his youth, and his browned arms sprouted sun whitened hairs. Rich leaned forward from his wicker chair and held out his hand to his neighbour, uttering his own name through the groggy end of sleep.
‘Lemon Seas.’ Frank threw his arm out towards the turquoise line. ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’
‘Lemon?’
‘It’s what they say. See. Right now. Before the sun falls to a pink ball over the horizon and sinks under waves, it glows suddenly – only for a quick time – from white to lemon.’ Frank laughed. ‘Very poetic. Making a long wide line of lemon across the sea. You can see it now, look.’
Rich followed his finger to the broad reflection that fanned out to the shore. The reds and blues, orange and white and green of wooden boats dragged beyond the tidal line added colour to the bleach of sunlight. Some had slipped out with tourists, their outboards leaving trails of surf.
‘I got out of it for a while.’ Frank pushed a line of grey hair from his eyes. ‘And you?’
‘Had to get away.’
‘Relationships, eh?’
Before he had stepped on the plane Rich had promised himself not to talk about Tina and Jeanette, and the breakdown. Leave it all behind. Start again.
‘Kids involved?’
‘Who’s that girl, Frank?’
‘Always worse