Page 65 of Never Gonna Happen

‘Hey, Mr Charles, hey, Emily,’ said Jessie cheerfully.

‘Is James there?’ asked Mr Hunter.

‘Mr James? No, we haven’t seen him today. We were expecting you all for dinner soon.’

Mr Hunter was silent.

‘Mr Charles?’ asked Jessie. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘We don’t know where he is, Jessie,’ said Emily. ‘He went paddle boarding earlier, he should have been back by now.’

The cheerfulness drained out of Jessie’s voice. ‘We had some big swells earlier, before the rain.’

Mr Hunter leaned on the desk and hung his head, his eyes tight shut. ‘What should we do, Jessie?’

She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. ‘Which way did he paddle?’ she asked.

‘South,’ said Emily quickly. ‘I definitely remember him saying he was going south.’

‘Drive down the coast road and ask the locals if they’ve seen him,’ said Jessie. ‘If something’s happened, they’ll know. I’ll make some calls from here, so take your cellphone.’

Mr Hunter thanked her and pressed the button to end the call, then looked at Emily with the bleakest expression she’d ever seen. It was now nearly six, and Emily’s worry had turned to a churning feeling of panic. What if he’d been in an accident or got into trouble in the water? He wasn’t wearing a life jacket; the water had been like glass when he’d left.

‘You take the car,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk along the beach to see if there’s anyone around.’

‘No, come with me in the car,’ said Mr Hunter. ‘You speak French and I’m afraid I don’t.’

Emily nodded, deciding that enquiries into how Mr Hunter could have owned a home on this island for over forty years without learning basic French or Creole could wait for another day. She ran upstairs to grab her bag, stuffing her phone and a stack of Mauritian rupees into it. She added some US dollars and Jamie’s passport, since that was the easiest way to show someone a photograph of him. Mr Hunter was waiting by the car when she got back, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Madeleine was with him, looking equally anxious. ‘I will wait by the phone,’ she said, and Mr Hunter nodded.

He turned south on to the coast road and drove slowly, both of them scouring the landscape for people or police cars or ambulances or something that might indicate some kind of incident. After a couple of minutes they spotted a pick-up truck full of locals parked on the side of the road, so Mr Hunter pulled alongside them and Emily leaned out of the window.

‘Bonsoir,’ she said, praying her French lessons wouldn’t let her down. ‘Nous cherchons un homme sur un SUP.’ Christ knew if that made sense – funnily enough they hadn’t covered ‘We are looking for a man on a stand-up paddle board’ in her French evening classes. She also couldn’t remember the French word for ‘storm’, so she went with ‘he hasn’t returned after the rain’ instead.

The men frowned and chatted in Creole amongst themselves, pointing and gesticulating. Emily had no idea if she’d been understood or if they were just bitching about the weather or stupid foreigners.

‘You are English?’ said the man in the driving seat, leaning out of the window so he was barely a foot from Emily. He was younger than the rest, probably not much older than her.

‘Yes,’ she said, relief washing over her. ‘He went out paddle boarding hours ago but hasn’t come back. An English man, wearing red shorts.’

The man nodded and translated for the other men, prompting more discussion and shaking of heads.

‘We have not seen him, but you are doing the right thing,’ said the man. His English was heavily accented, but good. ‘Keep asking on this road, someone will know.’

‘Will you come with us?’ asked Emily. ‘To help us ask questions? We can pay you.’ She reached into her handbag for cash, but the man wafted her away.

‘Yes,’ he said, getting out of the truck and climbing into the back of the Jimny. He wound down the window and yelled some kind of explanation to the men, then waved as Mr Hunter pulled back on to the road and left them in a cloud of dust.

‘I am Joseph,’ said the man. ‘I am a gardener at the Coral Reef Hotel.’

Emily turned and forced a smile. ‘I’m Emily, and this is Mr Hunter. We are looking for his son, Jamie.’

‘The weather was bad today,’ said Joseph ominously. ‘It can change very suddenly.’

They drove for another mile along the coast road, Emily and Joseph’s gaze fixed on the glimpses of beach and water between the properties and the trees. The sun was beginning its descent, making Emily’s eyes water; she hadn’t thought to bring sunglasses.

‘Stop here,’ said Joseph suddenly, prompting Mr Hunter to slam on the brakes and hurl Emily’s shoulder into the dashboard. This wreck of a Jimny had seatbelts, but they hadn’t worked in years.

‘Sorry,’ said Mr Hunter, pulling over into a lay-by. Joseph jumped out of the car and ran across the road to a group of fishermen tending their colourful boats on the narrow beach. Pirogues, thought Emily, remembering Jamie telling her the name of the traditional craft used by generations of Mauritian fishermen, repaired and repainted a hundred times. They watched carefully as Joseph asked a question, then received nods and excited responses in reply – nothing like the men in the truck.