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If.
Free diving took practice. Swimming into that hole could easily be a death trap. I calculated the spot where I could dive that would be closer, swam to it, stilled my panicky notions, and dove again.
* * *
I lay in bed that night, contemplating the ceiling and the empty bed. Having the men here made everything different, exciting, perilous. So had been my day spent practicing diving into a hole that might swallow me under the sea, and never spit me out.
“I will do this,” I told the ceiling as my eyes drifted shut. “I will.”
* * *
I had three days, and one was gone. I needed a routine so as not to alarm the staff. As I had on the first day, I begged for a picnic brunch, picked up ice and a drink, and a thermos of coffee. I visited the library and perused the books to select one to read. Luckily, I’d read most of the first book so when Inigo asked me about the story, I could answer sensibly.
I found myself turning on the phone to check for messages, frequently and fruitlessly. Nothing ever appeared. I couldn’t call out with it, couldn’t use it for the internet or download anything new. It was a camera and a flashlight and a way to send messages outward. I hadn’t sent anything, yet. I was biding my time, wanting to be sure what I sent was right. Right for me. Right for the men.
Accusing the doctor of something he didn’t do would be stupid.
A laptop in the library was available for me to use. That afternoon, Inigo pulled it from a cupboard and set it up on a desk. I searched for stonefish and sea creatures until Inigo lost interest. Then, I began to search for the names from the cemetery—I’d written them down on a piece of notepaper.
“Thirteen names, what an auspicious number.” Afraid I’d alerted Inigo, I glanced at him, but he was playing something on a handheld console.
The most recent two were not in the news, or not in any search results, though I didn’t know which country to mention in the search. I swore under my breath.
Of the rest, one had been registered by historical sources as missing at sea, due to an article on mysterious disappearances. That might be attributed to the mess left by war, since it was just after WW1 when surely people would have been easily missed. Were there floating sea mines then? It could be a man washed ashore, wounded, only recalling his name. My imagination ran with it. A man who then died on the island.
And the bombing? There was nothing I could find about that either. Island tower bombed by Germans…Hitler…Nazis…Mussolini? Add in five killed on all of those? Nothing. Nothing. Patricia Romanus? Nothing.
I sat back and restrained myself from swearing.
About the only creepy thing was that out of thirteen names on those headstones, ten were female-gendered names. That I double-checked on baby name sites by going back through history. It was otherwise a dead end.Ha!
I had dreams, too, of the men doing erotic things to me, things I sadly forgot on awakening. Masturbating after that seemed ridiculous, yet the urge was often impossible to ignore. I sunbaked on my beach several times, fingering myself to the memories ofthat day, the day they both took me while I was tied up and helpless. That part of my day was fun. Nobody was with me to tsk at my nude sunbathing or my orgasms, or to punish me for them.
I was beginning to yearn for the day when they were scheduled to return.
* * *
Today was the last day of my freedom.
Yet all I’d done was practice holding my breath while diving and reached maybe two body lengths inside the tunnel; gained a suntan; made Inigo less suspicious of me, maybe; and developed an enduring love for the food the chef created.
Her croissants were to die for.
Just…not underwater dying, please.
I was improving, though. A thought struck me, a wonderful, horrible, perilous thought. There was air at the end of that tunnel. I only needed to reach that far and take in more air before I returned. Was I sure of that though? How could I be sure?
I needed to be certain. Ending up a lifeless body, bobbing up and down in the tides locked in a tunnel forever… Yikes.
I needed to drop into that hole something that floated, something light. Glitter? Or food coloring. Both? Then I’d have to dash down the hill, dive in, and check the tunnel underwater.Not anything Superman couldn’t do.I smooshed my face with my hands, thinking.
It was worth trying.
When I visited the kitchen to pick up my picnic food—croissants, ham, a niçoise salad, and little quiches—though my mouth was watering, I also stole a bottle of red food coloring.
Profusely thanking the woman, I sidled out the door backward carrying the basket of food, a bottle of wine, and my prized stolen food coloring. Glitter, though? The only source I could imagine was a book at the library that had a foil cover. If I tore it up finely, I could use that.
In the end, that was my course of action.
