The Eden Legacy. Will Adams

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       FOUR

      I

      Rebecca’s heart was in her mouth as she picked up the receiver. ‘This is Rebecca,’ she said.

      ‘Rebecca? Cherie? C’est Pierre ici. Pierre Desmoulins.’

      ‘Pierre. What is it? What’s happened?’

      ‘Please.’ His voice sounded strained, thin, far away. ‘You’re not to panic. We know nothing for sure yet.’

      ‘Tell me.’

      ‘Cherie, they find your father’s boat out at sea. Personne à bord.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Last night. But no one see your father or your sister since yesterday morning.’

      ‘Emilia?’ Rebecca’s heart plunged. ‘Not Emilia too.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pierre. ‘But you mustn’t give up hope.’

      ‘What about Michel?’ Michel was Emilia’s infant son.

      ‘He’s safe,’ said Pierre. ‘Emilia leave him with Therese before she go out.’

      ‘Are you searching for them now?’

      ‘Not me myself; not yet. I’m in Antananarivo for a conference. I only just learned of this myself. I wanted to tell you as soon as possible. But sure, everyone is looking, of course they are.’

      ‘I’m flying out,’ said Rebecca. Now that the worst had been confirmed, she felt detached yet strangely calm. ‘I’ll be on the first flight.’

      ‘Good. I think that is wise. And I’ll make sure to—’ But then the line went dead.

      ‘Pierre?’ she called out. ‘Pierre?’ But now there was only dial-tone. Connections with Madagascar were always precarious. She put the phone down, stared at it dazedly, half-expecting Pierre to ring back. Her door banged open before he could, however, and Titch walked in, looking anxious, as though he’d overheard enough to alarm him. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. She repeated numbly what Pierre had told her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Titch, appalled. ‘What can we do?’

      ‘I need to get to Madagascar,’ said Rebecca. ‘As soon as possible. Now. This afternoon.’

      Titch nodded. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

      A sudden vision of her father the last time Rebecca had seen him, a little bowed by loss, his hair white and his eyes permanently moistening; and then of her sister Emilia, three years her junior, just a headstrong teenage girl back then, effervescent with ideas that came too quickly for her mouth to keep pace, but now a woman with an infant son. A black cavern opened inside Rebecca; she suffered a moment of terrible vertigo. Her door opened again and Nicola bustled in, her eyes down, concentrating on not spilling her plate of ginger snaps and frothy mug of hot chocolate. She set them down on the walnut desk, touched her shoulder sympathetically. Rebecca took the mug in both hands, savouring the sharp comfort of its heat, staring blankly down at the film of dark skin that thickened and wrinkled upon its cooling surface. Out in the main office, she could hear her staff working their phones, checking visa requirements, moving meetings, cancelling appearances, swept up by the drama of someone else’s tragedy. Ken shouted out that the first flight left Heathrow later that afternoon, flying to Antananarivo via Paris, only business class available. Three thousand five hundred and twenty-eight quid. Should he take it? If so, how should he pay? There was a beat of silence in the office. Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. She took one hand off her hot chocolate and clenched it beneath the table, only too well aware that her own credit cards would never take such a hit.

      ‘Company account,’ said Titch.

      ‘But I thought we weren’t allowed to—’

      ‘Company account,’ repeated Titch, more firmly. ‘We’ll sort it out later.’

      Nicola began reading out a list of prevalent diseases, Lindsay checking them against Rebecca’s vaccination record. Bilharzia, meningitis, rabies, intestinal worms, dengue haemorrhagic fever. Rebecca felt dismay as the list went on. Cholera, filariasis, TB, yellow fever, typhus, hepatitis. She’d lived in Madagascar eighteen years, remembered none of this. A high-risk malignant malarial region with chloroquine and fansidar resistance. Lariam gave her nightmares, doxycycline turned her skin orange; she’d need Malarone instead. They’d a month’s worth in the storeroom. Titch brought in a box, along with a thick sheaf of euros that he slipped clandestinely into her bag. Then he sank to his haunches and spoke slowly and clearly. Everything was in hand. A taxi was on its way to take her home to pack and then on to the airport. Her ticket to Antananarivo was bought and paid for, as was her ongoing flight from Antananarivo to Tulear, the airport nearest her home. They were still working on a driver to meet her at Tulear Airport with a hire car; he’d text her the details the moment he had them. In the meantime, she was to forget about their earlier conversation; he’d handle everything until she got back. She took and squeezed his hand СКАЧАТЬ