Wish You Were Here

By Mario Azzurrino

A dream job on a tropical island. For the world's foremost entrepreneur. But employer and employee have secrets. Whose secrets are the darkest?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mario Azzurrino
• Release date: Sep 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838472733

Book preview

Chapter 1

I pop a mint in my mouth. The spice of it hits me, waking my tongue. The ritual of the mint always reminds me to grab my keys. Just make sure the door doesn’t lock behind me. I can’t afford to make any mistakes today. It’s the job interview of my life.

The streets are dreary in the winter gloom. Closed shops, people looking down under hats and brollies. Until the wind blows them off, or turns them inside out.

The bus smells. Children swear, a scary man mumbles to himself, his eyes fixed on a piece of chewing gum amalgamated with the floor. I’m wearing my best coat. I worry about its contact on the fabric of the bus seat. The scary man looks at me, he mumbles a little louder. I ring the bell and get off two stops early. I worry about my hair, the little makeup I am wearing. It already feels uncomfortable on my skin. 

Now I am forced to walk further than I want in damned heels. I tug at my skirt and catch a fingernail on my tights. My hair feels like it is frizzing up. I catch sight of myself in a shop window. It takes more than a moment to realise it’s me. I am breathless.

I stop. Face my reflection again in the tall glass door, smooth over my skirt and tug it down a little. My hair is frizzy. I have already given up, but I go through the door anyway.

* * *

The waiting room is full of the usual types. Pouty bottle blondes looking like they were auditioning for a reality TV show. A few plastic looking men. We all eye each other.

They call my name. I gulp and go into the interview room. The interviewer is a large man in about his late thirties. He looks like a muscle bound thug who has spent an hour squeezing himself into his undersized suit. He sits out of place behind his desk, like a wild animal tamed, though not quite.

He gestures at me to sit down, so I do. My throat is dry, so I don’t talk.

‘You a natural blonde?’ he asks. He’s well spoken, with a hint of a Slavic accent.  

I croak a yes, then cough and say ‘Yes.’  

He stares at me, looks me up and down. I stare back, but not too much.

I cough again and say, ‘What has that to do with anything?’

He looks taken aback. He is a man unused to impertinence, and I can see clearer than ever now that this is not his usual job.

He stares at me a little harder, and then he gets up fast from his seat. I jump and let out a shameful little yelp. This makes him smile a little, the balance of power restored. He paces around the room. As he walks behind me, my earlobes prickle. His breathing is heavy. Either his bulky frame or tight suit is the cause. He stretches up, showing me how tall he is, and then he sits on the corner of the table. It looks as if his thigh will split the seam of his trousers.

‘How old are you?’ he says.

‘Doesn’t it say on my application?’

His face darkens a little again, though he tries to hide it.

‘You are the only candidate who didn’t fill in an application,’ he says, his eyes boring into me.

I considered my answer.

‘Your friend approached me,’ I say. ‘In the café.’

‘He’s not my friend.’ He folds his arms. Now it looked as if the arms of his suit would split. An expensive looking watch revealed. Hints of tattoos on his wrists. Amateurish tattoos. Prison tattoos.

His eyes bore into me. He looks me up and down, the corners of his mouth wetted. I gulp.

He stares at my chest. My breasts shrink away from him. I pull my jacket tight around me.

‘They real?’ he says.

I now have to get out. I stand up, turn around and fumble at the door handle, opening the door. The other candidates look at me.

I turn around and look at him. He is smirking.

‘My hair is blonde and my tits are real!’ I slam the door and bump into a low table in the waiting room as I leave.

Forty minutes later my phone rings. They offer me the job.

* * *

Three weeks later I am on a plane to Miami. I then catch a connecting flight on a small prop plane to the island. I am the only passenger. The pilot is friendly but reticent. He avoids telling me where we were going, but I can work it out from the view. I am calm and full of expectation. The sun glints off the ocean through the sparse cloud. I can already feel its warmth.

The plane bumps and judders along the runway. I imagine the tyres on the hot and sticky tarmac. I can feel the gravity.

I say goodbye to the pilot. He gives a friendly wave and says that he hopes I will have a great time, and I walk down the few steps to the tarmac. The heat hits me, my body shocked by the sun and sudden change in temperature.

The man from the interview is there. He takes my bag, grinning at me. I hand it over to him and make a point of making as little eye contact as possible. He holds it as if it weighs nothing and walks fast ahead of me, making me jog a little. I presume he wants me to follow him. 

He gets into a small, white, open top jeep. He tosses my bag in the back and I sit in the passenger seat. We bump and roll along a rough road that begins at the edge of the runway. Then we walk along a forest path where the air thins and the sound of the sea breaks through the trees.

He leads me to a small octagonal cabin on the beach. It is beautiful, perfect. The sea twinkles, the gentle rush of the waves hypnotic. There is only one problem. The man from the interview is standing there saying nothing, looking at me. The corners of his mouth wet. I can see the conflict in him. This animal’s instincts are being overridden by orders from above. After a few awkward moments, he leaves and slams the flimsy door of the cabin behind him.

I relish the thought of killing him, and when I do, it will be exquisite.

Chapter 2

The next morning, I report to the beach bar. The walk is stunning, the white sand underfoot and the crash of the surf distant on the reef. Nobody is about yet. I am greeted by the barman who stands there, polishing a glass.

‘How ya doin?’ he says in a deep baritone. His eyes are friendly. He has a broad white smile. He has big, scarred hands. He is about mid-fifties, a good six-four and at least two hundred and twenty pounds. He is wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. I imagine he is wearing deck shoes and shorts.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I say.

‘Take a seat, what can I get ya?’

‘I’m the new girl. I’m supposed to be working here.’

‘I know, I know, but surely the new girl needs breakfast?’

I smile. I’m a little embarrassed and I sit down.  

‘I’m Jess.’ I say, and he shakes my hand in his enormous paw.

‘I’m Ron,’ he puts a menu in front of me, ‘Do you drink coffee Jess?’

I nod, and he pours me a large coffee.

‘I presume filtered is okay?’ he says and I nod.

He passes me a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes. Behind him, above the spirits hang a worn pair of boxing gloves. He sees me looking.

‘An old me—gone—like my Afro.’ He runs his large hand over his smooth head.  

The phone rings in the bar, an old phone with a piercing bell. It makes me jump. Ron smiles and mouths an excuse me and goes to answer it.

I turn around on my stool and look out across the sand at the sea. There are a few people walking along the beach, picking it clean. There are people setting up sun loungers and umbrellas.

‘Have you chosen yet?’ Ron asks, making me jump.

‘Sorry I was daydreaming.’ I fumble with the menu. He puts his hand on mine and says, ‘Why don’t I just make you some of my famous eggs?’

I nod in agreement, and he heads out back. He is wearing the deck shoes and shorts I had imagined.

I take a slug of coffee and wander the little way out onto the beach. It is a great sweeping curve hugged by a primeval forest. Coconut palms, very tall, look as though they are making a break from the forest and heading for the sea. The waves crash onto the distant reef, a natural sea wall. The beach with the reef gives a feeling of safety, of protecting the island from the world. But it also has an air of isolation, like it would be difficult for help to arrive from the outside if you needed it to. The cabins hide in the bosom of the tall trees, unbent by any wind; the cabins, like mine, are flimsy. This place was out of the trade wind and had protection from hurricanes. I wander to the surf through the white warm floury sand and stand with my bare feet in the wake and shut my eyes. I try with all my might to conjure up any spirits of those who had walked on this beach before me. 

Ron calls me for my breakfast. I scuttle up back to the bar and brush my feet off before sitting back at my stool. Ron’s famous eggs are amazing. His food is as calming as the bottles of spirits that lined up behind him.  

‘You done bar work before?’ Ron says.

‘A little, I thought I was here to serve food?’  

‘Well, we have to diversify around here now and again. Don’t worry ‘bout it, there’s nothing to it.’

Ron looks over my shoulder and I can see some of the sparkle leave his eyes. I turn around and there is the man from the interview. Wearing his tight suit. With him is a bare-footed man with a hipster beard and topknot. He is around late twenties.  He has tribal tattoos over his arms and on his chest, visible through his partly open shirt. He wears threadbare jean shorts. He is wearing an unusual and large watch on his right wrist, like an antique pocket watch attached to a wrist strap. He looks at me and I can see that he is holding back a look of astonishment. He gives this away by the merest flicker of his eyes. He is someone who either plays cards very well or can bluff his way through any other face-to-face contact. He is around six feet tall and spends time in the gym, though I can see he was once a fat kid.

‘I’m David.’ he says. I shake his hand. Hardened by clutching dumbbells but also moisturised and manicured. I look down at his watch and he notices me.

‘It’s a Breguet—I had the cover taken off and had a wrist strap put on it—upset the purists no end.’

‘I’m Jess—thank you very much for this opportunity.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ he says, then he gives a nod to Ron and gestures to the man from the interview to follow him out. They head off down the beach.

Ron polishes a glass. He cranes over the bar as if to make sure they’re gone, and the sparkle seems to return to his eyes.

‘What’s a Breguet?’ I ask Ron.

‘A damn shit expensive watch.’

‘But hasn’t he desecrated it?’

‘He has, that’s his thing, he’s a disruptor—He has a whole collection of clocks and watches. — He made his fortune out of the analogue in a digital world. You know ‘bout him, right?’

‘I only know what everyone else does, some kind of clockwork computers—it’s a bit beyond me I’m afraid.’

‘That’s why he’s rich and we ‘aint honey.’ 

He gestures at me to get behind the bar: ‘Now make yourself useful and help me with these glasses.’

I go around behind the bar and take the glasses from him and stack them under the bar, sorting them as I do.

‘What does he want with this place?’ I ask.

‘The Island?’ Ron says, and I nod. ‘This is his deal making machine, this is where the great and the good come to relax. I guess he thinks it disarms them a little, gives him an advantage he can play.’

‘Who’s the big guy in the suit?’ I am about to say I don’t like him, but stop myself.

Ron’s eyes narrow a little, and he stares out to sea.

‘That’s Vlady—Dave’s right-hand man.’

I don’t want to ask any more about him. Ron puts a warm, gentle hand on my wrist.

‘You be careful honey,’ he says, his brow furrowed and his eyes mournful. ‘This place ‘aint all it seems.’

I know exactly what this place is and exactly what I am going to do.

Chapter 3

People arrive for breakfast. Some order potent drinks, although so early. The complicated drinks I leave to Ron. Almost everyone takes their food and drinks away with them. The bar is never hectic. The footfall is manageable. The calming waters, the sun and the white sand give it a supernatural charm.

I walk to the shoreline. The shadows of fish sweep under the surface of