Turtle Island

By Kev Richardson

Is love the answer to a frightening physical experience?

A shocking attack puts our hero in the market for a pampered, dream-world holiday.

The venue for shooting the movie Blue Lagoon offers a pampered, exotic holiday for those who can afford it, a refuge for a reprieve from all the social pressures that besiege the rich and famous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093160

Book preview

Preview

During the 1980s and 90s, Turtle Island off the west coast of Fiji’s Viti Levu held not only the South Pacific record of ‘Playground for the Wealthy’ but the most unique of resorts in the world.

Harpers & Queen, Great Britain’s renowned magazine for the elite, listed it in their Top 10 Hotels of the World. The resort was a major feature in its Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

An exclusive hotel for only those in the world who could afford to be a ‘guest’? A hotel with only a three-walled room on a beach as a guest lounge? A hotel with no dining room? A hotel in which guests are requested not to pack jewellery or clothing other than for relaxing on a beach? In which once your holiday was paid for on booking, not a coin, banknote nor credit card is accepted, yet every need and more is provided? Where your choice of Champagne, beer, wine, hard liquor or spa water would be restocked into your bure’s (native beach cabin’s) refrigerator each morning while you breakfasted? Its free well-stocked help-yourself bar being open twenty-four-seven? Where guests are free to not only inspect hotel kitchens or any sort of workshop at will, or even care to don an apron and help out? An entire island lacking motor cars or bikes, television, radio, cinema or telephone, except a single line on the manager’s desk available for guests only in a dire emergency? Where children are admitted only during school holiday periods and for which tending carers are supplied free for every daylight and evening hour? Where the only name every guest is known by is his or her nominated given name or nick-name, surnames and titles being strictly taboo? Where only twenty-four guests at a time are serviced by thirty-six front-of house-staff and forty background staffers?

Unique? Indeed, yet solidly booked out for months in advance by those wishing total reprieve from pressures of home or work, either to return for subsequent holidays or those accepted in advance by referral of past guests. Whilst medical attention is available on the island twenty-four-seven, the island’s own float-plane is available, in the event of any serious illness or accident, to make the thirty-minute flight to the mainland. Many a guest has found themselves in a situation of realising this or that couple is of either royal or presidential standard, just seeking an informal recess.

How, what and why all this conundrum?

Just dream of paradise as you read on.

One

Melbourne, Australia, March 1982

Each second of the mayhem seemed like a minute.

He smashed his way through my glass-panelled kitchen door with a cricket-bat, burst through its carnage and shaped up for a second swing...this time at me.

Mark simply had to either upset the fellow’s aim or be killed.

He launched himself at the attacker, his right fist catching his opponent in his left eye.

The bat veered off course and instead of smashing Mark’s skull, its blow weakened, painfully clipping his shoulder before knocking the full coffee-percolator to the floor.

Both the man’s hands had flown to his left eye, so Mark, with all the strength he could muster, swiped into the face again, this time, with a left fist knuckle into the man’s right eye.

Bloody hell, I don’t care how much I hurt the bastard. He tried to bloody kill me!

Mark again closed both fists, knuckles to the fore, to smash one into each side, simultaneously, of the wretch’s nose.

The cracking of bones seemed music to Mark’s ears.

He next brought up a knee as hard as he could.

I just hope that gives him more pain than even the smash to his nose hurt my fists!

Whoever it was let out a howling cry from the knee in the groin, collapsing to the floor, his spine falling right across the cricket bat.

And if I’ve busted his balls, I’ll be happy about that, too! Who the hell is this guy?

He stood staring down, realising he didn’t have to jump on the man or deliver any further attack.

The bastard is out to it.

Mark stood back, studying the backs of both his own hands.

Christ, a snooker player’s hands are as important to him as a pianist’s!

For what seemed like a minute, he studied the heap on the floor, blood gushing from the nose all over the floor’s cork tiles.

Oh shit! Mark thought as his eyes took in all the mess, the broken door, the smashed coffee-percolator, the cupboard door in splinters from the handle of the cricket bat as the guy crashed down onto it.

And the fellow lay as if lifeless, one hand over his eyes so that it was hard to see his face, and the other clutching his balls.

Could I have killed him?

He could now tell the intruder was younger than at first thought, maybe just a late teenager, a stocky one.

Fortunately, my hundred and eighty-three centimetre height put him to some disadvantage, and my body is trimmer than his.

On the kitchen’s telephone extension, he dialled 000.

Emergency! it answered immediately. Police, fire or ambulance?

Police, and I guess ambulance, too, please.

I’m plugging you through to both, sir. Please wait for both to answer.

She has a calm enough voice, although, I guess she gets lots of crazy calls.

He received a Police response and an Ambulance response, almost overlapping each other...

Well, that’s certainly service, he mused, enjoying a moment’s relief, first in what seemed like an hour or more.

He explained that an intruder had smashed down his kitchen door with a cricket-bat, then taken a swing with it at his head, but was now ‘out to it’ with blood pouring from his nose.

Your name, address and phone number?

He gave all. Both said thank you, and hung up.

Despite blood continued flowing and spreading, he reckoned that rather than touching anything, he should leave it for the police to see.

They will surely be here quickly.

He knew there was nothing he could do to help the fellow; he had no training in even first aid, let alone for a serious situation... and that twisted spine where it’s lying crooked on that bat, would worry me like hell if I tried moving him.

Trying to turn his mind right off the fellow, he decided to concentrate on getting his shock, physical effort and ‘blown brain’ back into some sort of relaxation.

And I should leave it for the experts, as well as for the police, before moving anything!

He filled the electric jug with water and set it to boil, reached to a top cupboard for the coffee jar only two minutes after having put it away. With the percolator smashed, he must make coffee by hand. He fetched a pair of sliced bread for the toaster and switched that on.

It was a gloriously fine morning, summer still not wanting to yet say goodbye.

He wondered at it being such a beautiful day.

Not even a sense of chill in the air once waking.

He grinned on realising that the weather had not yet reached the ‘Oh-oh, first hint of winter’ stage.

It’s normally been quite chilly by now.

Mark Carmody loved his Melbourne, except at winter time. One winter just a few years back, it had threatened to snow and he swore that had it done so, he would sell up and move back to Sydney or even Queensland.

Melbourne might still claim that it’s never experienced snow in living history, yet having to scrape ice off the car windscreen of a morning, if left out, is as far as I’m prepared to let Melbourne weather test me before moving north.

He had accepted, however, how lucky he was that winters on the mainland were fortunately short.

He grated a small onion, then in a bowl whisked eggs, salt and pepper with a splash of milk.

Ah, breakfast is one of the joys of living like a bachelor, he tried consoling his sour mood. He put the bowl alongside the saucepan, ready to make his scrambled eggs.

I shall leave it now until after my next visitors leave.

He took another look at his ‘reclining guest,’ the blood and coffee puddles now mingling, creating bazaar designs as they spread.

His mind flew to a recent Jackson Pollock exhibition he’d attended.

Then, the sound of a siren, yet at some distance, disturbed the quiet morning air.

He listened to it get louder by the second.

And from the other ear, a different siren?

A minute later, an ambulance backed into the driveway, right up to the garage door. The police parked kerbside, level with the front door.

Mark had to risk the lifeless one recovering while he dashed to open the door... but then, he’s not going to make any sudden moves.

Having left the front door open, however, he rushed back to the kitchen.

Come through, he called on hearing heavy footfalls on the veranda."

He reached up and gathered several more coffee mugs.

The police, anyway, will want answers to a bagful of questions.

The tall policeman’s sleeve sported sergeant stripes, his junior, a female constable, looked young enough to still be in school. The two were quickly followed by two ambulance men with a gurney.

I’ve left everything just as it happened, Mark told them all.

The senior medic was first to speak, but to the sergeant...

We’ve got to get him to hospital quickly. The blood is still flowing.

Then, pointing to the cricket bat, he turned to Mark.

Did you hit him with that, sir?

No. He arrived with it. Used it to smash down the door, then took a swing at my head.

The sergeant held up a hand.

Looking at the mess of that door, sir, I’d reckon he missed your head, or you’d be either dead or brain-maimed for life. But first let’s photograph this so the medics can tend him.

The constable took a camera from her satchel and photographed the scene, the broken door and the cupboard door broken when the bat handle, leaning against it, caved it in. She also took shots of the mess on the floor, then close-ups of the still comatose invader, especially of his face, despite one hand still covered half of it.

I’d like to take more once he’s been tended, she told all.

The police and Mark stood back while the medics leaned over the guy, moving his hands away and feeling both pulse and heart.

He’s still ticking and breathing. But he’s twisted in a strange angle... the senior one said. Maybe he’s twisted his spine on that bat.

He again cast his eyes around the entire corner of the kitchen. Your fight was a fierce one, I’d reckon.

It was quick, but ruthless.

Are you a boxer? asked the sergeant.

Mark smiled, beckoning the policeman to follow him back up the hall.

He opened the door to his billiard-room.

That, sir, is my profession. Snooker with a capital ‘S.’ I’ve gone professional.

The sergeant raised a hand and clicked his fingers.

Ah, I’ve been struggling to place you ever since walking in here. I knew I’d seen your face somewhere. Your name?

Mark Carm...

...ody. The sergeant finished the name. I’m a snooker enthusiast and watch every minute I can find time for. The family knows if I am home, the TV must be on snooker, no matter where it is being played. I’ve seen you on many an occasion. You’ve a great talent!

He held out his hand and shook Mark’s excitedly.

Bill Murdoch, Mark. Please call me Bill, except in front of the others, eh?

Returning to the kitchen, Mark held out his two hands, palms down...

"Once this fracas ended, I looked at every joint here, to see if there was any swelling. They were mighty hard knuckle-jabs I gave the guy."

So Mark reckoned he was going to get pretty good police service.

Do you know this fellow? Bill asked, looking down at the patient now having his head bandaged from a split in the side of his skull, an injury Mark had not yet noticed. The second medic was wiping up the worst of the blood so he could lay out the stretcher alongside the ‘patient-intruder-stranger-madman’ still in his coma.

Mark shook his head. Never seen him.

Whatever causes a man to attack like this, I’ll never get used to, said the constable, picking up her camera from the bench-top. Simply batter his way through a door, then take a murderous swing at the first person he sees?

Any idea what might be behind anyone breaking in like this? Anything of exceptional value in the house?

Only the table I just showed you. Maybe this guy lost a bet over a game he saw and wanted to take it out on me?

All smiled at that.

Robbery is all I can think of, he added, as if feeling a more formal answer was appropriate.

Mmm, not well executed, I’d say, said Bill with a shrug of shoulders.

The sergeant bent down to speak quietly to the medics. Can you give my constable and me a minute to gently go through this fellow’s pockets? I need to see if he has a name or something to give us a clue to work on.

The senior of the two said, Be extra careful in case the spine is damaged. We have yet to bring in our steel braces. That he’s fallen on that bat has me worried.

They then moved back out of the way.

It took but the minute Bill had requested, both officers emerging from the huddle clutching handfuls of papers, wallet, comb, etcetera.

Bill then asked, "Can we just take off his shoes? I’d like forensics to check them over. That fellow had to reach this doorway somehow, and there is no other car parked in the street. He could have come over a fence.

He won’t need shoes for quite a while, Sergeant, but please let us take them off him?

Mark smiled as the younger ambulance fellow gently untied the laces of the rubber-soled shoes, the other holding the still silent one’s ankles while slowly helping to ease each shoe loose.

Bill then asked the senior ambulance man to fill in a form he seemed to find familiar, giving the name of the hospital, which policeman to contact when the patient was well enough to be interviewed, etcetera. Bill checked each entry, that ticks had been made in appropriate boxes, then handed the form back for the ambulance chief’s signature.

He turned to Mark. That is police authority for a guard to be placed by the prisoner while in hospital, to ensure he doesn’t flee.

Mark watched with fascination as the medics ran braces behind the man’s back, seemingly without even the slightest of movement to the spine, to then attach locking crossbars to keep them stable while lifting him on to the gurney.

They quickly had the intruder, then, outdoors and into the ambulance.

To Mark’s surprise, the constable climbed in back with one of the medics, to clasp handcuffs on the patient, fastening one wrist on to the gurney frame.

We always do this in such an instance, Mark, said Bill. You’d be surprised how clever some of these bastards are. For all we know right now, his coma could be a sham. He may be again, quite sound of mind and body and make a break for it, sometimes attacking the medic. In this case, of course, I doubt the fellow capable, but he is a dangerous prisoner after all. Right now, Mark, I would like to ask you a few questions and explain the general procedure that follows an attack like this. Can you give me a few minutes over coffee? The aroma of what you had spilled everywhere in there, despite now mingled with blood, is quite tantalising.

They watched the ambulance, its siren blaring, drive off.

Come inside again, Bill. You are my guest as well as adviser. I want you to tell me what I should be doing about this, insurance and such.

THIRTY-TWO YEAR OLD Mark had been happily married until widowed, his young wife dying from breast cancer. Fortunately there were no children to complicate his life, for since turning professional, he must tour overseas increasingly often.

He had come to realise that as one grew closer to making the finals in a competition, three major elements in life became apparent; two were welcome, yet at a great cost.

The first was the financial rewards. In major tournaments, cheques were beginning to be written with five figures! If one could hide the shame of becoming a tad more greedy, this was a great boost in his career. Second was the honour received for simply performing better. The unfortunate third, however, was that the more one achieved in those two elements, he grew further and further away from the likelihood of again finding a happy romance. He must spend more hours in every day at the table practising, and more weeks somewhere else in the world at tournaments, all making married life difficult.

Many of his contemporaries, he was beginning to realise, were finding their wives, even if not already seeking male friendships elsewhere, failing in parenthood.

I seem to be entering a stage in life in that, whilst enjoying part of it, I must find any romantic interest a risky one.

This was, currently, his major disappointment in following such a career.

But right now, mate, he told himself when Sergeant Bill Murdoch took off with all the information he needed, plus the cricket bat neatly wrapped in cellophane and an offer from Mark to return when able, for a ‘social knock around the table,’ I have to think of today, not tomorrow and this Bill Murdoch seems like the sort of guy I would appreciate having as a friend, for let’s face it, he, too, must have this ‘time’ element of his career adversely affecting his marital situation.

Right noble of you, Mark, Bill had declared when Mark made the offer of a ‘knock around the table.’ And would a bottle or two of beer be appreciated? Bill had asked.

Oh, even more than just seeing you again, Mark laughed, tapping Bill’s shoulder.

Bill sighed. Maybe when we’ve unveiled this visitor of yours and seen him charged with assault and attempted murder, eh mate?

So with Bill departed, Mark phoned the woman who came twice weekly to do his house cleaning and laundry, to send someone else if she couldn’t come herself, to clean up his kitchen. He then phoned a mate who knew a carpenter who could come and install a new door.

Ah, but before that, I need to take Bill’s advice and get the insurance guys here to sight all this before anything gets done.

He sat by his phone and made the several appointments.

Suddenly he realised how exhausted the quick physical exchange was telling on him.

Sit, mate, his Alter-Ego told him. open a beer and rest your body. If you feel like chucking something at a wall in frustration of all this being hurled at you, go instead to the table and knock a few balls into pockets. See how many you can do without failure. But don’t hit them hard, hit them in as professional a way as you do in a tournament. If you can make fifty, you’re cured!

He looked around to see if a cushion was handy to chuck at Ego.

But then, of course, I can never bloody see you. I hear you all right, but you’ve one hell of an advantage over me! He was back on his feet something after 11:00, to realise he was hungry.

So stuff lunch. I’d rather have a late breakfast.

Fortunately, his sink, chopping board and general cooking area were on the other side of the room from the mess, so he felt no guilt at leaving it for the cleaner who should arrive early afternoon.

That’s fine, he had told her. The insurance man is on his way right now.

He already had the chopped onion and makings of his scrambled eggs, so decided to turn it into an omelette. He reached down for a small frypan and lit a low gas flame.

Soon as I get this half-cooked, of course, the bloody doorbell will ring.

Half believing that his usual luck would make it so, he put the pan over the gas-flame, but had to lean over the messy patch for cutlery.

But the doorbell didn’t ring until he had sat down and taken his first bite.

It was the carpenter to measure up for the door or see if he could repair what was already left.

That coffee smells great, he said to Mark as they passed the living-room door.

Mark had brought his brunch there on a tray in order to watch the mid-day news as he ate, but he now brought it back to the kitchen so he could eat while the carpenter measured up.

The carpenter, of course, while drinking his coffee, needed to know all the gory detail of the morning’s mayhem, by which time the insurance man was ringing at the door.

He was such a young man that Mark was again surprised his visitor wasn’t still in school. He loved coffee, so stirred his until Mark