Swimming With Sharks
by Philip J. Lees
“Watch out for him,” Dru said. “Unless you don’t care and just want to have a fling.”
Bart, he of the perfect body, he of the great hair and the practised smile, the polished, even teeth, the tight, broad, leather belt with the flamboyant brass buckle, the tight arse and the broad shoulders, ivory silk shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal a deep loop of gold chain across a tanned chest that was hairy, but not obscenely so, had looked them over as he crossed from the poolside bar to the men’s toilet.
Bart? Susan wondered. Were there really people called Bart? Wasn’t Bart some stroppy kid in a TV cartoon? And did she really just want to have a fling? Now there was an intriguing idea.
“How do you know his name?”
“Just … around,” Dru said vaguely, but her dark skin flushed darker. Dru was always the shy one, the innocent, never at ease with the Barts of this world.
The next time was Susan’s shout, and as she waited at the bar she turned her head and he was beside her. She had to smile back. It was impossible not to. This close, and from this angle, she could see that his nose was crooked. Maybe it had been broken and not reset correctly.
“Hello,” Bart said.
Susan mumbled something.
“They’re busy tonight,” Bart said, waving a hand to encompass the bar, the pool, the restaurant. “Usually you don’t have to wait so long.”
Say something witty, she told herself. Say something biting, enticing, seductive, mysterious, dismissive.
“Oh?” she said.
“My good luck,” he said. That smile again. “I’m Bart. You?” He was holding out his hand. She took it. How could she not? He was so sincere.
“Susan.”
“On holiday?”
Of course I’m on holiday, you … man. Why else would I be here on this subtropical island? Why else would anyone come here? Why else would we be sitting in this restaurant, drinking cocktails we would never, ever drink at home, waiting for a meal that seemed like it would never come?
“Not exactly,” she said. “Swimming with sharks.”
§
“We might as well go a few days early,” Dru had said. “Make a holiday of it.”
There was no real danger, Geoff the charity man told them when he met them at the airport, through a smile that looked as if it had been plastered across his face with a bricklayer’s trowel. Just stay calm. That was the second thing he said, after checking that their luggage had come through all right. What did he think? That if they weren’t reassured immediately they’d get back on the plane and go home?
The only danger, he said, contradicting himself, was panic. Lots of people have done it, he said. Nobody’s been eaten yet. He had wispy blond hair drooping over a sweaty forehead and he was painfully eager. His professional grin was full of uneven, protruding teeth. Susan imagined him as a shark and felt an almost irresistible urge to giggle. But Dru was looking sour and shifted from one foot to another. She hated flying and would be complaining of nausea and dehydration for the rest of the day. After that she would be great fun. Coming early was a good idea in more ways than one.
All right, Susan thought. So it was bad to panic. She could handle that. Later she wondered whether the charity man’s comments had been intended for that purpose—to scare the nervous ones back on to the plane. The sharks could sense panic, he told them. If you started to tense up, started to thrash around, it would attract them. If you kept calm and just paddled around they wouldn’t pay you any attention, wouldn’t even notice you. And all the time, minute by minute, the sponsorship donations would be piling up. That’s what you had to remember, to focus on. All that money for children with muscular dystrophy. A good cause. And not just the money, the publicity, too. It would be filmed for TV. That was part of the deal. The TV company was paying for their flights and hotel. Susan’s employer had given her extra paid leave in grudging support of the campaign. Only five days, though.
If the sharks did actually attack somebody, Susan wondered, would they show that part on TV, too?
§
When she was sure Dru was asleep, she crept out of bed into the bathroom and got dressed, redid her make up, sprayed deodorant under her arms and up her skirt (not thinking too much about that last squirt), dabbed perfume beneath her ears and between her breasts (or that one either). She turned the bathroom light off before coming out and tiptoeing to the door. Dru turned over in bed, but her breathing didn’t change.
Susan had been unwilling to abandon her friend, and Bart had accepted that. He shrugged.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll probably still be around later, if you feel like coming down again. I’m a night owl.”
Owl, Susan thought, Bart was not. A predator, yes, but more of a hawk, a wolf (cliché but true), or, yes, a shark. His self confidence was a challenge.
“I’ll see,” she said, before leaving him and going back to her table under the purple bougainvillea. And then when she and Dru had finished their drinks she’d suggested an early night, pleading tiredness while making a point of not looking in any direction where Bart might be.
“Busy day tomorrow,” she said. And Dru had agreed.
So here she was, certainly not drunk, but not quite sober either, stepping down the last few steps to the bar and Bart was sitting over there on a stool, raising his glass to her as if they had an appointment and she was bang on time. Even though it was almost midnight it was still hot and the air was thick with the fragrance of night-scented stock.
§
The next morning a coach took them to the aquarium and they had to watch the sharks being fed while the cameras rolled. That was part of the deal, too. The sharks weren’t all that big. It was hard to tell through the rippled surface of the saltwater pool, but the largest of them couldn’t have been more than four feet long. The attendants threw in live tuna and the sharks glided elegantly up to the wriggling fish almost as soon as they hit the water, like a dance really, until each shark’s jaws opened and snatched the life from its squirming prey. One of the sharks snapped a tuna completely in half, the tuna’s tail still switching back and forth, and then jerked its triangular grey head, left, right, grabbing the pieces, one, two, swallowing them in giant gulps so that there was just a smear of blood left in the water.
The cameras panned across the watching group, all of whom would be entering that pool tomorrow in swimsuits (unless anybody chickened out), capturing their expressions. Susan kept her face frozen, trying not to look scared, or even interested, thinking about herself and Bart.
He hadn’t bitten her in half, but after she’d gone with him up to his room and they’d fallen on the bed, his approach was almost as ravenous. He licked and sucked and munched until she felt delirious, and when he finally entered her she was so ready she almost threw them both off the bed.
She felt his climax as her own last spasms were dying away, felt his body jerk three times, heard his gasps and grunts as if they came from far away. As she closed her eyes and relaxed back into the hot, sweaty bed she wasn’t thinking of Bart at all. That’ll teach you, Donald, you bastard, she thought. That’ll teach you you’re not the only one who can be unfaithful.
§
“How could you?” Dru sobbed.
The remainder of the day was a respite before tomorrow’s ordeal, a chance to prepare, rethink, contemplate life’s mistakes and life’s ironies. Two people had already chickened out, Geoff had informed them gleefully at the lunchtime briefing, before droning on about the afternoon’s sightseeing itinerary.
Then, over coffee, while the earnest, anxious ones were already filing outside to wait for the tour bus, Dru suddenly broke down.
“You went to him,” she said, “didn’t you? I heard you go. You thought I was asleep, but I heard you.”
Take it easy, Susan thought. This isn’t a big deal, is it? Surely not.
“Yeah,” she said. “You know how it is. Make a holiday of it. No inhibitions. Let it all hang out.” That last with the nearest she could get to a Chuck Berry drawl.
But now Dru’s cheeks were wet with tears. She was sniffing and looking anywhere except across the table. My God! Susan thought. She’s been with him. She was trying to warn me off.
Life was so fucking complicated.
The next day she would be swimming with sharks. The thought brought her nothing but relief.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2009