Something in the Water(35)

“I know. That’s what I thought. What about the other stuff?” I say quickly. I squat down beside him.

He pushes the diamonds around on the towel with his finger. He moistens his lips and squints through the sun at me.

“Two carats, right? That what you’re thinking?” he asks.

“Yes. How many stones?”

“Hard to tell without counting. I’m guessing a hundred and fifty to two hundred.”

I nod. “That’s what I thought. So, maybe a million’s worth?”

“Yeah, could be more. But that seems right. Fuck.” He rubs the stubble along his jaw.

“What else is there?” he asks.

I don’t know; I haven’t looked at the rest yet.

He picks up another sealed clear plastic bag; just visible through the salt smears is a USB stick. Sealed tight, somehow still protected from the water. He places it back down carefully next to the stones and the money. He looks at me before picking up the final object.

It is a hard plastic case with a handle. He sets it down in front of us. I know what it is before he flips open the plastic latches.

It sits there, dark dense metal nestled in molded foam padding. A handgun. I don’t know what type. I don’t know about guns. The sort you’d see in a film, I guess. A modern film. That type. But a real one, on the decking, in front of us. Spare bullets nestled in a fresh cardboard box next to it in the foam. Sealed. There’s an iPhone in the box too. The plastic gun case must be airtight, because everything inside it is dry, and, I’d imagine, still in working order.

“Okay.” Mark closes the case. “Let’s go inside for a bit, shall we?”

He gathers the money, USB, and gun case into the destroyed canvas bag and ushers me inside. I carefully carry in the towel of diamonds.

He slides the glass door shut and sets the bag on the bed.

“Okay, Erin. First things first. We’re going to clean up the vomit, right? Clean ourselves, and the room, up. Then we’re going to have a chat, okay?” He’s watching me encouragingly. He’s speaking to me in the same, even, measured tone he had yesterday when he told me about the sharks. He’s extremely reassuring when he needs to be. Yes, I’ll clean up.

It doesn’t take me long. I use some of the disinfectant lotion from the first-aid kit to douse the floor. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull myself together. Meanwhile Mark’s cleaned the rest of the room. The food cart is gone. The bed is stripped now too, the bag the only thing on it. The diamonds sit in a whiskey tumbler. Mark wanders in from the lounge area holding my laptop.

“First of all, I don’t think we should contact the police until we know what the fuck is going on. I don’t fancy spending life in a Polynesian prison for diamond smuggling or whatever. I suppose we need to know if anyone is missing this stuff. Right? If anyone might know we have it?” he says.

I take the computer as he holds it out to me.

I see, we’re going to do a bit of research. Research I’m good at. He sits down on the bed and I sidle next to him.

“So, what should I check the news for, what do we think? Shipwreck? Missing persons? Or maybe robbery gone wrong? What are we looking for?” I ask. I’m not sure. My fingers hover over the keys. We need something to go on.

He looks at the bag again.

“Well, we have a phone.” He lets it hang there.

Yes. Yes, we do have a phone, which means we have a number, we also probably have an email address and emails, and we probably have an actual name.

“Shall we check the phone? See who they are?” I ask.

“Not yet. Wait. Let’s just think logically here, carefully. Are we breaking the law right now? Are we, Erin? Have we done anything? Anything at all wrong so far?”

Like I would know. I suppose my moral compass has always been slightly more true than his, but only slightly.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I ripped the bag. But I ripped it to find out what was inside—to find out who it belonged to. It’s the truth; that should stand up.”

“Why didn’t we give it straight to the police or security?”

“We did. We handed it in to the hotel straightaway but they gave it back to us. And then we got drunk and we thought we’d sort it out ourselves. It’s stupid, but it’s not illegal.” I nod. That sounds all right, I decide.

“But this is wrong now,” I add. I say it as I think it. “We should call the police right now and tell them about it. The gun and the money are definitely red flags,” I say, nodding again.

I study the frayed bag. I can see the corner of the packet of money through the torn canvas. A million dollars. I look at Mark.

“Just a second,” I say. “I remember this. It came up in that Norwegian fishermen film.” I tap away at Google.

“Basically, flotsam and jetsam, maritime debris, salvage, whatever you want to call it, basically treasure, is covered by international maritime law. Here…look at this.” I scroll down and read from the gov.uk website.

“?‘Jetsam’ is the term used to describe goods jettisoned overboard to lighten a vessel’s load in emergencies. ‘Flotsam’ is the term used to describe goods accidentally lost overboard in emergencies. Blah, blah, blah. The salvor must declare salvaged goods by completing a ‘report of salvage’ form within 28 days of recovery. Blah, blah, blah. A salvor acting within the law is likely to be entitled to the salvaged goods should the owner not come forward. Uh-huh. Oh, wait. Shit! Under the Merchant Shipping Act of 1995 this law applies to all salvage within UK territorial waters—up to the twelve-nautical-mile limit.” British law is totally irrelevant here. I’m not sure whether we’ll fall under French or U.S. law in Polynesia.