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Now, as the day drew to a close, we trailed back from Bayer’s grave to the cabana, where Joel was already stirring up the fire, and I found that in spite of my grief about Bayer and my worries about Angel, my stomach was growling at the prospect of something that wasn’t tinned.
“I’m so hungry,” Santana said as she limped up the path towards the cabana, and I nodded.
“Me too.”
We were approaching the steps and I found myself slowing, almost as if I were reluctant to tread on them. This was where Conor and Bayer had fought. This was where Bayer had broken Conor’s nose, and where Conor had hit him so hard Bayer had collapsed. This was where Bayer had died. You could still see the marks of the scuffle in the sand, see the blood in the bushes where Conor had tried to staunch his streaming nose. I hadn’t been back here since it had happened, neither had Angel. And now, somehow, we were all going to be expected to sit around, pretending nothing had happened.
Perhaps Santana had noticed my steps faltering, because she said, “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. Of course, she hadn’t been here at breakfast.
“I—I’m fine. It’s just—” I put out a hand, gesturing to the steps. “That’s where it happened. The fight.”
“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Were you there? It must have been awful. Did he hit his head?”
I flinched. Her words had brought back the smack, smack of Bayer’s head cracking against the step as Conor hit him. I didn’t know what to say. Yes, he had hit his head. But somehow that didn’t do justice to how it had unfolded, to Conor’s quiet, calculated violence. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Luckily Dan’s footsteps, coming up the path behind us, gave me an excuse to change the subject.
“How are you feeling? Dan said you were having trouble with your pump.”
“A lot better. It’s just hard to get the dosing right in this heat. It affects how fast your body processes the insulin.”
Something had occurred to me, with her remark about the heat, and I asked, “Isn’t insulin supposed to be refrigerated? How long will it last?”
Santana shrugged, but not in a kind of don’t know, don’t care way, more, helplessly, like someone who doesn’t know the answer and has no way of finding out.
“I have no idea. It’s supposed to last about a year if it’s sealed, but that’s at fridge temperatures. I’m keeping it in the fridge anyway, just because it’s cooler than the rest of the villa, but it’s bound to be degrading. I don’t think it’ll go toxic or anything, I think it’ll just be less effective, but who knows what that means. I guess I just have to cross my fingers and use extra if I need to.”
“And how much did you bring?”
“About three months’ worth. I always overpack. But that’s three months under normal conditions.” She didn’t say what we were both clearly thinking—that this wasn’t in any way normal.
“And what happens—” I stopped, trying to think how to put this, but there didn’t seem to be a tactful way to do it. “What happens if you run out?”
“I die,” Santana said simply. “Within about thirty-six hours. So I have to hope the boat comes before then, don’t I?” There was a long silence, broken only by the spit and crackle of the driftwood fire as Joel turned the octopus he’d laid across the embers. Then Santana gave a brittle laugh. “On that note, I wonder if Conor will let me have a beer?”
“Grub’s nearly done,” Joel called, as the others came into view, and Santana and I moved across to the table, where Joel had begun putting chunks of barbecued octopus onto plates, along with the now depressingly stale bagels and croissants. Angel picked up the largest portion, but she didn’t move to sit down. Instead she turned wordlessly away, presumably intending on taking her portion back towards her villa.
I opened my mouth, intending to say something—to ask if she was all right perhaps, though that seemed hopelessly facile—of course she wasn’t all right. Her boyfriend had died, this morning, not ten feet from where we were eating now.
But Conor’s voice forestalled me.
“Put that back.”
“I am sorry, what?” Angel said. She stopped in her tracks and looked back, one eyebrow raised in haughty distain. She was staring at Conor like he was something she had scraped off her shoe.
“You heard me.” Conor moved closer. Not for the first time I noticed how tall he was—he had a good six inches on Angel, who was tall herself, and now, without apparently even trying, he exuded a kind of physical menace as he stood over her, forcing her to look up at him. “Put that back. You didn’t contribute a thing today; you don’t get first pick of the food.”
“Conor,” Joel said uneasily. “Come on, mate.”
“What? This is a collective. We all contribute, we all eat.”
“Conor, her boyfriend died this morning,” Santana said. At your hand, was the unspoken coda, though it hardly needed stating. It was too fresh for anyone to have forgotten. “Give her a break maybe?”
“I am giving her a break,” Conor said calmly. “I’m letting her eat. In spite of the fact that she’s done nothing all day. But this”—he gestured to the size of the portion—“is taking the piss. I’m not letting her take the piss.”
“You’re letting her eat?” I couldn’t stop the words coming out, incredulously. Conor turned to me. His pale eyes were ice-cold.
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
