PEARL MOON

  A RUN AND HIDE THRILLER

  JJ MARSH

  Pearl Moon

  Copyright © 2022 by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  All enquiries to admin@jjmarshauthor.com

  First printing, 2022

  eBook Edition:

  ISBN 978-3-906256-19-1

  Paperback:

  ISBN 978-3-906256-20-7

  1

  Sitting in the departure lounge in Johannesburg, waiting for her flight to Pemba, Iris asked herself what the hell she was doing. Her optimism and excitement as she had prepared for her trip had shrivelled into remorse the minute she queued to check in at Lisbon airport. The people, the noise, the inability to flee for cover smothered her to the point she considered bolting through the automatic doors and hailing a taxi to the train station. Two things stopped her: the look on Lana’s face when she arrived home and the bloody awful weather. Why was it always raining when she had to travel?

  Lisbon was a shock but Frankfurt was utter hell. Her inbound flight was delayed by forty-five minutes due to storms and Iris had less than half an hour to race through crowds of tourists if she had any hope of reaching the transfer gate. It was almost enough to make her give up or turn into a complete misanthrope. She screeched to a halt at the passport control, one of the last to board the Lufthansa flight to Johannesburg. Even after she had settled into a luxurious First Class seat, her nervous system continued screaming alarm bells for another ten minutes.

  “Good afternoon, madam. Orange juice or champagne?”

  “Neither. I need a gin and tonic. Emergency measures, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll see to that right away.”

  With two shots of Bombay Sapphire soothing her stress, Iris began to relax. The flight left on time, her neighbour wore headphones and never took his eyes from his laptop and the meal was a luxurious treat of salmon terrine, mushroom soufflé and cherry sorbet. Iris scoffed the lot, including the bread roll. This kind of cuisine had not featured in her recent past and was unlikely to make an appearance in her immediate future. Dinner over, she refused a coffee, accepted another glass of champagne and pulled up the privacy screen. She asked herself once again: Iris Simons, what the hell do you think you are you doing? Instead of an answer, she simply closed her eyes and retraced the steps that had brought her this far.

  Dear Ms Simons

  Thank you for your application. I am sorry to say it was unsuccessful on this occasion. The board acknowledges your enthusiasm for helping the disadvantaged girls and women of Angola. However, we seek individuals with immediately useful skills to offer. Self-defence training, fluency in Portuguese and being a native English speaker is not sufficient to become an instructor and/or teacher at our facility. Your combat experience appears little more than anecdotal, since you provide no official training records or references. Neither do you mention TEFL certificates or similar proof of your ability to teach languages. We strongly discourage charity tourism or ‘voluntourism’ as the long-term effects prove harmful to the work we are trying to do.

  If you wish to support us in a practical sense, please find attached a blank invoice where you can donate to our charitable fund.

  We thank you for your interest in our project.

  The fourth rejection in as many weeks. For the first time in her life, Iris wasn’t good enough. She threw the letter into the bin with a curse. It took a few minutes of wrestling with her ego before she retrieved it, smoothed it out and placed it on top of the others lying on her bedroom desk. She had to learn from these refusals and make her next application better.

  She knew what an asset she could be to these NGOs, but to be fair, they didn’t. Why should her truncated CV portray her as anything other than a hobbyist do-gooder, ticking items off a bucket list? Her difficulty was providing any kind of certificates for Iris Simons, an alias who had only come into existence at the end of last year. If only she were able to demonstrate the background, experience and qualifications of Olivia Jones, every one of these organisations would be competing to employ her. She frowned at her tediously repetitive thought patterns. You are Iris Simons. Olivia Jones no longer exists.

  The heat of the afternoon subsided and within the hour, the three farmhands would return from their lunchbreak and come buzzing down the lane on their mopeds. Nestor had already fired up the tractor and Lana was probably already in the orchard, getting on with the fruit picking. The agricultural calendar could not be postponed, not for anything or anyone. Irritable and disappointed, Iris planted her straw hat on her head and stomped across the farmyard with her baskets. Against her will, her dejection lifted. This was her favourite time of day. The heady mixture of fragrance from the farmhouse roses mingled with honeysuckle, lemon verbena and bright pots of sweet peas. Lilac and buddleia bushes lured a buzzing crowd of various bees and silent balletic butterflies. Iris inhaled the warm afternoon air and gazed down to the river. The sweeping meadow was shorn of its swaying grasses, now cropped, baled and ready to be stored in the barn as winter fodder. Trees along the riverbank were beginning to change colour, hinting that last year’s autumnal display might well be outdone by this year’s fireworks. Squeals and shrieks from upstream made Iris smile. Teenagers at ‘The Beach’, or in other words, one of the widest and most accessible sections of the River Dão, were making the most of the long, lazy days of late summer.

  In the orchard, the stepladder she had used that morning was still resting against a plum tree and Lana was yet to arrive. She layered a cushion of grasses in the base of her basket, climbed the ladder and continued plucking plums, humming a half-remembered tune.

  “Someone’s in a good mood.” Lana, sturdy and calm, swayed through the knee-length grasses, wearing an apron and her hair tied up in a scarf. She reminded Iris of wartime photographs of land girls.

  “Hard not to be when you’re outside on a day like this. I’ve almost done this tree.”

  “A fine crop of plums we picked this year. Last year was even better but we had to let them fall and rot. Nestor and I couldn’t manage the harvest alone. Since you took over the farm, everything’s coming up roses.” She smiled, shielding her eyes to look up at Iris.

  “I hardly ‘took over’ the farm. You still have to tell me what to do and how to do it. Right, that’s a basketful. Shall I give you a hand with the pears?”

  “No, I can manage the pears and quince myself. I think we’ve got enough plums and our hedge fruits will last another week. Why don’t you start on the peaches? You have a delicate touch so I trust you not to bruise them.”

  The two women worked in silence other than the odd altercation with a wasp. On the slopes above, Nestor and the farmhands moved up and down the vines, cropping enough A Quinta Douro grapes to fill the community containers. Tomorrow, a truck would come around to collect their harvest, check its weight and give them a receipt which could be exchanged for money or the equivalent in local wine.

  The sun sank and the air cooled. Thin clouds on the horizon took on hues of nectarine, apricot, fig and blueberry, or perhaps Iris had been in the orchard too long. She and Lana lugged their baskets back to the house amongst the sounds of cicadas and into the chill of the pantry.

  “Tonight, we eat fresh fruit,” said Lana, her skin glowing from the sun. “Tomorrow, we make cakes, jam, marmelada, pickles and jars for the winter.”

  Iris collected a bowl of plums and peaches for breakfast, marvelling that she was not yet sick of the things.

  “That’s assuming you will be here tomorrow?” Lana asked with a casual air. “I saw the postman came this morning.”

  The cloud of disappointment settled over Iris’s horizon. “Not only tomorrow, I’ll still be here this time next year. The letter was bad news. Yet another NGO refused me because my skills are insufficient.” The bitterness in her tone was audible.

  Lana finished wrapping apples, quince and pears in brown paper then stretched with a sigh and a creak from her shoulders. “Do you have something to eat for this evening? I can whip up an omelette with ham and tomatoes before I leave.”

  “I’m not completely helpless, Lana. You’re very kind, but I can feed myself.” They emerged into the dusky light of the kitchen. “Go home, look after your husband. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Lana cleaned the sink and work surfaces, then switched on the kitchen lamp. “Iris, you have so much talent and intelligence. You are a hard worker and quick learner. These charity companies must be desperate for someone like you. If they are turning you down, you’ve approached them in the wrong way.”

  Iris was affronted. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Let me ask you a question. When applying for a job, are you selling yourself or meeting the employer’s needs?”

  “I’m not selling anything. It’s a volunteer position! The
y should ...” Iris bit her tongue.

  “They should be grateful? Perhaps. You want to work in a Portuguese-speaking country in Africa, yes? How much do you know about Angola, Mozambique or Cabo Verde? How can you be sure you have what they need?” Lana’s voice remained steady and she seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  “My problem is ...”

  “Your problems do not concern them. They have plenty of their own. You must understand how these non-governmental agencies operate, who they want and why. You cannot send off your résumé and hope they will beg you to come and save them. That’s not how it works. Take out your little computer, dig into the company ethics, find out which skills they seek and tailor your letter exactly like a job application. You need someone to pick fruit? I am an expert. You want someone to raise chickens? Not a problem. Dig wells, patrol fences, drive to market, plant crops, I am your all-round handywoman. Look at it from their side, Iris, not yours.” She pulled her shawl over her broad shoulders and went to the door. “Don’t eat much more fruit tonight or you’ll spend half the night on the toilet. Até amanhã.”

  “Até amanhã.” Iris sat on her own in the kitchen for another hour, until the sky turned inky blue, considering Lana’s words. Then she made herself an omelette, took a notepad from the office and started again.

  Her motivation came from the right place, of that Iris was sure. A slideshow of young female faces flickered across her eyelids at unexpected moments, but the result was always the same. A sense of injustice and impotent anger resulted in a vow to do something. The ‘something’ was never quite defined. But their names were never forgotten.

  Paula was the most recent example. The farm’s most energetic worker with a sunny disposition had a potential career in agriculture. Unfortunately, her father had strict old-fashioned views. After Paula got pregnant by her long-term boyfriend, she was sent away in disgrace to distant relatives, breaking more than one heart. Some months earlier, back in Brazil, beautiful teenagers Juliana and Alexandra should have been spending their youth on the beach, surfing, flirting and having fun. Not working as prostitutes servicing remote logging camps in the Amazon. Further back in time, grey-eyed young women like Krystina, Merle and Laine, lured from Eastern Europe by the promise of respectable jobs found themselves trafficked into Britain, forced into drug addiction and sex slavery. The defeat in their eyes still haunted Iris.

  Now she was no longer in her role as an undercover cop, she could actually do something to help instead of turning a blind eye. She could never atone for her silence and tacit approval of what those women had suffered, but volunteering at a female refuge in Africa might equip other girls with the skills to avoid such a fate. As long as she kept herself off the radar, neither the London Metropolitan Police nor the Osman-Vargas organization was likely to track her down. That was exactly why she applied for the most remote locations she could find.

  It was the perfect solution. Except no one wanted her.

  Night sounds penetrated the open window; cicadas chirruped, moths batted against the mosquito screen, frogs burped down by the river and the rushing of the Dão soothed her mind. Every time she thought of the river, she glanced at the third finger of her left hand. The ring groove and paler skin where her wedding ring used to sit was still visible. In a month, maybe two, it would vanish completely. The band of gold which once occupied that space was lying somewhere on the river bed, buried by mud or carried downstream and washed out to sea. In a moment of wild paranoia, she had convinced herself the ring was a tracking device, torn it from her finger and hurled it into the waters.

  Not a day had passed since without her regretting such a stupid, ill-considered gesture. Yet she imagined herself telling the story to Sal: ‘I was delirious and dehydrated and very possibly having a breakdown’. He would have laughed, of course he would. Sal had always been about the present, enjoying life in all its reality and symbols were for the birds. Rings, he would have said, can be replaced. Husbands cannot.

  Rings can be replaced. But for some reason, her finger was still bare.

  Perhaps Lana was right. She was looking at the volunteer situation from the angle of how it benefitted her, not them. If you wish to support us in a practical sense, please find attached a blank invoice where you can donate to our charitable fund. She made four payments, one to each of the projects, and printed out three more job descriptions. This time, she read the detail of the roles in the mindset of the person who wrote them.

  ... mainstreaming of gender issues, collaboration with stakeholders, education for underprivileged girls, dissemination of information at governmental level, prioritising and realising female potential, securing funding, breaking the socio-economic vicious circle, promoting sustainable incomes, advocating for equality in local communities ...

  The position, Iris realised, was less about teaching pubescent teenagers how to kick box or single mothers how to haggle over the price of a tie-dyed sundress, but had a far wider remit. The aim of this non-governmental organisation was to effect long-term change. That meant challenging deeply rooted attitudes, persuading local and national councils to become allies, and cooperating with journalists, lawmakers, politicians and influencers to support all their citizens. Not easy. Because those with the power to change the balance might well be invested in the status quo. Her fantasy of teaching combat moves in a circle of eager students faded in the flare of embarrassment.

  She read the job advertisements once again, with clear eyes. Single mothers, orphaned girls, rape victims, teenagers with two living parents and an excess of siblings, disabled women with intelligence and ability did not require a well-meaning blow-in to sing them songs and take selfies. What they required was someone with the will to take on the establishment and set in motion a fundamental and permanent improvement in their own circumstances. Not just for themselves, but for future descendants. Iris quailed. Battling with the establishment was a hiding to nothing, in her experience.

  Finally she made up her mind and pinpointed a job opening in Mozambique. Pemba was a port town on the north-east coast, around 250 kilometres from the border to Tanzania. The skills required were a mixture of pastoral and administrative, the kind of stuff Iris was easily capable of fulfilling. But she quashed any suggestion of overconfidence and spent two evenings researching the project, its history, aims and successes. There wasn’t much. She delved into the country’s political and cultural situation, informing herself as best she could on this former Portuguese colony. Then with great care, she set out how she would meet the challenges of the role. She’d never worked so hard on an application in her life. Only once she’d finished, sealed and posted the envelope did she allow herself to look at online pictures of the town and surroundings. So much water! On one side, the Indian Ocean in shades of navy blue to turquoise with coral reefs and long stretches of white sand. On the other, the natural harbour of Pemba Bay sprinkled with fishing boats. Water exerted an extraordinary pull on Iris. Much as she loved her farm with its walls on three sides and the river as its fourth perimeter, she yearned for the ocean.

  All through the rest of the harvest season, she dared to hope. This time she’d be lucky and repay her debts by being an asset to society. September was warm, and soft sunlight threw a glowing filter over turning leaves and terracotta roofs. In early October, the weather changed and two days of sudden storms made farm work sporadic. On the third day, Iris was repairing the gate to the kitchen garden under a sulky charcoal sky when Lana cycled down the drive, somehow balancing a trug of vegetables, an umbrella and a pile of post in the basket in front of her handlebars.

  “Nice top,” she said, as she cruised to a halt.

  Iris looked down at the holey, frayed T-shirt she had flung on that morning. It had once been bright pink with the logo from A Pantera Rosa emblazoned across the chest. But it had faded to a weak hyacinth colour and the logo was gone. There used to be a time when she cared about clothes.

  “Slugs ate half the lettuces,” said Lana. A movement behind her turned out to be a little cat trotting behind the bicycle. “So I picked the rest for our lunch. It’s not exactly salad weather, but I won’t let them go to waste. The replacement bulbs for the barn have arrived and there’s a letter for you from Africa. I’ll go in and start cooking.” She handed over a flimsy envelope with a postmark saying Correios de Moçambique.