12
The beer was an anaesthetic; the warm Indian Ocean a soothing bath; the English girl’s kisses a soft, moist balm on his bruised skin. Luke Scarborough was in paradise, Zanzibar-style.
He opened his eyes and stared up through the mosquito net at the lazily rotating fan and painted white ceiling of the bungalow. She lay on her back beside him, all pink and warm and smelling of last night’s s*x. She wasn’t overly attractive, but she was relaxed and experimental in bed and had a wicked sense of humour. He didn’t want to leave her. He reckoned he could easily spend a fortnight drinking, dancing and practising new positions, but he had work to do. He climbed out from under the grubby white gauze and padded across the linoleum floor, fine grains of sand sticking to the soles of his feet. He
