LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue BARBADOS, 10 SEPTEMBER 1993

      It was dark when the small fishing boat slipped unnoticed out of the shallow-draught harbour. There was a strong sea breeze and spray flayed the skin of Christina’s cheeks. She turned her face away from the wind and caught the smell of diesel fuel and dead fish. Bile stung her throat like acid and she fought hard to hold down the rising nausea.

      A strong gust caught the Island Spirit full on its starboard side. She stumbled amongst the coiled ropes. A pair of strong hands steadied her.

      ‘Are you okay, Mrs Reece-Carlton?’

      She stared up into the concerned face and friendly dark eyes of Father Edward Collymore.

      ‘I’ll be okay,’ she mumbled. She clutched the priest’s arm as the boat rolled alarmingly in the opposite direction, and smiled faintly to herself.

      Ever the perfectionist, Stephen had left precise instructions in his will.

      The burial at sea must be at dawn and approximately ten miles out from the north point of the island, where the Caribbean meets the southern Atlantic.

      Christina looked across to the eastern horizon as the skipper cut the engines. She gripped the gaudily painted side of the boat as it bobbed in sickening motion to and fro. Slowly the sea before her lit up as though floodlit, the top of the sun’s glowing golden orb just visible above the rolling waves.

      Dawn comes quickly in the Caribbean. Thick fingers of brilliant light punctured the darkness and suddenly the entire sky was filled with a bright-blue dazzling glow.

      ‘Now,’ Christina said to Father Collymore, who nodded and squeezed her hand.

      He turned to the wheelhouse and said: ‘It’s time’, signalling to a long metal box lying in the stern.

      The skipper nodded his grizzled head and went below. A few seconds later he reappeared with five brawny fishermen dressed in faded T-shirts and surf shorts or ragged cut-off jeans.

      They all nodded silently to Christina and the priest as they made their way to the stern and lined up three on either side of the lead-lined coffin which contained the mortal remains of Stephen Reece-Carlton.

      Father Collymore took up position at the head of the coffin with Christina by his side.

      ‘Stephen Reece-Carlton,’ he began in his deep, sonorous voice, ‘lived an exciting and eventful life. His departure, so premature and unexpected, will be sadly mourned. His last wish was to be buried at daybreak in the sea he had grown to love – the Caribbean – which laps the shores of our beloved Barbados, the island Stephen Reece-Carlton had made his second home.’

      Christina stared at the coffin. Again, the wan smile touched the corners of her mouth. Trust Stephen to have dreamed up such a bizarre burial for himself. He had never conformed before, so why start now? Always larger than life. The smile left her lips and she felt the familiar pricking at the back of her eyes. Her husband wasn’t larger than life Not any more

      Her gaze clouded with tears as she heard the priest begin to recite Stephen’s favourite psalm.

      ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he makes me down to lie. She longed for the whole dreadful ordeal to be over.

      It was, soon enough. As Father Collymore finished, six pairs of muscular arms lifted the coffin. For a moment they held it poised as the priest murmured the final words, then they let go. It hit the side of the boat with a dull thud before plunging beneath the yawning Caribbean sea.

      Christina stared dully at the place where the coffin had disappeared. Sun

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