He drove to the spot where they’d first met, Cray’s, frequented by men and women who favoured night life, not that Ray had known it then. The place had been loud and shadowed, jammed with locals and tourists, Passa Passa dancehall thumping, just what she needed to fill the gaps. Fari was a good travel companion, yet overly calm and measured. His conservatism, her rock back home, seemed out of place here. Ray wanted to shake things up, she knew it before they left.

Her boyfriend had gone for their drinks and started a conversation with Richie at the bar, finding him friendly in his understated, drawling way. Before long he’d joined their table. They talked of the ocean and the art of diving, interests shared by all, dividing the conversation three ways until the bar closed. They covered everything: favourite dive spots, hottest clubs, most annoying tourists and loneliest beaches on the island. With every topic exhausted, they spoke of their lives.

The next morning, a tangerine sun rising above the underlined sky, they’d stood on the beach opposite their hotel waiting for the motorboat. It didn’t belong to Richie. He’d borrowed it from his workplace, which also rented out jet skis, speedboats with inflatable banana trailers and glass-bottomed boats. It also rented Richie, which was why he’d arrived at mid-morning for their final dive instead of their usual dawn start. He’d taken an elderly Italian couple for a tour around the island with a breakfast stop at the raging waters of Bathsheba, coming back to the west coast in time for Ray and Fari. He charged mate’s rates, so it made perfect sense to dive according to gaps in his schedule. Richie seemed like the type of man who talked more than he thought, but was honest. Fari trusted him completely.

This time, tagging behind him in Cray’s, Ray wasn’t sure what Richie wanted. He went to the bar, further surprising her, coming back with a pair of tall glasses. Tequila sunrise. Not her favourite, but a clear indication he wasn’t trying to get her drunk, so she didn’t mind. His eyes still sparkled, although dark thumbprints lay beneath them. They clinked glasses, Ray forgetting to drink, only remembering it was bad luck when her glass hit the table. She put the straw to her lips. The liquid was thick, artificial. Richie frowned at the orange and red, shrugged and took another sip, smacking loudly, turning the glass from side to side. He looked up, noticing she wasn’t drinking.

‘Nice?’

‘It’s all right.’ Ray watched his response. ‘You don’t think so?’

‘Tourists love ah tequila. Thought I’d see why.’

‘Not for you?’

‘Nah, suh. A Cockspur man, me.’

‘I don’t blame you, not at all.’