He runs out of the bathroom bare-chested. My arm goes up and I point at the pile before me. His eyes follow my finger. But he can’t see past the crumpled empty bag on the decking.
“Oh, watch out for the vomit,” I shout. He dodges it and stares at me like I’ve gone insane, finally coming out to me in the sunshine, completely confused.
“What the—” Then he sees it. “Oh Jesus Christ! Bloody hell. Right. Bloody—Okay. Christ.”
He stares at me. I can read his face as clear as day.
“Jesus.”
* * *
—
He’s squatting down in front of it all, turning the packet of money over and over in his arms. He looks up at me.
“It could be a million. They’re ten-thousand-dollar packs,” he says, his eyes bright. He’s really excited.
Because, let’s be clear, this is really bloody exciting.
“I know. That’s what I thought. What about the other stuff?” I say quickly. I squat down beside him.
He pushes the diamonds around on the towel with his finger. He moistens his lips and squints through the sun at me.
“Two carats, right? That what you’re thinking?” he asks.
“Yes. How many stones?”
“Hard to tell without counting. I’m guessing a hundred and fifty to two hundred.”
I nod. “That’s what I thought. So, maybe a million’s worth?”
“Yeah, could be more. But that seems right. Fuck.” He rubs the stubble along his jaw.
“What else is there?” he asks.
I don’t know; I haven’t looked at the rest yet.
He picks up another sealed clear plastic bag; just visible through the salt smears is a USB stick. Sealed tight, somehow still protected from the water. He places it back down carefully next to the stones and the money. He looks at me before picking up the final object.
It is a hard plastic case with a handle. He sets it down in front of us. I know what it is before he flips open the plastic latches.
It sits there, dark dense metal nestled in molded foam padding. A handgun. I don’t know what type. I don’t know about guns. The sort you’d see in a film, I guess. A modern film. That type. But a real one, on the decking, in front of us. Spare bullets nestled in a fresh cardboard box next to it in the foam. Sealed. There’s an iPhone in the box too. The plastic gun case must be airtight, because everything inside it is dry, and, I’d imagine, still in working order.
“Okay.” Mark closes the case. “Let’s go inside for a bit, shall we?”
He gathers the money, USB, and gun case into the destroyed canvas bag and ushers me inside. I carefully carry in the towel of diamonds.
He slides the glass door shut and sets the bag on the bed.
“Okay, Erin. First things first. We’re going to clean up the vomit, right? Clean ourselves, and the room, up. Then we’re going to have a chat, okay?” He’s watching me encouragingly. He’s speaking to me in the same, even, measured tone he had yesterday when he told me about the sharks. He’s extremely reassuring when he needs to be. Yes, I’ll clean up.
It doesn’t take me long. I use some of the disinfectant lotion from the first-aid kit to douse the floor. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull myself together. Meanwhile Mark’s cleaned the rest of the room. The food cart is gone. The bed is stripped now too, the bag the only thing on it. The diamonds sit in a whiskey tumbler. Mark wanders in from the lounge area holding my laptop.
“First of all, I don’t think we should contact the police until we know what the fuck is going on. I don’t fancy spending life in a Polynesian prison for diamond smuggling or whatever. I suppose we need to know if anyone is missing this stuff. Right? If anyone might know we have it?” he says.
I take the computer as he holds it out to me.
I see, we’re going to do a bit of research. Research I’m good at. He sits down on the bed and I sidle next to him.
“So, what should I check the news for, what do we think? Shipwreck? Missing persons? Or maybe robbery gone wrong? What are we looking for?” I ask. I’m not sure. My fingers hover over the keys. We need something to go on.
He looks at the bag again.
“Well, we have a phone.” He lets it hang there.
Yes. Yes, we do have a phone, which means we have a number, we also probably have an email address and emails, and we probably have an actual name.
“Shall we check the phone? See who they are?” I ask.
“Not yet. Wait. Let’s just think logically here, carefully. Are we breaking the law right now? Are we, Erin? Have we done anything? Anything at all wrong so far?”
Like I would know. I suppose my moral compass has always been slightly more true than his, but only slightly.
“No. No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I ripped the bag. But I ripped it to find out what was inside—to find out who it belonged to. It’s the truth; that should stand up.”
“Why didn’t we give it straight to the police or security?”
“We did. We handed it in to the hotel straightaway but they gave it back to us. And then we got drunk and we thought we’d sort it out ourselves. It’s stupid, but it’s not illegal.” I nod. That sounds all right, I decide.
“But this is wrong now,” I add. I say it as I think it. “We should call the police right now and tell them about it. The gun and the money are definitely red flags,” I say, nodding again.
I study the frayed bag. I can see the corner of the packet of money through the torn canvas. A million dollars. I look at Mark.
“Just a second,” I say. “I remember this. It came up in that Norwegian fishermen film.” I tap away at Google.
“Basically, flotsam and jetsam, maritime debris, salvage, whatever you want to call it, basically treasure, is covered by international maritime law. Here…look at this.” I scroll down and read from the gov.uk website.
“?‘Jetsam’ is the term used to describe goods jettisoned overboard to lighten a vessel’s load in emergencies. ‘Flotsam’ is the term used to describe goods accidentally lost overboard in emergencies. Blah, blah, blah. The salvor must declare salvaged goods by completing a ‘report of salvage’ form within 28 days of recovery. Blah, blah, blah. A salvor acting within the law is likely to be entitled to the salvaged goods should the owner not come forward. Uh-huh. Oh, wait. Shit! Under the Merchant Shipping Act of 1995 this law applies to all salvage within UK territorial waters—up to the twelve-nautical-mile limit.” British law is totally irrelevant here. I’m not sure whether we’ll fall under French or U.S. law in Polynesia.
I search again. Tapping. Mark stares at the bag, mute.
“Here we go! U.S. Department of Commerce. ‘Flotsam’ and ‘jetsam’ are terms that describe two types of marine debris associated with vessels. ‘Flotsam’ is defined as debris in the water that was not deliberately thrown overboard, often as a result from a shipwreck or accident. ‘Jetsam’ describes debris deliberately thrown overboard by a crew of a ship in distress, most often to lighten the ship’s load. Under maritime law, the distinction is important.” I look up at Mark.
“Flotsam may be claimed by the original owner, whereas jetsam may be claimed as property of whoever discovers it. If the jetsam is valuable, the discoverer may collect proceeds received through the sale of the salvaged objects.” I stop.
Mark looks out of the window across the lagoon, frowning.
When he finally speaks he says, “So, I suppose the question is: is this flotsam or jetsam?”
“Uh-huh.” I nod, moistening my lips.
We need to go back there and find out. We need to go back to the paper circle tomorrow and see if there’s a wreck. If the owner went down in the storm and lost this bag, then that’s one thing. If he threw it overboard and ran away, that’s another.
If there’s nothing there, under the water, under all those papers, then we are two million richer.
“If there’s a wreck there, we’ll just put the bag back. Then we’ll report it. But if there’s nothing there…If the bag was abandoned, I think we’re all right. I think we’ll be all right, Mark.” I go to the fridge and grab some ice-cold water. I take a sip and pass it to him.
“Yes?” I ask.
He takes a sip. Runs his hand through his hair.
“Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll go back tomorrow.”