Death on Dangar Island

Saturday Night

The sinewy torso of the fire twirler glistened in the light of the flames. A snake tattoo curled out from his low-slung jeans and across his abdomen. He spun the devil-sticks faster and faster until the lit ends became glowing amber circles throwing sparks off into the night.

With her back arched and her glossy lips parted, she watched him as he stared at her. She looked away. What did he want, sympathy? How pathetic. No, she knew what he wanted and he wouldn’t be getting it. Maybe he would try to talk to her about it again tonight – heart to heart. Maybe he would try to change her mind. Sorry baby, not going to happen.

She gazed out from under thick, black lashes, the hefty weight of the snake delicately balanced over her shoulder. The fire twirler lifted a bottle to his lips and tilted his head back. There were a few hushed ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s as he blew a stream of flames into the air. The small crowd of revellers that had drifted drunkenly from the house now solidified into an audience, clapping and yelling out encouragement. Spurred on by their enthusiasm he paused to turn up the volume on the portable stereo behind him before he launched back into his routine.

She stood with them, smiling indulgently at his theatrics.

Then she noticed the pale woman.

The woman watched her intently from across the semicircle of onlookers.

The snake shifted on her shoulders and she patted its solid, comforting form as she maintained eye contact with her watcher.

The crowd seemed to huddle closer.

A spike of adrenaline quivered down her spine. Something was going to happen tonight: something wild. She could feel it deep inside her, and she was thrilled.

A shadow flitted in and out of the group at the edge of the darkness. A sly half-smile of recognition; she went to investigate. He was here!

She took his hand, and together they walked into the trees.

The pale woman followed them into the darkness.