The Traveller

By Giles Housden

Paul James Winters, divorcee and struggling to cope with the emotional trauma of another failed relationship, embarks upon a journey to Central America.
A journey, primarily designed for him to distance himself from his past, and to spend time reflecting upon his life and the future, is turned upside down when he overhears a conversation in a shopping mall. From a simple confrontation between two men develops a life-threatening scenario, of which he becomes the central character. As He struggles to understand the complexity of the situation he has found himself in, he realises that understanding the intricacy of the fraud is far less important than just staying alive.
The traveller allows the reader to understand the blandness of his existence in the UK, and the personal torment he has endured. The highly charged atmosphere of Central America awakens his desire to live, rejuvenating his spirit of adventure as he grapples with the powers that would have him suppressed.
As the story unfolds the reader can ask whether it was idle curiosity, or was it just a compelling need to inject some much-needed enthusiasm into his stagnant existence? Was he deliberately orchestrating the events as they unfolded to satisfy his desires for adventure?
Together with a small group of friends they embark upon a journey around Costa Rica whilst being pursued by a number of different assailants, all with a common aim. The Traveller follows the journey from the conversation, through the land deals, the fraud, the blackmails, the chase as they try to evade their killers, the deaths of his friends and to its conclusion with his new lover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giles Housden
• Release date: Sep 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301348862

Book preview

The Traveller

The Traveller

Giles M. Housden

Published by Giles M. Housden at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Giles M. Housden

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Neil, taken from us 11th September 2001.

You will always travel with me, my friend forever.

In Brief…

Paul James Winters, divorcee and struggling to cope with the emotional trauma of another failed relationship, embarks upon a journey to Central America.

A journey, primarily designed for him to distance himself from his past, and to spend time reflecting upon his life and the future, is turned upside down when he overhears a conversation in a shopping mall. From a simple confrontation between two men develops a life-threatening scenario, of which he becomes the central character. As He struggles to understand the complexity of the situation he has found himself in, he realises that understanding the intricacy of the fraud is far less important than just staying alive.

The traveller allows the reader to understand the blandness of his existence in the UK, and the personal torment he has endured. The highly charged atmosphere of Central America awakens his desire to live, rejuvenating his spirit of adventure as he grapples with the powers that would have him suppressed.

As the story unfolds the reader can ask whether it was idle curiosity, or was it just a compelling need to inject some much-needed enthusiasm into his stagnant existence? Was he deliberately orchestrating the events as they unfolded to satisfy his desires for adventure?

Together with a small group of friends they embark upon a journey around Costa Rica whilst being pursued by a number of different assailants, all with a common aim. The Traveller follows the journey from the conversation, through the land deals, the fraud, the blackmails, the chase as they try to evade their killers, the deaths of his friends and to its conclusion with his new lover.

CHAPTER 1

The Villa at Playa Manuel Antonio

Two six packs of Imperial the night before had once again left their mark. His head hurt, not a lot but enough for him to feel slightly uncomfortable. He’d ponder the concept of six beers in a pack. Did some neatly dressed marketing executive debate the merits of up selling this product, working on the basis that few drinkers would leave a solitary can at the evenings end? Perhaps not, but somewhere in that devious world of marketing they had encouraged him to finish each and very pack of six as they came along. He felt better harbouring the thought that it was not entirely his fault, more especially as his head pounded so incessantly.

Somewhere there was a distant recollection; he’d pondered long and hard. He could see the image but not the place, time or come to that the individuals. He hated that; it would nag at him until he could reconcile it in his head. It was obviously the beer, clouding his ability to think. Momentarily that would make him feel better, then guilty, then annoyed. Vague images would taunt him for a split second as he searched in the recesses of his now muddled memory. He could see his father and then he was gone disappearing somewhere into the background. He’d struggle to regain the image, trying to manipulate the dream but it was gone.

A dreamy start to the day, then again most of them were. Like an internal clock that you programmed to suit your agenda he would take whole chunks of his days and submerge himself into a weird obscurity spending his time in superficial thought, remembering the past, contemplating the future. It was pure escapism, he knew it but facing some of the realities of life was less appealing.

Paul James Winters, that’s how he’d chosen to have it printed on his credit cards. Most people would have forgone the middle initial, but he reckoned it sounded a lot more sophisticated. He was a youthful thirty five, six one with a good head of hair which he choose to part centrally and grew it slightly longer than would have been acceptable in his previous commercial existence. Close friends often referred to his ‘Peter Pan’ looks, some sort as ageless appearance. He had never disagreed with the observation, quietly enjoying the attention, but if only they could see inside; that’s where most of the real ageing had been going on. Dorian Gray was more appropriate he’d smirked to himself; where was that dam painting?

Pushing the white cotton sheet to one side he swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. The wooden blinds at the patio doors prevented most of the light penetrating into the room, but still enough filtered through to illuminate the space sufficiently. This was their early morning call, no brash loud electronic technology, no, just plain simple sun light. Fortunate, very, he had concluded on more than one occasion. Life was fairly settled; He had become a modest individual, had little aspirations to progress beyond where he was, but then why should he. The events of the last twelve months had provided for an above average existence, with no work factor. Removing the work factor provides for a much more tolerable existence. He smiled to himself as he did every morning whilst contemplating the very same thought. One day he’d get it sign written on the wall, something along the lines of ‘no work only play’.

Like a good pair of shoes, some things you never get tired of; He continued to ponder in his dreamy fashion.

This situation was not without its problems, nothing this good comes without some pain. For himself and his friends the pain had been extreme, it had involved unexpected sacrifice, he’d only just made it and there still remained an element of uncertainty, perhaps danger, so they were always slightly wary. Of what though, neither he nor those close to him could decide.

What they did know was their lives involved a hidden menace, one that was presently in quantifiable. It could emanate from a variety of sources, all of which were far beyond his control.

They had immersed themselves into an episode that had involved many players. It was not the obvious ones that bothered him; it was more the newer ones. It was those individuals or organisations that were emerging every day, always looking for a piece of the action. For now their security was reliant on others greed, and whilst that situation remained they could exist in this secluded comfort. And, he would hold the thought that given enough time perhaps they would blend into the background, becoming less noticeable and thus disappearing altogether. It was just a thought.

He had walked the six paces to the French windows and reached for the handle as he did each and every morning. The same feeling of trepidation that he’d felt the day before and the day before that will be without question the same as tomorrow. He’d felt the handle drop, the latch retracting under the weight of his hands pressure. On opening the doors the cool early morning breeze wafted into the room. Taking a deep breath he’d rubbed his face as though he was opening the pores of his skin to the sun, almost dragging the beauty of the warmth into his body. Running his fingers through his now long hair he swept it back, arched his neck, closed his eyes and took in as much of the heat as he could.

How good does that feel? He was talking to himself.

That feels bloody fantastic. Now he was answering himself.

Man you are one lucky bastard. He smiled to himself as the words left his lips.

The crisp white sheets of the bed slightly ruffled and thrown to one side where he had laid and raised his weary body seemed hardly capable of concealing another; Just the vague outline of her body teasingly acknowledging her presence.

Isabella didn’t care much for mornings. Looking in a mirror first thing in the day was her least favoured event. She stirred as he’d left the bedside choosing to remain where she was. He could never quite understand this early morning thing. Perhaps the years of waking at six and trundling off to the big city had hardened him to the early morning routine.

She looked fantastic all of the time regardless of the hour. She couldn’t see it herself. Insisting that she needed the time and space too gather herself; and why would he ever understand that. He’d learnt to keep his opinions to himself. Seemed strange for one so young. At twenty she carried herself as though she was much older. She exuded confidence, self-assurance and all that. And then the weaknesses, well the morning thing mainly. He’d laughed to himself. Must be a woman thing he’d often thought.

The rocking chair moved slowly back and forth as he peered out over the ocean from his balcony. The house was truly impressive. They’d only viewed it once before packing the few belongings they had in San Jose and moving in. Positioned approximately half way up the hillside from the beach, it stood in a commanding position with the small principle road for the village running past the front gate. Having been built into the hillside all of the accommodation was on the same level, like a deck protruding out towards the sea, with the area beneath the floor level housing the car and storage area. Running the whole length of the frontage on the principle floor was a large balcony, accessible from the master bedroom, the main living area and the guest bedroom. The remaining rooms of the house where positioned behind these principle areas. To the left of the building a staircase ran down to the lower floor and the front gate. The house had panoramic views overlooking the beach although it was suitably distanced from the main drag and its hoards of milling tourists yet close enough to allow them all the benefits of this beautiful place. Okay perhaps not the best kept Tropical Forest in the country but at least he was practically living in one. From the road its white painted walls loomed high amongst the trees of the forest, yet it blended well with its surroundings. He liked it here. It was far too big for just two people, the five bedrooms three bathrooms the whole thing bells and whistles included, were far in excess of what they needed. Perhaps it gave him a sense of power; no perhaps it was the success thing albeit in his modest way. He had trouble deciding and after much contemplation hadn’t really cared.

An indecipherable murmuring from the bedroom broke his daydreaming in mid-stream.

On the balcony he’d called out. As if she didn’t already know.

There was no response from the bedroom to his call, and like most other mornings he’d called out again. Once again there was no response.

His first reaction was to suppress a laugh, instead a stifled smile spread across his face. She obviously felt a lot worse than he did. Rising from his rocking chair He walked back across the balcony and into the bedroom.

How bad is it?

Bad enough so leave me alone.

Told you not to drink all that Rum, and certainly not like that.

Like what?

I haven’t seen you drinking Rum like that for, well for ages. Shit, you were really pouring that stuff down your neck.

My prerogative.

Certainly is beautiful, but the day has begun and we will live the day.

He stood in the doorway leaning against the chipped wooden frame, the heat of the sun cascading down onto his naked torso. He watched as she rolled out of the bed unfolding before him, her naked body so perfectly formed; a vision for him to savour. He doubted you could ever get too much of this; It looked good, and it felt good. He kept saying it to himself, we will live the day, we will live the day, and then he’d look again at her in all her naked glory.

I’m going to take a shower.

I’ll make the coffee.

Great idea.

They often are.

Wandering through to the kitchen he observed the remains of the night before. Surprisingly the mess was less extreme than he had remembered, perhaps they’d cleaned up, he couldn’t quite recollect. Should he at least attempt some sort of clean-up program, it was a dilemma, albeit momentarily the guilt trip was quickly overcome when he remembered the maid would arrive shortly.

Having boiled the water and washed it over freshly ground coffee beans, two large mugs of early morning refreshment winged their way through to the bedroom. Leaving her mug beside the bed he resumed his position on the balcony once again soaking up the early morning sun. She’d joined him a few minutes later water dripping from her hair, the thin cotton shirt sticking to her damp skin perfectly demonstrating the lines of her body as she sat in the warmth of the day.

They’d not spoken as such, just dozed in the stillness of the morning.

Head still thumping.

She didn’t respond; that was her way of preventing him the enjoyment of knowing she felt like complete shit. It made no difference he knew exactly how she was feeling. It must be something to do with age, but for some reason she always recovered far more quickly than he did. He hated that so much he made sure he took advantage while the opportunity existed.

He returned to the morning taking in the sun whilst sipping his strong black coffee.

The calmness of the moment was soon to be interrupted. A car pulled up in the street below, which in itself would not have been unusual, but to be followed by a persistent banging on the iron gates below was. To make matters worse it was beginning to irritate him. It had broken the serenity of their moment. He was becoming visibly annoyed. Neither of them moved. Again the visitor banged on the gate trying to gain their attention.

Bloody maid, give them a key and they still want you to open the gate.

Isabella looked at him seeking some type of assurance, she was still very nervous.

OKAY, OKAY, I’m coming. Ya voy, ya voy!! As he entered the bedroom he grabbed a thin white cotton robe that lay on the chair beside the bed. As if all in one movement, and not stopping for a second, he’d slipped into the robe and strode off across the room, the material billowing out around him.

She’d called out after him in an attempt to remind him to be careful; he was already out of earshot along the corridor towards the staircase. She wanted to go towards the balcony but knew better, best stay still she’d kept saying to herself, yes best stay still. She’d clasped her hands together as if to pray, fuck she hated these moments.

She knew the procedure. They had practiced it enough times. Even so, there was a general hesitation in her actions, although she knew at some point she would have to get on with it. She listened, but for what she was uncertain. It was just a matter of seconds but it felt like hours. There was a temptation to hesitate, not wanting to face the reality of the moment hoping it was not for real and would go away. Starting for the bureau in the corner of the lounge Isabella could feel the beads of sweat already forming on her brow. Taking a deep breath in a bid to steady herself, and with shaking hands she reached towards the top draw, grasped the handle and gently eased it forward. The gun was there, just as she knew it would be. Without removing the gun from the draw she had gently slipped the clip into the handle. Isabella had no good reason to proceed much further. Even when they had discussed this type of situation the conversation never seemed to progress much beyond this point. It would always seem to terminate with the reassurance that the gun was loaded. That had always bothered her; was the next stage in the event so dreadful that nobody wanted to confront it and discuss it? Standing with one hand resting on the gun as it lay in the draw, she had turned slightly to inspect the room. Now she would wait.

He wandered through the house to the stairs and descended to the front gate, whilst fumbling with the robe to cover himself. He was surprised not to find the maid, worse, there were two men standing at his door. They appeared to be officials of some type; you could tell by the way they dressed. It wasn’t that there was some sort of uniform, but the plain pants polished shoes pastel coloured shirts, sort of set them apart. He’d checked as much as you could in those few seconds, looking at the most obvious places you’d hide a weapon. It all looked fairly safe. Then he wasn’t sure. He’d nervously unlocked the gate.

Launching into a lengthy opening explanation, presumably the reason for their attendance on his doorstop, he’d quickly raised a hand to halt the proceedings. A Maggie Thatcher conversation stopper approach; he’d read it in a newspaper. An opportunity to interrupt he’d thought. In this case just preventing the guy from continuing was paramount. He didn’t like the confusion it made him uncomfortable.

No hablo espaňol. They’d looked at him with a slightly bemused expression. It was a stale mate, and for a few seconds they had all just looked at each other.

Their complete lack of English and his sub standard Spanish necessitated Isabella’s presence, that was very apparent. He called up to her. They seemed to understand and followed him up into the house. He wasn’t too sure whether he’d actually invited them in but they were already ascending the stairs. He just followed.

Going through to the lounge. No reply was forthcoming from Isabella, not even an acknowledgement in Spanish from any party, and slightly more worrying was their awareness of his house. It was as if they knew exactly where they were.

Isabella had remained out of sight but he knew she would come through shortly, dressed and looking impeccable. The lounge was empty, the bureau draw closed. Isabella had concluded that in allowing these people into their house suggested that there was little danger. She had hoped he was right, and had left the gun.

Coffee?

No gracias senor. They’d both spoken together; it was rather comical.

He disappeared into the kitchen as the two men sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa. Their small rotund stature made for their stomachs to rest neatly on their legs, the buttons of their shirts stretching to accommodate the bulk. Both had short haircuts and the blackness of which seemed to shine as if coated in varnish. One of the men sported a thin moustache to his top lip, not thick, just enough to create a visible line. The fine beads of sweat that adorned their brows all helped to demonstrate how anxious they appeared.

Returning a few minutes later with another large mug full of coffee he sat himself down on the single armchair in the corner. There was an uneasy silence only broken by the intermittent squeaking from the over head fan in the room as the three of them glanced around waiting for one of the party to start. Isabella appeared at the door.

The two men were on their feet in seconds imparting volumes of information. There seemed to be no break in the continuous onslaught. A sense of urgency, concern, then the slightly taller of the two men laughed momentarily; where was this going? He hated it when he did not understand. Documents, paperwork, maps, all sorts of things were being presented as the conversation progressed. The man with the moustache seemed to dip in and out of a bottomless brief case. He reached forward and picked out an old map from the rapidly growing pile centre table.

He looked at it with great interest whilst trying his hardest to convey an air of nonchalance. Although his knowledge of this geographical area was not brilliant, he knew enough to recognise that this was Playa Manuel Antonio albeit some years previously.

What’s going on? He really didn’t like this, was completely disadvantaged due to the language barrier and was now getting really annoyed. Challenging Isabella for an explanation he was quickly rebuffed. Realising he had nowhere to go he sat sulking whilst the three of them continued to discuss.

Isabella had insisted that the two men left first before she even attempted to explain what was going on. Eventually he’d agreed albeit hesitantly. Twenty minutes had now transpired.

The conversation continued for what seemed like an eternity. But then things in Central America were always like that; that was the appeal.

He’d broken his silence.

Isabella, I haven’t seen you look this worried about anything for ages, what the hell is going on? He was becoming impatient and started to shift around in the chair. Still she continued to discuss with the two men as even more documents were added to the pile. There was a look of sadness in her eyes, perhaps disbelief about something that was going on. Finally there seemed to be an end to this invasion and after some small talk on the stairs to the gate the two men were gone.

Isabella emerged from the staircase moving directly to the sofa and dumping herself down in silence.

So!

Give me a minute, I need to think.

Think about what? Perhaps an explanation may help me to think as well.

There seems to be an irony here.

What irony.

Did you ever think that there might be a time when we too would become embroiled in the very event we spent those months trying to unravel, no I mean survive.

Talk sense woman, please. What on earth are you talking about?

She was obviously trying to assimilate all the information that has been presented, and by the length of time it was taking her it was a complicated affair.

Isabella’s first words were spoken with that acquired Spanglish accent. She was slow and deliberating. Isabella knew that at this precise moment everything she was about to impart would have a fundamental effect on both of their lives.

You love this house don’t you?

Hesitating for just a second to ponder the comment he knew that it was the sort of opening comments that immediately implied there was a problem ahead. He’d blurted back at her.

Love it, I fucking adore it, and if you are going to tell me something along the lines that we are going to lose it, think again, because it isn’t going to happen. We only just got here, and the deal was forever. Remember?

Bollocks he’d mused to himself. Wanting too be angry was an option but not a very clever one. Although he was just guessing, aimlessly perhaps, it was so near the truth it almost hurt. Yes there was an element of anger in his voice, in his attitude; he sensed something was going to take from him what he considered was his, his right.

Where do you think this house has been built? She’d come straight out with it.

He sat pondering the question. There was a very obvious answer and he couldn’t resist it.

On a piece of land at Playa Manuel Antonio?

That’s really not helping. She looked at him disapprovingly. She wasn’t laughing.

OKAY. So a stupid answer. Give me a break here, lighten up a little.

The pressure of the moment was getting to him; there was some serious shit going on here. How was he supposed to sort it out when she was not imparting any of the information? But deep down he knew she was, already had. He reached forward and picked up the old map once again slowly unfolding it and laying it out on the floor before him.

She was obviously troubled enough to find it difficult to describe. Isabella started to explain what the visitors had said to her. Gradually the reality of their situation was becoming apparent.

He was searching the map frantically trying to locate his piece of land, the parcel that eventually would accommodate his home; his beloved home. His heart was sinking further and further, he could see it coming from miles away, Isabella was still talking in the background, but it meant nothing, it was all there to see, plain as life the forest the bloody forest was all over the place, and more precisely all over his parcel of land. He flopped back into the armchair tears welling in his now red eyes.

Come on this can’t be happening to us. Tell me this isn’t happening please.

We need to talk about this. Isabella could see how distraught he had become.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Of course it makes sense. Isabella replied abruptly.

Okay, then, well, there’s some more paperwork surely something amongst that lot that puts things right. Perhaps the maps wrong, Christ it’s old enough. Look at this line, the boundary, surely that could be in the wrong place.

Unfortunately not.

Somebody else is behind this, you know it I know, and I’m not going to sit back after all that’s happened and let it go.

We don’t have a choice.

We’ve always got a choice. Believe me we’ve always got a choice.

He’d risen from the chair and was up and pacing the room now. His mannerisms were becoming much more aggressive, he was gesturing with clenched fists whilst murmuring under his breath.

Isabella had an edge to her voice; she was equally upset by the events.

And then you figure out who’s responsible for this and embark upon another game of trying to stay alive. You can’t win all the battles, one day you’re going to get it wrong, and then there’s no tomorrow. No sunning on the balcony, in fact no fucking balcony. I can’t live like this anymore, always on the run, always wondering what or who might be around the next corner. We pissed some very influential people off, no, no I correct myself, very unpleasant people off and they don’t forgive very easily. We can’t afford to go through all of that again.

Give me a break here, please.

Trust me I’m not sticking around to get shot at again. Isabella was almost pleading with him. She continued.

These people came here today to help us, they’re offering us the opportunity to sell this place quick before the shit hits the fan. They’re only doing it out of respect for what we did for the country. How would it look if the very thing we brought to the public domain were being abused by us? Be objective, it’s only a house.

It may be a house to you, but it represents a lot more to me. He stood up again and walked to the window, peering out into the forest that flanked the sides of the house. He loved that damned forest, this was not secondary forest but virgin rain forest, with all the glory and tragedy that represented to him.

What about all our friends; remember those that died? I mean you do remember those who died don’t you? He was shouting; he hated himself for that.

Isabella had remained in the room sifting through the paperwork on the table. He’d grown bored with the issue once the basic content had been related to him. Walking out onto the balcony once more he’d allowed the robe to fall from his shoulders exposing himself once again to the intensity of the sun’s rays. He’d resumed his position in the rocking chair, slowly deliberating the events of the morning.

It’s only a house. She was speaking softly as she stood by his shoulder peering out to sea. She was somewhere else, he could tell.

How long have we got?

Not that long. She responded slowly gathering her composure. "The story is only just breaking. Seňor Miguel Lavalle of the Land Registry, his card is here somewhere; he was the short one, informs me that the TICO TIMES picked up the original idea and started digging around. Seems that our presence has not been connected yet, but friends in the government consider it too greater risk.

Risk for who?

‘Please don’t start all that again. At least now the wealth, the forest, and whatever else that entails belong to the people".

Does it really. I somewhat doubt that’s actually the case.

Okay, okay. What’s the suggestion?

They’ll take the house and register it to some Company, make the papers appear that it happened a long time ago, sort of brush it under the carpet.

That’s excellent. Fully protected National Forest gets partially logged, developer comes along and builds houses, and loads of influential people make loads of dollars. A few years later you take all those houses, stick them in some untraceable company and everything is all right. Unbelievable!

There was a pause in the conversation as the two of them took a few moments to collect their thoughts.

And what do we do? He realised it was pointless to fight the situation.

Trade up evidently. They’re offering us another place in exchange over in Montezuma.

You’ve got to be kidding!! Far too much history for us, and anyway I thought the idea was not to get too remote.

What choice do we have?

Not much really.

They’d both pushed themselves hard to get to this point. They’d overcome everything that had been placed in their way, cheated death on more than one occasion stumbled upon endless corruption, yet the one thing they’d managed to drag out of the whole sordid affair which had any resemblance of good, had in its own way brought them down as well.

He was suddenly distracted. The monkeys were back in the trees to the side of the house. It was a beautiful sight. A breeze wafted through the canopy, it was refreshing in the mid morning heat. Trees would sway gently as the monkeys launched themselves from one branch to the other, always checking, always on guard. There was a nervous energy that the monkeys possessed he admired. Always on the go, living the day. He liked that.

Standing now on the balcony the heat from the sun was beginning to burn his exposed skin, it was making him fidget. Not wanting to move inside he remained. Vanity is everything he often concluded.

He’d often wondered about the "Government’, how those retained Lawyers had done so little damage to the land developers being far more concerned with invaders from Nicaragua. It troubled him as to which side they were actually on. And of course what about those journalists at an English speaking newspaper in Costa Rica. Who is it that actually reads an English newspaper in a Spanish speaking country? He had to ask himself the question; what was that all about?

Now the Government wanted to help them. Surely it was not to say thank you for past services, more likely because once again there was a hidden agenda. He hated that thought. Another hidden agenda, there had to be. Was it politically useful for the Government to have sided with them at the end of the day? Did they actually have any other option?

She watched as he wrung his hands together, inter laced his fingers before stretching his arms out in front of himself. It was obvious to her that he was torn within, still struggling to put the past events neatly in a box and file them away. She had sort of managed that; he’d apparently just temporarily shelved the whole thing for future reference. It was eating him up, all too obvious to an outsider.

Remind me of the options, please.

Montezuma or England!

No, I mean what happens to this house. Like I said it gets registered to some company. He caught her in mid sentence.

I don’t have a problem with that but we get to keep the house. Don’t care how they do it; they’ve got lots of fancy lawyers. I want to keep the house.

What about the new house?

She dropped a series of pictures on his lap. The house appeared older than theirs, constructed of wood and on the beach road. He was warming to the idea. It might have been seen as a spontaneous decision, but actually even he could see that it was pointless pushing the point. Something kept telling him to walk away. Just walk away this time. He was already walking away.

Okay we’ll go to Montezuma, but I want the title to that house as well.

We’re not in a position to demand anything, well not that I can see anyway.

Wrong. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Trust me. One, two guys representing the Government don’t just spend two hours driving down here from San José unless there’s a bigger agenda. Two, they don’t go and buy a hundred and fifty thousand dollar house and then give it away for no reason. We know something that we have completely missed, something that scares them shitless. We’ll probably never know what, but hey lets tap it anyway.

She had that worried expression again.

Please let’s not get into this.

Look. They want this house then fine. I can see the logic, yeah perhaps they’re right. Things could get really messed up if we were found in a house that had been built illegally, especially when it’s probably land that once belong to some Government and worse still is supposed to be protected. But no and I repeat no. If they can shove the whole thing through some company hide it away out of the public domain until the whole thing is sorted and then bring it back at an acceptable time; then I want it back.

He was all fired up; she was becoming deeply tormented by the whole affair. She knew where this could all go, so did he but he was less sensitive and liked the confrontation. Tossing the pictures to the floor he raised himself from the chair and walked across to her. She was standing leaning against the wall of the balcony looking down the road towards the beach area.

The outstretched hand was her invitation, it took little encouragement and then they were embracing each other.

Are you sure this is the right thing to do?

No! But what the heck, nothing to lose have we. Might as well run with some sort of plan rather than go with the flow. Go with the flow and accept what’s given may give them the idea with got nothing to tell.

We have nothing to tell.

Yeah that’s the strange thing, I think perhaps we have we just don’t know it yet.

I really don’t like this; in fact I really don’t like this at all.

Look. Trust me on this one. These guys did not come down here out of the goodness of their hearts. They came down here because we’ll be back in the public domain. That obviously scares somebody shitless. It scares me shitless. So let’s make it work for us, bide our time and then get out. We need that retirement fund.

She was holding him tight, their bodies entwined with one another. This was when she felt at her best, being protected by her man. He’d protected her many times over the last few months; he had inner strength and she thrived on it.

The wind had picked up slightly; it was a welcome relief from the relentlessness of the sun. Having moved into the bedroom they had returned to the bed. Photographs of their new home that lay on the balcony scattered in the wind distributing themselves amongst the trees and bushes that surrounded the house. He hated rubbish in the forest. More than once a week she’d find him scouting the perimeter of the property collecting all the discarded rubbish thrown from the passing cars.

He loved mid morning sex. In fact he considered it the best time of the day. Just before lunch a great way to build up an appetite. He had a strange sense of humour but whilst the sex was so good she wasn’t going