Joe locked the car, walked round it obsessively kicking the tyres, checking the boot-lid and doors, then followed Sandra through the archway into the shopping precinct.   For a moment he choked in a gust of burning air, then it was past and he found his wife had been accosted by a tall young man in a startling lime-green suit, leaning against a matching stretched limousine.   In his lapel an outsize badge read, “Destiny Tours”

“This is your husband?” queried the man from DT, his voice tinged with scorn.   Sandra’s eyes flicked to Joe and seemed to say, “For heavens sake get me out of this!” Seing this, the rep was encouraged to continue, “Excuse me, eh, Sir, my name is Mallory.   I am your surprise guide for this beautiful shopping day and I have here an offer you can’t refuse.”

“What’s he want?” asked Sandra, catching hold of her husband’s arm, just above the elbow.

“Refusing!” chuckled Joe, who spent much of his office day dodging uninvited salesmen.

“In my hand, I have four-hundred and forty-four pounds,” announced Mallory, waving a wad of twenties under Joe’s nose.

“No you haven’t,” accused Sandra.

“All right,” said Mallory, not in the least put-out by this rebuttal.   He parked the wad in his teeth to search his pockets, then added the necessary pair of £2 coins.   The money was now slightly damp, but complete, as advertised.

“Now I have four-hundred and forty-four pounds,” he announced, “And they can all be yours.   All you have to do is answer a simple question.”

“Which is?” prompted Joe.

“Would you like four-hundred and forty-four pounds?”

“No!” said Joe.

“No?” queried Sandra, “You always reckon four-hundred’n’forty-four is your lucky number.”

“Yep, but No!” confirmed Joe.

“And that is the Right Answer!” cried Mallory, with a great show of false enthusiasm.   “You have won an Instant Destiny Tour.”

Several more lapel-labelled tour guides appeared from nowhere and, before they knew it, Joe and Sandra were bundled into the back of the limousine.   Naturally after such an event they found themselves trapped, with the doors apparently locked from the outside.

“Help! Murder! Rape! Kidnap!” yelled Sandra, wrenching at the door handle and banging on the inside layer of the virtually soundproof double-armour-glass.

“This is one Hell of a car,” said Joe, taking the whole thing with an unnatural calm.   He sunk into the luxurious upholstery and ran a finger admiringly along the walnut trim, “P’raps you’re right and my lucky number is working at last.”

“Never,” answered Sandra,” between yells, “They're after my virtue or your money!”

“But we haven’t got any.   No, it’s some sort of publicity stunt or practical joke,” he muttered.

“What?” yelled Sandra, still battering the door.

A chauffeur got into the driving compartment; it was Mallory.

“Please, not so loud,” crackled the intercom, “We at DT have your welfare close to our hearts at all times.”

“OK!   So, where does a Destiny Tour go?” challenged Sandra, squeezing Joe’s hand.

“The Pacific Islands,” announced Mallory, with an edge of uncertainty in his voice.   To Joe, it sounded as if it had been the first thing to come into his mouth, not a thought to ease the mind.

“What, all of them?” asked Joe, but their guide was busy starting the limo.   Even through the armour-glass, they heard the engine as it roared into life.

Then they were travelling.   Apparently on a getaway run which would take them straight through the marble plated bank at the far end of the precinct.   Joe wrapped his arms round an already screaming Sandra and closed his eyes in horror.

— • —

When they opened their eyes, they really were on what looked like a Pacific Island.

“I’m hungry,” complained Sandra, looking around in a total daze, “Being kidnapped always makes me hungry.”

“When have you ever been kidnapped before?” asked Joe, who was still working on the theory that they were in the middle of some sort of elaborate practical joke.   This had to be a stage-set inside the bank.   If he’d kept his eyes open he would no doubt have seen a door in it’s false front as they passed through.   He started looking for telltale cracks in the azure sky, or something similar, that would confirm it as a backdrop.

“The chauffeur’s gone,” said Sandra, spilling out onto the sand, “Oops! And the doors work.”

Outside, the beach was idyllic.   A lagoon gently washing against warm coral sand, occasional waving palms, the scent and sounds of the jungle behind the beach, all unbelievably convincing.   They were alone and there didn’t seem to be any signs of habitation.

While Sandra stretched in the balmy air, Joe examined the vehicle.   The key was still in the steering-lock.   He got in and tried it.   Not a sausage.   “I’ll look under the bonnet,” he decided, fiddling under the dash for the catch.   He found it, then got out and inspected the engine.   A black plastic box had been left open, revealing an empty slot marked “Engine management system.”

“There’s a module missing,” announced Joe, looking round for Sandra.   She was gazing out at the distant reef with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“How much would a holiday here cost?” she asked, kicking off her shoes.

“Assuming that this is not a joke, the answer to that question is ‘Lots.’   Next time we get a win on the lottery we can come back and have one.”

“But, what’s the point of that?   We’re already here; let’s enjoy it.”

“What’s that noise?” asked Joe.

“Noise? What noise?” she sighed, “All I can hear is the ocean copulating with the reef, coconuts giggling as they ripen in the sun, bananas wondering which one of them has farted.”

“For goodness sake! Stop burbling and listen,” he commanded.

“Oh! You mean the noise from the boot.”

“It’s a trunk, this is an American car.”

“Did I complain when you called the hood a bonnet?”

Joe again got into the driving seat and found a second remote release.   He pulled it and the lid shot open, its pneumatic stays rebounding against the stops.   Sandra rushed to the back of the car and caught it just as it was about to fall closed.   Joe dragged himself out of the vehicle and followed.

“It’s another tour-guide,” grated Sandra.   For a moment Joe thought she was going to slam the lid on, what looked to him, more like a pretty female stowaway.

“If she was a guide, she’d be in lime-green,” said Joe, “Not a flimsy polka-dot frock.”

“My name’s Angora,” said the girl, slinging a lithe limb over the fender and holding out her hand for Joe to help her up.   Sandra glared at the leg and stopped him.   This was a tactical mistake, in attempting to struggle out on her own, the most attractive stowaway produced several prolonged flashes of her similarly attractive lacy knickers.   Once clear of the confines of the boot, her first reaction to the beach, like Sandra’s, was to kick off her shoes.   They had very high heels, looked expensive and in Joe’s opinion, as he watched Sandra pick them up and fling them into the lagoon, enjoyed excellent aerodynamic properties.

“Well!” smiled Angora, “Now I know where I stand.”

Joe stifled a chuckle.   He’d never been fought over by two women before.   “Now hang on, Sandra,” he said, “What the Hell’s got into you.   We’re all in the same boat, you know.”

Sandra turned on him.   He knew that dangerous sparkle, it was one of her most attractive features.   Then she delivered the expected broadside, “You can shut up, or I’ll make you retrieve them, paddling around on your hands and knees, like the lecherous dog you are.”

That was it.   An overpowering feeling of inhibitions-relaxed was starting to work on Joe.   He picked up his wife and walked to the waters edge, totally ignoring her angry threats and vicious attempts to pull lumps out of him.   Once there, he hesitated, enjoying a moment of anticipation and letting the gentle surf lap at his toes.   Then he waded into the water up to his knees, took a deep breath and lobbed her as far as he possibly could.   The splash was decidedly satisfying.

“You retrieve them,” is all he said, as he returned to the beach.

“One flash of my panties and you think you’re Superman,” laughed Angora.

“I should say more like half a dozen flashes, all carefully orchestrated.   You don’t fool me, young madam.   Anyway, Superman was usually stupid enough to rescue his women, rather than...” letting the sentence die away, he picked her up and a second later, Angora joined the floundering Sandra.

Joe turned his back on them, only to find that Mallory had returned, applauding as he jogged down the beach.   The lime-green suit had been exchanged for a similarly horrific pair of initialled bathing trunks.   “Well done, Sir!” he cried, “See, DT offers everything to all its clients.   Sun, sea, sand and especially, emotional satisfaction.”

At first, still enjoying the buzz to be had from chucking girls in the sea, Joe thought that was great.   “What a policy!” he said.   Then the phrase “All our Clients” struck him, were the girls DT clients too and if so, what long awaited satisfaction awaited them and how would that effect him.   Come to think of it, what emotional potentials had he stirred by his recent actions?

“Delicious!” cooed Angora, rising from the waters and waving at the tour guide.   “Hi Malsy babe! I bet you never thought lil' Joe here had it in him.   Two duckings for the price of one.   What great value we’re giving today.”

“So! The two of you are in it together,” growled Joe, backing off, but that was the most immediate of his worries.   Sandra was glowering her way out of the water carrying several large conch shells.

“Sandra?” he yelped, “No! Sandra.”

“Peace children.   It’s a wonderful day,” said an unctuous Malsy, slipping between Joe and the promise of an imminent shelling from his stalking wife.   “What would you like to do next?”

“Kill the bastard!” announced Sandra.

“Later, Later,” murmured Malsy.

“What?” she yelped, “You mean I’m actually allowed to kill him?”

“Of course, ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed’ is the Destiny Tours motto.   You want to dismember him, cook him over a slow fire,” - “tie his goolies round his neck,” contributed Angora - “or whatever else your imagination comes up with, then this is the place you can do it.”

“But all I got to do was chuck 'em in the drink,” complained Joe.

“That gives me an idea,” grinned Angora, “Let’s exchange partners, then we can hunt each other all over the island and finish up with a damn good killing or two.”

“You mean you want to murder Malsy as much as I want to murder Joe?” asked Sandra, her amazement making her miss the partner-swapping element of the suggestion.

“Naturally.   Why not?   He’s been a pain in the posterior as long as I’ve known him.”

“Hang on, I don’t really want to murder Joe.   Agreeing to the idea was just a bit of fun.”

“Well maybe I don’t actually want to murder my little Malsy baby, either.   I shan’t know until I’ve tried it a couple of times, shall I.”

“You mean they don’t stay dead?   Where on Earth are we?   What is this place?”

“At last!   They are beginning to notice things again!” glowed Malsy, clapping his hands.   “You’re here to fulfil the destiny you failed to fulfil during your life.   Now I think we should all sit down and try to work out what it was, so you can get it over with and I can go home.”

Sandra sidled up to Joe, put her arms round his neck and whispered in his ear, “Why is he talking as if we’re dead?”

“Why are you taking as if we’re dead?” asked Joe, glaring at Malsy, while holding his wife protectively.

“Technically you are.   Practically you’re not, at least not yet,” said the guide.

“I don’t understand,” said Joe, holding Sandra even tighter.

“It all depends on our destinies,” said Angora, “Yours and mine, maybe even Malsy’s.”

“So are we actually here or still somewhere in the shopping precinct?” asked Joe.

“Hang on a minute,” said Sandra, gently disengaging herself from Joe, “I’m beginning to get the picture.   There was a blinding flash just as I went through the arch,” - “Gust of hot air!” contradicted Joe, following her train of thought - “Whatever,” she continued, “We must have been killed by some sort of accidental explosion, before our due time, or something like that!”

“So?   What wonderful destiny did we fail to fulfil?” asked Joe, “Being elected joint founding presidents of the Galactic Federation?”

“Could be,” said Malsy, “I don’t know.   All we can do is keep doing things until it works itself out.”

“He’s right, but why do I always seem to turn up in other peoples destinies,” announced Angora, “This is the tenth time I’ve had to put up with one of Mallory’s Destiny Tours.”

“Weird! Do you always arrive as a stowaway?” asked Joe, the memory of her knickers still fresh in his mind.

“Well, I’ve certainly found myself in some pretty peculiar places recently.   Haven’t I Malsy.”

“How long does it normally take, to stumble on the right action, I mean?” asked Sandra.

“I once spent ten years in Pentonville with a traffic warden,” said Malsy.

“So what was their unfulfilled destiny?” asked Joe.

“Ten years in Pentonville, of course!” laughed Malsy.

“You’re joking,” said Sandra, in horror.

“Sorry, but no!” replied their guide.

“Does it have to be something important?” asked Joe.

“Not necessarily.   So long as the event is significant in the pattern of history, it can be as simple as combing your hair in a shop-window, or running over a hedgehog.”

“Wouldn’t ‘Not Running Over a Hedgehog’ be better?” grumbled Angora.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Joe, “It’s obvious.   We were supposed to have a wonderful holiday on a desert island.   So let’s get on with it.   Where’s the nearest bar?”

“Actually, this is one of the few times when I’ve had to choose the venue myself,” said Malsy, “Usually it’s all sort of automatic.   So I don’t think where we are is particularly significant.”

“Why choose a Pacific Island?” asked Angora.

“It seemed like a good idea.   I’ve always fancied being shipwrecked with a beautiful girl.”

“Malsy! How sweet and ordinary!” grinned Angora.

Suddenly Sandra ripped a strip off the hem of her skirt and attacked the smiling girl.   “Quick Joe, help me,” she yelled, “I’ve worked it out.”

“What shall I do?” asked her husband.

“Capture Mallory.   Sit on his head or something.”

Joe did as he was told.   A rugby tackle brought down the tour-guide and a knee in the back immobilised him.   “What now?” asked Joe, as Sandra hog-tied their protesting victims.

“We have to get the car working,” she gasped inspecting her handiwork.   Angora was trussed like a chicken and Mallory was jerking about and fuming as he rolled slowly towards the lagoon.   Joe redirected him with a jab of his toe.

Sandra’s skirt, source of all the bindings, was now hardly long enough to cover her panties.   Joe caught himself comparing them favourably with Angora’s.

“The circuit-board!” he mumbled, shaking his head to clear it of lacy visions, “It’s probably with his clothes.” He headed for the edge of the jungle, where Mallory had reappeared after the ducking episode.

— • —

They sat in the limousine, no longer beached on a distant shore, but standing close to their own car in the shopper’s car-park, back almost exactly where they had started.   Through the windscreen the wreck of the bombed out precinct was still full of smoke and emergency services.

“We would have been in there,” gasped Sandra.

Joe, beside her in the limo’s driving seat, had turned quite white.   Sandra lead the way to their own car.   The emergency seemed under proper official control, there was little they could be expected to do except obey the impatient policeman waving them out onto the main-road.

“How did you work it out, the destiny problem?” asked Joe, a tinge of admiration in his voice.

“You mean, that ours were not the paramount destinies?” she sighed, “It was Angora, of course.   I knew when she said she wanted to kill him, that she had been predestined to fall in love with her Malsy.”

“So, if I accept that, what was Mallory’s contribution?”

“He was right about the destination, but wrong about the destinies.   It was his that initiated the whole shebang.   It really was his lot to finish up alone on a desert island with a beautiful girl.   That’s where Angora came in.   I guess fate had given her ten chances to get him.”

“You mean it was nothing to do with us at all?” grumbled Joe.

“No, silly! We were her tenth and last chance.   She was lucky, we were the ones predestined to desert them on a desert island.   Makes me feel all motherly.   I do hope it works out for them.”

— • —

Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1997 & ©2007.  All rights reserved.

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