INTRODUCTION

They call me Lemmy. My father gave me the name. He thought Lemuel would sound distinguished, laden with allusions to classical literature. Not in my world it isn’t. Everyone assumes I’m named after a musician in an ancient heavy metal band.

Tonight the blimp is creaking quietly over my head. It’s tethered to the last patch of high ground on Aitutaki, a coral atoll in the Cook Islands. The inhabitants were shipped off to Rarotonga years ago, but there’s one old man who refuses to leave. He’s playing a battered ukelele on the porch of his weatherbeaten house, singing something I don’t recognise. We had fish for dinner. We always have fish for dinner. The reef is long gone under the waves, but there are still a few fish and only one fisherman.

I’m the Admiral’s only visitor. I try to visit him when I’m crossing the Pacific, bring him a few cigarettes, a bottle of whisky and some tins of vegetables. He likes tinned peaches, but they’re hard to come by. I can’t call in very often, but I’m always welcome.

The last flight was the worst yet. I need some rest. Nobody knows I’m here. This is my escape from the world. I can stay as long as I want – the Admiral doesn’t mind, so I’ll stay here a while and write.