Dead in the Water (15 page)

In spite of herself she shuts her eyes … She is sitting, legs crossed, on a raft in a wide river. The shaman and a younger man, taller than the shaman, are standing beside her on the raft, paddling gently, moving just a little faster than the current would be carrying them. ‘I need to escape from the people who come from the sky. If I don’t, they will destroy us all: the forest, the monkeys, the jaguar, the butterflies, the birds, the snakes, everything. They will burn everything before them.’ The shaman speaks without opening his mouth to assure her that so long as they paddle gently forward they will be moving faster than the current; and even the roaring birds that hammer the air and carry the men with Yanqui guns cannot move faster than the river. Time as a river… Most people survive in this great river by clinging to a log. The river flows, you move with it. On a raft, you can see further ahead, you can paddle from side to side, you can slow down, or go just a little bit faster than the current.

When she opens her eyes again the dog is still scavenging, the old men still sitting by the fire, the children still playing and occasionally glancing over.

She gets out of the hammock and stands up. At first it’s difficult to balance. Her legs are weak; but her body is no longer crying out with exhaustion. The children stop their games and watch her. They call out. Faces appear from huts she had presumed empty.

She walks slowly towards the centre of the clearing where her clothes and belongings are lying inside a ring of maybe a dozen or more human skulls. As she approaches the skulls, two young men appear from one of the huts on the opposite side. Each carries a spear held high, their sharpened ends pointing to the sky. As she moves forward, so do they. Is this a warning not to breach the circle? She stops. She waits. And then takes a step forward, though still not inside the circle of skulls. As she moves, they lower their spears and hold them ready. She stops again. And turns. Behind her two other young men have appeared; also with spears. Why save her life, only to kill her now?

Maybe it is a kind of performance? A necessary path to manhood for these young men. To kill her in a public arena. The whole village is watching now: old and young; women and men; even the old woman has opened her eyes. Only the shaman sleeps.

And then she hears a voice again, not her own voice, that same voice as before: ‘Our children, your children…. They need you. Have courage.’

25
West London

Mark has work to do, reports to read, briefing papers to write. He should take advantage of the unexpected time on his hands; there have been weekends when he’d have given his right eye for more time alone to catch up with work. But focus is beyond him. He needs a break. He picks up one of last week’s colour supplements, flicks through, finds nothing he can be bothered to read, and drops it angrily to the floor, runs his hands through his hair and massages his scalp. If Lapdog Porter can needle him to this extent, he’s more frazzled than he wants to admit. The crisis with Joanna could not have come at a worse time.

He hesitates before ringing Sara, knowing that he and Joanna have to make their decision without distractions; knowing that he’s finding it increasingly difficult to suppress his worries about Rachel.

On the other hand, he owes it to Sara to talk to her in person about Joanna’s ultimatum. Except that’s bullshit; and he knows it. He calls because he’s lonely, because she’s great company, and because he wants to spend the afternoon in her bed

“
Mark. What a lovely surprise. Where are you?”

“
I’m in the flat,” he says. “Putting off doing some proper work. Missing you.”

“
Oh Mark,” she says. “If only I’d known….” She’s with her parents in Dorset for the day, won’t be back until late, and she has an early start in the morning.

“
How about dinner one evening in the week. My treat for you ––”

“
I don’t know my timetable, Mark. Things are moving so fast. You know what we’re like on
Newsnight
. Thriving on a crisis. And they’ve changed the terms of our contracts. We’re on 25 hour days at the moment. You know what it’s like.”

Yes. He knows what it’s like.

* * *

Work is no escape. He could cope with a neighbour’s bawling child, a yapping dog or even loud music. But earplugs won’t shut out the silence of phones that don’t ring.

But he has to do something; and although he knows that Jeremy Peters would have called or e-mailed if he had any news, he dials his number. The mobile’s on. He counts the tones. Do not go to fucking voicemail. Pick up you bastard.

His curses are answered

“
Hello. Jeremy Peters.”

“
Thank fuck for that. What took you?”

“
I need to talk to you, Mark. I was about to ring you.”

“
Things are bad?”

“
They’re getting worse.”

“
Is Rachel OK?”

“
She’s fine. I’m sure.”

“
That sounds ominous. You’ve heard from her?”

“
I had a text.”

“
Is she alright?” Mark’s mouth is dry with anxiety.

“
Dias and da Silva are good guys. The best. She’ll be safe with them. Something happened at the settlement. I don’t know what. I’ve had no reports. I contacted the guys at the
FPA
office in La Esmerelda and the
Greenpeace
people in Manaus. They’ve heard nothing.”

“
Esmerelda?”

“
A small forest town on the Orinoco. About 400 kilometres from the settlement.

“
And how the hell do they get there?”

“
Inflatable, I guess. Da Silva used to run a white water rafting outfit”

“
Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“
It means they’ll get to Esmerelda. I want to charter a light plane. Fly down there, pick her up. But I think it’s best to get her onto a flight home. ”

“
Does she know about this?”

“
The thing is Mark, I need some money.”

“
Can’t we ask
Greenpeace
get them out?”

“
I’ve already asked. Their chopper’s U/S. They’re waiting for an oil seal.”

“
How much do you need?”

“
Two and a half grand.”

* * *

In rain as stinging as hail, beneath clouds as black as December, Mark takes a run in Hyde Park. He’s strangely relieved by the conversation with Jeremy Peters. At last he can do something to help. Using internet banking, he’s already transferred the money.

He showers and, while making a pot of tea, turns on the radio. There’s been a bomb attack on Scotland Yard itself, where a suspicious laptop computer exploded as it was being examined. There has as yet been no formal statement, but there are rumours that a police officer has died and two others are critically injured.

Mark is slightly taken aback by the sceptical voice in his head that sounds surprisingly like Stephen: surely the police aren’t going to be taken in by a booby trapped laptop. But if Stephen’s right and this is disinformation, where the hell is it coming from?

26
Amazonas

When José Dias previously encountered the Yanomami he and his colleagues brought gifts with them. But the only things Rachel can call hers to give are on the ground within the circle of skulls. She listens for the voice to guide her, but hears nothing, only the cacophony of the forest and the silence of human onlookers.

She is about to take a step forward, when an old man appears from one of the huts, accompanied by the second shaman who is holding a carved stave about four feet long and a painted bamboo pipe. In a trance, he walks in to the circle. The elder opening his arms, describing the wide arc of the world, looks to the sky and then to each of the four young warriors. They hold their ground.

Still half dreaming, she is about to walk forward when she feels a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t,” says Dias. “It’s me they want in the circle.” His voice is thin and weak.

Relief and disappointment surge through her in almost equal measure. But she yields to him, whispering that they have to reclaim the camera as she turns and retreats to sit on the ground beneath her hammock.

When Dias gets to the centre of the circle he sits down, crossing legs beneath him and holding his right arm away from his body, in attempted imitation of the shaman, his left arm hanging limp and useless by his side. The warriors have closed in, menacingly close to the circle of skulls.

The shaman sitting in front of José has been joined by an elder; the three of them sitting cross legged in a triangle at the centre of the circle. The shaman lays the carved stave on the ground and hands the pipe to the elder. From a leather pouch tied to the pipe, he removes a little brown bag and unfolds this to reveal a fine brown powder. José recognises this as yoppo, and knows enough about Yanomami customs to understand that to the elder he is an honoured guest and not an intruder; but it’s unlikely the young warriors standing guard at the edge of the circle think of him in this way. The shamans and elders are his allies. If he offends them, then he is lost; he dares not think what will happen to the English girl.

The shaman tips a handful of the powder into the palm of his hand and carefully pours it into the pipe. José doesn’t move. He will do as bidden and hope that his body doesn’t betray him. Shaman and elder sit cross-legged, facing each other. The shaman passes the pipe back to the elder who shoves one end with brutal force into his right nostril and shuts his eyes. José has to use all his will power to appear relaxed. Breathe slow, breathe deep.
Don’t let them smell your fear.
The shaman takes the totem stave, describes a circle with it, then gives out a long wailing cry, to summon the Hekura, the gods who live in the distant mountains. Having been purged of demons, José is shortly to be visited by gods. But first they must come to the elder. The shaman puts down the stave beside Rachel’s possessions in the centre of the circle, then kneels beside José, takes the other end of the pipe in two hands, slowly draws in an enormous breath, then puts his mouth to the pipe. When he is satisfied that the gods are ready and all is as it should be, he blasts the powder through the pipe and into the elder’s nose and lungs.

There is a brief moment of stillness before he throws the pipe down, as if it were hot metal, his face is horribly contorted and his eyes twisted as saliva streams from his mouth and snot dribbles uncontrollably from his nose. He pounds the ground with his hands, then rocks back and forward, before his body comes slowly back to rest. The shaman holds the pipe out again and when he is ready again the elder places it in his left nostril. The ritual blasting of yoppo is repeated. After the initial explosion of powder, the elder sits swaying, wailing, brown tinged mucus flowing as freely from his nose and mouth as blood from an open wound. Tentatively he struggles to his feet and stands, his eyes unfocused, calling out to his Hekura in a long groaning chant, broken only by occasional paroxysms of uncontrollable shaking and coughing.

The shaman offers the pipe to José, who, with shaking hands, places it in his own nostril. Trying to keep his breathing regular, he waits. Rachel watches in horror as the shaman fills his lungs and expands his cheeks ‘til they are blown like a frog.

Blasted with yoppo, José coughs uncontrollably. He cannot wipe the water streaming from his eyes because he has to hold the back of his head to stop it bursting away from the rest of his skull. And such a rush of air through his ears….

Through explosions of light he reaches out for the pipe with both hands. Shaking, he grasps hold of it as if it were a grab handle to stop himself falling. Then places it in his other nostril.

When the second blast hits him, he knows only that his lungs are full of hot ashes and shredded razor blades and that his skull is too small for his brain. All bodily fluids seem to be draining from his nose and mouth. And then, slowly, breathing becomes easier and he is drawing in air that is cleaner and purer and cooler than a waterfall in a cloud forest.

Time slows.

Sitting opposite each other, José and the village elder, each looking into the other’s eyes. Together they are strong. Now that the Hekura have taken residence within, they are invulnerable. Twin brothers. Together they will save the Yanomami from their enemies.

This is not the way it looks to Rachel. She sees not the bond of brothers but the spears aimed at José: the quivering menace of zigzag patterning, blood stains dried black round the sharpened tips. Two more young men, naked except for leather loincloths and headbands made from the tails of spider monkeys, appear at the edge of the circle of skulls. Each holds a long bow, more than two metres in length, with arrows made from reed cane, longer than the bows themselves, their flights made with black feathers of the curassow bird, their points stained with blood and curare poison.

Where Rachel sees threat, José glows in appreciation of the rare beauty of the warriors’ bodies. Everything so reassuring, so safe.

On the other side of the clearing, the dogs are sniffing again. He can hear their every lick. Water drips from the roofs of houses. Every plip, every plop a sound of such purity. He shuts his eyes to give time to the music of the forest; even the screeching of the howler monkeys pleasing to the ear.