Dead in the Water (17 page)

The shaman struggles to get back to his feet; but Rachel forces him below the line of shrapnel flight. By the time the explosions have ceased, the helicopter is a blackened heap of metal, fire still playing through the wreckage. What had been a thriving village is now destroyed; every hut reduced to ashes. And of the other villagers – the elder, the young warriors, the children, the women – there is no sign. Nor of José Dias.

Rachel lifts her head cautiously, then crawls slowly back onto the clearing. She looks for her clothing and the survival bag; but she is disorientated. The rain, which has been so incessant until recently, has prevented the fire taking hold in the forest itself. Hardly able to see through the steam rising from the damp ground, she stumbles over the body of one of the gunmen who had been thrown far enough from the spinning helicopter to avoid being burnt in the conflagration. He must have died as he hit the ground for his spine has been snapped, his head wrenched back at an impossible angle, and his lungs punctured; pink frothy blood bubbling from his open mouth, ants already crawling over the body, flies dancing round the eyes. Defying her revulsion, Rachel knows she must take a closer look. He had been wearing fatigues; but there is nothing on the clothing to identify the military to which he might belong. She kneels beside the blood warm body and turns it over with difficulty, the swarming parasites undeterred by her intervention. The awful combination of smells makes her retch: the charred flesh and burnt hair of those that had not been thrown clear of the crash; the stench of human bile, high explosives and napalm clinging to the sweaty, fetid air; and all of it lying beneath a pervasive mist of half burnt kerosene.

Unbuttoning the jacket, she finds a shoulder holster with a hand gun in it; searching the pockets, chewing gum, a couple of American dollars, a Swiss Army knife, a mobile phone. In a zipped inside pocket are two photographs: one is of an elderly couple sitting close together on the deck of a boat, holding hands and smiling a little awkwardly; the second, a good looking young man (this man?) with a long haired blond woman and two children, aged about nine or ten. They’re standing by a barbecue; the man is holding the boy’s hand as he turns a burger on the grill, the woman is offering a plate of food to the unseen photographer. In another pocket she finds a transparent plastic wallet containing some maps. She places the photographs in the plastic wallet with the maps, then tears open the man’s shirt. She had half expected, half dreaded, finding an identifying dog tag; but there’s nothing. If there is American military involvement in this operation, it is manifestly unofficial. She has no desire to go poking around charred flesh in the burnt out wreckage of the helicopter, but from a glance at the bodies strewn around the clearing there are several different nationalities amongst the dead. They could all be Americans of different ethnic origins or mercenaries recruited on the international market. They are hardly international peace keepers.

Her own clothes and the survival bag have been destroyed, but she still has her meagre collection of belongings, including the phone, the camera and her recordings of this attack and the earlier one which destroyed the
FPA
settlement. Like a novice climber looking down, she feels perched above an abyss of terror; but from here there arises in her a new and steely resolve. The dead American is about her height and only marginally more bulky. She removes his jacket and trousers and places the gun and holster in one of the pockets. She doesn’t want to arrive in Esmerelda dressed only in a rawhide skirt. She would put them on now – but with jittery Yanomami warriors around, carrying the clothes seems less risky than wearing them. So she leaves the clearing, with its smouldering wreckage and charred bodies, and wanders topless into the forest, carrying a plastic bag containing her precious phone and camera. If she looks ridiculous and incongruous, with military fatigues draped over one arm as if she has called in at the dry cleaners at the end of a shopping spree, she does not much care.

She gags as she comes across the shrapnel-torn body of one of the dogs that used to hang around the settlement. When she looks up she is surrounded by the four young warriors.

As they lead her through the forest to another small clearing, making no attempt to communicate with her, she wonders if this is as far as she’s going. Whatever her motives might have been, she breached the circle of skulls.

When they get to a clearing she is relieved to see José, although he is sitting on the ground, his head hanging down as if he has nodded off to sleep. Some four or five metres away, three elders are talking, and on the other side of the clearing a group of women are making a fire. The warriors take her over and sit her next to Dias. His mouth is open and he’s dribbling onto his bare chest.

Monday

29 London, W2

Sodium streetlight glows behind the wooden blind. Mark opened a window before going to bed; but the air is humid and still. He must have been asleep, though it feels as if he’s been awake all night. Something startled him; but he can’t place it. An urban fox knocking over a bin? Drunks arguing in the street? The bedside radio reads 3.16. He gets up to take a pee.

From outside, the distant sirens of Emergency Services; from the kitchen, the judder and squeaks of the fridge-freezer as it switches itself on; and from the tap that he really must get fixed plip … plop…. Somewhere in the building there’s water flowing, gurgling and belching its way through ancient pipe-work. He’s tense; listening for something else. If they can tap his phone…

This is ridiculous. Go to bed. Old buildings make noises. Mrs Williams, the old woman in the apartment below, often wanders around in the night. And she has a cat – Flanders she calls it – and a cat-flap in her kitchen window that gives out onto a fire-escape.

He gets back into bed. Lies still, trying to empty his head of the events of the past few days. Deep breathing. Relaxation exercises. It’s been years since he has suffered from insomnia. He throws off the duvet and kicks it aside. Lies still. Tries to think of innocent pleasures from childhood. Eating round the Formica top table in the kitchen. His mum standing by the sink laughing. Sara’s kitchen in Finsbury Park. Kissing in the shower that Sunday afternoon the last time they had a weekend away together. Sara’s wonderful kisses. The shower. Sara calling through: “Phone. Your mobile. Want me to answer it?” Taking Rachel to Heathrow. Her hair cut short especially for the trip. “Bye Mum. Bye Dad. I’ll have better stories than you next time I see you.” Big grins. Blowing kisses as she goes through security. Joanna not even trying to conceal her tears. Holding Joanna close, her head to his chest.

“
She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’ll be fine. We’ll be really proud of her.”

“
I am really proud of her,” said Joanna.

She’ll be fine.

It’s too hot with the duvet on – too cold with it off. He must have dozed without knowing it. What time is it in Venezuela? Five in London, midnight there.

And that is the way he spends the night: lying uncomfortably awake or fitfully dozing.

He takes the tube to work. He sometimes walks, but it’s raining, and there’s no pleasure in arriving at work wet. Just as he’s about to get out, a middle-aged man in a dark suit, strap-hanging next to him, turns and says, “Have you noticed, we just don’t talk about the weather any more. It’s become a taboo.” He’s right. Strangers can talk about the bombs, bemoan the price of petrol, but English weather has become a dangerous topic.

30
Amazonas, Venezuela

Pale moonlight washes the clearing. Above the trees, the sky is clear. In Yanomami villages several fires are usually kept burning brightly through the night. Here there is but one; small and carefully managed. It must not be seen from the sky.

Since darkness engulfed the forest and Rachel fell into restless sleep, the shamans and the elders have been deciding what to do: where to re-establish their village, how to prevent the wrath of a vengeful firebird, for they always hunt in pairs. And what to do with the civilizados: the man they had thought they could trust and the strange half-woman with the face of a boy and breasts no larger than a girl’s.

When the warriors arrived with the half-woman, the man was released from his bonds, and each of them given a hammock made from split vines. While the deliberations continued they slept: the man breathing heavily in sleep as deep as the ocean, the half-woman drifting fitfully between exhaustion and nightmare.

A few metres away from the half-woman, two young warriors, sitting cross-legged in the moonlight, are waiting for her to wake.

Time is measured by subtly changing sounds, by shifting currents of air, by the burning of fires, by the passing of dreams. When the time is right she will wake. And when that time comes the elders will announce their decision, and the man will be roused.

31
Westminster, London

By mid morning a shooting incident in West London is topping every news bulletin. The police have not issued a full statement, but claim that prompt and decisive action has prevented another major bomb attack. A car, a small van and a lorry were abandoned underneath the Hammersmith flyover. The lorry driver is in custody, one man has been shot, another has got away. There is growing speculation about the identity of the man who was gunned down. Reports are confusing and contradictory, but there is no doubt that the incident is terrorist related. Television screens alternate between aerial shots of gridlocked traffic and interviews with eye witnesses.

Mark has to meet Andrew Linden to brief him on the Venezuela situation. He’s writing up his notes when Barbara comes in to tell him that the garage have rung – the keys she had couriered over first thing have arrived, but they need to know about the work he wants doing on the car.

“
Oh what! What the bloody hell are they playing at? Shall I talk to them?”

“
No, it’s OK. Just tell me what you want me to say.”

“
Sorry. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He smiles an apology.

“
Just tell me what you want them to do.”

“
I don’t know what needs doing. That’s their job. Some bloody woman ran into the back of me. They’re supposed to be fixing it. New lights, new bumper. Whatever it takes.”

“
And do you want it serviced while they’ve got it in?”

“
Sorry,” he says without taking his eyes off the computer screen. “Yes. Yes, I do. Thanks. Yes. Sorry.”

By midday, news of the Hammersmith incident is the major item on every news bulletin; and banner headlines on
Evening Standard
billboards all over London read:

It’s being reported that the area around the shooting has been cordoned off, and a bomb disposal unit has carried out a controlled explosion. Several witnesses talk of the driver of a BMW deliberately ramming a lorry to create a diversion. One woman, who appears in television news bulletins in silhouette, thinks the police got the wrong man, that the guy driving the BMW was the one they were after, and he got away. The police have issued a statement saying that members of the public have been extremely helpful; but that in the interests of national security they are not going to give further information until later in the day. The Home Secretary, is to make a statement in the Commons at 5 p.m.

Mark’s catching up with the BBC News on his computer when Ba gives him a call. Joanna’s on the phone. His stomach trembles. Joanna hasn’t rung him at work since his mother had a stroke while shopping in Oxford.

“
Mark, I’m worried about Stephen.”

“
What’s happened?”

“
I don’t know where he is. He rang on Sunday morning to say not to bother taking him to Jenny’s. Ian could give him a lift. I didn’t think any more of it. I went to Stratford for the day to see Mum. When I got back there was a message to say he was going to stay over with Jenny and not to expect him back on Sunday night.”

“
Bloody hell. Jenny problems again. I tried to tell him he should just let it go.”

“
No, wait. He never went to Jenny’s. He texted her to tell her not to expect him. I only found out this morning when I rang to remind him to take Charlie for a walk around lunchtime. His mobile was switched off. So I rang Jenny’s mum to get a message to him. He didn’t go there at all. I’ve taken time off work, Mark. I don’t know why I’m so worried. I drove back, walked down to Ian’s narrowboat. That’s all locked up. This is crazy. I shouldn’t be bothering you with it.”

“
It’s OK. I can see why you’re worried. But I’m sure he’ll be alright. He’s far more nervous about his exams than he’s letting on. He kept trying to avoid talking about it on Saturday. And he was very screwed up about Jenny when they split up. He probably just couldn’t face seeing her again. He’ll be back in his flat in London. And you were right about Ian. He’s a sound guy. He’s probably gone with Stephen to make sure he’s OK.”

“
What do we do, Mark?”

“
I’ll ring him. Leave a message. Send him a text. Just asking him to let us know he’s OK. Do you want me to call round to the flat this evening?”

“
That sounds good. Yes. Please. I’m sure you’re right. I’m just being ––”