James Bond Anthology (146 page)

Bond walked back into the bedroom. One by one he picked up the fruit and took each piece back to the bathroom and examined it through his glass. The pinprick was always there, concealed in the stalk-hole or a crevice. Bond rang down and asked for a cardboard box and paper and string. He packed the fruit carefully in the box and picked up the telephone and called King’s House. He asked for the Colonial Secretary. ‘That you, Pleydell-Smith? James Bond speaking. Sorry to bother you. Got a bit of a problem. Is there a public analyst in Kingston? I see. Well, I’ve got something I want analysed. If I sent the box down to you, would you be very kind and pass it on to this chap? I don’t want my name to come into this. All right? I’ll explain later. When you get his report would you send me a short telegram telling me the answer? I’ll be at Beau Desert, over at Morgan’s Harbour, for the next week or so. Be glad if you’d keep that to yourself too. Sorry to be so damned mysterious. I’ll explain everything when I see you next. I expect you’ll get a clue when you see what the analyst has to say. And by the way, tell him to handle the specimens carefully, would you. Warn him there’s more in them than meets the eye. Very many thanks. Lucky I met you this morning. Goodbye.’

Bond addressed the parcel and went down and paid a taxi to deliver it at once to King’s House. It was six o’clock. He went back to his room and had a shower and changed and ordered his first drink. He was about to take it out on the balcony when the telephone rang. It was Quarrel.

‘Everyting fixed, cap’n.’

‘Everything? That’s wonderful. That house all right?’

‘Everyting okay,’ Quarrel repeated, his voice careful. ‘See yo as yo done said, cap’n.’

‘Fine,’ said Bond. He was impressed with Quarrel’s efficiency and a sense of security. He put down the telephone and went out on to the balcony.

The sun was just setting. The wave of violet shadow was creeping down towards the town and the harbour. When it hits the town, thought Bond, the lights will go on. It happened as he had expected. Above him there was the noise of a plane. It came into sight, a Super Constellation, the same flight that Bond had been on the night before. Bond watched it sweep out over the sea and then turn and come in to land at the Palisadoes airport. What a long way he had come since that moment, only twenty-four hours before, when the door of the plane had clanged open and the loudspeaker had said, ‘This is Kingston, Jamaica. Will passengers please remain seated until the aircraft has been cleared by the Health Authorities.’

Should he tell M. how the picture had changed? Should he make a report to the Governor? Bond thought of the Governor and dismissed that idea. But what about M.? Bond had his own cipher. He could easily send M. a signal through the Colonial Office. What would he say to M.? That Doctor No had sent him some poisoned fruit? But he didn’t even know that it was poisoned, or, for the matter of that, that it had come from Doctor No. Bond could see M.’s face as he read the signal. He saw him press down the lever on the intercom: ‘Chief of Staff, 007’s gone round the bend. Says someone’s been trying to feed him a poisoned banana. Fellow’s lost his nerve. Been in hospital too long. Better call him home.’

Bond smiled to himself. He got up and rang down for another drink. It wouldn’t be quite like that, of course. But still … No, he’d wait until he had something more to show. Of course if something went badly wrong, and he hadn’t sent a warning, he’d be in trouble. It was up to him to see that nothing did go wrong.

Bond drank his second drink and thought over the details of his plan. Then he went down and had dinner in the half-deserted dining-room and read the
Handbook of the West Indies
. By nine o’clock he was half asleep. He went back to his room and packed his bag ready for the morning. He telephoned down and arranged to be called at five-thirty. Then he bolted the door on the inside, and also shut and bolted the slatted jalousies across the windows. It would mean a hot, stuffy night. That couldn’t be helped. Bond climbed naked under the single cotton sheet and turned over on his left side and slipped his right hand on to the butt of the Walther PPK under the pillow. In five minutes he was asleep.

The next thing Bond knew was that it was three o’clock in the morning. He knew it was three o’clock because the luminous dial of his watch was close to his face. He lay absolutely still. There was not a sound in the room. He strained his ears. Outside, too, it was deathly quiet. Far in the distance a dog started to bark. Other dogs joined in and there was a brief hysterical chorus which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Then it was quite quiet again. The moon coming through the slats in the jalousies threw black and white bars across the corner of the room next to his bed. It was as if he was lying in a cage. What had woken him up? Bond moved softly, preparing to slip out of bed.

Bond stopped moving. He stopped as dead as a live man can.

Something had stirred on his right ankle. Now it was moving up the inside of his shin. Bond could feel the hairs on his leg being parted. It was an insect of some sort. A very big one. It was long, five or six inches – as long as his hand. He could feel dozens of tiny feet lightly touching his skin. What was it?

Then Bond heard something he had never heard before – the sound of the hair on his head rasping up on the pillow. Bond analysed the noise. It couldn’t be! It simply couldn’t! Yes, his hair was standing on end. Bond could even feel the cool air reaching his scalp between the hairs. How extraordinary! How very extraordinary! He had always thought it was a figure of speech. But why? Why was it happening to him?

The thing on his leg moved. Suddenly Bond realized that he was afraid, terrified. His instincts, even before they had communicated with his brain, had told his body that he had a centipede on him.

Bond lay frozen. He had once seen a tropical centipede in a bottle of spirit on the shelf in a museum. It had been pale brown and very flat and five or six inches long – about the length of this one. On either side of the blunt head there had been curved poison claws. The label on the bottle had said that its poison was mortal if it hit an artery. Bond had looked curiously at the corkscrew of dead cuticle and had moved on.

The centipede had reached his knee. It was starting up his thigh. Whatever happened he mustn’t move, mustn’t even tremble. Bond’s whole consciousness had drained down to the two rows of softly creeping feet. Now they had reached his flank. God, it was turning down towards his groin! Bond set his teeth! Supposing it liked the warmth there! Supposing it tried to crawl into the crevices! Could he stand it? Supposing it chose that place to bite? Bond could feel it questing amongst the first hairs. It tickled. The skin on Bond’s belly fluttered. There was nothing he could do to control it. But now the thing was turning up and along his stomach. Its feet were gripping tighter to prevent it falling. Now it was at his heart. If it bit there, surely it would kill him. The centipede trampled steadily on through the thin hairs on Bond’s right breast up to his collarbone. It stopped. What was it doing? Bond could feel the blunt head questing blindly to and fro. What was it looking for? Was there room between his skin and the sheet for it to get through? Dare he lift the sheet an inch to help it. No. Never! The animal was at the base of his jugular. Perhaps it was intrigued by the heavy pulse there. Christ, if only he could control the pumping of his blood. Damn you! Bond tried to communicate with the centipede. It’s nothing. It’s not dangerous, that pulse. It means you no harm. Get on out into the fresh air!

As if the beast had heard, it moved on up the column of the neck and into the stubble on Bond’s chin. Now it was at the corner of his mouth, tickling madly. On it went, up along the nose. Now he could feel its whole weight and length. Softly Bond closed his eyes. Two by two the pairs of feet, moving alternately, trampled across his right eyelid. When it got off his eye, should he take a chance and shake it off – rely on its feet slipping in his sweat? No, for God’s sake! The grip of the feet was endless. He might shake one lot off, but not the rest.

With incredible deliberation the huge insect ambled across Bond’s forehead. It stopped below the hair. What the hell was it doing now? Bond could feel it nuzzling at his skin. It was drinking! Drinking the beads of salt sweat. Bond was sure of it. For minutes it hardly moved. Bond felt weak with the tension. He could feel the sweat pouring off the rest of his body on to the sheet. In a second his limbs would start to tremble. He could feel it coming on. He would start to shake with an ague of fear. Could he control it, could he? Bond lay and waited, the breath coming softly through his open, snarling mouth.

The centipede started to move again. It walked into the forest of hair. Bond could feel the roots being pushed aside as it forced its way along. Would it like it there? Would it settle down? How did centipedes sleep? Curled up, or at full length? The tiny millipedes he had known as a child, the ones that always seemed to find their way up the plughole into the empty bath, curled up when you touched them. Now it had come to where his head lay against the sheet.

Would it walk out on to the pillow or would it stay on in the warm forest? The centipede stopped. Out! OUT! Bond’s nerves screamed at it.

The centipede stirred. Slowly it walked out of his hair on to the pillow.

Bond waited a second. Now he could hear the rows of feet picking softly at the cotton. It was a tiny scraping noise, like soft fingernails.

With a crash that shook the room Bond’s body jack-knifed out of bed and on to the floor.

At once Bond was on his feet and at the door. He turned on the light. He found he was shaking uncontrollably. He staggered to the bed. There it was crawling out of sight over the edge of the pillow. Bond’s first instinct was to twitch the pillow on to the floor. He controlled himself, waiting for his nerves to quieten. Then softly, deliberately, he picked up the pillow by one corner and walked into the middle of the room and dropped it. The centipede came out from under the pillow. It started to snake swiftly away across the matting. Now Bond was uninterested. He looked round for something to kill it with. Slowly he went and picked up a shoe and came back. The danger was past. His mind was now wondering how the centipede had got into his bed. He lifted the shoe and slowly, almost carelessly, smashed it down. He heard the crack of the hard carapace.

Bond lifted the shoe.

The centipede was whipping from side to side in its agony – five inches of grey-brown, shiny death. Bond hit it again. It burst open, yellowly.

Bond dropped the shoe and ran for the bathroom and was violently sick.

7 | NIGHT PASSAGE

‘By the way, Quarrel –’ Bond dared a bus with ‘Brown Bomber’ painted above its windshield. The bus pulled over and roared on down the hill towards Kingston sounding a furious chord on its triple windhorn to restore the driver’s ego, ‘– what do you know about centipedes?’

‘Centipedes, cap’n?’ Quarrel squinted sideways for a clue to the question. Bond’s expression was casual. ‘Well, we got some bad ones here in Jamaica. Tree, fo, five inches long. Dey kills folks. Dey mos’ly lives in de old houses in Kingston. Dey loves de rotten wood an’ de mouldy places. Dey hoperates mos’ly at night. Why, cap’n? Yo seen one?’

Bond dodged the question. He had also not told Quarrel about the fruit. Quarrel was a tough man, but there was no reason to sow the seeds of fear. ‘Would you expect to find one in a modern house, for instance? In your shoe, or in a drawer, or in your bed?’

‘Nossir.’ Quarrel’s voice was definite. ‘Not hunless dem put dere a purpose. Dese hinsecks love de holes and de crannies. Dey not love de clean places. Dey dirty-livin’ hinsecks. Mebbe yo find dem in de bush, under logs an’ stones. But never in de bright places.’

‘I see.’ Bond changed the subject. ‘By the way, did those two men get off all right in the Sunbeam?’

‘Sho ting, cap’n. Dey plenty happy wid de job. An’ dey look plenty like yo an’ me, cap’n.’ Quarrel chuckled. He glanced at Bond and said hesitantly, ‘I fears dey weren’t very good citizens, cap’n. Had to find de two men wheres I could. Me, I’m a beggarman, cap’n. An’ fo you, cap’n, I get a misrable no-good whiteman from Betsy’s.’

‘Who’s Betsy?’

‘She done run de lousiest brothel in town, cap’n.’ Quarrel spat emphatically out of the window. ‘Dis whiteman, he does de book-keepin’ . ’

Bond laughed. ‘So long as he can drive a car. I only hope they get to Montego all right.’

‘Don’ yo worry,’ Quarrel misunderstood Bond’s concern. ‘I say I tell de police dey stole de car if dey don’ . ’

They were at the saddleback at Stony Hill where the Junction Road dives down through fifty S-bends towards the North Coast. Bond put the little Austin A.30 into second gear and let it coast. The sun was coming up over the Blue Mountain peak and dusty shafts of gold lanced into the plunging valley. There were few people on the road – an occasional man going off to his precipitous smallholding on the flank of a hill, his three-foot steel cutlass dangling from his right hand, chewing at his breakfast, a foot of raw sugar cane held in his left, or a woman sauntering up the road with a covered basket of fruit or vegetables for Stony Hill market, her shoes on her head, to be donned when she got near the village. It was a savage, peaceful scene that had hardly changed, except for the surface of the road, for two hundred years or more. Bond almost smelled the dung of the mule train in which he would have been riding over from Port Royal to visit the garrison at Morgan’s Harbour in 1750.