Dead in the Water (26 page)

Mark puts his arm around her shoulder. “That’s a horrible thing. I hardly knew him; but it’s horrible, isn’t it. Very distressing.”

“
I just needed to tell you Mr Boyd.”

“
I understand,” says Mark.

“
Trapped by his fears, he was. Don’t know what he was so frightened of. But I don’t suppose he was the only one. Just goes to show, doesn’t it.” Quite what it goes to show, Mark doesn’t ask; but he suspects it’s that her loathing of the government and the right wing press is fully justified.

“
I’ll cook something for both of us,” he suggests.

“
No, I have to get back for Flanders. I’ve locked the cat flap. Don’t want her going out in this. I didn’t want to be any bother to you, but ––”

“
Don’t be silly. We’re neighbours. I’d come and ask you for help if I were in trouble ––”

“
Would you?”

“
Of course.”

“
Well, that’s good. I hope you mean that Mr Boyd.”

He offers her a glass of brandy, which she declines. “You’ve been very kind.” He accompanies her down to her flat. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, and says her goodbyes. Tomorrow he’ll get up early and call in on his way to work, have an early morning cup of tea with her. She’s always up early, and she’s happier being the host than a guest.

In the meantime he is determined to find out what’s happening with Stephen. If that means an encounter with Johnny Bonehead, then so be it. He gets into his car – it’s been valeted inside as well, nice touch – and heads off for an address in Kensal Green.

They have been in the air for just under an hour, and are about fifty miles upstream of Mavaca, the last significant settlement on the Orinoco, when Terry announces that they’re going to put down on the river again to refuel before crossing the Sierra Parima. The landing routine is much as before, except that the river is narrower and faster flowing; and they have to make several low passes over an
estirón
before Terry is convinced that it’s safe. “Why the hell didn’t you put in at Mavaca?” shouts Sanders from the back when they’re finally down.

“
It’s like taking your own food into a restaurant, chum. We got our own fuel, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’s my guess they wouldn’t take kindly to us guys tying up at their jetty and using our own cans.”

Sanders is resentful about having to help with the refuelling, creating a human chain with Jeremy, passing one can at a time to Terry, who perches on the wing, pouring can after can of fuel into the tanks. When the job’s finished, Sanders grumbles, “Why the fuck didn’t you do this before you took off back at Esmerelda?”

“
I don’t argue with passengers,” says Terry with a sardonic grin. “And they don’t argue with me. Do the maths. We’re flying over mountains. We need every last drop of fuel in the tanks, chum; and as little payload as possible. That means dumping stuff. Right. Like getting these cans onto the river bank. Right.”

“
You’re wasting time, Sullivan. The woman needs to see a medic.”

“
One word more from you, Sanders. And you’ll need to see one too. And don’t fucking try one on, because even if you had a pilot’s licence you’d never get this heap of tin off the river.” Sanders has the look of a cornered dog, waiting to break out. “Jez. We need the dinghy.”

The floatplane’s inflatable dinghy tender and gas cylinder are packed in a stowbag kept under Sanders’ seat in the cabin. Jeremy rows across to the river’s edge, from where Sanders chucks the empty cans onto the bank. With the empty cans dumped, the fuel tanks full and the dinghy moored on the starboard float, Sanders climbs back into the cabin.

Jeremy calls up to Terry, “Do you want me to deflate it?”

“
Leave it where it is. We’re not going to need it. We’ve got life jackets. And our American friend is going for a river trip.”

“
What the fuck?”

“
Get back in the dinghy, Sanders. Unless you want to take a swim.” Sanders doesn’t move. “It’s time you told us what’s going on.”

“
I told you. I came to collect her. I’m taking her back to London.”

“
You drugged her. You didn’t tell us that.”

“
What the fuck did you want me to do? Tie her up? She was going to do a fucking lifeguard routine on the Brazilian guy. He was dead. Fish food. What the fuck did you expect me to do?”

“
Get in the dinghy.”

Sanders is standing in the cabin doorway, looking Terry straight in the eye. “There are people know I’m on this plane. Important people.”

“
I’m not arguing, fellah,” says Terry. “This is where your flight ends. You get into the dinghy. You’ve got a paddle and fresh water. By my reckoning you’ll be in Mavaca round about midday tomorrow. Then your important people can come looking for you.”

“
I’m a friend of Mark Boyd, Sullivan. He called me when he couldn’t get hold of Peters. I’ve a job of work to do here.”

“
So why didn’t Boyd mention anything to me?”

“
Maybe he asked me ‘cos he thought Peters would bottle out.”

“
Bullshit,” says Terry. “You don’t fucking work for Boyd.

“
You got a choice, Sanders,” says Terry. “The dinghy or swim.”

“
What the fuck’s up with you guys? I’ve told you who I am. I’ve told you what I’m doing.” Terry gestures towards the dinghy. Sanders crouches to climb back down onto the float. With his back to Jeremy and out of Terry’s sight, he pulls a gun. Standing on the float, he straightens up; and takes the safety catch off. “OK Eco Man. Plane’s too heavy to fly over the mountains. I understand that. So someone’s got to get in the dinghy. Just ain’t going to be me. Do it.”

“
Where the fuck did he get that?” says Terry. “I thought you frisked the bastard.”

“
I did,” says Jeremy, climbing in to the dinghy.

“
Sullivan. You too. Down there.”

“
You can’t fly this thing.”

“
I’m not going to. Get the fuck down there.” Sanders backs away to give Terry space to climb down. “You’re going to cast off the dinghy.” When Terry is crouched at the back of the float, Sanders climbs back into the plane. “Undo the fucking rope Sullivan.” Terry undoes the knot and throws the rope into the dinghy, which is caught in the fast moving current. “Now pull up the fucking anchor and get the fuck back into the cockpit. And you fly where I tell you.”

As the men have been arguing, Rachel has been trying to disentangle their shouting and the gunshot from a flood of dreams and memories: Orinoco, canoe, forest, skulls, raft, firebird, and an English voice that is familiar and distant. One moment she knows it, then he’s gone and she’s alone. The margins between are so soft. Floating between memories, clinging on to dreams, unable to ward off images of the burning wreckage of the helicopter, shimmering, trembling as through a heat haze. She opens her eyes, but has no idea where she is. There’s a man in a doorway. He’s holding a gun. Her eyelids are so heavy. Where is José Dias?

“
Let me start the engine first. Then I’ll pull anchor.”

And then an American voice, which seems to belong to the man in the doorway: “Pull the fucker up, Sullivan.”

She’s in a plane. But it’s swaying like a boat on rough water. Who are these guys? She checks her pocket for the camera. Still there. But something is missing. She had a gun. She picked up a gun. It was in a pocket. On the wall beside her there’s a locker. The door swinging open. Inside a black carved panther. That’s what José called her:
La Pantera
. She reaches forward to pick it up. But she’s in a full harness safety belt system. The man outside and the American in the doorway are shouting at each other again. She fumbles to release the belt.

“
In this current, the damn plane could be ––”

“
Just fucking do it.”

The panther is surprisingly heavy. She struggles to her feet. And brings it down hard onto the man’s wrist. The gun fires, and falls from his hand into the river.

Sanders cuts a pathetic figure sitting in the dinghy, nursing his rage and a smashed wrist. As he drifts away from the plane, he shouts across to Jeremy, who’s pulling up the anchor, “So you’re going to fly on to Boa Vista, get the woman back to London, eh? Gets kinda confusin’ don’t it, when saving the world takes so much gas.”

Terry has already started to taxi. Kneeling in front of Rachel, now strapped back in her seat, her eyes closed, her head hanging down, Jeremy takes her hands in his. “Rachel,” he whispers. But she has fallen back to sleep; and he takes his place in the cockpit next to Terry. “We’re going downstream?”

“
You’re getting good, Jez.”

“
I thought you said we couldn’t do that. Take off with the wind behind us.”

“
Leave it to your uncle Terry, Jez. We’ve got a leaking float. That bastard put a gunshot into it when your woman smashed his wrist. We haven’t got time to go by the book.”

“
Doesn’t that mean ––”

“
JP, your job’s sit tight and look for logs. Mine’s getting this thing off the water. Right.”

Terry taxis to the downstream end of the
estirón
, where the river makes a long right hand turn, taking the plane well into the bend before turning her round and applying full throttle. The drag from fighting the current makes acceleration painfully slow. With the leaking float,
The Duck
is sitting lower in the water and with less than two hundred metres before the upstream river bend, they’re fast running out of
estirón
and
The Duck
is still stuck firmly to the water. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Terry eases back on the throttle and what little speed they have falls away rapidly. He turns her round again and heads back downstream again, this time taxiing faster and zig zagging backwards and forwards across the river like a child allowed to steer a car for the first time, seeming as impatient with the aeroplane as he is with Peters. They pass Sanders, gesticulating wildly.

“
Terry. What –– ?”

“
Logs, Jez. That’s your job.” And then after a fast, lurching hundred and eighty degree turn, they race back downstream with the current. As they reach the bend, he turns the plane back upstream again, and starts a second run. It feels like riding in a speedboat, the choppy water battering the floats as they bounce over the wake waves created by Terry’s zig-zagging. And then the thwacking sound stops. The floats have broken free of the water. If they hit the river bank now it will presumably count as an air crash…

No sooner are they airborne, however, than Terry banks the plane hard over to the right, the wingtip within inches of the water.

“
We made it, Jez.”

“
What?”

“
No logs. Well done mate. I was counting on you. You OK?”

“
I’m fine.”

“
Good. Best bit’s to come, friend.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
We got to fly the river until we reach the next
estirón
.”

“
What does that mean?”

“
It means hold tight. Remember ‘ground effect’?” He remembers Terry talking about it, but not what it is. “We stay within six feet of the ground – or the water, or whatever – we get extra lift. We get a little more speed, and ease up the flaps. Less flaps, more speed. Then when we reach the
estirón
– up and away.”

“
Why don’t we just climb normally?”

“
One, with God knows how much bloody water in the starboard float there ain’t no normal; two
The Tin Duck
’s no jump jet; and, three, your Uncle Terry gets a kick out of it.”

“
Right,” says Jeremy in anticipation. “And do I look out for logs?”

“
I’m not planning on touching down again. You look out for your friend in the back. She won’t like it if she looks out the window.”

“
Will I?” But by now they’re already banking hard to port to follow the river round a long sweeping bend as it doubles back on itself.

“
You tell me.” The river winds ferociously, S after S, and at 80 knots and rising, demands the reaction speeds of a Formula One driver. Terry’s pleasure, as he flies the racing line, could almost be catching; and when the next
estirón
appears, Jeremy finds that there’s a part of him which might even be enjoying it. Terry smiles too, as he sees a couple of huge fallen tree trunks drifting down with the current and blocking the river, a great raft of rotting vegetation accumulated around them.

50
Kensal Green, North West London

This is an area of London he hardly knows. Nineteen thirties suburbia. A mixture of substantial terrace houses and semis. It’s hardly fashionable, but the houses are well looked after and the street is tidy – apart from a skip so overloaded that the top half of a mattress wedged down the side is flapping across the pavement.

Number 47, which is two thirds of the way up a gentle hill, has a deep maroon coloured door with finely crafted circular stained glass window at the top.