Guardian (18 page)

For the moment, however, Israfel found himself unopposed and, glancing towards the dhow, was just in time to spot Arcturus rousing the sleeping sailors, all the while re-disposing his forces in a furious effort to keep the angels at bay and deal with the matter that he still thought of as ‘the prize' in all this: Roz. His gaze sweeping the deck, Israfel observed the girl swing herself carefully down from the main stay to the deck, only to lose her footing and stumble on a coil of casually discarded rope. Harried by their demons, the crew was beginning to stir and Israfel could see there was little time to waste. Without hesitation, he projected himself forward, straight towards Arcturus, who was still choreographing his forces from the high stern, but with his attention fortuitously distracted by a lone angel loping forward from just off the port beam.

Considering it was a balmy tropical night, Roz was surprised at how cold she felt as she swung warily down, palms clammy with tension and her heart in her mouth. Every sinew in her arms and legs was as taut as a bowstring, but with any alien sound likely to bring the crew running, there was no chance to relax. Coming over the side, she had just caught the comfortable breathing and occasional mutter of sleeping men off to her left and was now desperate not to disturb them. With her foot extended as far as it would reach, she felt for the deck that lay somewhere below her, unseen in the pitch black but, outwitted by the ship's roll, her body swung too far and her left foot wedged in what felt like a coil of rope. Hands slipping on the thick stays and unable to stop, Roz stumbled forward only to pitch her full length across the unseen mound, making what seemed to her overwrought senses more than enough noise to wake the dead.

Fortunately, whatever it was snagging her foot was at least soft enough to avoid any broken bones and, despite the ungainly arrival, the rope mound even contrived to deaden the sound of her fall. Terrified, she froze. Every sense straining to catch the slightest nuance of change, to detect the first uneasy stirrings of the nearby sleepers. But nothing gave cause for alarm. Only instantly recognisable creaking and rubbing disturbed the night, as the old tub sought to accommodate herself to the rise and fall of the steepening waves. Gingerly, Roz picked herself up and stepped warily towards the main mast, hands outstretched in front of her in the vague hope of making up for what her eyes were missing. As she moved, she heard for the first time the eerie, muffled sounds of human hopelessness drifting up through the decking planks beneath her feet. There was such bleakness and misery interlaced with melancholy bound into the muted weeping, that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her skin crawled as though touched by something unclean.

Slowly, her eyes grew accustomed to the lower light levels in the well of the ship and she began to make out more and more of the obstacles. Most noticeably, the post just ahead of the steeply canted mast swam into view and with it came the smell of unwashed humanity, all mixed with the sickly smell of dried blood. Dimly, she could make out a human form slumped against the post, presumably the lump she had first spotted from the shore. The body clearly had life, although by the look of it, probably very little. Slow, laboured breathing bubbled through slack lips and the man's head swung gently with the movement of the ship. Dark rivulets that were presumably blood dribbled down much of his naked body, except for his arms, which were stretched rigidly above him and lashed to a ring in the copper post. Briefly, Roz let her eyes play over the man's body, but not recognising him, she turned to look elsewhere. Other than the sleeping crew, some of whom she could now make out in the pale monochrome light, there were no others on deck. Which meant she would have to venture down into the hold, to what was clearly the source of the low moaning echoing through the ship. Roz shuddered. If there was one thing she did not want to do, it was to go anywhere near the source of that noise, which carried with it the frightening possibility of becoming trapped in the hold if the crew woke up.

Nevertheless, she turned and, screwing up her courage, began to pick her way towards the hatch, which seemed to awaken something in the beaten man she'd sidestepped, because he stirred and moaned loudly. Alarmed that he might wake the nearby sleepers, Roz stepped swiftly back to him. Stooping, she instinctively placed a hand firmly over his mouth and nose, to choke off the sound. Immediately he stiffened, writhing backwards, hunting for air, ready to cry out. Desperate, Roz bent closer to hiss “Kuwa Kimya”
⁽¹⁾
in his ear, relying entirely on the poor wretch being able to speak the ‘
lingua franca'
of the area, rather than any of the numerous coastal languages. At any rate, it seemed to do the trick and slowly, she was able to relax her grip on his mouth, her eyes drilling into the stranger's, daring him to make a noise. The face was puffy and probably unrecognisable even to his mother, she thought dispassionately, so hard had he been beaten. But, as she continued to stare, she saw something begin to light up in his eyes, to come alive, as I stared incredulously back at her. Warily, she watched my lips trying to form themselves, as I tried to speak to her, tried to reveal who I was. Irritated with the delay, she shook her head and made to step back, but in doing so caught against my foot, which I had desperately curled around her ankle, endeavouring to restrain her departure. At this point, even in her rush to get on, Roz noticed my curious agitation and the effort to communicate seemed to her to contain something strange about it. Accordingly, she bent reluctantly towards me again, if only to ensure I didn't rouse the crew with my efforts. At first, she could only hear a stifled, formless whispering, accompanied by a fine spray of blood and spittle, which drifted stickily into her face. But screwing up her nerve she leaned closer, the quicker to end the interference.

“Rzz,” she heard. “Rrzzz.” And finally, after a supreme effort: “Rozzz.”

And that sound was close enough to her name to spark the connection. I could see her mind struggling to understand how I could possibly know who she was. If, indeed, it was her name I was trying to say. And then I saw it hit her, like a thunderbolt straight between the eyes.

Gasping in dismay, Roz drew back, the better to look at me afresh, to try to see through the swollen, distorted flesh, to discern some feature in the darkness, some recognisable hint that it really was me. But she could see very little. Not even the colour of my hair. Quickly she touched her hand to my extended foot.

“If you're Paul, push my hand twice.” Hardly daring to hope, she waited while I laboriously pushed once, then twice, before my foot slipped back in exhaustion. As she felt the downward pressure of the second push, her heart had leapt and for a second, as the tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, she had felt giddy with relief. She had found me and I was alive. I remember seeing newly formed tears glistening on her cheeks. Then feeling her push the hair back from my face where it had fallen forward as my head once more hung down. Gentle though her touch was, it drew a moan from me and the cold reality of our situation, our exposure, almost overwhelmed her with its choking waves. She was under no illusion as to what the crew would do to her if they caught her and nor was I. Her life would be worth next to nothing and it was highly probable her death would neither be swift, nor easy.

However, necessity did what hypothesis could not, and drove all thought of failure from her mind. She realised immediately that there was nothing I could do to help myself and she was equally certain there was little time left to get me safely off the dhow and away. Quickly, she drew the knife she had secreted at her belt, slashing at the rope that bound my wrists to the post. As she did so, she half heard the sound of someone moving in behind her and turned, barely in time to dodge the hand stretched out to clutch her long hair, its owner obviously intent on getting himself a rare treat on this dhow – a white girl who, judging by her slight form, would not prove too difficult for a man long-familiar with humiliating female slaves in the ship's hold. Probably it was that very experience that caused his downfall. How could he know this was no cringing captive overwhelmed by hopelessness and intimidated by repeated rape? As he lurched forward, deeply aroused, to make another brazen grab, this time for her breasts, he was surprised to find her stepping towards him. Unused to such a response, he dropped his arms towards her hips, welcoming her apparent acceptance, only to allow the opening she needed to slide the wicked little stiletto blade safely between the third and fourth ribs, before angling slightly upwards towards the pump throbbing at the centre of his chest. Surprised, he felt nothing, registering only a great and fading disbelief as his strength drained nearly as swiftly as the black rivulet of life flowing down her arm, to cascade in gelatinous streamers along the darkened deck. Even as his legs began to fold, Roz whipped out the blade, catching the falling man by his clothing, determined he would make no noise as he hit the deck. Had she taken time to think, she would have been surprised at herself, but then there had been quite a few things happening over recent months that would have astonished her former character, given any sort of self-examination. Actions and attitudes a world away from her previously sheltered existence were becoming almost commonplace.

Barely had she slid her erstwhile assailant to the deck, than she was back to attack my bindings, springing towards me with all the intensity of a mother tiger defending her cub. Unable to help, I could only wait and watch in befuddled apprehension, while Roz once again slashed at the ropes above my head. As they fell away, releasing my arms, I was forced to make a supreme effort to swallow the yelps of pain in response to the rapid return of feeling within my so recently anaesthetised limbs. Blood once more coursed around my body, my head whirled from the combination of pain and water deprivation, and I sensed myself being pulled upright by an almost superhuman strength, before being dragged across the short width of deck to the side of the ship. Even as Roz struggled to get me there, a shouted command froze her momentarily in her tracks before galvanising her into a last frenzied effort. I tried to help, but found it impossible. Neither my arms nor my legs would respond to instruction and I couldn't even force myself to stand upright. Everything that could drag was now dragging and the railings still seemed impossibly far away. I could hear pounding feet not far behind me, and I willed a response with all the means I had, frantic to reach the rails before whoever it was caught up, but I have to honestly say, I had no idea what would happen when we got there. I knew nothing of the boat, of any rescue plan. Of any hope. But I reckoned without the steely determination that was gripping Roz. With a last heave she rushed me against the side, pushing upwards with all her strength and rolling me sideways across the top of the rail to give a final shove that sent me plunging straight towards the sea. And as I fell away in what seemed like slow motion, I was aware of a scrawny arm snaking around Roz's neck. And dear girl that she was, one more sailor discovered that an arm lock around this feisty lady brought with it an immediate invitation to meet his Maker, because adrenalin had lent her wings. Once more the knife arced, this time backwards towards the exposed belly behind her and, as he grunted with a pain that forced a momentary relaxation of his grip, she spun away and back-flipped over the rail, oblivious to where her transport might be. One aim and one aim alone gripped her whole attention: to get off that dhow, then find and keep me alive until Mbogo reached us. And not for a moment did she doubt that her friends would still be there.

As the warm, clean waters closed abruptly over my head, the sting of salt in the open wounds criss-crossing my entire body fired a bolt of raw energy into the mush that was doing time as a brain, forcing a response. I remember instinctively angling for the surface, every reflex kick and lunge an antidote to the paralysis that had been gripping me since I'd first been tied to that post. The sea that had swallowed me whole when I dropped like a stone headfirst into the hollow of a passing wave, then decided to boost me skywards with equal indifference, spewing me up towards the water-shattered moon shining brightly but intermittently through the stippled surface. Even in the few seconds the plunge lasted, I could feel my nearly empty lungs beginning to burn, but the unfamiliar exhilaration of freedom coursing through my veins gave me the injection of adrenalin needed to keep going. For the first time in a very long while I had some control over my destiny, even my very existence. Not much, true. But even a modicum was welcome, just enough to momentarily overcome the ravages of my recent whipping.

Only the blood, trailing and dancing behind me as it was expelled by the movements that flexed my weeping wounds, gave the lie to this supposed freedom. For all down the food chain little welcoming signals must have been sparking off olfactory receptacles, each sensitive enough to pick up one part of blood in every million parts of water, and each stimulating certain owners into a shiver of gastronomic anticipation. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I know what happened. Several hundred yards off shore, invisible in the night sea and hunting as accurately as though it were on a well-lit and familiar village street, a tiger shark turned west, wound up the spring and began to cruise shore-wards with a concentration that brooked no interference.

When Roz hit the water feet first, she very nearly took me down with her but, fortunately for us both, only her flailing hand made passing contact with my shoulder, pinpointing her arrival in the blackness of the heaving, noisy sea. The stinging crash of her fall and the flood of water into her eyes, mouth and nose drove the breath right out of her and she couldn't stop an involuntary gasp that brought in what had seemed like half an ocean. Plummeting on down past me, her lithe body offered little handhold as I stretched out for her, grabbing for anything I could reach until the effort was rewarded with a handful of hair billowing in her wake. Supremely conscious of my weakness, but more concerned that simply trying to hold on might well scalp her, I forced myself to duck-dive and allow her weight to pull me along, matching her rapidly slowing descent. But by the time I could turn and kick frantically for the surface, my own lungs were desperate for air, whilst her body seemed almost lifeless. However, one last heaving wrench got us there, and with my lungs no longer threatening to burst, I propped her head against my shoulder and wound my now loosened arm tightly round her waist. After that, all I could do was let the backwash of waves that were breaking against the pitching dhow propel us rapidly away from the solid wall of wood, rolling and plunging dangerously close to our right. I distinctly remember the desperation borne out of my rapidly waning strength as I kicked myself round, searching the near horizon. I had realised by then that Roz must have come by boat and unless she had come alone, which was highly unlikely, it had to be somewhere near.

But so was someone else. Unknown to me, Ahmed's nephew, a man many had found to their cost could be deeply dangerous when crossed, had almost caught Roz on deck, only missing her by a hair's breadth. His reward, a tantalising glimpse of long white thighs drawn to a dark V as she went over backwards, the already wet material of her tight shorts singularly failing to maintain more than a modicum of modesty. But that glimpse alone would have been enough to drive Abdullah headlong in a frenzy of lust. Certainly enough to drain all sense from his mind. I can picture it now. He probably hadn't had a woman, never mind a white woman, in a long time and the way she had filleted that fool of a sailor just ahead of him had only intensified his lust, to the point where he could no longer think straight. If he had, he would never have risked following her into the water. As it was, he used some sense in waiting until we resurfaced and he could see our upturned faces against the black water before taking a running dive over the side. Certain he could catch us. Certain he could deal summarily with me, and then get her back on board. Already enjoying the thought of what he would do to her throughout the rest of the long night. No doubt he was contemplating that pleasure even as he hit the water.

Through all this time, Roz was becoming heavier. To the point where I knew it was but a matter of seconds before what little strength I had left finally gave out. It might only have been her head I was cradling whilst the water took most of her weight, but I was forced to scissor my legs frantically just to keep my own mouth above the water, never mind Roz's. I knew the battle was almost lost and had begun to claw frantically at the sea with my remaining arm, reaching towards where I thought the shore ought to be, when the inevitable happened and I simply ran out of energy. As a result, my mouth sank so low that every gasping breath sucked in rather more water than air, although at least this had the merit of concentrating my flagging mind. So it was fortunate that even as I ran out of every last alternative, a deeper, boat-shaped blackness arrived out of the all-pervading dark, almost running us down in its eager charge. Moreover, the two brawny arms arriving with it managed to grab and lift Roz halfway over the side all in one quick heave. Grateful, I remember treading water with a last burst of transformed energy and clutching at the lowered thwarts that wallowed backwards and forwards in unison with the rapid shifting of the unknown rescuers tending to Roz. Unable to do much more than hang on even though stripped of the added weight, I was impatient, willing them to hurry, desperate to get out of the water. And then the unthinkable happened and it almost stopped my heart. A hand rose out of the water behind me, strong fingers gripped my upraised arm and a face, its mouth fixed in a fierce snarl, burst out of the water alongside me. To say that time stood still is no exaggeration, but even in that split second of utter paralysis, the boat dipped abruptly and strong hands reached down to grasp me under the armpits. Kicking weakly, I tried to shout a warning of the danger and tried to help them by adding my last ounce of strength, but in the instant of doing so, the face at my side went from triumph to total bewilderment. From below us both, something solid rose like an express train and before I could even begin to respond, whatever it was crashed into me like a giant, solid lump of sandpaper, propelling me abruptly upwards and sideways along the length of the boat, there to crash back against its rolling side much nearer the stern, from where my rescuers, almost as stunned as I was, but thinking faster, managed to drag me to safety. Behind me, a shout was cut off almost before it had begun and a great drenching splash signalled the shark's vigorous passing.

For my assailant, the nightmare was reasonably quick, a clemency I doubt he'd ever shown his victims. As with me, his first indication of the shark's attack was probably an extraordinarily heavy thump in his side. Probably like me, he had registered little pain. Just ‘something' he could surely live with. But that's where the similarities ended and, for him, there began his own last drear journey. It must have been only nanoseconds before recognition dawned that ‘something' was, after all, very wrong. ‘Something' was missing. For some reason his body was bending in a very strange and sinuous way. Almost as though there was no skeletal structure. Which wasn't that far off the truth. In fact, had he been able to see into the rapidly reddening water, he would have noticed that most of his right side was missing in a ragged arc that reached from hip to shoulder and from the waist inwards, almost to his backbone, leaving his remaining entrails to wash out into the heaving waves in a long, slippery line. But he couldn't see any of this and so was probably unable to understand why it was that he was slipping so quickly into sleep at a time when he should have been totally alert. It wouldn't have made any sense. That is, until a great, tooth-lined mouth, water gushing away to either side, opened wide in front of him as it returned to reach for the head. The clamping jolt of multiple rows of serrated teeth around his neck and face would have been pretty close to the last thing he knew. But I've been rather hoping that his very last thought was one of total, shattering fear, as he remembered what his own religion would have told him. That all men must face the Supreme Judge. And in the same instant that the shark started chewing, he would have known, with crystal clarity, that he could expect no mercy from either source.