Lovers and Gamblers (76 page)

It did not occur to him for one moment that they might not make firm ground. The possibility of a crash was unthinkable.

He took Dallas’s hand, and she clung on to him tightly.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, soothingly, ‘we’ll soon be landing.’

* * *

The plane hurtled blindly down.

Harry Booker wrestled helplessly with the controls but there was nothing he could do. He was trying to stabilize the plane, get it under some sort of control.

He knew he would have to put it down, blindly, wherever they were. But if only he could get hold of the bastard… He pulled back on the wheel with all the strength he could muster, and forced the thrust levers into full power. ‘Come on, you mother… Come on…’ Painfully, slowly, the nose of the plane started to climb. But it was much too slow, and the fire on the wing had unbalanced them, and there was a short in the circuit showing…

The plane started to bank, and Harry knew it was hopeless, knew there was nothing he could do.

They were enveloped in a sea of blackness in the middle of nowhere. Behind him Nino, Cristina, and the navigator were in a fighting, clawing mass on the floor. Van was unconscious. Wendy hysterical. And the young flight engineer transfixed in a state of shock.

Vainly Harry tried to throttle back, attempted to bring down the landing gear. They were dropping so fast. Sinking like a stone.

Blankly he wondered where they were. It didn’t matter, in a few moments they would all be dead.

* * *

‘Brace yourselves against the seat in front,’ Cathy yelled vainly, ‘head on your knees – clasp your ankles.
Don’t panic!
’

Nobody was listening – they were all too busy throwing up, or screaming hysterically, or praying, or cursing.

Cathy kept repeating her instructions, while her stomach jumped into her mouth with fear.

They were going to crash. They were out of control. They were on fire.

She tried to remember crash procedure. Everyone off the plane as fast as possible. Emergency chutes down. How soon would rescue services reach them? It depended where they were, and she didn’t know that.

Oh God! Why had she ever left Van? This was a punishment. This was God’s way of telling her she was wrong. If only he would give her another chance… If only…

With a deafening crash the plane ploughed into something. The impact created even more chaos. Hand luggage came hurtling down from all the racks, seats were wrenched free from their moorings, windows smashed in. All the lights went out, plunging them into a murky blackness.

But the plane didn’t stop. Caught up in the trees it hurtled onwards – shuddering and shaking – pitching and rolling.

And the noise. Deafening, unreal. A tearing metal noise, an exploding jagged noise, a roaring vibrating noise.

The plane was ripping through the gigantic trees, disintegrating in parts as it progressed.

First the right wing snapped off on impact – then the left wing was wrenched free.

The body of the plane careered onwards, smashing a path through the trees, and finally splitting neatly in half.

The back of the plane shuddered to a stop. The front half slid on further into the jungle, then it too finally stopped.

Miraculously both sections of the plane were still in one piece.

For a moment there was silence except for the sound of the driving rain and startled bird cries. Then a series of small explosions came from the front of the plane, and the engines burst into flames.

Next came the human sounds. Cries for help, groans, terrified screaming.

It was amazing that anyone was still alive.

The plane had come to rest somewhere in the Amazon jungle, hundreds of miles from anywhere.

After smashing through the giant trees it had slithered to a stop amidst the dense forest ground.

The storm was abating somewhat. But the rain still poured relentlessly down.

From the sky the plane could not be sighted, the huge trees, some as tall as two hundred feet, took care of that.

Al King, his plane and occupants, had vanished into the bowels of the jungle without a trace.

There was always a moment when Linda first woke when she wasn’t sure where she was. It had happened to her since the tour, and she found it quite an enjoyable sensation.

Where am I? What city? What bed?

It was quite exciting waiting for the answers to come flooding in.

Home – schmuck. Or – with Robert Redford, of course. Or – that beautiful beach bum who is quite the best lay in town.

Los Angeles. Cody. His house.

She was quite satisfied. She rolled across the bed and nuzzled his back. He wore pyjamas – very sweet. She slept nude – was there any other way?

She put her arms around his soft waistline. He was very cuddly. A strict diet could get rid of his excess flab in two weeks.

She moved her hands inside his pyjama trousers, gently holding his flaccid penis.

‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.

He groaned in his sleep.

She played with him. Rubbing, kneading, teasing.

He grew hard in her hands.

She slid down under the sheet and took him in her mouth. He felt so good. She used her tongue in a variety of ingenious ways.

He groaned again, this time with sleepy pleasure.

She took him deep into her mouth. Released him slowly. Took him again.

He came in lovely throbbing spurts, his liquid filling her mouth with joy.

She slid up from under the sheets.

He opened his eyes in delighted surprise.

‘My morning protein,’ she grinned. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘You’re a very sexy person.’ He reached for her small taut breasts. ‘Very sexy indeed.’

‘Oh. You think so?’

‘I definitely think so. And in about half an hour I’ll prove it to you.’

‘
Half an hour?
’

‘I’m not nineteen, you know.’

She snapped her fingers together, ‘Aw – shit. And I thought you were.’

They both giggled.

‘What shall we do today?’ Cody asked.

‘Hmmm… Saturday… Let me see… How about nothing? Does that grab you?’

‘It really does.’

She climbed out of bed. ‘I’ll make the coffee. It’s actually your turn – but I’ll let you off today.’

She padded in the kitchen.

Saturday – when had Paul said he would be back? Four days. He had called her on Thursday, so Sunday, tomorrow…

She didn’t even want to talk to him, it was as simple as that. Maybe if she stayed over at Cody’s she wouldn’t have to. Not a bad idea.

She poured hot water onto the instant coffee, contemplated squeezing orange juice, but felt too lazy. Then she remembered the papers and opened up the front door, scooping them off the mat.

‘AL KING VANISHED PLANE MYSTERY’ the headline screamed.

* * *

Jorge shook his wife awake.

‘Where is Cristina?’ he demanded.

She struggled awake. ‘I don’t know… In bed, it’s early isn’t it?’

‘She hasn’t been home all night.’ His voice rose dangerously. ‘Maria came running to me hysterically – “Miss Cristina’s bed hasn’t been slept in, has she had an accident, Señor?” I went to her room, it’s true, she hasn’t been home.’

Evita sat up, reaching for a swansdown bedjacket. ‘Have you telephoned Carlos? Is Louis home?’

‘I haven’t done anything. I came straight to wake you.’

Evita picked up the bedside telephone, dialled quickly.

‘Oh – good morning, Chara. So sorry to wake you this early – oh you were.’ She made a gesture of impatience as Chara engaged her in conversation. ‘My God, that’s dreadful. Look, I know you are busy, but I must speak to Louis. Yes, I’ll hang on while you fetch him.’ She covered the mouthpiece and addressed herself to Jorge. ‘The plane flying Al King to São Paulo is missing.’

‘Is Louis there?’ exploded Jorge, not at all interested in any other subject.

‘I think so. Just a minute.’ She uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, Chara. Oh, I see. Are you sure? Well, do you have any idea where he might be?’

Jorge snatched the phone from her. ‘Chara? I’ll break his neck. He has Cristina with him.’ Jorge paused to listen. ‘I don’t particularly
care
about Carlos’s other problems.
I want my
daughter back
. I
know
they are engaged, that makes no difference to me. If your son has
touched
her…’

He slammed the phone down.

‘Chara will tell the whole of Rio,’ Evita stated. ‘I wish you hadn’t told her.’

‘What bothers you? The fact that your daughter is somewhere with the Baptista boy? Or that fat
Cona
gossiping?’

‘
Both
things bother me. Does she know where they are?’

‘No, she doesn’t. They’ll have to marry at once you know –
at once.’

‘But everyone will think she is pregnant.’

‘By this time she might be,’ Jorge growled. ‘I never did trust that boy.’

‘I thought you trusted Cristina.
You
are the one who allowed her so much freedom.
You
are the one who kept on assuring me she was such a good girl.’

‘She is, she is. I don’t blame her – I blame the Baptista boy. She warned me about him, warned me he had made advances towards her.’

‘I’m sure Cristina can look after herself.’

Jorge stared at his wife intently. ‘You can be a very hard woman, Evita – very hard.’

‘Not hard, Jorge, just realistic. I told you a while ago that Cristina was a woman. She is no baby innocent being taken advantage of.’

‘How can you say such things about your own daughter?’

‘Making love is not a crime.’

‘For children it is.’

‘They are not children.’

‘You can be an impossible person,’ Jorge spat. ‘Sometimes you are a stranger to me. I will be in my study – fetch me the moment Cristina returns – the instant.’

He marched from the room.

* * *

Edna could hear the doorbell ringing, even though she was right down the end of the garden – an outside extension took care of that. She must remind herself to have it disconnected. It chimed continually, and she ignored it. She was busy picking tomatoes. Home-grown, red, hard tomatoes. How beautiful they were. How satisfying it was to watch something grow.

She filled a wicker basket and decided to take some with her to the pottery class that evening. She would distribute them amongst her friends there – the first friends she had ever possessed. Oh, being married to Al King had produced many acquaintances, but never one true friend. They had always been nice to her because of Al. Ingratiated themselves in the hope that it would do them some good. It never did, and they dropped away as soon as they realized this.

Now she had friends. Nice people who had no idea who she was – she had joined the pottery class under her maiden name and so far her secret was safe. Yes – they would enjoy the tomatoes – Carol and Mavis, Roger and John – especially John. She blushed at the thought of his name. She mustn’t keep on thinking of him. It was too early for that sort of thing. He was a nice person, a gentle man.

She headed back towards the house. The house, she had decided, must be sold. She didn’t want it. It was far too big and fancy. All she wanted was a small cottage with a little garden. A private place where she could live in peace. A place where she could invite her friends without feeling embarrassed.

Humming softly to herself, deep in thought, she didn’t notice the two photographers come bounding round the side of the house. She didn’t notice them until their cameras flashed, and then she shouted in anger. ‘What are you
doing
? How dare you. This is private property. Go away or I’ll call the police!’

‘Just one more shot,’ pleaded one of the photographers, ‘we’ve been waiting for hours.’

‘GO AWAY!’

‘How about a quote then?’

She marched towards them, shielding her face, outraged at this invasion on her privacy. ‘I’m phoning the police!’ she warned. But then she realized it was an idle threat. She had had the telephone cut off, she had not required its services any more. At the same time she had cancelled all the newspapers and disconnected the four television sets.

A couple of reporters had joined the photographers. They were
trespassers.
Edna ran towards the house.

‘Do you think Al is dead?’ one of them called. ‘Who was the girl he was with? Did you know her? Is your son with them?’

Edna stopped short in her tracks. ‘What are you talking about? What are you saying?’

The reporter who had yelled the questions ventured nearer. He sensed a story. ‘Didn’t you hear yet, Mrs. King? Al’s plane has disappeared somewhere in South America – he’s missing –presumed dead.’

* * *

Carlos Baptista had enough problems. He certainly did not need Chara yelling at him about Louis.

He took no notice of her complaints. It was perfectly normal for a young man to stay out all night. And if he had a pretty girlfriend – well, so much the better. He should have made up some sort of excuse though. They both should. Silly children. Now he would have Jorge Maraco breathing down his neck, insisting on an early marriage.

But he couldn’t worry about that now. He had other problems. Major problems. A disaster in fact. And it seemed no one could help him.

Fact. Al King’s jet had left Rio with the famous man aboard.

Fact. Shortly after take-off it had terminated radio contact and apparently vanished off the face of the earth.

But how could a large jet just vanish? It was impossible. It had to turn up somewhere. This wasn’t the Bermuda triangle.

Spotter planes had been sent out to see if it had force-landed or crashed anywhere. They had no idea where to start looking. The flight path between Rio and São Paulo was clear. So where to begin the search?

The big plane had carried enough fuel to travel a long way. Who knew which direction it had taken?

Airline officials were doing everything in their power to track it down. But they had nothing to go on. Investigations were only just beginning.

Who exactly was on the plane?

Nobody seemed to know.