Pearced (41 page)

Stan and Nigel climb above with the agility and fearlessness of a mountain goat, they arrive at the summit of the rock pile quickly, I am next, Daniel behind me, Liza behind him and Kurt at the back.

“Getting a good view of my arse Kurt?” Jokes Liza to lighten her own mood, she doesn’t like heights, despite her horse being over 17hh. He hums’ as if he doesn’t understand what she means, but his attention clearly eases her nerves.  “That seat,” she reminds him, “wins prizes.” true dressage competition story.

“Quelle surprise!” He says in a very phony French accent, “it’s a great view from down here,” he chuckles, winking at Liza's ascending award-winning arse, and unashamedly admiring the retreating form.

By the time Kurt reaches our platform at the top of the rock, Nigel and Stan are already only a few metres from the rim.   We all watch in amazement as these two men climb.   Nigel is in his early 70's, and he moves like a teenager, swinging from anchor points as he attaches ropes and nuts into the cracks and crevices of the surface of the rock.  He's wearing a type of safari short to just below his knee and his calves are large and hairy, it'll be my turn to climb soon, hope it’s not too hairy, did you see what I did there, hairy and hairy? Clever eh?

In another twenty minutes Stan is out and has offered Nigel his strong hand to help him the last few feet.   He swings his leg over the edge and the rest of his body follows.  They sit with their legs dangling and swinging over the edge like kids at a playground, “you were right Stanley, that was great!”   Nigel unscrews his flask lid and pours a cupful of hot steaming dark brown brew.   “Come up guys,
its tea time!” That’s all I need to hear, and I have the chocolate biscuits too.  ”Nigel and I will save you a spot up here,” he bites hungrily into a KitKat. That does it!

Stan looks up and behind him, “that’s odd,” he says quietly, but the sound travels down where we're standing, echoing off the walls. Stan and Nigel look at each other, “come up now, we’ve just been buzzed by a helicopter up here, he came quite low, could be bad guys.  “Just like I showed you, if you get tired, stop, use your ‘karabiner’ like I showed you, you can cling to the rock face until you gain your strength back.” Nigel makes it sound so easy, and I’m already on my way, and I won't be stopping to admire the view either, I want out!

We don’t need any more encouragement, I for one couldn’t give a toss about any chopper I just want out, to see the sky and breathe air, to feel breeze on my face again, to feel the life come back to my bones.   Not used to long periods of inactivity the last 24 hours have made me very fidgety, and although never in my wildest imaginings did I think I would ever be climbing, I decide my fear about it was outweighed by the fear of being stuck down here.  I have strong arms and legs from riding strong horses, playing the drums and carrying bales of hay, and it plays in my favour.  Because though I haven't a clue what I am doing, I scale to the surface quickly, Stan and the professor are calling words of encouragement from the rim.  But the cries just join the mess of loud cries my own voices are making, chattering away inside my cranium.  Within an hour we were all out of the pit as it looked from above, sitting around the edge with our legs hanging down drinking tea and eating chocolate bars. Life is good.

TC: “Mum, do you think I’d look good with a fringe?” I look at my reflection in the screen of my phone.

EC: “Only if you remember to comb it” I asked for that didn't I? She does have a point.

TC: “Love you Mum” true.

EC: “You OK?” Couldn't be better.

TC: “Will be heading home in a day or two, how's the weather?” Quite warm here, I tie my hair up off my neck in a pony.

EC: “Sunny today but I think we're getting snow next week, what's all this about Catharine?” She's good.

TC: “Love you Mum” she knows.

EC: “See you soon then?” She's good.

More
tea
anyone? I ask.

Chapter thirty-two, Monday
:
4thnovember2013, trouble

We don’t hear the repetitive thrum of helicopter blades spinning until it is quite close, a small aircraft painted aqua blue, circles us and flies away again.   “Strange,” I say.

“Indeed,” from Nigel, a finger of KitKat paused to his lips.

“Let’s finish our snack,” says I trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about, “follow the edge of the mountain round to the west and find the Landy.” I stuff the last piece of chocolate in, take the final slurp of tea, satisfied.

Daniel sweeps my hair from around my face and kisses me gently on the lips smiling as he does.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“
Its east baby.” and he messes my hair so I look more windswept than before.

I pout, directions are not my thing, “l do make a nice cuppa though right?” Everyone agrees and toasting with our plastic cups, we pack up to leave.  We don’t hear the helicopter again and reach the Wolf in less than two hours, trekking on the surface is much easier and my brain feels healthier too.  It’s sunny and the bluest sky has thin wisps of cloud randomly strewn about like clothes on my bedroom floor.   The air smells of dust and baked earth, a faint hint of sage and something which sticks like a lump in my throat, a scent that seems out of place, fireworks.
Cordite?

He sees me glancing over at him, “I can smell explosives.” says Stan suddenly, his voice low and conspiratory.

“Me too” I nod at him, nobody else notices.

“Let’s get going, everyone get into the Landrover.  Tharie? You’re driving.” Nobody argues, we just load ourselves in the same configuration as before except Stan takes point and rides shotgun next to me.  Daniel in the back with the idol in the beautiful box, it’s heavy in his backpack wrapped around in a Motorhead sweatshirt, but he wields it like a long lost toy he doesn’t want out of his sight.  I shove the gear into first hard and spin off in a cloud of dust, reaching speeds of a little under thirty miles an hour, as the land is flat and quite smooth, but still the old Wolf rattles about like a tin can with nails in.   Stan is directing me with use of the GPS to the point on the map marked by the string puzzle. I swerve to avoid rocks and brushy vegetation as I go but I don’t slow down, I am fuelled with anticipation of discovering what all this is about, and it motivates me.  Determined not to let my part be the fall of us, after we’ve come so far, I drive like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, my brain is chattering warnings over and over, but my adrenalin ignores the noise and charges my body with the will to propel us forward.  Thirty miles an hour is quite fast off tarmac.

“Four kilometres toward 2o’clock,” shouts Stan, he’s got the hang of directing me, I don’t know my right from my left either, but I have been able to tell the time since I was a toddler.  He’s yelling over the clattering the Landy makes travelling over rough terrain at speed, “I can see a building.” He says with his binoculars to his face, “stucco two storey, terracotta tiled roof, whitewashed.” He lowers the binoculars, looks at Daniel and Kurt in the back, “there’s an aqua coloured helicopter parked there.” I turn to look at him suddenly apprehensive, but I have a job to do, so I do it.

“We still go there,” Daniel answers the question none of us dared ask, “
My Dad pointed this way before he died, we owe it to him to discover what happened to him.”   We all nod in emphatic agreement, but I secretly wonder where Graham Pearce's body or remains are if he failed to get out of the hole, I keep it to myself, exchange a glance with Stan, we are both thinking exactly the same thing.

As we get closer to the house, it’s a humble building but impressive nonetheless.   A good size, vaguely Georgian in its layout and I appreciate its symmetry.  It has a centrally placed large front door with a knocker and letterbox, which out here feels a little surreal, who would ever knock on the door or post anything?    A small garden is planted around the perimeter someone is desperate to keep roses alive as I spot a clever irrigation system keeping the plants watered. The aroma ignites memories of my own garden and I pang for home, the earthy smell of my horses coats as I hug them and breathe them in.   And my cats, who betray an unscheduled visit from my mum by smelling of Chanel no.5.  Suddenly I wish she were here, she'd love this little garden, I give myself a quick glance, then again maybe not!

The helicopter is parked at the side of the house, two other vehicles sits next to it, a 110 Camel Trophy Defender, painted that unmistakable been-through-hell-and-back yellow of the original trials, it's dented and faded, and a tiny piece of trash Japanese thing, quite literally as it turns out.  The Camel has water containers tied to the roof with wide webbing straps held in place with seatbelt sliders, spotlights all across the front of the rack wrapped in protective rubber mesh, sand tracks and bridging ladders are strapped to the roof rack too and there's a high lift jack bolted to the back door over the spare wheel. An electric winch on the front bumper.    The tires show a small deflation for driving on sand, whose car is this? Its windows are dirty and covered in trials stickers, it's unmistakably real, and not the fake version of later series, I notice things, allergic to fake, this pleases me.

Next to it, someone with a sense of humour has parked a Japanese 4 wheel drive, or what is left of it, the source of the smell now located, I’m not sure whether this pleases me or not, I never did like Japanese 4x4’s, but it didn’t really deserve to be blown up. Or did it, maybe it was evil? I need tea, soon.

We pile out of the car, the place seems deserted, no one comes out to greet us or otherwise.   I walk up the rough path created with flat stones clearly salvaged from the desert, bend to smell the roses, I recognise it, David Austin, Geoff Hamilton, one of my own favourites.

Inside I hear a faint thump, and whilst I’m wondering whether anyone else hears it, the front door flies open and all my brain can focus on is the business end of a shotgun and two fucking large barrels levelled at my head.

Bloody hell, I’m going to need some tea!

True story.

Later in chapter thirty-three, Monday
:
4thnovember2013, introduction

It's surprising how the sight of your life flashing before your eyes polarises your thinking, because in that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do. And for a single moment I wasn't thinking about tea or horses. 

Tiredness has slowed my reflexes but even a tired second Dan has something most adversaries don’t have, training.  As soon as my head catches up with our predicament it reacts in a way that is automatic and not really my doing at all.  Nagashi Uke, a sweeping block and the barrel is now pointing at the sky, the owner of which stares in utter disbelief, eyes flung open, wide mouth in a silent scream.  Naname
Mae okuri Ashi, I step diagonally forward, okuri Ashi, I sweep the assailant onto his back he lands with a heavy thud.

It's then I wonder who this Hispanic man is trying to shoot me,  sando zuki, three swift punches to his prone body, he cries out in agony, trying to roll away from me onto his side, tobikomi, I jump forward and plant a foot to his head knocking him clean unconscious.  His black greasy hair splayed around his head.  Ritzu rei, standing bow. I surprise myself I still remember how to do that.

I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet, it all happens in a matter of seconds. Kurt is immediately at my side and has the shotgun cocked and unloaded in safety mode laid across his arm.  “Nice work Tharie” Nodding in appreciation at the show, his broad smile all white teeth and clear eyes. He’s quite enjoyed that.  We look down at the fallen man, it’s like a science experiment: method, we know that already: me, we’re all paying close attention to the result, unconsciousness, conclusion? Pointing guns isn’t clever.

The man is tall about 30 years old, or maybe a little older, filthy like he's been living rough out in the desert for weeks. He smells bad too.  His brown wide whale corduroy trousers are worn, he wears old and scuffed cowboy boots with metal tipped engraved toe caps, no scurf or scuff marks so he's never been near a saddle.  Clues suggest to me he lives a fantasy life and dresses to support his delusion of action and excitement. Well, he doesn’t look like one now, sprawled all over the tile, and corduroy? That's so last season.    Odd I find I’m ambivalent about the whole encounter, in an adrenalin induced haze maybe, or maybe he just deserved it. Or and the universe is paying me back with a moment of stillness, enjoy it while you can Tharie.  He wears a checked shirt at least a size too small, and a hand tooled brown leather belt with silver cast moulded buckle depicting a mountain and a few grazing mustangs, again part of the illusion.  This man has soft hands, clearly not used to hard labour out here, certainly never been near a horse then.  Just a normal man, then why would he be in this house? And why hasn’t he bathed in days? And, where's the kettle?

Evil I can almost forgive, slovenly I cannot.

Silence follows the group as we hear a shuffling about inside the house.  We step carefully over the figure on the floor, Stan looks at him carefully as he passes saying nothing.  I kick him in the ribs for good measure, knowing it’s wrong and instantly feel better.    I look over at Daniel, still stunned by what just happened, as he approaches the body and looks carefully, his hand flies to his mouth and gasps.  “What?” I lay my hand on his arm. “What Daniel?” Have I gone too far knocking this man out? Or was it the kick I gave him?