Dead in the Water (2 page)

This is the resistance: a little girl runs from the doorway of one of the stilt-houses. It’s Xiomara, still with the flower necklace that Rachel helped her make. She’s waving to them, excited. Whenever the helicopter people come, they bring presents.

With one arm wrapped round the trunk for stability, the other pressing the camera to her eye, Rachel records everything.
José trusts you. Just do it.
Adrenaline pumping, calmer, clearer than she’s been in weeks.

She watches. Through her viewfinder, she sees the flowers torn from Xiomara’s neck by the rotor blade downdraft

Sees one of the men throw a grenade into the largest of the village huts.

Sees the monkeys blasted from their perch, now twitching lifeless in the mud..

Sees the dog in pieces.

Sees Xiomara’s beautiful brown face suddenly distorted by terror, screaming for her Mama.

Then a volley of gunfire opens up, slamming Xiomara’s small body to the ground.

“
No,” screams Rachel, her voice drowned out by another grenade.

The helicopter engine is still running, its rotors churning. But for Rachel the world is silent – except for grenade blast after-shock hissing in her ears like radio static. She is now sitting on the edge of the platform, one hand gripping a ladder rung above her head, the other holding the camera. Emotions cauterised. Freezer burn. Can’t scream, can’t move. Can hardly think – except that she has to keep the camera recording.

The caustic smell of grenade smoke slinks up into the trees. Where is her fear now? Eyes wide, she watches, feeling nothing but the anaesthetising chill of physical shock. Time slowing. Accident time, as Stephen called it on the night his girlfriend dumped him, every detail far too clear.

Another dog appears. Skulks over to Xiomara’s body, looks around, nervous, fearful. Sniffs at the pooling blood. Looks round again. Then starts to lick.

It starts to rain.

A woman runs out. Xiomara’s mother. The dog backs off as the woman runs and throws herself down beside the body of her child. Pulls Xiomara’s limp and broken body into her arms and howls.

Where did José go? And where is Pablo? Apart from the big communal hut which has open sides, the only windows and doors in the wooden dwellings are at the front. Short of breaking through a wall with an axe, there is no other way out. If Pablo had come out of the hut, she’d have seen him.

And then she senses another sound beneath the whining of the chopper turbine: a deep booming; something huge, invisible in the night, growling towards the village. She’s expecting a bulldozer or a logging machine, but what now appears on vast caterpillar tracks churning up the forest floor is more like a mobile crane. She is about to climb down the tree and flee, when another man steps out of the helicopter. As she zooms to close in on the face, however, an explosion in one of the huts sends a cascade of burning fragments flying high into the air. Instinctively she takes her eye from the viewfinder and turns away to protect herself from the wave of heat.

The timing of the raid has been carefully planned. Within minutes of the helicopter landing, the black of tropical night has fallen on the forest, flames from every wooden house reaching high into the darkness and blazing lights of the machines cutting through the rain.

In theory, the camera is automatically hooked up to the satlink, and somebody in the Caracas
One World
office should be picking all this up. Still holding the video camera in her left hand, she gets her satphone from her pocket. She tries Jeremy Peters. Surely, he’ll still be in the office. It rings. But the signal gives out even before the message service kicks in. Who now? Dad. He must pick up this time. He’ll know it’s her. He’ll be expecting her to ring. The signal’s weak, but there is a connection.
Pick up, Dad. Pick up
.
It rings on through to the messaging service. “Dad, it’s Rachel. They’re attacking the village.” But the signal’s already gone.

Pocketing the phone and the camera, she scrambles down the rope ladder. As she gets to the bottom, her phone falls to the ground. She reaches down to pick it up just as a searchlight scans past. The operator seems not to have noticed her. Then it’s back. The trunks of trees around her explode into splinters as a volley of fire from an automatic weapon smashes into them. She lies flat on the ground, her face pressed into leaf litter. The searchlight scans again, stops. Gunfire shatters a stump that resembles a silhouetted crouching figure. There’s shouting from the clearing. The searchlight moves on.

The phone’s not damaged. The charge is low, but it seems OK.

Then she’s crawling along one of the paths that she and Pablo hacked clear only yesterday. Away from the burning village. Away from the dirt road that ultimately leads back to civilisation. Into the forest.

2 London

“
That was delicious,” says Mark. “Quite superb.”

Sara smiles, says nothing, and fills his glass with wine, the last of the Chablis that Mark brought with him. As he reaches across the table to take her hand, his mobile phone rings.

“
Aren’t you going to get that?” asks Sara.

“
I should have switched it off. Sorry.” He reaches up to stroke her cheek.

“
Go on. Answer it.”

But he’s missed the call. “It was Rachel. I’ll listen to the message. Is that alright?”

“
Of course,” says Sara, already heading for the kitchen.

Rachel’s voice is surprisingly clear: “Hi Dad. Me. Rache. I’m half way up a tree with a crazy man called José….” He loves Rachel’s messages. So bright and cheery. He can just imagine her now, hear her mischief, see her smile. But he’ll call her back after they’ve finished eating. There’s no rush.

He leans back in the chair, delighted to have heard from Rachel and basking in the charms of Sara’s company. This is the first decent time they’ve had together in six weeks. It always amazes him that he feels so relaxed, so comfortable with her, when they really don’t see each other that often. He loves the way she organises the space in her flat, the ground floor of a three storey terrace in Finsbury Park, the way she decorates it, keeps things simple: modern but not austere, colourful but not gaudy. Perhaps it’s a little too colourful for his taste. But that’s not a problem. He has no plans to move in.

Sara’s special treat for him is a sticky toffee pudding with freshly made custard.

“
I don’t suppose you have a dessert wine, do you?” She does, but she only pours half a glass for herself, and the conversation stalls when he has a second, followed by a glass of brandy.

“
That really was the most wonderful meal. Thank you. I’ll wash up,” he offers, beginning to gather plates.

“
No, Mark.
No, really. It’s OK.”

“
Leave it, please. I’ll do it in the morning,” says Mark. “I promise.”

“
And how will you manage that?”

“
Am I not staying?”

She doesn’t answer. Even though he’s had too much to drink, he should be able to read her look. But he’s unsure. Is she teasing, flirting, warning? Sara, who can be so transparent, so childlike in her excitements, is retreating from him. It’s surely not Rachel’s phone call that’s triggered this?

“
I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have asked. Would you like me to ask?”

“
Would I like you to ask? Yes. Would I like you to stay the night? Yes. But not tonight. Not on a weekday. You know the rules.”

Yes, he knows the rules. He has to be up earlier than her. She hates him getting out of her bed and leaving her. It’s a thing she has.

“
You could come for the weekend. I’m not working this weekend.”

“
I told you, I promised Stephen I’d be at home.”

“
And Joanna? Is Joanna going to be at home?” Sara’s light-hearted tone is less than convincing

“
I don’t think so. No.”

“
You don’t think so.”

“
Joanna and I have been separated two years ––”

“
I know that, Mark. That’s not the point.” Then she stops herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go there.”

She doesn’t need to go there. Mark knows damn well how touchy she is about the divorce that neither he nor Joanna have put in for. The D word, lurking unspoken, lying in wait to ambush the evening.

She looks him straight in the eyes and smiles; and in a very gentle voice that is as reproachful as it is tantalizing, says, “You should be flattered.”

“
That you don’t want me to stay over?”

“
Yes. Yes, exactly. I care about you. It’s painful when you leave.”

He moves round to her side of the table, massages her shoulders and then bends down, gently lifts one of the earrings he gave her when he arrived this evening, three of the deepest green emeralds set in white gold, and kisses her on the neck.

“
Mmmm. That’s nice.”

“
Shall we go to bed?” he whispers.

“
That’s not fair, Mark.”

“
Is that a yes?”

“
You have to be up at six,” she says.

“
You’d be worried if I didn’t ask.”

“
Is that a threat?” Her tone has changed again. How do they do this? Lurching into an argument when everything had been so easy, so relaxing, so… God, he shouldn’t have had that last brandy.

“
I’d like a shower before I go. Is that alright?” as if taking a shower will make amends.

She has that enigmatic look somewhere between exasperation and a mother’s indulgent amusement. “Go on then. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

Undressing in Sara’s bedroom, almost falling as he takes off his socks. He’s had too much to drink, and runs the shower cold. Treacle pud and cold showers. How things catch up with you. He washes his hair vigorously in the powerful chill blast before adjusting the temperature back to the way Sara had it set. Lingers for half a minute in the hope that she’ll relent and join him. But no. Bed, staying the night, making love, or whatever it is they do – the decision has been made.

Invigorated, if not sober, he dresses quickly. He’s brushing his hair when Sara calls through from the living room: “Your phone rang again when you were in the shower.”

Ignoring the hint of accusation in her voice, he takes his mobile from his pocket, checks for missed calls and smiles broadly. “Rachel again.”

“
Aren’t you going to call her back?”

“
I’ll call her when I get home.”

“
If I rang my dad at this time of night ––”

“
Rachel is in South America. She has no sense of time. None whatsoever. She’ll be partying by now. I’ll call her when I get home.”

“
You said she was in a village in the rain forest.”

“
Won’t stop her partying.”

“
I think you should ring.”

He smiles, what she once called his chameleon smile, the blending man, the smile for all seasons. But this is when they argue: late at night, early in the morning, as they’re about to part; as Mark’s family force themselves back into their lives.

“
OK. OK. You’re right.”

He listens to Rachel’s message, but all he can make out are stuttering clipped digital pulses ‘Da … Ra… … ah… vi…’ as the signal breaks up. He calls her back. It rings. She doesn’t answer. Noisy party. “Hi Rachel. Dad here. I was in the shower when you rang. Just calling you back. Hope you’re having a great time. If you get this message, text me, and I’ll ring you back. It’d be great to talk – but not after two in the morning. That’s nine o’clock your time. Bye.”

He shuts the phone and puts it back in his pocket.

“
Aren’t you going to call a taxi?”

“
I came in the car.”

“
I know. Leave the car here.”

And then, as Mark feared, the little sparks of hostility between them flare into an argument. They are both far too aware of the neighbours for either of them to actually raise their voices – but their civilised reasonableness doesn’t blunt Sara’s accusation that that he’s unfit to drive.

“
I don’t know why you came in the car in the first place.”

“
Because I was late. Because I couldn’t carry a house plant and a bottle of wine and your ear-rings on the bus. Because I wanted it to be a special evening.”

“
You could have got a taxi.”

“
Right. And I would have if it had bloody turned up. I rang for a taxi. They said it would be ten minutes. I waited quarter of an hour. I was impatient. And that was stupid…. And I don’t want to argue any more. I’ve had a wonderful evening. I hope you have too. And you look really gorgeous.”

“
Mark, this is silly.”

“
I know.”

They go to the front door. They kiss goodnight.

By the time he’s in the car, there’s no Sara in the doorway, no goodbye wave.

He slams the car door, inserts the electronic key, and glides away with measured control. Of course she’s right. Of course he shouldn’t be driving. It would fuck up everything if he were caught. ‘Government adviser on drink drive charge’. But he won’t be caught if he drives slowly. And Sara’s flat is less than quarter of an hour back to his place at this time of night.