by PJ Skinner
‘I hear you’ve got a job. That’s brilliant,’ said Hannah.
‘Yes, I’m off to the tropics.’
‘That’s amazing. Who will you be working for?’
‘Mike Morton.’
‘Jesus. Are you serious? Mike ‘the swindler’ Morton?’
‘Don’t be like that. He’s not all bad.’
‘How do you know? Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘I have the choice between temping in tights or going off to the jungle like Indiana Jones. What would you do?’
‘I work in an office.’
‘I meant what would you do if you were me, silly. I hate tights, and offices. This may be my only chance to be a real geologist.’
‘How much are you getting paid?’
‘I’m getting paid in shares and he’s paying my expenses.’
‘Is this a joke? You’ll never get paid anything.’
‘It’s my dream. I don’t need to be paid. I need a job on my CV so that I can kick-start my career. It’ll be fun and great to experience something new. I can learn more Spanish as well.’
‘Couldn’t you go to Malaga and pick up a waiter?’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s going to be great. Think of it as a free holiday to Sierramar with expenses paid and a boost to my CV.’
‘Now that you put it like that, I suppose it could be a bit of an adventure.’
‘Exactly, and you know how I love an adventure.’
They both snorted.
‘And, on the positive side, Simon will be nearly six thousand miles away.’
‘Now that is positive. Okay, you’ve won me over. Off you go and have a fantastic time. Will you be able to call me?’
‘Thanks. I will, though I’m not sure about calling you. I imagine that it’s pretty expensive from over there. How about a postcard?’
‘A postcard? Lots of postcards would be better.’
‘Okay, lots of postcards. See you soon.’
‘See you soon, sis.’
***
Later, while Sam watched television in the sitting room, Matilda Harris cornered her husband in the kitchen.
‘I’m afraid I’m not enthusiastic about Sam working with that man,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘Ah yes, the dreaded Mike Morton, scourge of the private investor,’ said Bill Harris.
‘Don’t joke, darling, this is serious.’
‘It certainly is. That man took my money and made it disappear.’
His wife looked cross, and he raised a conciliatory hand to her face.
‘I know what you mean, pumpkin, but it’s a job. Experience is worth its weight in gold these days.’
‘But what sort of experience will it be? Do you think he’ll pay her?’
‘I doubt it, but I don’t think that’s the point. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her bank account and make up for any shortfall. She told me that he’s only paying her a hundred pounds a month. Even he should be able to manage that.’
‘How much?’
‘One hundred a month.’
‘But that’s terrible. We should stop her going.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Even if she gets no money out of it, she’ll have valuable experience that will give her more chance of getting the next job, hopefully one that pays more. It may even get her past the ‘women can’t work in mining’ thing. Poor old Sam, she’s such an idealist, no one can tell her that women’s lib is a pipe dream. She believes men and women are equal.’
‘She’s always wanted to be a boy, ever since she was little. She got very cross when I told her it wasn’t possible. I despair of her ever settling down to a normal life like her sister.’
‘Sam will be fine, darling. You’ll see. A trip to the jungle could be what she needs to work things out. She can look after herself, you know. She’s tough, she’s got your genes.’
‘You’re right, of course. Anyway, she’s so excited. Did you see the way her eyes are shining? Nothing will stop her now.’
They kept their counsel and waved Sam off the next day without giving her a lecture on the evils of Mike Morton. Her father had tried a word of caution but Sam didn’t want to hear anything bad about her new boss.
‘I’m a grown-up, Daddy. He’s no angel but I’m not completely naïve. I know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. It’ll be fun.’
‘Watch out for those Latino men,’ quipped her father.
‘I’d say Mike Morton is far more dangerous,’ muttered her mother.
***
When the doorbell rang at the house on Eaton Square, Edward Beckett was arguing with his wife, Ophelia.
‘I don’t know why you tolerate him. He’s a charlatan,’ said Ophelia.
‘Now darling, don’t be a bore. We’ve already talked about this. It’s my money and I have a right to enjoy it. I earned it.’
‘But wasting it on his cockeyed schemes?’
‘It’s not a waste. I love the thrill of the chase and it’s more than unlikely that we’ll ever strike it rich, but I enjoy funding a ludicrous adventure now and again.’
‘Ludicrous. Yes, that sums it up. You make me so cross.’
‘Look, it’s my casino money. I don’t gamble or womanise. You should be happy it’s such a small indulgence. There’s the doorbell. Go and answer it like a good girl.’
His wife turned on her heel muttering and went to answer the door.
Mike Morton stood outside composing himself. He was sweating a bit after his trip across town on the underground train surrounded by cute French exchange students with adorable accents. He was almost distracted from his mission by the lure of the ingénue. Managing to concentrate long enough to get off at the right stop, he inhaled the scent of the long brunette hair of the nearest student as he got off. What a pity! He steeled himself for the sarcastic comments sure to be made about his latest ‘sure thing’ and knocked on the door. It was opened by Ophelia who looked at Mike as if he were something nasty that she had picked up on her shoe.
‘He’s in there,’ she said, indicating the study with a flick of her head. ‘He’s waiting for you.’ She stepped back quickly as if to avoid being contaminated by contact with the visitor.
Mike was immune to disapproval. He had the skin of a rhinoceros, vital to any entrepreneur who relied on other peoples’ money.
‘How nice to see you so soon after our trip, Ophelia,’ he said and headed straight for the study, where Edward Beckett was sitting in an armchair reading the newspaper with fake concentration. His greying hair was perfectly coiffed and his manicured hands grasped the pink sheets in their soft fingers. He oozed wealth and privilege. Sometimes Mike hated the bastard. Edward Beckett was a man born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. A product of Eton and Oxford, and lots of family money, he treated Mike like an exotic pet from the East End, one that he could flush down the lavatory if he lost his allure.
‘Edward, old mate. How are you? Back to the grindstone?’ Mike forced himself to sound as upbeat as possible. Completely broke after his run in with the river gravel project in Sierramar, he needed to get Edward on his side again. He was confident that he could still interest him in the possibility of owning a gold mine in South America, if only for the kudos he would gain down at the club. Mike decided that asking for more than he needed was the best policy, as he had experience in being bartered down in similar circumstances. Edward Beckett could afford to be generous. He loved making money and he understood Mike’s need to get rich quick as well as anyone could. Edward looked up from his newspaper with a warm smile, and Mike felt that it was going to be a good day. He extended his hand and smiled back.
‘Let’s hear it then,’ Edward said, knowing his friend needed no encouragement.
‘I’m, um, sorry that our first venture in Sierramar didn’t go well. I was truly done up like a Christmas turkey on that one. I’d like to have another go. Do you remember Sam, the geologist we met in Lindos?’
‘Of co
urse,’ he answered, ‘we had dinner with her. She seemed like a pretty interesting young woman.’
‘I’ve convinced her to come over to Sierramar for a modest salary to help me select projects. It’s a bit more than I expected but she does have experience. I believe she will prove her worth quickly.’
Mike felt bad lying to Edward about Sam but he might need extra funds if he got in a tight spot. He genuinely believed that Sam offered them something and that she would profit from the shares in time, and that everything would turn out all right. He went on.
‘Armed with our experience of the first dud project and Sam’s help, I think we’ve got a much better chance of success. We have first mover advantage over there. I’m sure there are amazing projects lurking all over the country. If you want to be involved again, I guarantee you that it’ll go better this time. The gold price is on the move and there’s lots of money to be made out there. I believe we could make millions this time with the right deal. Millions.’
Edward looked at his friend, who sweated with anticipation. He couldn’t help feeling that frisson of excitement that kept him investing with Mike, time after time. He wasn’t going to miss out on a gold mine. That was for sure.
‘What’s the deal?’ he said.
Chapter III
‘You’re a geologist? Don’t geologists have beards?’
The man smirked at his friends. The hum and chatter of the airport filled the silence that followed as Sam searched for a comeback. Why had she got into a conversation with this idiot? She should have told him she was an air hostess. She shifted from foot to foot on the tiled floor, her face burning with shame but there was no point in fighting back. She had learned this the hard way.
‘Um, well, I’ve tried but it’s not working.’
She rubbed her chin as if searching for bristles and tried to smile in an apologetic way, desperate not to be labelled as a humourless feminist. That fine line again. The combined effect of faking a smile and choking back a retort resulted in more of a snarl. The gloating look on the man’s face was replaced by uncertainty. He stepped back, falling over a suitcase behind him and landing in an undignified heap at the feet of his companions. He kicked the bag and swore loudly. She allowed a delighted grin to creep over her features and she took a photograph for future reference with her green eyes. She turned away from her aggressor and went to sit in a quiet corner of the airport to wait for her next flight.
Although uncomfortable, the plastic chair felt like a refuge. The encounter had unsettled her. Sam had been told that she didn’t stand a chance of being accepted in the mining industry even though it was 1987 and the supposed liberation of women had happened decades ago. Yet, of all the people in her Master’s year, she was the only one with a job. Working with a dodgy entrepreneur who couldn’t pay her in cash, and might not pay her at all, wasn’t the most desirable of situations, but the key to getting better paid work was having experience on her resumé, and she couldn’t resist the chance of adventure that Sierramar offered. She had no idea what awaited her in the mountains and coastal jungles but she was off to Latin America, if not to make her fortune, at least to make a start on her career. A beard was optional, a brain was better.
Once she settled into her seat on the aircraft, Sam dug around in her rucksack and pulled out her new book The Lost Treasure of the Incas. She had picked it up in a charity shop when she was looking for some second-hand clothes suitable for field gear. Her search had yielded two pairs of khaki trousers with lots of pockets, one of which was a bit tight, but she was planning on losing weight anyway. While she was paying for the trousers, she spotted the book on a shelf behind the counter and couldn’t resist it. She had already read several chapters, and while the style was a bit dry, she was fascinated by the story of the treasure. She had often heard about El Dorado and ancient treasure troves in Latin America but there seemed to be at least a grain of truth to this particular story of Inca gold. The best bit was that it was supposedly hidden in the mountains of Sierramar. Sam wondered how much such a treasure would be worth. It was nice to imagine that it was still there waiting to be found, no matter how unlikely it seemed. Geologists spend months looking for the tiniest traces of gold. Imagine finding mountains of it.
The landing at Calderon, the capital of Sierramar, was alarming and exhilarating at the same time, as the plane swooped low over the city, right over a circular stadium, so close that Sam could see the individual seats. The jet landed with a big thud on the patched runway, and continued for miles in the thin air of Calderon. It pulled up at the gate, the crew swung open the door and Sam staggered down the steps, stiff from twelve hours in the small seat. She had moved to the non-smoking section of the aircraft, but she smelt as if she’d been to a pub. The bright sunlight assaulted her eyes, and she fumbled in her bag for her cheap sunglasses. Airport security guards with large guns watched her as she joined the queue of passengers at immigration.
The process took ages because of the lack of agents. The desperation on people’s faces grew with each passing minute. Sam’s mother would have prescribed a nice cup of tea, but then she would have done the same for someone suffering from bullet wounds as well. Sam was hoping that Mike Morton would turn up.
When Sam finally got to the front of the queue, her passport was stamped with a ninety-day visa and she was waved through with a big smile before she could even explain what she was doing in Sierramar, which was probably just as well. She went to look for her bags, which were already doing an endless loop on the carousel. Throwing them onto a wonky trolley, she pushed it through customs, veering further and further to the left until an agent had to grab the front wheel and pull her through. He didn’t show the remotest interest in her, being far more focused on the locals arriving home from Europe with their bulging suitcases of contraband and more clothes than Liberace.
When Sam finally emerged from the airport building, Mike Morton was waiting for her, surrounded by the excited relatives of the other passengers on her flight. It was Sunday afternoon and he had the air of a man who had only recently emerged from his bed. His face was puffy and he looked tired and cross.
‘Hi Sam. Good flight?’
‘Yes, thanks. It went like clockwork. We flew over some sort of stadium as we were coming in to land. Do you know what it is? A round thing?’
‘Ah yes, that’s the bullfighting plaza. They have a festival once a year with matadors from all over the world. When the bullfights are boring, the aficionados shout ‘Olé’ at the planes instead of the matadors. That your bag? Okay, let’s go then.’
‘How are you?’ said Sam. ‘You look tired.’
‘Not bad. I’ve got a terrible chuchaqui.’
‘Chuchaqui?’
‘Hangover. It’s a Quechua word, the most common of the indigenous dialects in Sierramar. Spanish is a bit bastardized here. I use the word a lot.’ He grinned at her.
They got into a battered four-wheel-drive vehicle and then drove along pitted roads with rows of dangerous looking concrete bumps up the middle, lined by low-level, shabby buildings made of breeze blocks with zinc roofs. Here and there, with increasing regularity, a tall new building broke up the lines of houses. They drove along the middle of the valley as the city of Calderon rose away up steep hills on both sides of them. To the west, a large mountain with a skirt of conifers loomed over the city. Above the trees, a black cone partially covered in snow rose into a sharp peak.
‘Wow. A volcano in the suburbs,’ said Sam.
‘Yes. And it’s still active, in case you were wondering.’
‘Funny place to build your capital.’
‘Funny people. They live day to day here. The fact that they could all be blown to smithereens at any moment doesn’t register.’
‘Like Mount Etna?’
‘Yup.’
It did occur to Sam that Mike was living there, too, but it didn’t seem like the right time to comment. They turned up onto the eastern flank of the city and into a long avenue line
d with modern blocks of flats, each one newer and taller than the last. Mike stopped at one that was made of glass and chrome and pressed a button to open the security gate to the basement carpark. He drove down the ramp and parked in a numbered parking bay near the elevators. They got into the lift and rose through ten levels of luxury apartments stopping at the eleventh floor. The chrome doors opened to reveal an entrance hall with a large wooden door.
‘You’ll like the apartment, Sam. Since you were looking out of the window as you landed, you may have noticed that the plane swooped over an avenue of tall buildings on your way into the airport. That is the Avenida Miranda, where we are now.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’ Sam had been impressed by the beautiful new building until she was told that she’d be living on the flight path of low flying jumbo jets.
Mike opened the door and Sam entered what looked like a show flat. It was huge, light and airy with shiny wood floors and almost no furniture at all. She tried to hide her dismay but Mike saw the expression on her face.
‘We’re a bit short on furniture,’ he said, ‘but we’ve ordered more. Your bedroom is the one on the left at the back. Let me show you.’
They walked around the apartment looking into the rooms. There were three large bedrooms, all with en-suite bathrooms and built-in wardrobes. The dining area was in the central part of the apartment which was open plan. It led into a huge empty living room with a stereo system on the floor against the back wall. There was also an area off the living room that served as an office. This held two desks and a filing cabinet. There were no carpets, rugs or curtains and the walls were bare except for a map of Sierramar with illegible scribbles all over it.