‘Pourquoi not?’ I said.
Slim smiled and put the pimpmobile into first gear.
As we travelled out of Rome and headed north I made an attempt at the conversation thing.
Not that easy when a) we didn’t have a common language and b) I was really, really tired.
Eventually Slim, who was either sick of my pidgin French or my constant yawning, pointed to the back seat and said, ‘Dormez.’
That much I understood – sleep – and it seemed like just about the best idea I’d ever heard.
So after putting my iPhone on Slim’s car charger I crawled into the back seat and I dormezed.
I woke a few times – once when we’d stopped for fuel and another time when we were winding through the Alps, but mostly it was dormez.
When I woke it was daylight and the pimpmobile was stationary.
I cracked open the door.
We were at the lake.
I checked my watch – it was just after eight.
We’d done the nine-hour-and-four-minute trip in seven and a half hours.
Wow!
Slim was squatting on his haunches, smoking a cigarette, looking out over the water. He smiled when he saw me.
‘Dormez?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Lots of great dormez.’
‘Same my country this,’ he said, and it had the sound of a phrase he’d been practising for some time.
I realised, with some shame, that I’d forgotten what country Slim was from. I knew it was in Africa, but that was all.
But then it came to me.
‘In Tunisia?’ I said.
‘Tunisia,’ he replied, giving it the proper pronunciation.
And what did I know about Tunisia? Slim was from there. It had a lake. Apart from that, not much.
Okay, that was something else I had to look up. So little time. So much to google.
‘Beaucoup texto,’ said Slim.
That’s right, I’d put my iPhone on his charger.
I unplugged it.
He was right: beaucoup texto.
Twelve, to be exact.
The first was from Seb.
I’m okay cops held me for five hours then let me go because no charges.
Well, that was a relief.
Then a whole lot of messages from Mr Ryan and Coach Sheeds. They could wait, I figured. It wasn’t as if I could get into any more trouble. Looming over everything was E Lee Marx’s six o’clock departure time.
I told Slim that we would meet up later, that I would send a texto when I was ready to leave. He didn’t seem so happy with that, though. Eventually, using a mixture of sign language and Google Translate, I worked out what was wrong: he thought I was too young to be left alone in a foreign country. I told him, using a mixture of sign language and Google Translate, that I’d be okay and if I got into trouble I would contact him. He seemed satisfied with that and got into the pimpmobile and rumbled off.
How to get back across that lake? This early in the morning, the boat-hire place wasn’t open. And even if it was, I’m not sure the owner would rent me one of his precious pedal boats anyway, despite my sufficient age.
Steal one?
It seemed to me that as far as criminal activities went, stealing a pedal boat was about as desperate as you could get.
But I didn’t see what choice I had, as a hasty survey of this part of the lake revealed nothing else suitable.
Adopting what I hoped was a nonchalant air, I strolled down the little pier to where the pedal boats were tied up.
I should’ve guessed – not only were they tied up, they were locked up. A great fat chain that linked all the boats was padlocked to a steel ring on the pier.
But now I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: as well as the more conventional pedal boats, there were a couple shaped like swans.
There was nothing subtle about them, either: they had huge curving swan necks, extravagant swan wings.
They were chained up, too, but the chain looked older, rusted, and nowhere near as heavy-duty as the other one.
There was no one around, so I grabbed the chain with both hands and yanked as hard as I could.
It snapped easily, too easily, and the momentum caused me to topple backwards. I picked myself up and clambered aboard a swan.
I felt pretty conspicuous – how could I not, pedalling a giant bird? – but the swan was actually faster than the other pedal boat I’d used.
Maybe it was the wings that gave it some aerodynamic advantage, but whatever it was I was glad for the extra speed as I flew across the water.
It was probably just my imagination but Schwarzwasserstel looked even more dilapidated than it had yesterday.
Exponential decay, I thought.
And then I got the shivers – did I really want to see Ikbal2 with his fragrant/pungent smell again? No, of course I didn’t, but I had no choice.
Just as I was tying up the swan, the tranquillity was rent by the high-pitched screech of a speedboat. I checked the lake. It was coming this way, and coming quickly.
Merde! They were onto me.
Where to hide?
Nowhere outside, it was too exposed.
So I hurried towards the front door of the castle, the sound of the speedboat getting louder and louder. As before, the heavy front door wasn’t locked.
I carefully pushed it open just as the motor cut out.
Where to hide?
Footsteps, and voices.
Not French.
Not English.
Another language I knew but didn’t know.
Maybe it wasn’t me they were onto, after all.
I crouched down behind a huge pot containing a dusty palm, making myself as small as possible. The men hurried past – I saw three sets of feet, Adidas, Nike, Converse. And now I got it: they were speaking Arabic, the same language spoken by the men who worked in Cozzi’s café back home.
Up the stairs they swarmed.
I took a deep breath.
Stay here or find somewhere more secure?
Just as I’d decided that I was better off staying where I was, there was the sound of a gun going off, followed by another gun going off and then another one.
There was yelling, all of it in Arabic, and the sound of furniture being overturned.
One final gunshot and then men running back down the stairs.
I shrank behind the pot, too scared to look.
The speedboat started up and took off.
It was only when the sound had attenuated to nothing and all I could hear was the percussion of my heart that I looked up.
I knew something evil had happened.
I could feel it.
Smell it.
And every particle of my being told me that I had to get out of this terrible place.
But the weight of the phoney coin in my pocket told me something else.
I had to go up those steps.
Slowly I stood up.
So far, so good.
I shuffled around the edge of the pot plant.
Jesus, Dom! Pull yourself together.
You’ve had the inside of your thigh seared four times.
You’ve almost been run down by a supertanker.
You’ve been punched in the guts.
You’ve been shot at.
You’ve been knifed.
And now you’re acting like a big old scaredy cat.
I pulled myself to my full height and forced myself to walk properly, to march up the stairs.
‘Ikbal Ikbal,’ I said in a loud, clear voice as I neared the door. ‘It’s me, Dominic.’
The only reply was Montgomery’s.
Not his customary yap, however. This was more like a whimper.
‘Ikbal Ikbal, it’s me, Dominic,’ I kept repeating as I walked through the door.
More whimpering from Montgomery.
But when I was inside, when I saw Ikbal2, I stopped talking.
Words are wasted on the dead.
Not so long
ago, I’d thought that Brandon had been dead. But now that I was looking at a real dead person I knew how wrong I’d been then. Ikbal Ikbal, friend of King Farouk of Egypt, was slumped in his chair, his eyes open, unmoving. And blood was coming out of him.
At his feet was Montgomery. He look at me with his squashed-up pug face and then back at his dead master.
I could feel the bile rising in my throat. And I wanted some water. And I wanted to retch. And I wanted to get out of here.
But first I went over to the overturned dresser.
The panel, thank god, was still in place.
But now I needed the key he kept around his neck.
No, this was too much.
Too much.
Too much.
I wanted my mum to stroke my forehead and tell me that everything was going to be okay.
I wanted Imogen to hold my hand like she had that night in the minibus after the state titles.
I walked over to the body.
I’d never seen a dead person before.
Never touched a dead person before.
It was a day of firsts.
‘Sorry, Ikbal Ikbal,’ I said as I went to feel around his neck.
Montgomery yapped at me.
‘It’s okay, Montgomery,’ I said, hoping he would remember my voice and calm down.
Again he looked at me with that squashed-up face.
What has happened? he seemed to say.
Again I went to feel around Ikbal Ikbal’s neck, and this time Montgomery did nothing.
My hand dug into the still-warm flesh.
And then I could feel metal.
Nearby, a phone rang.
I ignored it.
I dug one finger in, getting it under the chain. And slipped it around until I could feel the keys. My fingers went around the keys, holding tight. I couldn’t bring myself to slip the chain over his head – what if I touched his face? – so I yanked.
The chain bit into the flesh but didn’t break.
I readjusted my grip and yanked harder, as hard as I could.
This time the chain broke, and I had a handful of keys.
I hurried back to the dresser and slid the panel across, revealing the locked drawer.
From memory it was a silver key.
I tried one of those first.
No luck.
Then the next one.
No luck.
The third one worked and the drawer slipped open.
The case was there.
I opened it.
My coin was sitting there on its bed of velvet.
I swapped coins.
But then I remembered about fingerprints and forensics and DNA – this was a murder scene.
I took the coin, wiped it on my shirt, then put it back.
I closed the drawer. Slid the panel across. Gave it a wipe with the edge of my T-shirt.
As for the keys, I hastily wiped them and threw them on the floor.
I made for the door, but just as I was about to disappear through it I took one last look behind me.
Montgomery had found his way onto his master’s lap and was looking up at him, waiting to be stroked.
As I ran downstairs, taking the steps three at a time, I realised that tears were cascading down my cheeks.
Through the door.
Onto the landing.
And thwocka thwocka thwocka – a helicopter was coming this way – I could see the white speck on the horizon.
And so were two police boats.
The swan was not an option.
I ran around the side of the building. Scrambled through the unruly garden. Until I reached the cliff, a solid wall of smooth stone.
Impossible, I thought.
Even a rock climber with all the rock-climber paraphernalia would have trouble getting up this thing.
I had to go back, face the music.
I would just tell the truth. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything wrong. I’d swapped my real Double Eagle for a fake one, but then I’d realised my mistake and come back to replace the fake one with the real one.
I imagined explaining that to a roomful of Swiss cops.
I turned to face the cliff again.
Yes, there were some cracks I hadn’t noticed before. And there were some minor protuberances that could be used for purchase. And there, about four metres up, was a definite ledge.
If I managed to reach it, surely it would be easier going after that?
All I had to do was get there.
And I’d scaled the mighty Colosseum, hadn’t I?
Who was I kidding? The Colosseum was a doddle compared to what I was confronted with.
Again, I thought about turning back and giving myself up. But again I decided against it.
The crack was actually more like a crevice, and several of the protuberances were chunkier than I’d first thought.
I worked out a route in my mind. I tightened my backpack, spat on my hands and set off.
The rock was cold, much colder than I thought it would be.
But it was easier going than I’d expected.
Right handhold – done.
Left foothold – done.
Stretching up and my left hand had purchase.
No obvious footholds from here, but this was where the crevice came in.
I was able to jam my right foot into it. I pushed against it and got just enough lift for my right hand to find another chunk of rock. I swung my left hand around so that it, too, had a piece of this rock.
Now the trick was to get at least one foot onto this chunk as well. The only way to do this was to boost myself upwards.
I remembered the instructor at the climbing gym showing us how to do this, how easy it had looked when he demonstrated it. But not one of us kids had been able to pull it off. Every one of us had dropped off the wall, ending up dangling in the harness.
I’d realised then what amazing upper-body strength climbers have.
Negative thoughts found their way into my head: If you couldn’t do it then, what makes you think you can do it now?
You’re a runner, not a climber; all your strength is in your lower body, your legs.
But the cool rock seemed to be saying something else: You can do this, of course you can.
I set my shoulders, dug my toes in, crouched and then pushed up with all my might.
At first it was my legs propelling me upwards, but then my arms took over, pulling up.
Until the pulling up became pressing down, pushing my body weight higher and higher.
Arms burning, then shaking as muscles fatigued.
Just a little bit more.
I brought one knee up, jamming it into the chunk of rock. To get my hands off the rock, I spread them against the wall, fingers out wide.
I was up there, but I was balancing on one knee.
How to get to my feet?
With my face pressed against the rock, I couldn’t see above.
So first my left hand crept across the rock, feeling for some purchase.
It found nothing.
The rock was biting into my knee, the pain increasing.
Now the right hand moved, feeling for something.
A small crack, but enough to jam three fingers into.
Now I had to swing the other leg around, put it where my knee was.
I dug my fingers in deeper, tearing the skin.
One. Two. Three.
Leg around. Toe on rock. Fingers twisting. Pushing up.
I was standing on the chunk now.
And the ledge was about half a metre higher than my hand could reach.
A ‘dyno’ the instructor had called it, and we’d all known he was showing off, because there was no way any of us could have done it. He’d jumped up and grabbed a handhold with one hand and, for a second or so, he’d just dangled there, showing us how amazing he was.
It seemed to me that the only way I’d get to that ledge was by doing a dyno.
The sun had appeared from be
hind the cliff and its rays spilled onto my face.
It was like Mother Nature, despite the obstacles she was putting in my way, was encouraging to me.
I thought of how easily the instructor had done it.
Yes, he was an experienced climber. But I was an experienced athlete.
Thwocka. Thwocka. Thwocka.
Another helicopter was making its way to Schwarzwasserstel.
And was that a dog’s bark I could hear? A guttural bark, so different to Montgomery’s it may have well belonged to a different species.
Were there tracker dogs on my trail now?
A day of first; it was time to do my first dyno.
I flexed my knees.
One. Two. Three.
I pushed up out of the semi-squat, pushed up hard.
The momentum carried me up, my arms up, and I was floating in space, no contact at all with the rock.
Then rock at my fingertips. Both hands grabbing.
But I knew this wasn’t enough.
I needed to utilise what momentum I had left.
I swung my left foot up, willing it higher and higher until the heel was on rock too.
And now gravity had hold of me and was trying to drag me back down.
But, using my heel as a fulcrum, I dragged myself onto the ledge. Into a sitting position, my back against the rock, my legs dangling.
Schwarzwasserstel below, all its turrets visible, again looked like some sort of Disney castle. The police boats were pulling in at the wharf.
I could see two men with a dog on a leash.
If I could see them, then of course they could see me. I had to keep going.
I twisted around, got to my feet.
There was a crease in the rock, in some places quite deep, in others shallow. If I could wedge myself into that crease, then I could use my whole body – legs, bum, arms – to shimmy upwards.
And there was no time to lose.
The dog and its handlers had disappeared from view and the barking was getting louder. I figured that they were in the garden on their way to the cliff.
I shuffled along the edge until I reached the crease.
It wasn’t elegant, every move scraped more skin off my body, but it was effective and I clawed myself incrementally upward.
After about twenty minutes, I started to cramp, my legs complaining about being kept in such an awkward position.
But I kept going, willing everything upward.
Don’t look down, I told myself.
But when I heard voices, I ignored my own advice.
I looked down.
Fetch the Treasure Hunter Page 19