The silence remained unbroken, and finally he felt his feet kick the bottom. Staying belly down, he slithered through the mud towards the forest cover before collapsing in the safety of the trees.
He watched the ship for fifteen minutes while he recovered a little energy. It remained quiet. He moved on, keeping a hundred metres back from the shoreline, paralleling the channel west. Although still marshy in places, the ground was much easier going than the mangrove swamp, and the trees provided shade from the intolerable blast of the sun.
He made his way cautiously at first, tensed in anticipation of another search party, choosing good cover over easy walking. But as the hours slipped by, exhaustion and thirst made caution a luxury he couldn’t afford. Weakened, hurting, priorities shifting, Hamnet knew he must find water — or nothing else would matter. But there was none — and slowly, inexorably, dehydration tightened its grip. The light began to soften, the shadows lengthened. He stumbled on unseen undergrowth, lurched into a tree, hanging on even as the earth dragged him down.
Every muscle was burning with lactic acid build-up. His head pounded, his throat was on fire, his tongue was cracked and swollen, his lips, burnt by the sun, were split and bleeding. He felt himself falling as his eyes closed, sliding down the tree, toppling onto his side. Something told him that losing consciousness was a step towards death. But there was nothing left to draw on. Nothing left to resist with. It was all gone. He sank onto the soft bed of the forest floor, and there, in the distance, he could hear Anna calling him.
Chapter 6
It was the crash of thunder that brought Hamnet back — that and the rain. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there. He knew only that his thirst was a harsh, dominating pain that permeated every cell in his body — and that now there was water all around. He rolled over, pressing his face into the soft mud beneath him, lips and tongue kissing the wet earth — wonderful, miraculous moisture.
He knelt shakily, pulled off his soaking shirt and wrung it out into his mouth. He then tossed it over a nearby branch and scrabbled around in the darkness looking for pools of clean water in hollows of bark and root. He wrung out his shirt again, then lay back, mouth open, to let the downpour pummel him. Finally, instinct forced him onto his feet. The darkness was complete, but the familiar hiss of rain on still water led him to the channel, where he found a narrow sandy foreshore. He turned left, and once again began tramping west. He stopped regularly to drink, but was unable to save any of the water that was now so plentiful.
He thought he was imagining the light, that it was a trick played by tired eyes and an overanxious mind. But there was another — and a third and a fourth. He walked for another half hour before the beach swung to the left, and now it became clear that the lights were out in the channel. A couple were flashing — navigation beacons indicating the entrance to the main river. For the first time in twenty-four hours, Hamnet’s spirits lifted a fraction. But then the beach turned a further ninety degrees to the left, forcing him to walk away from the glimmer of hope. A little further on the foreshore itself started to disappear. The ground became marshy once more, and mangroves closed in around him.
The most logical explanation was that he had reached a branch off the main river and was now headed upstream into the hinterland. It meant another swim. He went through the same routine as before, slipping over the slime and into the water, into his tired and awkward breaststroke. But he was soon kicking the soft bottom of the narrow stream, and stumbled to all fours in the shallows. Struggling to his feet, hesitating only to put his shoes back on, he moved off at a crawling pace. Only when he finally saw lights to the north did he stop. They appeared through the trees, both near and far. With the first blush of dawn easing over the eastern horizon, he took shelter in the undergrowth and slept.
It was his constant companions — heat, hunger and thirst — that woke him. The view from his hide-out was much as he had expected. Directly north he could see the port of Muntok, where the Shawould had been anchored two days earlier. He watched a ferry pull out from the harbour, headed for Palembang. Nothing else moved. Muntok would be closer than Palembang — only fifteen or twenty kilometres away. If he could just get hold of a dinghy to cross the channel . . . Wooden buildings on stilts, with attendant fishing boats, dotted the bay. These must have been the source of the closer lights he had seen in the night. The boats were there for the taking if he could manage the swim.
The channel was placid in the sunshine, showing little sign of tide or current. But thirst was still nagging, and although lack of food was slower to inflict its damage, the steady decline in energy reserves was real enough. He knew he had little strength left. If he got in trouble out there, he would have nothing extra to call on.
Such were the thoughts that spun around in his head all afternoon. He dozed, shifted his position, tried to rest, his hunger and thirst growing. Eventually he gave up on sleep and spent an hour cutting and tearing the legs off his trousers with the help of a stone. He would leave his shirt behind — the less resistance while swimming the better.
The fishermen came and went, but of the three buildings closest to him, one had a boat beside it as the sun went down. He guessed it to be between two and three kilometres distant. There was little point in waiting any longer. It would be easier to start while there was still some daylight. He wormed down the beach, crawled into the cool water, and settled once more into a steady breaststroke that allowed him to watch and listen.
Clouds were gathering behind the low hills of Bangka, but for now the water was rippled by only the lightest of breezes, and glowed with the deepening orange of the western sky. Hamnet paced himself carefully. His parched throat cried out for him to wash back the liquid that streamed across his face with every stroke, and he had to work hard to fight the temptation. The sun’s rays finally disappeared, to be replaced by a weak moonlight. Occasionally he heard a distant engine, and once felt a wash ripple past him. He kept a careful eye on his target. It remained unlit, which he hoped meant the occupants were sleeping. He took his bearings off a distinctive group of four lights on the far shore. He judged there was no tide carrying him off course, but it was difficult to estimate distance, and harder still when the clouds finally shut out the moon. The water around him was dark and oily.
He stopped, ears straining to listen. He let himself sink low in the water, kicking gently with his feet to hold position without splashing. There was only silence ahead of him, broken by a faraway clap of thunder. The air was heavy with anticipation of another storm.
A sudden noise sent him reeling with its proximity. Then a lamp threw the shack into stark relief. Light escaped through every crack in the walls and glittered across the water, shining off his face. The building was only ten metres away, to his right. Beneath it was deep shadow. He sucked back a huge breath and dived as quietly as he could.
Hamnet swam hard for the darkness with the minimum of motion, without expelling any of the air in his lungs. Stealthily he entered the shadow and glided to the surface. He breathed out as quietly as possible. The floor of the hut was two metres or more above. Had they heard him? A creak, a sigh. Then a stream of liquid splashed and bubbled centimetres from his face. Someone was urinating off the porch. Hamnet barely stifled a curse and the reflex to recoil.
He backed carefully away from the froth and turned. He needed to locate the boat while there was still light. It lay on the far side of the hut. More creaks, a few words in a language he didn’t recognise. A phut as the lamp was extinguished, then silence and darkness.
This was the most dangerous moment. He forced himself to wait, for his eyes to adjust, for those above him to return to sleep. Gradually he tuned back into the environment. The wind was building, the odd rumble of thunder no longer so distant. Sudden flashes of lightning lit up Bangka Island, and in those instants he could see the boat more clearly. But the rain that would cover the noise of his movements so effectively refused to come. He swam over to the boat and pushed g
ently against it. It was brought up short by lines at both bow and stern. He draped his shoes over the gunwale before moving to the bow and groping for the rope. It was tied up high on the building, well above his reach. He cursed himself for not carrying a knife.
More frustrating still was that the freeboard of the boat stopped him reaching inside to release the rope at that end. Either he would have to climb one of the stilts and untie the line from the shack, or he would have to pull himself into the boat. Neither was an attractive proposition, but climbing aboard silently from the water would be impossible. He decided to tackle the stilts. Where the hell was that rain? The thunder had stopped and the wind had settled to a gentle ten knots. Ripples slapped against the hull. That would have to be cover enough.
He swam to the closest stilt. He was just able to grab a strut, and from there he reached for the lip of the porch. As he pulled himself up, water began to cascade off his shorts. He quickly lowered himself back. No sign of detection from above — yet — but the shorts would have to go. He emptied his lungs and sank quietly. It was the only way to get the shorts off without thrashing around on the surface. He wrung them out as gently as he could, then hung them over the side of the dinghy with his shoes.
He went back to the stilt and tried again. He cleared the water silently, but felt more exposed than ever. He pulled himself up so his head was level with the bottom edge of the porch and slowly peered over. He couldn’t make out anything. Stepping on it would be too risky, judging by the creaking and groaning that had accompanied the owner’s movements. Instead, he moved arm over arm along the edge of the porch, lifting his feet slightly so they didn’t drag in the water, until he felt the bow line brush against his body. Muscle burn was starting to bite in his forearms. He transferred his right hand to the rope and pulled. It didn’t budge. And it was clear from the angle that it was tied up well out of reach unless he could climb onto the porch itself. Despair began to flood into him, as fast as the strength was pouring out of his arms. He ground his teeth with frustration. He had come so far — it was ridiculous that this part should be so hard.
Then, with a flash of inspiration, he realised he was holding the solution. He pulled the line in the opposite direction and the bow of the boat turned obediently towards him; then, by lifting his body, he got the dinghy to slide directly underneath him. He shifted his weight to the rope and gently let himself down onto the thwart, before working his way to the end of the line to untie it. One down, one to go.
He stared at the bottom of the boat for a long while before accepting he could see nothing. It was too risky to try working his way down to the stern — there would be fishing gear, ropes, uneven boards and God knows what else to trip over. He grabbed the bow line, pulled himself up and out of the boat, and lowered himself back into the water.
It had been the perfect technique. All he had to do was repeat the manoeuvre at the stern. He swam there, found the nearest stilt and edged himself up it until he held the lip of the porch in his hands again. Arm over arm he moved towards the stern line, which he then tugged to bring the boat towards him. This time, without the restraint of the bow line, the dinghy kept coming — and bumped into one of the stilts. It didn’t make much of a noise, but there was a rustle, a murmur, from above. He froze, suspended from the porch, feet touching the water, looking down into the shadow of the open stern.
He pulled up his feet and felt for the edge of the boat with them. Another creak. He hung motionless again, arms throbbing — he had to get his weight off them. His searching feet found the outboard motor. There was no casing on it. Would it start if he had to make a run for it? The chances of getting it going quickly enough were slim. But if he just paddled away from the shack any half-competent swimmer would catch him. He pushed such thoughts aside — he could still get away unnoticed. Slowly, he lowered his weight towards the stern. A little more slapping of water as he rocked the boat in the search for somewhere flat to put his feet down. No convenient thwart this time. He reached over for the stern line, gripping it to transfer his weight and drop himself into the boat.
He knew it was a mistake even before he had fully shifted his weight. But it was too late — he couldn’t find his hold on the porch again. The stern line was badly fastened. It slipped once, just a little — enough to freeze his heart. Then it went completely. He crashed to the deck of the boat with a cry of pain, coming down heavily on an ankle. There was an immediate response from inside the hut — a shout, sounds of movement. Hamnet staggered to his feet, reached out for the porch and shoved as hard as he could. The boat slid quickly away. He fumbled for the outboard starter. There was the fizz of a gas light from inside the hut, and suddenly everything was illuminated. He glanced behind him, saw a body throw itself off the porch with a yell, the splash as it hit the water. The oars were stored just inside the gunwale. He grabbed for one as a hand reached over the edge.
He brought the oar down hard, and there was a scream of pain. He tried to get the boat into motion with a couple of strokes, but its owner wasn’t ready to give up his livelihood that easily. He threw himself on the blade to stop Hamnet using it. Hamnet pushed the oar at the assailant and let go. The man went under. Hamnet flipped the second oar up off the gunwale and brought the blade swinging round. As the man resurfaced, spluttering, the oar crashed down on his skull. Hamnet didn’t stop to watch or wonder. He lodged the oar in a groove at the stern and with a few quick strokes sculled the boat away, out of the light. A last bellow from behind, more splashing.
He barely noticed. He unshipped the oar and reached for the outboard starter. First pull, it spluttered — no petrol. He felt for the pump on the hose — three quick squeezes. Then he remembered the airlock inside the petrol can and felt for the lid. He flipped it off and squeezed again. This time petrol rushed down the rubber tubing. He grabbed the starter rope and pulled a second time. Nearly. One more go. The engine fired into life. He reached for the throttle and wrenched it open. The surging revs drowned out all sound behind him. The propeller bit, the boat leapt forward and Hamnet sat down heavily, grabbing for the tiller. He got the thing under control and looked behind him. His wake was carving a foaming trail away from the pool of light. There was at least one person in the water, while others were standing on the porch holding out sticks to grab on to. Hamnet turned his back. He was gone.
Chapter 7
Anna was sitting on the porch, legs dangling over the water, lightly warmed by the early-morning sunshine. The sounds of the village as it woke were sharp in the cool air. Homely sounds, but not comforting. A single fly buzzed irritatingly around her right eye. She flicked at it half-heartedly.
Two days of keeping vigil over the imprisoning sea of mangroves. Two days during which nothing had happened, nothing had changed. She had spoken to no one. All her efforts to communicate with her captors had been rebuffed. Although she had been well fed and no one had touched her since the incident with Janac, the isolation was intense. This was something she had formerly been good at handling, but the information vacuum left her reading everything into nothing. She couldn’t stop imagining what was about to happen. And what had happened, on the Shawould, to Phil.
There was the creak of a footstep on the bamboo floor, and she reacted instantly. A glance told her it was Janac approaching the pots over the fire. She turned away again, hiding her reaction. This was the man. The nothingness of the last two days had corresponded exactly with his absence. What did his return mean? She could feel her pulse quickening as she listened intently to the familiar sound of a plate being filled. The fly was back, the hum loud in her left ear. She flicked at it again, then winced at the use of the still painful blistered hand.
‘It’s eighty kilometres to the nearest town.’ His voice was coming towards her. ‘And every step of the way is through that.’ It was above her now, very close. She remembered his hands on her, that yellow-toothed grimace, and shuddered involuntarily — then was instantly angry for doing so. She forced herself to keep staring o
ut across the river. Janac took note, turned to sit on the bench that backed the porch, and took a couple of mouthfuls, sucking air over the hot food.
‘So, what did you think when your beloved husband refused to show himself and let his crew die?’ he asked through the sticky rice.
Anna’s lips tightened. She eased round to face him and leant back against the balustrade. ‘That he had his reasons,’ she replied, quickly casting her eyes over him. Smart but casual dress — jeans and a cotton button-down. The stubble had gone, along with the revolver. She felt dirty in the T-shirt and shorts she’d been given.
Janac swallowed before he replied this time. ‘Like saving his own neck?’ His tongue worked on something stuck between his teeth.
‘Like saving everyone.’
Janac spat whatever it was that had come loose into the water. ‘Well, he didn’t do much of a job, did he? Eleven dead, wasn’t it? So do you think he’s going to save you now?’
‘Yes.’ She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, careful with the sore hand.
Janac emptied the plate, chewing the last mouthful as he set it down beside him. He leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘A buck-naked white man stole a boat last night from one of the villages up near the mouth of the Upang River. Whoever it was, he killed the owner — clobbered the sad bastard with a paddle. He drowned.’
Lightning snapshots of Anna’s reaction flickered across her face. Was it Phil? He was alive! Had he killed someone?
‘The trail of blood and destruction that accompanies Phil Hamnet seems endless. How many’s that? Eleven on the boat, twelve including my man, one last night — and four before, wasn’t it?’
The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games) Page 5