‘Ali, I’ve got nothing to drink and nothing to eat,’ she announced to the dead man. ‘I just have to do what I can to stop dehydrating, and hope your prayer for rain is answered. Although it looks like it’s going to be a beautifully sunny today. And hot.’ She pulled off her blouse and sweater, still damp and clammy from their soaking and spread them over the top of the canopy to dry. Then she thought they might get blown off by a gust and spread them out on the side of the raft with one of the straps tucked through a sleeve.
Maybe she would live three more days before she became so severely dehydrated that her organs would fail and she would die. Until then she had to do her utmost to reduce sweating, she had to protect herself from the sun and keep still as much as possible and hope for a miracle. She realised she was getting hot and perspiring so she stripped off the rest of her clothes.
For hour after hour under the shadow of the canopy Gerry sat very still. Every now and again she gazed at Ali, nursing a crazy idea that he would suddenly wake up and pull the sweater clear of his face. If he did, she would revise her opinion of ghosts, zombies and life after death generally. She kept her breathing as shallow as possible and only moved to relieve aches in her limbs and vary the pressure points on her buttocks and back. A sheen of moisture covered her upper body and she gazed resentfully at the rivulets of sweat that dribbled slowly down her front. She used the bailer to scoop some seawater back into the raft and she sat against the side with a tepid pool swilling around her legs and then every few minutes she would pick some up and pour it over her head and shoulders.
From time to time she looked at the tainted rain water that she had collected off the roof sloshing gently about in the bottle and wondered if she would be better or worse off if she drank it. She suspected that in another couple of days she would be desperate enough to take the risk. Otherwise she would become more dehydrated and she would feel increasingly lethargic. Next would follow dizziness, loss of concentration and thereafter she hoped that she would just slip into unconsciousness.
For the moment she was thoroughly bored. She had nothing to do except scan the horizon with slow careful movements of her head. She passed the time by going back over her memories, trying to concentrate on the pleasant ones, but her mind insisted on recalling her more troubled times.
She had been happy at boarding school until the bullying started and she had turned into a lonely girl, sometimes a victim of teasing about her scrawny height. They had called her Miss Take as a cruel pun on her name.
Then, through her genetic inheritance, from a gangling twelve year old she had blossomed into a tall well-proportioned figure by her mid-teens. In addition, through a series of martial arts classes augmented by vigorous self-imposed exercise, she had become a tough determined character whom nobody dared cross.
First of all she had adopted a policy of totally ignoring the bullies whilst slowly building up her strength and agility. When she was on holiday back in the Gulf she enrolled in a judo class, and then she began taekwondo. After a year she had mastered most of the basic movements but what she really wanted to do was impress her enemies with a jump spin hook kick. At the end of the long summer holidays when she was sixteen she was ready to use her skills but by then the bullying had stopped. She was now tall, powerful, morose and nearly friendless. At the end of the year her father was posted back to London. Her parents wanted her to stay on at the private school but she insisted on going to the local comprehensive. She was five feet ten inches tall and weighed one hundred and fifty eight pounds of trained muscle and was immediately marked out as someone not to be trifled with. This reputation was confirmed when she came to the defence of another girl who was being threatened by a couple of young men and she used her skills to somewhat unnecessarily violent effect. Fortunately this incident took place in the town and although it was witnessed by her school friends, none of her fellow pupils were involved. Her parents had been somewhat aghast as the policeman who had been called to the scene just off the high street had officially cautioned her on the use of martial arts.
Her time at university had been fairly happy. She had finally had her first sexual experience in her second year when she had at last learned not to be so prickly with the young men who would ask her out once, but generally not a second time. By the time she graduated she thought herself to be fairly well adjusted but she sometimes wished she had not decided to read psychology because she subjected herself to unrelenting critical self-analysis.
After university she had applied to join the Intelligence Service and after two years she had joined Executive Operations. Her training had advanced until she was lethal with her hands and feet as well as with guns and blades and other weapons. Then a few years on, just as she had unexpectedly found her life enhanced by meeting Philip and the bemusing prospect of becoming a parent, her life was overshadowed by his death. And then after she had allowed Rashid Hamsin to escape, it seemed that some sort of divine or devilish retribution was visited upon her and in a state of bewilderment and depression she had ended up in prison.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Every time the life raft rose to the top of a wave she glanced around the horizon hoping to sight the impossible miracle of a ship. From time to time, overcome by fatigue, hunger and dehydration, she would slump into a semi-conscious sleep until fleeting dreams brought her back to wakefulness.
She was desperately bored. At first she had begun to sing to herself but soon grew frustrated by her inability to remember complete songs. Strangely enough it was Christmas carols and hymns from her childhood and songs from “The Sound of Music” that seemed to be indelibly lodged in her memory and she sung those until she was fed up with them. She had spent some time thinking back over her sex life, classifying former lovers, although lover was a term barely applicable to some who had been merely one night stands. Then she remembered Dan Hall’s extraordinary declaration of love and she speculated about where he might be. Perhaps he would wonder what had become of her and might even organise a search. She clung to the slender hope as the raft pitched up and up, lurched at the crest of the wave and then sank down and down. She lay back against the side and realised it was not as resilient as it had been. She looked about her and found the hand pump in the equipment bag and spent half an hour pumping up the raft and then slumped back feeling lethargic and even more thirsty.
The small quantity of water she had collected off the canopy was tormenting her. She stared at the contents of the bottle as it sloshed back and forth as the raft rose and fell over the gentle swell. From the label she muttered the brand name ‘Crystal Geyser.’ In Castaway, Tom Hanks had called his volleyball Wilson. She had tried calling her bottle ‘Crystal, darling’ then ‘Geyser, you bastard’ depending on whether she thought of it as female or male, but it had no blood-painted face staring back at her, it was just a bottle containing a little tainted water. She picked it up and twisted its neck as if strangling it. ‘Take that you stupid fucking prick,’ she muttered. ‘When you’re empty I’ll call you Ryan and break you in half.’ Then she picked pieces off the label and dropped them over the side until she broke a fingernail. She slammed the bottle down and shouted ‘Shit!’ but then her dry throat finished the exclamation off with a painful cough.
She gazed up at the sky. All morning she had been cursing the sun as it sapped the moisture from her body. Now the cloud was building up and she was fervently hoping for rain. She hoped that she could pull the canopy down into a bowl shape and through a small hole she would be able to gather water in the empty bottles. In the distance she saw a flicker of lightning against the darkening sky. Surely that greyish curtain reaching down to the sea was rain. She shivered as a cool breeze stole across the sea and the sea sucked and gurgled along the underside of the raft. It rose higher as a stronger wave reached it, shortly followed by another. She felt slightly chilled and began to get dressed, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of vomit from off the front of her shirt. She wondered again if she was really cold or
if dehydration was beginning to distort her senses. If only it would rain! She practised kneeling in the middle of the raft, pulling the canopy down and holding a bottle under the hole. She did not need to practise, but after so many hours on the raft with nothing else to do she needed something, anything to occupy her mind besides the ever present fear of death.
A sudden lurch of the raft made her fall forward. She saw a big wave with a foaming white top high above her some hundred metres away. She whimpered in terror and scrambled back into her seating position against the side of the raft. A few seconds later the raft began to heave quickly up the wave until at the crest it tilted sharply up as it met the foaming crest and Gerry screamed in alarm and then coughed and spluttered as spray caught her in the face. Then the raft seemed to soar down the other side of the wave and Gerry’s protesting stomach heaved. Despite her emptiness she coughed up acidic bile which trickled down her chin and added to her misery. With a frantic effort she untied the canopy and folded it up then she stared out and saw another wave even taller than the first rushing towards her. She gave a little moan, grasped the straps on the raft side and then looked in alarm as her water bottles rolled across to the other side. She let go of her hold and flung herself across the raft to retrieve them. The raft surged up the wave and Gerry clung on to her bottles lying face down in the sloshing bilge water. Then the raft tipped and she swore as she began to slide towards the open end of the raft where it had been attached to the aircraft side. She let go of one bottle and grabbed for a strap just before her feet reached the end. Then the raft tipped back and she slid all the way to the other end and collided with Ali’s body. She looked at her bottle and with intense relief she found that it was the one that still contained water and then she saw the other one rolling about. She watched out for the next wave, still a little distance away. She crawled back to her usual seating position and tucked the bottle inside her shirt and prepared to sit out the storm.
Sometime later there was a violent crack of lightning, then another and then the rain came pouring down. ‘Oh crap!’ she mumbled looking at the folded canopy. For a moment she thought about trying to set it up to collect water but she knew the wind would just tear it away from her grasp. She held her open mouth out towards the rain but although she seemed to be getting thoroughly soaked very little seemed to go into her mouth. Then she realised that her sweater was soaked. She tried sucking some off but it tasted of fabric and salt. Then she pulled the sweater over her head and wrung it as dry as she could and held it up to the rain. When it was thoroughly soaked she tried to suck the water off. Still salty! She wrung it out once more and then soaked it. Now the water tasted fairly fresh. She sucked at the sweater and then held it out again but abruptly the rain stopped. She could see the pattern of its fall on the sea surface moving away in the direction of the wind. She sucked as much fresh water as she could and then slumped back down into the raft and looked around just in time to see Ali’s body sliding down towards the low end of the raft. A vague memory of how shipwrecked mariners would keep a dead body for food floated through her mind but she knew that thirst would kill her long before hunger. The raft rose to another wave but his body remained stuck against the end. She remembered that according to Islam, a body should be washed, shrouded and buried as soon as possible. Maybe tipping him into the sea after a heavy rainstorm was as close as he would get under the circumstances. She crawled across the raft and pushed him over the edge into the water, then hurried back to her position. After the next heaving wave she gazed all around the raft but there was no sign of him.
‘Oh God, get me out of this mess,’ Gerry muttered, ‘and just because I’ve denied your existence for the last thirty years, don’t let that hold you back now.’ The sun suddenly broke through a gap in the clouds. She shaded her eyes and peered right around the horizon. ‘Just as I thought; not a single ship in sight. God you don’t exist or you’re just a total jerk. Or else you’re far too busy with the other eight billion people on the planet. But you know Father Christmas can make ten million house calls in one night and you’ve had three bloody days to get around to rescuing me!’
She ran over in her mind all the people who she had met since she emerged from prison. First, Richard Cornwall; she had always had a certain regard for him and she was not sure if he was involved in the operation that had dumped her in the ocean; she should probably interrogate him first. Next there was Hugh Fielding, who had been responsible for kicking her out six years ago; easy, definite kill. That bastard Don Jarvis was in poor health after a heart attack; he was suffering enough, but maybe make him suffer a little more. Who else? Vince Parker of course! She snarled.
Now the Americans. First of all Carson; she summoned up a mental image of Ryan Carson’s handsome smile disintegrating as the bullet hit his head. She remembered that big coward Stafford meekly sitting down in the aircraft seat and handing over his weapons and the pathetic pleading expression on his face a moment before she shot him. Next there was Neil Samms; he was probably ok but after questioning him she would hand him an unloaded gun and ask him to do the decent thing; it would be interesting to watch how he dealt with that. How about Felix Grainger? He had definitely seemed one of the good guys, but he should be checked out. Then there was the beautiful Annie; what the hell was her surname? A threat to carve her initials on each cheek would be enough to have her reveal everything she knew, but she was probably not a major player. Then there was Jasper White who blamed her for Dean Furness’s death and probably wanted to kill her, but he was a mystery.
And that left Dan Hall, who had promised to try and keep her safe, but failed because now she was alone in a life raft in the Atlantic Ocean, with hardly any water left and only her own developing paranoia for company. Paranoia was her chosen alternative to the sick fear that was creeping over her, and Dan had told her he loved her, which was crap because he hardly knew her, and anyway she was just a murderous bitch who killed people for a living and probably deserved to die and definitely God thought so because still she was surrounded by nothing but water; water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.
‘It is in an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three; by thy long grey beard and glistening eye, now wherefore stop’st though me and dumps me on this bloody raft in the middle of the ocean! Oh shit, I do not want to die.’
The water she had managed to suck off her sweater went some way to reviving her, but it had the unfortunate effect of rekindling her hunger. Instead of songs she thought about food and menus and memorable restaurants and although she knew little about sophisticated cooking, she could prepare a decent wholesome meal.
‘Phil was much better than me in the kitchen,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘We were both good in the bedroom, though. At least, he never made any complaints.’ She hadn’t had sex for years. At least not with a man, she corrected herself.
Angela Wallis had been transferred to Gerry’s prison following her request to be closer to her home and family. She had been handed down a sentence of four years for the grievous bodily harm of her abusive partner, who had been cunning enough not to have revealed any of the physical and mental torment he had inflicted on her.
Gerry had paid no attention to the slightly plump blonde woman until one afternoon she was sitting down reading when she saw Angela being harassed by two notorious, heavily built characters who now stood one in front and one behind her. The one in front was not letting her pass by and the one behind was grabbing her backside.
‘Would you two please leave her alone,’ said Gerry, who was trying to concentrate on her book. The women swung round with aggressive intent but then realised who had spoken to them. One of them walked off without a word, but the second one muttered ‘I expect she wants you for herself,’ in Angela’s ear before following her friend.
Angela stood and stared at Gerry, wondering if she should say thank you or make the improbable assertion that she could have taken care of herself.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Gerry gi
ving her a quick glance and then looking back at her book. The woman stood staring at her for a moment longer and then turned away.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not gay either,’ Gerry called out. The other woman turned back and gave and a nod and a small smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘My name’s Gerry.’
‘I’m Angela,’ she replied and then she realised with some surprise that this must be the prisoner Tate whom she had been warned about. ‘Don’t cross her and you’ll be fine,’ was the advice she had been given by a fellow inmate.
Three weeks later Frances, Gerry’s current cell mate was released and Gerry had the cell to herself for a couple of days. She was in the middle of a series of press-ups when the door opened and the prison officer announced that prisoner Wallis would be her new cellmate.
‘Just keep out of the way on the bunk there would you?’ Gerry asked. ‘The top one’s yours. I’ll be finished soon.’ She completed her mini work-out and smiled at Angela. ‘Excuse me; I’ll be a bit sweaty now until my next shower.’
‘Bloody hell, you’re muscly,’ Angela burst out, and then blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean nothing by it,’ she added meekly.
‘Not at all,’ Gerry assured her. ‘If we’re going to share a cell then we might as well be straight with each other.’
‘You don’t mind then? I’m sorry to put you out at all; I’ll try not to get in your way.’
‘In my way how?’ she asked. Then she realised that her new cellmate was sitting uncomfortably with her knees drawn up and appeared to be trying not to meet her gaze. ‘Look, there’s no reason for you to be apprehensive. I’m sure we’ll get along fine.’
‘You’re alright then with me being in here with you? It’s just that…’ her voice faded away.
‘You mean I’m inside for murder and I have a reputation? Well I heard that you beat your partner over the head with a steam iron. Maybe if you’d had a gun instead of an iron you’d be in for murder too.’
The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Page 26