The Ringer

by Greg Hunt

  THE RINGER

  GREG HUNT

  Copyright © 2011 Greg Hunt

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Siân, Toby and Jocelyn.

  Acknowledgements

  Siân, thank-you for all your support during the making of this book. You have been the unwavering tenor keeping the ringing sounding out whilst Toby and bump have been happy distractions throughout.

  To my wider family, enjoy!

  To all those that I have rung with, it has been a pleasure; from Thurcaston to Portsmouth Cathedral to Reading to Kidderminster and now Alvechurch. What a wonderful hobby it is. My life seems to have revolved around campanology; from friends, to my dissertation, to outings, to this novel. We’re still raising money for the ‘new and refurbished’ peal at Alvechurch, so for more information please visit www.alvechurchbells.org.uk

  To my ringing mentors over the years, Eric Atkinson and Richard Pawley, Stuart Heath and Richard Harrison, Helen Priest and David Struckett and to David Macey, thanks for the encouragement and some good striking, may you never clash!

  To my parents who decided to follow me into the art, there have been some treasured moments ringing with you – keep it up. To my brothers – one day you will succumb!

  To the La Plagne Ski Beat crowd from the 2003/2004 season – the location was my inspiration for the Alpine adventure – what a great time we had.

  To many of my university colleagues and ski crowd – yes, your names were taken in vain but this is a work of fiction and, apart from the names, there really is no connection.

  Lastly but by no means least to the Troubador team for making the dream of producing this book a reality.

  Happy reading!

  Chapter 1

  The helicopter gunship’s blades reverberated around the high altiplano in the heart of the Bolivian highlands. The dawn sunrise was spectacular and the air was still. Any sound carried far across this barren arid landscape with its snow-capped mountain ranges.

  The 4x4s on the ground, an ageing mix of Toyotas and Nissans, skidded to a halt. The salt crystals under their wheels flew across the Sal de Uyuni, a vast expanse of salt lake close to the tourist centres of Potosi and Sucre. These towns were more commonly known as gateways to the Andes, and provided access to this vast untouched environment.

  The driver of the lead vehicle had been grinding the coca leaves around his gums, desperate to stay awake until the dawn. His two passengers had succumbed to the need for sleep. As foreigners to the dry high plains of the altiplano, they were unaccustomed to having half the oxygen that each took for granted at sea level.

  Scrambling for his CB radio, the driver spun the vehicle and pressed the accelerator to the floor. It was soon to be fully light, and the white, camouflaged vehicles, hurriedly snaking their way across the salt plain, were now visible from the skies.

  On the horizon, one of the many cactus covered brown islands in this desert wilderness rose up from the white salt plain.

  The island started to edge closer as the wasp-like humming of the helicopter’s swooshing blades became not such a distant din, audibly rattling towards the escaping convoy. The sun had edged above the horizon, allowing the island to cast long shadows across the salt hexagon pavement. The exposed vehicle train was hurriedly carving the distance to their safe area.

  ‘Boom!’ The second vehicle in the convoy skewed to the right, the inside tyre fragmenting. The occupants, the driver and passenger, looked up in horror as a dark, low shape appeared on the skyline. The three vehicles behind did not stop. The 4x4s tyre had blown, and driver and passenger were in trouble. The driver had pulled out an old fashioned pistol and his colleague scrambled out of the passenger door.

  The helicopter crew had long been watching for any sign of movement across this section of the altiplano. It had been a normal, uneventful shift. The machine was soon to turn back as, at such heights, fuel did not last long. A glimmer on the endless salt plain attracted the observer’s attention. There were lakes that glimmered, but this was too small for a lake. He signalled to the pilot and the gunship smoothly descended into the Sal de Uyuni valley, like a cobra preparing to unleash its deadly load.

  The first vehicle had hidden itself behind the island, which provided a stark contrast to the flat and featureless landscape. The huge white tarpaulin disguised its shape. It also provided cover for the remaining three vehicles. All members of the convoy helped with the last loops of the tarpaulin. There was a deathly hush.

  The driver of the second vehicle knew that his pistol was no match for a helicopter gunship. He raised his arms in the air, the eponymous vision of surrender.

  The helicopter had become a roar above the salt plain, the shape of the craft creating a shadow flying along the brown side of the Andes mountain range. The observer identified the stranded vehicle and the pilot twitched the joystick accordingly. The helicopter screeched and groaned as it banked across the sky. The passenger was running across the salt flat, the cold was stopping him from sweating, but his face had drained of blood and started to mirror the colour of the ground below him.

  The pilot depressed a switch on the side of the joystick. Three seconds later the driver and vehicle on the high altiplano had been obliterated. Flames curled upwards to the light blue sky. The shocked passenger continued to run for his life, scrambling off the salt flat, desperately looking for cover, but there was none.

  The observer opened up the barrel of the sidewinder. It only took twenty seconds to hone the accuracy of the helicopter’s formidable weaponry. An eerie quiet descended on the Sal de Uyuni as the sound of the swooshing blades slowly faded away.

  Chapter 2

  Archie Malcolm climbed the spiral stone staircase to the ringing chamber. There were fifty five steps but it always felt like there were more.

  He was in good shape and bounded up the narrow, dark space, past the small vertical slit openings, which gave a tantalising framed view onto the naval port below. The heavy set ringing chamber door creaked open at his insistent push and he dropped down the couple of internal steps onto its floor.

  “Grab hold for a touch of Grandsire Caters,” bellowed the Tower Captain. “Morning Archie. How about you take the fourth?” Archie felt honoured to be part of this Cathedral group. Over the next ten minutes all of his troubles went away. He thought about nothing else except for the ringing, remembering his place, ensuring that he was striking the bell as well as he could and once again proving himself a reliable member of the band.

  The ringers finished their touch. The Tower Captain put the clock chimes on and the tenor rang out like a deep base drum announcin
g the eleventh hour of the day. Over four thousand towers across the United Kingdom had bells that were being rung that morning.

  The bells remained in the up position, balanced against their wooden stays like upturned mushrooms. Any would be liable to fall, given a pull of the dangling ropes in the ringing chamber, heavy passing traffic, or an earthquake type event. The Tower Captain motioned to Archie that he had to attend to the flag on the roof for the Queen’s Birthday and he needed to climb up through the bell chamber.

  Both Archie and the Tower Captain scrambled up the faded silver metal ladder leading from the ringing chamber, through the musty bell chamber to the roof access hatch. Breathing heavily, the Tower Captain prised open the locking pin of the heavy hatch and hauled himself onto the lead lined roof sheet.

  As the much younger man, Archie manoeuvred himself more gracefully, and helped to unfurl the tower’s flag. A cool breeze ran through the stone masonry and caught the cotton material holding the Queen’s colours.

  Whilst the Tower Captain was hoisting the flag, Archie quickly scanned the edge of the dockyard with his keen eyes. There was not a better view or a higher perch in the whole of historic Southsea. As he had guessed, the colourful fishing boat, the Alana Princess, was just pulling off beyond the dockyard and she was clearly heavily laden. She ploughed through the water, heading across to Ryde on the Isle of Wight.

  Archie raced down the ladder, excusing himself in a throaty shout to the Tower Captain for PhD studying, and slipped down the spiral staircase, past the organ, and out into the hustle and bustle of Old Portsmouth.

  Ten minutes later a young, athletic man strode purposefully through the main gate of HMS Dolphin, where the sentry on duty saluted to his superior. He crammed the documents, that were attempting to escape, back into his dark leather holdall. He swiped his pass card against the door entry system on the side-wall, marched through the door into an open-plan seating area and hung his coat on the wall.

  Monica glanced at him dismissively. The young man glared back.

  “Please go through,” she said.

  The double doors opened electronically. The soft padded floor and red leather armchairs were shaded away from the grey, tinted, half-shuttered blinds. The long mahogany boardroom table was surrounded by a number of occupied chairs. A gravelly voice rose up from the man at the head of the assembled party, “Ah, Lieutenant Malcolm, you have decided to join us.”

  Chapter 3

  Lieutenant Malcolm took his seat at the mahogany boardroom table. He was hot from rushing out of the Cathedral and gulped the sparkling mineral water that lay in the glass in front of him.

  Commander Edgar Bennett took a long, deep intake of breath, whilst unconsciously curling the end of his thick moustache, and then spoke authoritatively, in a voice that demanded respect and focused all of the participants to listen expectantly to his resonant tones.

  “We are all aware of the increased sophistication that is being used in the trafficking of illegal goods into our waters. We need to take further measures to ensure that the routes are closed down, the perpetrators brought to justice and the trade brought to an end. A message has to be sent back to the traffickers that the United Kingdom will not tolerate smuggling of any kind and that all illegal cargo will be seized immediately and destroyed.”

  There was silence in the room. The occupants at the boardroom table resigned themselves to the current position, their shadows detailing postures that had slumped. The United Kingdom was on the back foot, smuggling was easy. The establishment’s lack of resources meant that the island was seen as a simple target, the ample coastline an easy end destination for narcotics and illegal immigrants.

  Malcolm shifted in his seat and Bennett had noticed his eager expression.

  “Malcolm, if you are attempting to say something, spit it out.”

  Malcolm rose to his feet. He needed all the time he could muster to compose himself and to think logically.

  “We have been tracking a fishing boat called the Alana Princess and request permission to board her when she next docks at Ryde, which should be in fifteen minutes. We are led to believe that she carries a full cargo of narcotics and her seizure will be a valuable breakthrough in stemming the cocaine trade to Portsmouth.”

  “Good,” Bennett replied. “Let us focus on some small wins to lead us to the bigger fish. You are relieved to board and capture any illegal goods on the vessel and I want a full report.”

  “Yes sir,” Malcolm replied, as the electronic doors were already swinging open. He winked at Monica, to her disdain. He grabbed his coat and swiped the push button to exit, walked hurriedly out of the main gate and onwards towards the naval dockyard.

  The boarding team at Ryde received Malcolm’s message. Their GP14s were slung over their shoulders as they climbed up from their rubber inflatable and athletically straddled the guardrail that stood proud above the bulky grey hull of the Alana Princess.

  The first man headed straight for the bridge and nudged his loaded gun into the generous waist of the Captain.

  “Show me your manifest,” he demanded.

  With the gun in such close proximity, the Captain was quick to co-operate. The scrawled sheet detailed a hold full of white bait, herring, diesel, rope hemp and netting. The other three men of the boarding crew were already descending into the hold, their headlamps casting eerie contortions of light that bounced off the metal hull of the fishing boat.

  Nearly three quarters of an hour later it was apparent there was nothing to capture. The boarding crew reported to Malcolm. Malcolm reported to Bennett. This was an embarrassment. “A pointless exercise,” Bennett replied.

  Chapter 4

  North of Cuzco in Peru, close to the start of the Machu Pichu tourist trail, the llamas and alpacas were being herded along the narrow winding track.

  The animals did not complain. They shuffled along at a hypnotic pace. Each beast still had its warm winter coat despite the beginning of the snow melt. It would soon be late spring.

  Four herders accompanied the twenty seven animals. These were local tribal men who knew the mountains well. They preferred working with the animals than having to farm lower down the mountain, or within the cramped silver mines, or the pittance that they could earn from working on the coast among the non-tribal Spanish colonisers.

  The route would take them from the Urubamba river, past the Inca ruins of Llactapata, over the high pass of Warmiwanusca at 4,200m and down past the more impressive Inca sights at Sayacmarca, Puyupatamarca and Winaywayma. The herders would then hand over their precious cargo at Machu Picchu.

  The 4x4s had off-loaded the crates for the tribal men to pick up earlier that day. The vehicles had been late. The quantity of crates was seriously reduced. A fifth of the expected boxes had not made the journey from Potosi through to their rendezvous north of Cuzco. The 4x4s had covered a formidable thirty six hour route of Andean wilderness and rough, hard tracks.

  The animals were making steady progress on the difficult walking ledges. Much of the path had been previously cut into the side of the mountainside and to the edge of the pathway lay steep, formidable drops. The animals just followed the leader and, every couple of minutes, the beige llama at the head of the procession gave off a tinkle of noise as its neck bell clattered against its glistening fur coat.

  It had been raining hard over the last few days. The herders had been surprised by the unusual conditions and still led the llamas and alpacas, wearing poor leather sandals. The animals were each weighed down by the crates tied onto their backs. This added the weight of a small adult to each of them. The head llama reached a steep and narrow gulley in the path and let out a small snort. The closest herder whacked his stick against the animal’s hind quarters and she stumbled forward again, leading her twenty six fellow beasts onward.

  The herders were tired, having enjoyed their last evening before working. The local lager cusquena had been acquired from a friend’s tourist stall at the heart
of Cusco and had featured strongly on the previous evening’s menu. Their responses were slow.

  The lead herder saw the rocks start to slip above the animals only after the first five llamas had begun to straddle the path within the gully. He ran to push the beasts back to the safety of the non-moving path behind them.

  He was pushing the beige llama as she lost her rear footing and a large boulder crashed into her, taking the animal down the gulley. The landslide had begun to gain momentum and there was nothing that the second herder could do, except watch, as a further four of his beloved animals and his cousin were thrown down the gully and over two hundred metres to the valley floor.

  Chapter 5

  Archie Malcolm changed to a lower gear and swung out to overtake the long vehicle that had been holding up his progress. He had the top down of his Mazda MX5. His friends joked that it was a hairdresser’s car. Well, he wasn’t quite a hairdresser, but it was his affordable fun and this was his day off.

  He nipped in front of the HGV, now rapidly disappearing in his rear view mirror, and smiled. He was close to singing to the CD mix collection he had been compiling over the last few weeks but since he really could not sing, he hummed along and put the volume up a notch.

  The Downs came and went as Archie hummed along to the eighties pop music he liked so much. The chalk cuttings cast a swathe through this beautiful rural landscape and enabled the little Mazda to make quick progress up to the M4 and onwards West over the Severn Bridge. He paid the toll to enter Wales but then headed north, destination Ross on Wye.

  Archie had been invited to a close friend’s birthday and Emma was going to be there. Clearly, it was important to be at his friend’s party and support David whom he had known since school, but the reason that he had been humming so well was because all he could think about was Emma.

  He could not remove the vision from his mind. The fun and energy, the lovely locks, the style and sophistication yet hands on approach to life. They had been friends for the last couple of years through David, yet he so wanted more.