by Andy Lucas
Malo finished telling the stranger everything and then stood proudly, waiting to be asked more questions. A smile slipped onto his mouth as the man reached inside his pocket and took out a wad of crisp notes. Wolf stood up, peeling off several large denomination notes, as Malo eagerly stepped forward to take the money.
He was more positive than ever that he was now scurrying up the ladder to success. He was just too inexperienced; too blinded by greed, to sense the coldness of a murderer preparing to strike.
Twenty minutes later, Wolf let himself out of the building by the front door. He picked his way over to the car, visible only as a darker outline in the general blackness.
Behind him, rising thirty feet into the sky, the tall, thin steel chimney began to belch thick smoke as the furnace got to work; this building would soon be a working pet crematorium, serving the local community and offering a clean, dignified disposal service for their beloved animals.
Wolf got into the car, using keys retrieved from the unlucky Malo to start the vehicle, easing it out through the gates without turning on the headlights. Once through them, he turned down the unmade road, switched on his driving lights and headed for the next meeting point as if nothing had happened.
Malo’s screams were soon forgotten and Wolf gave no more thought to the matter.
The next morning, workmen turning up on the site were surprised to find the furnace burning. Assuming a supervisor must have authorised an overnight test, they simply switched it off and went about their work.
The inexplicable amount of ash and bone fragments would not be discovered for over a week. Mystified, the manager simply ordered it to be ground up and added to the ashes of the first pet to be officially cremated at the site; a greyhound called Saha. Her owners tearfully interred the ashes in their garden, planting a tree on top of them in their beloved dog’s memory, unaware of the grave’s shared occupancy.
Malo’s disappearance was never reported to police, nor would it ever have been solved if anyone had cared enough to investigate.
12
The morning came far too quickly for his liking. Pace barely felt himself stir awake before the realisation that he was alone hit him. He hadn’t opened his eyes or formed any conscious thoughts. It was simply a sensation of loneliness. He sat bolt upright, as if stung.
The room was dark although a vague hint of light caressed the porthole. As his eyes adjusted, a large shadow over by the left of the bed solidified into Sarah. She sat on a chair, with her knees drawn up tightly into her chest. The smile on her lips was sensed rather than seen.
The shape unwound and floated across the floor towards him. She sat on the edge of the bed and let her weight fall softly against him, pushing them both flat.
‘Did I wake you?’ Her voice lacked the croakiness that was a prominent feature of his own in the morning.
‘No.’ There it was, the word grating harshly against the tranquillity of an early hour. ‘I thought for a second you’d gone.’
‘Are you really that insecure?’ She didn’t sound in the least bit surprised but recovered his good graces by planting a reassuring kiss on the base of his throat.
‘Only with you,’ Pace huffed.
‘And I find it charming.’
‘That’s me all over.’
She snuggled up and they gently kissed before she slipped the covers down and settled herself on top of him. Her body felt warm and making love to her again was as natural as it was exhilarating. As the growing dawn probed tentatively through the porthole, they lay together in the afterglow, talking.
Topic ebbed and flowed like a meandering tributary of the mighty river they now floated upon, never pausing at one point for too long. Pace couldn’t have cared less that they talked in trivialities; just revelling in the feel of her in his arms.
He wondered how long it would last before the inevitable interruption of their early morning call broke the spell. In the end, the moment lasted longer than he thought, meaning that he had been awake even earlier than he’d suspected. Still, when it did come it was still too soon
The telephone rang loudly and the disembodied voice of the early caller politely called him to breakfast. He grumbled a willingness to be there and hoped he sounded sincere. He didn’t want the moment, there in that bed, to ever end so it was Sarah who made the first move. She groaned with her own displeasure as she climbed out of bed and walked naked across the room towards the bathroom. A few seconds later, Pace heard the rush of the shower that truly signalled a new day. He gave up thinking of excuses to stay in bed and slipped into his dressing gown. He exchanged weary glances with himself in the ornate wall mirror and waited his turn.
Even though they’d just spent the night making love, he did not feel comfortable breaking in on her, to brush his teeth or grab a quick wash, while she was showering. Washing was something almost more personal than sex, so he waited. Pace didn’t have long to wait because she was out, towel-clad, within ten minutes. Her shoulder-length hair was towel dried and hung loosely around her shoulders. The sight of her, glowing from the massage of the hot water, stoked the fires in his belly again.
‘I don’t think I’ve taken all the hot water,’ she laughed, crossing over to the bed and flopping down heavily to regard him with thoughtful eyes. ‘On a boat like this there should be plenty.’ She sounded more hopeful than convinced.
‘Thanks for the thought,’ Pace quipped. ‘A cold shower isn’t quite what I need first thing in the morning.’
She stole a glance down at his groin before looking back at him, one eyebrow cocked enquiringly. ‘I wonder about that. It might do you some good.’ His ardour softened in response.
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to find out.’
‘You’re a big, brave adventurer now. What’s a little cold water?’
They had a meeting to get to, like it or not and Pace took his chances with the shower. Luckily the twin heads still disgorged piping hot water and he was showered and shaved after fifteen minutes. When he came out of the bathroom, Sarah was gone. He wasn’t really sorry because he needed to concentrate on the meeting ahead.
He got dressed and made his way along to the lounge, or saloon, or whatever it should have been called. Everybody, Sarah included, was already assembled and he mumbled a very insincere apology for being late before collecting his breakfast from the hot buffet table. It wasn’t until he was actually piling the grilled gammon steaks, poached eggs, spiced sausage, tomatoes and toast onto his plate that he realised how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday and soon made up for it with a big plateful.
Everyone was seated around several large wooden tables, draped with seamless white tablecloths. The crockery was plain but the cutlery shone like silver. At the head of the nearest table sat Bailey, the New Yorker, with his huge knees barely fitting beneath the table top. Next to him sat Poranchez while opposite, across the length of the large table, sat Tom McEntire. He must have flown in from Rio overnight, Pace guessed. An irrational pang flashed through Pace’s chest when he noted Sarah seated next to him, locked in conversation.
The feeling quickly passed as Bailey caught his eye and waved him over to sit in a vacant chair on his left. Pace forced a wry grin and poured himself some coffee from one of several communal jugs on the table, waving away the offer of a milk jug. He was eager to tackle his plate but decided to wake up with a few swallows of the bitter liquid first.
‘Glad to see you’re still with us pal,’ Bailey drawled deeply, choosing that moment to take a swallow of very milky coffee from a cup that looked pathetically small in his huge hand.
‘I’ve been prodded, poked, injected and photographed with enough radiation to put a small warhead to shame in the last few months,’ Pace replied with a wry grin. ‘Nothing’s going to stop me running this race.’
Suddenly serious, Bailey gripped his forearm. ‘That’s the kinda spirit you’re gonna need. Keep thinking like that and you may even beat me
past the post.’ He boomed a deep, genuine laugh that seemed to fill the entire room.
‘As long as we all get to the finish line, that’ll be okay with me. Anyway, I may just hide in your backpack and let you carry me all the way.’
‘With all the extra sponsorship I’ve heard you’ve brought with you, I’d carry you if I could. But,’ he added slyly, ‘rules are rules.’ Pace found himself warming to the man even more and wished they were on the same team, which was a bit unfair because he still had to meet the rest of his own team.
‘It’s nothing really.’ And it wasn’t. ‘I’m glad the media coverage has been good for the race but that won’t help me once we get started. I’ll do my best but can’t promise I won’t screw up on the way.’
The chatter at the table was all around him, just a mass of voices with different two’s and three’s locked in conversations and sub-conversations. Bailey nodded down at his plate for him to eat and, in tandem, their mouths settled to the task. He must have been as hungry as Pace because they demolished the food at a healthy rate.
Between mouthfuls, Pace eyed the group of people around him. They were a real mixture; all of them happily eating together as if they were in a city restaurant It was hard to accept that they were, in reality, surrounded by thousands of square miles of timeless rainforest.
Hammond looked fresh and more alive than he had ever seen him, although a month wasn’t the greatest length of time to get to know somebody. Like a changed personality, he sat easily in his chair, dressed in loose khaki shirt and cotton trousers. Pace couldn’t see his feet because he sat on the opposing side of the table but he instinctively knew the man was wearing a pair of stout, high-laced boots.
Later on that morning he would note with great satisfaction that he had been spot on. No more the accountant; that word and the man across from him were seemingly poles apart. Finishing his plate and washing the meal down with more coffee Pace settled back, sated, to sip thoughtfully at the dregs.
A sharp, annoyingly repetitive ring roused him. Tom McEntire was tapping a teaspoon against his china cup in a bid to draw everyone’s attention. Pace wasn’t impressed; it was too much like a king bidding dutiful courtiers come hither for his liking. A shout or a gesture would have been sufficient. None of the other competitors looked that impressed either. Completely oblivious to the apparent disapproval, Tom waited for a hush to settle over the room.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Now that breakfast is out of the way it’s time to get down to business.’ As he spoke, members of the crew completely cleared the empty plates and glasses, leaving only the cups behind, along with fresh jugs of tea and coffee. With the stilling of two dozen voices came a sense of anticipation. Here and now things would begin for real. Pace found himself smiling broadly, just like everybody else, as cups were recharged and the meeting set sail.
To everyone’s relief, Bailey took charge of the meeting almost immediately, brushing aside Tom as though he didn’t exist. In his mind the man was a waste of space, necessary for the administrative tasks but good for little else. Now that the finer points of the plan needed cementing in place, his presence was merely a formality. None of this was expressed verbally but the large American’s tone clearly prevented Tom from trying to interrupt at any point.
Everybody was an expert at something; some in two or three fields, and many had impressive histories of expeditions across the globe, from Everest to the Australian rainforests, and from Iceland to the Black Sea; most seemed embarrassingly proficient.
All Pace could offer them was his limited skill with a camera and a determination to succeed, but that seemed enough when it came time for his credentials to be read out. He could land a helicopter on the back of a rolling destroyer in a Force Nine gale if he had to, but it wasn’t a skill he could really bring to the race, so he kept his mouth shut.
A couple across the saloon even bothered with some good-natured heckling about him, one in particular asking whether Pace was better at ducking now. He half heard somebody use the term ‘Mr Millions’, which was greeted with a ripple of laughter. They all knew he was only involved to drum up extra cash and he had yet to prove himself in the field.
Hammond’s history was the most surprising. He was a veteran of three international expeditions in the last decade and he had also come second in a solo endurance run to the South Pole just the previous year. Accountancy might have been a hobby for all he knew, or perhaps even a front. Why that thought popped into his head he couldn’t fathom but maybe it was just his suspicious nature on the prowl for a suitable neurosis.
His own team was Team Two, as was Hammond’s. The team leader and other members were all new to him; five people in each team. Their doctor was an Egyptian named Prassal Attia; a specialist in both tropical and sports medicine, which meant he was essential to have around.
The fifth member was a lithely muscular, ebony-skinned Kenyan by the name of Cosmos Uchumiye, who towered an impressive six-feet five inches off of the ground. He had a shaven head and possessed a tangible presence of strength. His unique size was matched by another feature; a constant, white-enamelled grin. Cosmos turned out to be the Kenyan long distance champion, successful marathon competitor and silver medallist at the last Olympic Games.
Their team leader was a woman by the name of Ruby Caff; a Canadian mountaineer of world renown who specialised in the perilous pursuit of free climbing; without any ropes, which he’d always felt was the bent of the insane. Ruby was obviously no nutcase because she possessed a string of academic qualifications and an impressive list of field achievements. Physically she was quite small, perhaps only a shade over five feet five. Her frame was slim and wiry, despite a noticeable bust, and she wore her dark hair in a short crop. She could have been described as beautiful if the scar running across her face hadn’t been so extensive. Deep, though many years healed, it ran from just above the bridge of her nose, below her left eye and across her cheek, ending below the jawbone. The injury would have been horrific at the time and looked like a knife wound.
She, like the giant Cosmos, wore an easy smile. Pace hoped he had not stared too obviously and neither appeared anything less than pleased to meet him as he introduced himself. When she spoke, Ruby’s accent was so watered down as to be barely noticeable. She sounded more English than Canadian.
Then it was time for the teams to separate. Each team moved to an allocated table and Pace watched their group dynamic unfold before his eyes. Each of the tables held a detailed map and they sat huddled around theirs, waiting. Ruby did her best to put them all at their ease but tempered her smile and the odd joke by diving right into the nuts and bolts of the race. She went on to briefly explain how the sections would work.
After completing the foot section, and completing the set challenge, each team would collect three bicycles. Two would be tandem mountain bikes that would accommodate four competitors. The nominated scout would ride a single-seat mountain bike and would ride on ahead of the group by a few hundred yards or so, path-finding a way around obstacles and generally spotting trouble in advance of the team. Ruby figured they would often end up struggling along a road little better than a flooded quagmire in places, which was why the scout had to stay alert.
Due to the arduous pace she was determined to set, at every rest break the scout would be changed and allow weary concentration rather than weary legs the respite of a tandem. It seemed a sensible way of being able to maintain a safe speed.
The break pattern was down to the camera operator; him, to monitor and Pace raised it. What were they going to do about it? Pace would need to know so he could prepare the necessary paperwork for the judges prior to the starting of the race. There was a brief debate. Speed versus safety? Speed versus fatigue? Fatigue versus safety?
‘My own feeling,’ ventured Ruby, ‘is the fewer stops we make the better. I know a bit about how to survive in a jungle climate, believe me.’ Nobody doubted her. ‘Too many stops and legs have time to seize up. If that happens, th
en the pain will really drain our resolve. We have six hours to rest out of every twenty-four. To me, that says two breaks of three hours a piece.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ argued Attia, in the least argumentative manner possible. His soft accent was steeped with intelligence. ‘As far as I’m aware, and please correct me if I’m wrong, we can alter the breaks throughout the time period, so long as we only stop for six hours a day.’ He cast a glance in Pace’s direction, who nodded.
‘That’s right,’ Pace said. ‘Whatever we do must conform to a pre-planned approach for every section of the race. For example, we can take one break of two hours and eight thirty minute stops as well if we want but we have to stick to the plan once it is agreed. Only an emergency can alter the breaks and any change will be subject to inquiry once the race is over.’ He’d only learned this much from reading Hammond’s race information on the flight down from Rio. ‘My own feeling,’ Pace said hesitantly ‘is that a four hour break to enable actual sleep might be best, with four half-hourly stops whenever we want them during the rest of the day.’ When nobody moved to contradict him, he went on. ‘The riding, especially in poor conditions, will require clear thinking. For that we all need to sleep for a few hours every day, just to recharge our batteries.’
Still, no comment.
Hammond, seated to his left, nodded his agreement. ‘Sleep will be important if we’re to avoid accidents.’ He nodded again. ‘I think it’s a good suggestion. I’m all for it.’
Others voiced their approval, including Ruby, who added that it was good to see the team thinking of the problems ahead. His suggestion was adopted and the next issue tackled.