by Darren Hale
In the end, it had been a massive bleed that had killed her. A sad end for an equally sad woman. She had died alone, in an immaculately white room unblemished with cards or flowers of any kind – her only possessions, the clothes in which she’d arrived – and the only colour coming from the scarlet pools splashed over the linen and floor.
She had no family.
Not until the moment of her death.
And then the vultures had descended… Relatives circling her corpse in the hope of picking some of the fatter morsels from her not inconsiderable estate.
They’d hovered for days, looking for someone to blame.
Some way to efface their guilt…
It was of course the hospital’s fault she’d died – and nothing to do with the litres of whisky she’d swallowed on a daily basis.
Once upon a time, Catherine might have cried. But no more… Her compassion had been denuded by the very people to whom she had devoted the best part of her life.
Having discarded the cold remnants of her meal, she had then hunted out the latest copy of the British Medical Journal’s Classified Ads section. Fortunately for her, junior doctors were not the tidiest of creatures, and she had soon found it, lying beneath a pile of discarded newspapers, as might have been expected.
On any normal day, she would have flicked through the pages, spending her time perusing vacancies in her chosen field, general surgery, but this hadn’t been a normal day, and she had instead started at the back, tantalising herself with the prospects of overseas employment, until she’d come upon an advert looking to employ a medical officer for an expedition into the Amazon Rainforest.
At first, she’d dismissed the idea as ludicrous – a flight of fancy – no more…
But after a further unpleasant and sleepless night on call, she had returned to ferret out the battered article, and without giving the matter a second thought, had judiciously modified her CV to reflect her love of travel and tropical medicine, before printing it off and submitting it in the usual nondescript brown envelope.
And a month later, she’d received a reply: a mysterious phone call in the middle of one of her clinics, inviting her to an interview in London. The caller had apologised for the delay in contacting her and hoped she was still available. Apparently, there had been some difficulties securing the various permits and visas needed for the expedition and these had only recently been obtained.
The interview itself had been a breeze and they had offered her the job on the spot.
And to her surprise, she’d said yes…
‘There you go love… Edinburgh airport…’ the cab driver announced. Having negotiated his way through the stream of traffic, he’d pulled to a stop outside the Departures Building.
‘Thanks,’ Catherine grunted. The word seemed to clog in her throat, mired in the last vestiges of sleep. His appetite for conversation sated, the cab driver had finally left her to doze off and the remaining miles had passed without her knowledge. She hazarded a look in his rear-view mirror. Her eyes were red and bleary, and she was embarrassed to discover that her hair had taken on a rather feral appearance and now hung in matted curls down the sides of her face. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Forty-five pounds please...’
Her purse bulged with brightly coloured Brazilian Reals, with just enough sterling to get her through the airport. She pulled out a handful of notes and handed them to the driver. ‘Here you go – keep the change.’
‘That’s very kind of you – thank you,’ he said, stuffing the money into his shirt pocket. ‘Have a good trip…’
The flight from Edinburgh was late leaving, thanks to an early morning fog that had settled across the runway. Nevertheless, she’d arrived in Heathrow, ready for her international flight, with ample time for some last-minute shopping, her remaining funds proving sufficient to buy her a strong black cup of coffee, a rather limp breakfast muffin, and a copy of a popular gossip magazine. What was it about travelling that prompted normally rational individuals to content themselves with such simple pleasures? On any other day, the lowly muffin would not have qualified as acceptable cuisine, and the magazine would have been pushed aside in favour of a more academic publication such as Scientific American or National Geographic. Nevertheless, at times like this, her brain craved the pages of mindless scandal almost as much as it craved the empty calories afforded by her breakfast.
She ate quietly and waited for her flight.
******
‘Chicken or beef?’
Catherine stirred.
Straining to see through lead-lidded eyes, it took her a moment to focus.
The window next to her was misted with her breath, except for that place where her cheek had been pressed against it. The hours spent in Heathrow and Edinburgh airports had amounted to an exercise in frenzied boredom, and by the time she’d finally boarded the flight to Rio, she’d been exhausted. Having passed up the stewardess’s offer of a small in-flight breakfast, she had instead ordered two large gin and tonics and gone to sleep.
‘Would madam like the chicken or the beef?’ The stewardess calmly repeated her question. A badge on her left breast pocket identified her as Sam, presumably short for Samantha. Why was it that everyone in the crew had a name that could be condensed into a single soundbite, like Chris, Rob, and Sue?
‘I’ll have the chicken please,’ said Catherine, sluggishly.
The stewardess handed her a tray and a small foil-covered meal.
Catherine gingerly peeled off the lid and tried a bite of the rather dry chicken and noodles inside. The sauce was tasty enough, but after a few mouthfuls, she abandoned the dish in favour of some cheese spread and a bread roll.
‘It looks so beautiful!’ exclaimed a young lady in the seat behind her, as downy wisps of cloud had parted over lines of golden beaches below.
‘And I’ll bet you get some mean surf,’ said her companion in a lilting Irish accent.
Catherine craned her head to get a better look at the two of them. The young lady was somewhere in her early-to-mid-twenties, slim, and pretty, in a way that was both plain and understated. Her long black hair had been tied back in a neat plait, framing a face painted in solemn shades of black mascara and purple lip-gloss. Her dress was mottled in similar shades of black, blue, and purple, and laced in an attractive bodice. And she was wearing a silver pendant in the shape of an ankh that completed her somewhat gothic appearance.
The gentleman was of similar age, and blatantly Irish descent, with cream-coloured skin, and a dusting of freckles. His orange hair fell about his shoulders in loose, wiry curls; his beard was neatly trimmed to a point; and he had a large metal stud shaped like a barbell through his left eyebrow. His choice of clothing was, however, in stark contrast to his companion’s rather sombre choice of colours – a bright tee-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a parrot and the words “Save The Rainforest” in bold letters.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked amiably.
Catherine sat back, a little embarrassed that she’d been caught staring. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she admitted.
He smiled. ‘Are you going to be staying long in Rio?’
‘No…’ She shook her head. ‘Actually, I’m flying straight out to Manaus.’
He looked surprised. ‘Manaus? Are you planning on a cruise up the jungle then?’
‘Yes – something like that. What about you?’
‘We’re off to Manaus as well – after a short stop-over in Rio.’
‘Someone was late booking our tickets,’ said his companion, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.
‘Hey, easy woman will you, it wasn’t my fault,’ he retorted.
‘Oh no – so who’s fault was it then?’
‘Not mine…’ he replied limply.
‘So, what happened? Did you book some kind of last-minute deal then?’ Catherine asked.
‘No – worst luck. We’re here as part of an expeditionary team, though we didn’t actually find out we were going un
til two weeks ago. It was kind of a last-minute thing,’ said the man, glancing warily in his companion’s direction.
His companion frowned. ‘Come on! You knew he was going to drop out months ago…’
The man just shrugged.
Catherine was intrigued. ‘It all sounds very mysterious. Do you mind if I ask what you do?’
The man smiled. ‘Sure… We’re archaeologists…’
Catherine faltered. The surprise was plainly written across her face.
‘Are you alright?’ the man’s companion enquired.
‘Yes… fine… Sorry for being so rude. You wouldn’t happen to know a Professor Ellis, would you?’
It was the young man’s turn to look surprised. He hesitated. ‘Yes… As a matter of fact, we’re flying out to meet him,’ he replied warily.
Catherine held out her hand. ‘Then I think I’d better introduce myself... I’m Dr Catherine Mills. I’ll be joining your team as the expedition medic.’
He took her hand and shook it warmly. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Rufus Mulcahy, and this is my girlfriend, Marina Jackson.’
******
When seen from the window of the plane, Manaus had appeared as little more than a dirty smudge nestled amongst the verdant green of the jungle, wreathed in smog, and lapped by the murky waters of the Rio Negro. Technically speaking, the mighty Amazon did not start here, but did instead come into existence ten kilometres further down river, where the dark waters of the Rio Negro flowed into the turbid brown of the Rio Solimoes at the mixing of the waters. Once the opulent heart of Brazil, it was now little more than a jumping-off point to the vastness of the Amazon jungle. Its spectacular buildings, including the famed opera house, had been built in the late nineteenth century with the wealth of its flourishing rubber industry, had gone into a decline, and were now nothing more than fanciful epitaphs to its brief but decadent past. Nevertheless, any charm it might have had, had been lost on her by the time she’d landed, tired and aching from the many long hours she’d spent in the air. Though the short walk from the arrivals lounge in Rio to the boarding ramp of the connecting flight had given her some respite, she spent much of the last forty-eight hours sitting in some passenger seat or other, with nothing more than the occasional excursions to the toilet to add variety to her day.
Having deplaned to the bitter reek of dust and jet fumes, she’d then goaded her muscles into action and stumbled as far as the luggage carousel where she’d been pleasantly surprised to find her luggage ready and waiting. She’d then bundled it onto one of those luggage trolleys with the wobbly front wheels that obstinately refused to point forward and made her way to the lobby.
The place was packed with the waiting throngs of relatives, greeting their loved ones with characteristic displays of South American ebullience amidst; and a sea of placards advertising hotels, tour operators, and the names of much-anticipated arrivals.
She discovered hers amongst them, scrawled in biro on an A4-sized sheet of white paper, and steered her trolley towards it.
The man holding the sign stepped forward to greet her. ‘Doctor Catherine Mills?’
She nodded. ‘At your service.’
‘Excellent…’ He smiled and reached out for her hand. ‘I’m Simon Walthers, Doctor of Archaeology, and designated welcoming party. I trust you had a pleasant trip,’ he said, shaking it warmly.
‘It was unfortunately, a very long trip,’ said Catherine wearily.
‘Yes, I remember it well,’ he admitted. ‘However, you’ll be pleased to know that we have a car waiting outside, and it’s only a short drive to your hotel.’
She gave him the best smile she could muster. ‘Thank you… I’d kill for a relaxing bath and a soft bed.’
‘Well then, if you’ll let me take your luggage, I’ll show you to the car.’
Catherine happily surrendered control of the trolley, and following just a few paces behind him, ran the gauntlet of porters and touts eagerly offering their services.
The lobby doors hissed open and the wall of suffocating heat swallowed them once more.
‘There’s our man…’
Simon pointed to a car parked a short distance along the road. A short and rather lean gentleman was standing nervously on the pavement next to it, doing his best to avoid the attention of the policemen patrolling the front of the building who would otherwise have told him to move on. The man had waxy black hair and rust-coloured skin that looked as if it had been moulded from the local clay.
‘This is Eduardo Huarez, our chauffeur for the day,’ Simon explained. ‘He’s also our translator, guide, and resident Mr fix-it.’
The man bowed. ‘Pleased to meet you Miss. If you would please get in the car, I will get your bags.’
******
The Hotel Tropicana lay nestled alongside the waters of the Rio Negro. Like many of the hotels in the region, it had proudly proclaimed itself as an Eco-hotel, capitalising on the sentiments of the green revolution in the hope of attracting streams of well-intentioned tourists. Its sprawling buildings with their bright, red-tiled roofs and inviting blue pools, could not, however, have been any more of a contrast to the lush greens of the Jungle canopy.
Simon whistled appreciatively. ‘Very nice. Rather better than the Spartan offerings of the hotel where I’m staying.’
‘And where I was going to be staying… Until I decided to go it alone,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m afraid there was no way on this Earth I was going to spend my first few days in a hotel that was lacking both a pool, and a decent restaurant.’ Any hints of gloating had been entirely unintentional.
But Simon did not appear to have noticed. ‘Then may I say you made a very wise choice,’ he affirmed.
A red-liveried porter hurried towards them and opened the car door. ‘Sir… Madame… Welcome to the hotel Tropicana. If you would like to go through to reception, I will follow on with your luggage.’
‘Gracias senõr,’ said Catherine, belatedly remembering that unlike much of South America, the national language was Portuguese, not Spanish.
The porter showed no evidence of having noticed. He inclined his head graciously. ‘You are welcome Madame.’
First impressions of the hotel were indeed spectacular. Its whitewashed façade was flanked on either side by rows of vibrant jacaranda trees, and tiers of polished stone steps rose leisurely towards a pair of huge glass doors elegantly emblazoned with the hotel’s motif.
Catherine bounded up them two at a time, invigorated by the promise of a shower and a warm bed.
The doors trembled as she reached the top, and then gently slid apart, revealing a spacious lobby floored in pastel shades of grey-and-pink marble and spangled with the fractured pools of light that came from the chandelier overhead.
Simon’s jaw was hanging open. ‘Wow! Looks like we’ll be having breakfast at your place tomorrow.’
Catherine threw him a sour glance. ‘I don’t think so. Not unless you were planning on having breakfast around about lunchtime…’
He smiled. ‘Fine – lunch it is. Shall we say one o’clock in the restaurant then? If you like, I can bring you up to speed with regards to the expedition.’
‘Fine, you can consider it a date.’ Catherine’s scowl softened to a weary smile. ‘And thank you for escorting me to my hotel.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow then…’
3
Friday 8th September:
The phone clamoured loudly by the bedside.
Catherine stirred, and wiped the tangled knots of hair from her eyes. Overhead, the air conditioning thrummed like a hummingbird, its wings stirring the air into a pleasantly cool draft, as bright glimmers of sunshine slipped in between the heavy blackout drapes. It was getting late and the radio alarm clock on the bedside table had only confirmed her suspicion. It was one-fifteen in the afternoon.
‘Bugger!’ Catherine groaned, wishing fervently that she had another hour to sleep. Propping herself up on her pillows, she groped f
or the receiver.
‘Miss Mills?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is the front desk. Just to let you know, you have a gentleman waiting for you in the garden restaurant.’
‘Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
She replaced the handset indelicately upon its cradle, then, having dragged herself out of bed with all the grace and poise of a marionette, stumbled towards the bathroom, her dignity concealed beneath one of the hotel’s generic bathrobes.
The tiles were cold beneath her feet.
Heavy-lidded eyes half closed, she shucked the rope from her shoulders and stepped into the shower, her hand reaching blindly for the faucet.
Ice struck her like an electric shock, igniting her senses and thrilling tired muscles, before warming into a deluge of scalding steam. She gasped and fumbled with the dial, hunting for, and then failing to find, some compromise between the two extremes, before settling for the cooler of the two options.
Using some lavender scented gel she’d selected from the basket of complimentary soaps and oils, she then scoured away the journey’s accumulated grime before braving another quick dowsing from the showerhead.
Finally, having refreshed and invigorated once more, she wrapped herself in the heavy folds of a towel and went in search of her clothes.
******
‘Is there anything else I can get for you sir?’ The waiter hovered at a discrete distance – immaculate in his white uniform.
‘No, thank you… That’ll be all.’
‘Very good sir,’ he replied amiably. ‘Enjoy your stay.’ He then turned and drifted off in search of other tables.
Simon eased himself back into his chair, a newly acquired glass of Chardonnay balanced lightly between his fingers. He took a few sips, savouring the delicate flavour of the locally produced wine before replacing his glass on the table. The remains of the bottle lay nestling in an ice bucket nearby. A gentle breeze wafted over him, carrying with it the rich scent of jasmine as it filtered between the slats of the flower-adorned trellis – all that separated the restaurant veranda from the gardens outside. This is what life’s all about, he thought.