by Janet Pywell
Joachin grins. He knows my birth mother well and he can already imagine her reaction.
The chief inspector raises his phone to his mouth and I hold up my hand.
‘I don’t know who you’re phoning, but you’re not to tell anyone who I am and that I’m going to Morocco. That’s my condition. You tell absolutely no one.’
The chief inspector places his phone back on the table. ‘Of course. You have my word.’
‘Not even the prime minister,’ I add.
* * *
‘But Joachin, this is such short notice,’ Josephine wails an hour later.
‘Mikky has only just come back from travelling around Europe with Marco in his yacht. I haven’t seen her for six months, and besides, I wanted her to look at wedding dresses.’
‘Wedding dresses?’ I say with a laugh. ‘There will be plenty of time for that when I get back.’
Josephine and Simon’s penthouse loft is large and minimalist, situated on London’s popular Bankside, and it has floor to ceiling windows with panoramic views of London. Outside, the Thames is bathed in darkness, and the red and blue lights of Tower Bridge catch the moonlight. We are within walking distance of Borough Market, Tower Bridge, and City Hall, and it’s barely a five-minute stroll from the Ivy Brasserie, where Joachin and I had dinner with Mulhoon.
Joachin is sitting on one of the white sofas drinking coffee. On the walls, there are original paintings by a couple of local London artists who I vaguely know, and photographs of London streets.
‘I thought we’d have time for shopping,’ Josephine complains. ‘We haven’t had this opportunity for months.’
‘I’ll make it up to you when I get back,’ I reply.
Josephine stands up and wanders around her large penthouse apartment, and stares out to Bankside, which is the historic area south of the City of London, on the river opposite us.
‘It’s only for three days, Josephine.’ Joachin’s voice is friendly, and like me, he’s nursing a generous measure of brandy and waiting for Josephine to accept our change of plan. ‘It’s an opportunity we can’t turn down. It’s with Sandra Worthington, the film director who won an Oscar.’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ Josephine replies, and as she frowns, there’s beauty in her deep eyes, full mouth, and dark hair. ‘Glorietta knows her sister. She’s a soprano, too.’
My birth mother was once a well-known opera star, also a soprano, famous around the globe for her incredible range and timbre. After an unfortunate incident – a gunshot that punctured her lung, and the death of her partner – Josephine no longer sings, but her best friend Glorietta Bareldo is regarded as the greatest in the world. Fortunately for me, they are all part of my chequered family.
‘And it’s a documentary?’ Josephine asks.
‘Yes, it’s about some local kids from London who have turned their lives around by learning parkour …’ I reply vaguely.
‘But this isn’t police business – it’s not dangerous?’
‘No!’ Joachin and I reply together.
‘So, why are you here, Joachin?’
‘Mulhoon and I have been friends for years, and he was looking for someone to make a documentary, and I thought of Mikky.’ He doesn’t meet my gaze, but I can’t help but think how easily the lie flowed from his lips.
‘You will be good at making a documentary, Mikky. Besides, it will get you away from all that other dangerous business.’ Josephine’s previous reference to my involvement with Joachin and Europol makes me smile, so I turn away.
‘Don’t worry, Josephine. You know I’ll always look after Mikky; she’s like a daughter to me, too.’
Josephine stares hard at him but doesn’t reply.
I say, ‘I’ll be gone four nights at the most. I’ll be home on Friday, I promise, and then we can go shopping on Saturday.’ I pull out my phone to check flights.
‘Simon and I are flying to Miami on Friday, or had you forgotten?’
I smile. ‘It had slipped my mind.’
‘What does Marco say about all this?’ she asks.
‘He understands,’ I lie, not willing to tell her that I haven’t yet been able to get hold of Marco, who is currently at sea and sailing his yacht between Croatia and Italy.
‘But I wanted to spend some quality time with you.’ Josephine has always been persistent and used to having her own way; however, I seem to have the ability to thwart her plans regularly.
‘We can do it when you get back.’ I check my phone to see where Marco will be and how easy it will be to speak to him.
‘Mikky!’ At the sound of my name, I look up sharply.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not running away again, are you?’ Josephine moves toward me.
A few years ago, after a surprise marriage proposal, I’d rushed away from New York to Rhodes on an errand for Simon. I smile.
‘No, not this time, I promise. I love Marco with all my heart.’
Josephine seems satisfied, but her direct gaze unsettles me, and I realise, not for the first time, just how similar we are – both in looks and character.
‘Is there a flight to Marrakesh?’ she asks, and by her tone, I can tell she’s hoping there are none.
‘Yes, first thing in the morning.’ I scroll the flight times and availability.
‘Book two seats,’ Joachin says.
I glance up at him, surprised. ‘Two? Are you coming with me?’
‘No, but Peter is on his way over here tonight. He’ll meet you at the airport first thing in the morning.’
‘I can manage on my own,’ I complain. ‘I don’t need a chaperone.’
‘I’m not sending you alone,’ Joachin insists. ‘Josephine isn’t the only one who wants you home by Friday.’
* * *
The following afternoon, I’m on another continent and in a different country when I finally get hold of Marco, who is currently somewhere in the Adriatic Sea between Italy and Croatia.
‘Morocco,’ he asks. ‘Ouarzazate?’
‘It’s pronounced War-zazat. It’s only for a few days. I’ll be back in London on Friday.’
‘I want to look after you,’ Marco says over the phone.
‘Peter is with me.’
‘You’re so precious to me, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Stop worrying, my darling. I’m on a film set in Morocco, not in outer Mongolia!’ I glance around at the imposing sandstone buildings in the Kasbah around me. ‘I’ll be home soon, my darling, and we can spend Christmas together.’
‘I’m looking forward to it, Mikky. It will be my first Christmas in England for years.’
‘Then we’ll just have to make it extra special,’ I reply.
‘I miss you; it’s not the same out here sailing without you.’
‘I know, but Joachin needed me, and I have taken six months off already. I have to work!’ I say with a laugh.
‘I understand, but it seems like you left me longer than four days ago. Besides …’ I hear the smile in his complaining tone, ‘you haven’t answered my proposal.’
‘I did,’ I reply, laughing happily. ‘You know I will. You seem to have told everyone anyway – even Joachin knows, and Josephine. Of course I’ll marry you.’
‘Let’s set a date.’
‘When I get back from Morocco.’
‘No, now.’
‘Are you always this impatient?’
‘Mikky, the past few months sailing around the Greek islands with you, talking and making plans for the future and Blessinghurt Manor, have been the best months of my life. I’m not letting you go …’
‘They were the best months for me, too,’ I whisper truthfully.
‘Then marry me. Let’s set a date.’
‘Surprise me,’ I reply.
‘You wouldn’t mind?’
‘I’d love it.’
‘Mikky?’ Peter calls out from behind me, and I turn around. ‘They’re going to start shooting in a minute,’ he whispers.
I
wave in acknowledgement and say into my phone, ‘Marco, I must go, my darling. Let me know when you’ve sorted out the yacht and you’re heading back to England.’
‘It’ll be a week or so, by the time I’ve sorted everything out.’
‘Then I’ll be back in England before you.’
‘I’ll meet you at Blessinghurst Manor?’
‘It’s a deal.’
* * *
It’s our second day filming. I’m on the set, and although I’m enjoying the drama of the film set, and have taken millions of images, hours and hours of videos, and I’ve used my drone to monitor the Parks, it’s tiring just standing around.
‘They’re going to do the aerial shots now,’ Peter explains. His chestnut eyes are alive with excitement, and he takes my arm and guides me to stand beside one of the canvas chairs. ‘Look!’ He points to a drone circling high in the cloudless azure sky. It’s eighteen degrees and almost sunset, and I loosen the cream silk scarf at my neck.
Ouarzazate is 200 kilometres, and a road journey two and a half hours in duration, south-east of Marrakesh. The citadel sits on a plateau 1,160 metres above sea level. To the north of the town, the Atlas Mountains stretch into a hazy backdrop, and to the south of the Kasbah lies the desert. Its nickname, ‘the door of the desert’, is apt, and I can imagine the intense heat of the summer.
The drone hovers overhead, but its whine is faint against the Berber voices babbling around us, as orders and instructions are barked, translated, and then shouted in American.
The film set seems chaotic and busy, but everyone appears to have a defined role and seem to know what they’re doing. I’ve been impressed with the slick way the filming is being directed and the calm manner of Sandra Worthington.
After a brief introduction, and a promise to catch up later, Keith, the producer, has explained and helped us find our way through the maze of the set, crew, location, and hotel.
Now, outside and staring up at the sandy-coloured Kasbah of Taourirt, presumably one of the most beautiful in Morocco, it reflects the fading sunlight and glows majestically like a lost kingdom. I’m left with the image painted on my mind as Peter pulls me into its belly; a labyrinth of intricate passageways, steep steps, and narrow rooms where colourful carpets, paintings, and ceramics are on display.
We step over cables, pass camera operators and their assistants, and I’m conscious of Peter’s grip on my arm as the set falls still.
‘Keith said to stay here.’
‘Can I film?’
‘Not right now,’ Peter whispers excitedly. ‘You took enough pictures this morning. Just enjoy this.’
I pull my scarf over my head and cover my dyed-blonde hair, that seemed so natural on Marco’s yacht in Greece but now seems out of place.
Peter’s face is covered by a dark hooded cloak and his head is wrapped in a grey turban. My heart begins to race. I too am in disguise. He could be anyone, and so could I.
I hear them before I see them; a shuffling, then soft, bare footfall. The Parks appear, freerunning quickly, five lithe bodies leaping gracefully, something between a dance and acrobatics, serenely controlled and breathtakingly perfect. Their hands and bare feet use the simple structures of the Kasbah; running, jumping, overlapping, at once precarious and tangled, landing on railings, roofs, and ramps, flipping, vaulting in imaginative and elegantly polished ways. I remember the terms they’ve mentioned in practise, like the quadrupedal, where they run quickly on all fours like dogs; and wall running like a super hero; or the safety vault, with a one-handed cartwheel and then a side flip. Every obstacle is a challenge as they spring, coil, leap, or use a barrel roll before stretching up and wall running, tic-tacking up the side of impossibly high floors, scuttling over the rooftops, and then they’re gone.
A voice shouts, ‘CUT!’
‘Wow!’ I exhale in a gasp, not realising that I’d been holding my breath.
I pull the scarf from my face and turn in wonder to look for the Parks. But they’ve disappeared, leaving me in awe of their short performance.
Peter’s face is alive, and he’s laughing with me. We’ve witnessed the performance several times this afternoon, and I’ve taken pictures and even used a drone; now I’m happy to have just seen the experience again, so close, without having to record it.
Sandra and Keith study the footage, share a discussion with Matt and another stunt advisor, then Keith shouts.
‘AGAIN!’
‘My goodness, that was breathtaking. What I’d give to be able to do that.’ Peter squints up at the high walls of the Kasbah that the Parks scaled with ease.
‘It’s just practise,’ I reply, grinning. ‘You could try it!’
‘And you need the proper equipment.’ He taps his artificial foot against the wall, and it kicks up a plume of dust.
‘You’re full of excuses.’
‘You could do it,’ he suggests.
‘Nah! I’m too old for parkour. Maybe ten years ago I’d have loved it. Besides, these are kids. How old are these guys?’
Peter frowns. ‘Some of them are as young as fifteen. Matt is trying to recruit more of them, but he says it’s difficult. He told me that there’s too much temptation on the street – but this filming is a way for the kids to make money—’
‘Come on, quick! Let’s get ready,’ I urge.
‘QUIET ON THE SET!’
I hold my position, watching and waiting for the five Parks. This time, Ali, the leader, arrives ahead of the others and he leaps up the wall, runs along its narrow side, swings from a window ledge, and throws his weight up and onto the roof.
It’s a spectacular feat, and the drone, operated by one of the film’s camera crew, hovers in the sky, its lenses capturing the agility in this boy’s natural physical ability.
‘CUT!’
‘Wow!’ I whisper. ‘That was so impressive!’
Peter nods and grins. We walk companionably back to the square where the crew on the film set have set up camp, and I’m excited to be here making a film documentary.
‘Did you get it all?’ Peter calls.
Keith, the producer, replies, ‘I’m not sure; Sandra is checking it, but it looked good from where I was on top of the wall. We’ve had enough cameras rolling all day. So, it should be a wrap for today.’
Although he has narrow shoulders and hips, his ginger-red Viking beard gives him an authoritative and commanding presence.
‘It was awesome,’ I say. ‘It was as good, if not better, than the earlier stunts.’
Keith smiles at me. ‘They’ve been rehearsing really hard, but they do make it look so effortless.’
‘Did you get all the footage you need?’ I ask.
‘I hope so, but there are more scenes tomorrow.’
‘You’re also filming a few scenes back in London, aren’t you?’ Peter asks.
‘Yeah, we’re setting up a few action scenes in North London – Islington.’ Keith strokes his beard, thoughtfully brushing it with the back of his fingers. ‘That will be next week – hopefully – or the week after, tops.’
The square is now awash with people milling about – not the local Berbers, but a mixed international crew, busy looking at cameras, moving cables, and checking monitors.
‘It’s great you managed to make it for the last few days of the shoot. It’s an important documentary that you’re making, Mikky, and that guy over there deserves a medal for everything that he’s doing.’
I follow Keith’s gaze that rests on Matt – a man probably in his early thirties, with a shaved head and muscled arms, with a web of violent inky tattoos; guns, knives, skulls, and serpents.
‘We’ll crack open the beer, shall we?’ Keith says. ‘Are you guys coming back to the hotel?’
‘Sounds a great idea; all this filming makes for thirsty work,’ agrees Peter.
Over Keith’s shoulder, I can’t take my eyes from Matt, an ex-convict, who has turned his life around and is now acting as a role model to the five teenagers at his side
. The experts in parkour, the Parks, are laughing, exuberant and breathless. Although Peter and I have met them all, we still haven’t yet been able to break through their natural reserve.
* * *
The following morning, I’m in one of the Bedouin tents, in Ouarzazate, especially erected for the crew. It’s where they leave drinks and snacks for us, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a cushion with my DJI Phantom 3 drone upside down between my knees when Ali appears. He’s a short-haired Muslim boy with a round cherubic face. His hair is cut in a popular style, the fohawk taper. It’s buzzed around the ears and dropped down to the neck, making it a clean-cut look. The hair on top is spiked, styled forward, and it makes Ali look dashing and handsome, apart from his sallow cheeks – which are dented with pox marks, old spots that have healed poorly.
‘Having a break?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, we can only film for three hours a day.’
‘Is that a legal thing?’
‘Yeah.’ He watches me from a distance while he checks his phone.
I remove the screws, one screw per arm, then I remove the eight 5mm screws with a different screwdriver, and then the four 10mm screws. I’m searching for a T8 screwdriver when Ali asks, ‘What you doing?’
‘I’m changing the motor. There’s a screw on each arm near the landing gear.’ I undo them, then flick the Phantom back over with the motors facing up, and I peel back the silver strips.
I’m conscious of Ali stepping closer.
Using a plastic spudger, I separate the two halves of plastic shell of the drone and when it clicks loudly, I smile.
‘Yay, success!’ I carefully remove the upper half; following the ribbon cable to the control board, I locate the connector. I pull out the cable, separating the two halves of the drone. ‘The next part is harder,’ I say, working in silence, removing the glue that covers the three wires connecting the motor to the flight controller for each arm of the drone. Then carefully I desolder the black, yellow, and red wires where they connect to the flight controller and I remove the old motor.
I’m conscious of Ali kneeling beside me as I install the new motor, and then I follow the same procedure in reverse to put the drone back together.
He picks up the old motor and turns it in his hands. ‘You’ve actually replaced the motor?’ He grins.