The Hand of the Devil
Page 21
‘Do you really care?’ I squeezed her hand tighter. ‘We’re both alive after all.’
‘Yes . . . But I still don’t think I should have left the office today.’
‘I’m glad you did though.’
‘Come on, let’s go. Before something else comes down that tunnel.’
Hours later, after the sun had reclaimed the sky, Gina and I found ourselves in a sparsely occupied train, heading swiftly back to London. I opened my tired eyes and looked around the otherwise empty carriage. A sound had awoken me. I thought I’d heard a buzzing, not unlike that of a large insect. I listened for a while, but could detect nothing other than the noise of the train as it rolled speedily through the countryside.
After we had given our statements to the local police, all hell had broken loose. We were still at the police station when the detectives arrived, and when our story had been confirmed and our details taken, we were allowed to leave, with the assurance that we would be interviewed again in the near future. All we cared about then was getting home and into a warm bed.
Before heading to the station, however, we had one last bit of business to take care of. After explaining my failure to show up last night to a rather bemused Annie Rocklyn, I asked if she wouldn’t mind finding a home for Mr Hopkins.
‘Sir Anthony!’ she exclaimed, darting from behind the counter to pick up the startled cat in her arms. ‘My word, where on earth did you find him? I thought I’d lost him long ago! Oh, you poor, poor puss. Mummy’s missed you so much. Yes she has.’
We left the reunited couple to their celebrations and left the guest house.
Now, sitting in the train, I looked at the pretty girl sleeping next to me, using my arm as a pillow. Her shoulders rose and fell as she slept, and her contentment was infectious. I felt a great calm then, not just because it was all over, but because I’d got closer to her than I’d ever been.
I couldn’t help pondering over what she’d said when we were climbing out of the tunnel. It was true that few, if any, people would believe our story. And I had a feeling that the more time that passed, the less I myself would believe it. Maybe it’s part of time’s great healing process, a way of ensuring that we don’t go insane after the inexplicable events we’re sometimes foolish enough to stumble into.
As I closed my eyes and let sleep welcome me into its arms once more, the only thing I was aware of, besides the endless drone of the train, was a very slight, almost imperceptible throbbing at the back of my neck.
EPILOGUE
An Lao Valley, Vietnam
2005
One minute Cam was tying cord around the broken branch of a mulberry tree, the next he was looking towards the spot where his wife, Long, had been sitting on a tree stump, sewing his tattered work shirt. And all he could see was a body, slumped on the ground.
He turned and ran to the spot where she lay, heaving her into his arms, calling her name over and over again in the hope that it might rouse her from the mysterious sleep that had overcome her. His efforts were to no avail. He checked for breath, for a pulse, but neither could be found.
How? How could his beloved, the only ray of sunshine in his life, have been taken from him so instantly, so unexpectedly, so silently?
He carried her body back to the hut and laid her down on the bed. Pacing around the chamber, panting, holding back tears that would surely consume him, he tried to think of something – anything – that could reverse what had happened. And then he remembered.
An old man lived in the hills to the east of the small village. He rarely came down, and people rarely went up, but stories had circulated for decades of his powers. He was said to be as old as the mountains and wiser than any other man alive. The elders of the village swore that he was a genie, that he could heal, perhaps even restore life. It couldn’t possibly be true, but Cam had to find out for sure. Life without Long just didn’t bear thinking about.
For seven hours he carried his wife’s body up the treacherous mountain path, until, late in the day, he arrived at the peak. It was colder up there and the path was almost overgrown with thorn bushes. Looking around, the wind bringing tears to his eyes, he spotted a small wooden building. He pushed through the harsh thorns, cutting himself numerous times, until at last he stood before the door of the hut.
The door was half open, but Cam could see only darkness inside. He was about to place Long’s body on the ground before stepping inside, when a voice called out: ‘Stop! Do not come closer. I know why you are here, and I cannot help you.’
‘You—’ Cam began, feeling the tears run from his eyes. ‘You cannot do anything?’
‘What you ask means more than you can imagine. The dangers are immense.’
‘So you can do it?’ Cam moved closer to the doorway, straining to see within, but making nothing of the dark shadows.
‘I can . . . but—’
‘You must!’ Cam dropped to his knees. ‘Please, I will do anything, anything if you bring her back to me.’ He now started sobbing openly, staring into the hut in the hope that his earnest grief would spur the old man into acquiescing.
There was a pause, during which Cam’s sobs and the howling wind were all that could be heard. Then: ‘Did she love you? Unconditionally?’
‘Yes,’ Cam replied immediately, wiping his eyes. ‘We loved each other more than you can imagine.’
‘And was she content with her life? Was she never tempted to leave you for another? Another who could offer her more?’
‘No!’ The man was firm, almost angry. ‘Her only desire was to be with me. That and nothing more.’
‘Hmm,’ came the reply.
‘I am going nowhere until you bring her back to me, old man. If you don’t, I shall kill myself right now.’ Cam stared into the darkness, knowing the truth in his words would not be mistaken. ‘If I can’t be with her in this world, I shall join her in the next.’
There was another pause. For some minutes Cam knelt on the ground, wondering what would happen. Then he saw a face appear in the gloom of the hut. It was older than he could imagine. The skin was dry and horribly wrinkled, the hair thin and brittle. He had never seen a creature so old and frail.
‘Very well, young man,’ the old man sighed, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Carry her inside. And bring one of those mighty thorns with you.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
On a research level I would like to acknowledge the book Mosquito: The Story of Man’s Deadliest Foe by Andrew Spielman and Michael D’Antonio, as a valuable source of facts about the terrible insect itself. Any factual errors in the novel, however, are mine alone. Aside from this and numerous visits to the World Wide Web, the rest comes from the depths of my imagination . . . God help you all!
I would like to thank everybody at Random House Children’s Books not only for publishing me, but also, along with the folks at Transworld Publishers, for being valuable colleagues and friends, always generous with praise, support and encouragement. I really do love you guys.
And most importantly, an overwhelming and ongoing gratitude to a certain lady I met at a party once. Charlie Sheppard: respected editor, trusted friend and true hero.
Thanks, Charlie.
D.V. Carter 2005