by Stan Arnold
To Mick, it was exactly the opposite. The colossal impact was completely unexpected, and so unbelievably violent, he was sure his brain had rotated through 90 degrees. The camera eyepiece severely distended his nostril. And the reflector floated gently after the caiman as it plunged towards the eagerly waiting females. The impact on the Mick-mobile was not dead centre, so it whipped, lurched and spun in a way that caused Mick’s breakfast of piranha fish soup to make a sudden and widespread reappearance.
Mrs Hathaway looked worried.
‘The reflectors gone!’
Mick wanted to say Fuck the reflector. Fuck You. Fuck Jim. Fuck the waterfall. Fuck this box. Fuck the fuckin’ caiman and Fuck Daring Dooz.
But instead he fell back on that old industry stalwart.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix it in post-production.’
Mrs Hathaway seemed pleased.
‘Carry on, James,’ she cried.
Jim, however, could not carry on. He had bad news.
‘The ropes stuck.’
‘What do mean stuck!’ screamed Mick.
‘I mean it’s jammed in the pulley. I can't pull you.’
Mick expressed his frustration by scooping up a handful of regurgitated piranha soup and slapping it on his bald head. He was just about to deliver his postponed ‘Fuck the reflector’ speech, when Mrs Hathaway intervened.
‘James, we’re in a pickle,’ she called. ‘So I’m afraid it’s up to you. Come out here and free the rope.’
‘I can’t tightrope walk,’ shouted Jim.
‘No need,’ she called back, ‘just sit with your legs on either side of the cable. Take it slowly, and come and sort out this pulley.’
Jim was not often noble, and this situation was no exception. However, after a five-second assessment, he realised that, if he did nothing, and they managed to free the pulley themselves, his chances of getting a lift back to St Bernards were zero. He’d lose £100,000 and face years of going to sleep in the long house, wondering if he’d be woken by a Bushwacker sinking its fangs into his groin.
And speaking of groins, if he did go for the pulley, he’d be sitting astride an armoured cable. It could be very uncomfortable. It could be very painful. It could ruin his love life, such as it wasn’t, for ever. But when it came down to Bushwacker Fangs v Ruined Love Life, there was no contest.
‘Just give me a second, and I’ll be there,’ he shouted.
‘Good man,’ cried Mrs Hathaway.
‘Tell the bastard to get a move on,’ growled Mick.
‘Now Michael, I’ll have none of that! Film him coming to the rescue.’
Reluctantly, Mick rolled on his side to get the shot of Superman grimacing as he slowly inched along the cable towards them.
Mrs Hathaway balanced, patiently.
All went well until Jim was about two yards from the jammed pulley.
They say lightning never strikes twice, at least not in the same place. That must also be true of 12-foot-long caimans.
The rampant, 1000lb of reptilian muscle shot over the waterfall edge, straight at Jim. He turned sideways and, for a split second all he could see was mouth, teeth and naked, writhing aggression, right in his face. Then, thanks to gravity, it was gone.
No doubt there are professors of zoology who, after a few bottles of vintage port at some Oxbridge top table, would be prepared to discuss the extent to which Amazonian caimans understand the concept of gravity. All this particular caiman knew was that a ready-made meal, straddling a wire, had suddenly disappeared.
It was snapping its powerful jaws in frustration as it plunged towards the waiting females, when, more by luck than hunting prowess, it managed to clamp itself onto Jim’s boots.
This immediately added 1000lb to Jim’s bodyweight. But thanks to Rory DeFreise and Anton Cumberbatch, Jim had only to cope with a massive and sudden increase in the pain already coursing through his testicles.
Some months earlier, as design consultant to Daring Dooz International, Rory DeFreise been wandering around London’s Covent Garden Market tasked with selecting tropical wear for Mick and Jim.
He was very happy with everything, apart from the boots. Wandering around the Doc Martens store, he met Anton, design consultant for Strapped for Cash magazine, and over a coffee, they realized they had a mutual interest in boots.
‘I think you need something very masculine,’ said Anton, ‘and I think I know the little man you need.’
Arthur Pedigrew and Sons had been gentlemens’ boot makers for 150 years. They paid off the small mortgage on their shop in 1910, and so had been able to stay in Covent Garden, to witness the restaurants, bars, pubs, shops, advertising agencies, PR consultancies and white-faced mime artists that now filled the place to bursting point.
Somehow, Arthur Pedigrew and his sons had failed to keep up with the times, and the shop was on the verge of bankruptcy, until about a year ago, when the editor of Strapped for Cash popped in to enquire whether they could make 8-inch, stiletto-heeled thigh boots in black PVC.
Ten minutes later, a deal was done. Advertisements would appear in the magazine at no charge, and Strapped for Cash would take a percentage of sales. The boots were a roaring success, and another traditional British craft had been saved for posterity.
‘We’re looking for a man’s jungle boot with a big butch steel casing, right up over the ankle, caressed in soft beige chamois,’ said Anton. ‘That’s my concept. Put them on, and you’ll know you’re wearing a real man’s boot. Like, you’re down the Limpopo and district, and out pops one of them alligator things and gives your boot a good chomp. And it’s clang, lots of teeth twanging into the undergrowth, and off it has to wander, looking for something to suck to death.’
‘I like it,’ said Rory.
So did Mr Pedigrew. And one week later, the boots were ready to be tucked away in Jim’s Daring Dooz flight case.
Back on the armoured cable, lucky design encounters in Covent Garden, were as far from Jim’s mind, as possible. The pain and pressure on his groin was so intense, he couldn't speak. His mouth stayed wide open and his facial colouring alternated between deep purple and deadly white - one second on, one second off. The caiman was determine to have, at least, a snack on its way to the orgy, and was thrashing wildly in an attempt, basically, to rip Jim’s feet off. But Mr Pedigrew’s steel-lined boots held firm. British engineering at its finest.
‘This is not getting the baby’s botty powdered,’ said Mrs Hathaway. She leaded forward, putting her hand on Mick’s head in a way which neatly avoided the piranha soup-vomit mix. Instinctively, Mick turned the camera round, just in time to see her remove the knife from her thigh strap and throw it with surprising amount of venom, so it hit the caiman right between the eyes.
‘Did you get that?’ said Mrs Hathaway grimly, as the caiman fell away, still snapping.
‘Yes,’ said Mick, ‘but not as much as the croc did.’
He smiled. Mrs Hathaway smiled. While Jim stared ashen-faced into the middle distance, which, as far as he was concerned, was about three inches away.
The next ten minutes were tough for Jim. He inched painfully forward, sorted the jammed pulley, then inched his way back to the bank where, after a few more minutes of whimpering, he resumed tugging on the rope.
It wasn’t long before Mick and a fully videoed Mrs Hathaway arrived safely on Jim’s side of the waterfall. Mrs Hathaway then did a couple more crossings for long shots and telephoto close-ups. Mick recorded the sound of the waterfall, leaving Jim to have a quick check down the front of his designer shorts to assess the extent of the damage, which was, indeed, considerable.
Still, Daring Dooz Challenge Three was complete. Exhausted, the three of them made their way down to the waiting canoe.
Initially, Jim felt he couldn't walk a step, but, after downing the contents of Mick’s flask of Glenfiddich Urban Alternative, he managed the descent quite easily. Although from time to time, he tried to dive into the frothing pool of gigantic, over-sexed, over-incisured reptiles,
crying, ‘Let me at the bastards, I’ll fuckin’ show ‘em what happens when they mess with James Redfern Chartwell.’
Chapter 60
Despite Jim’s worries that some of the more shortsighted caimans might mistake their dugout canoe for a tasty bit of skirt, they arrived safely back at the village.
It seemed everyone was waiting at the pier, shouting and waving. Hamish stood at the front of the crowd with a huge smile on his face.
Mrs Hathaway stood up and shouted, ‘What’s all this about?’
‘We were all theer tae see yoos,’ said Hamish, as he helped the trio out of the canoe.
‘All where?’
As the crowd thronged around Mrs Hathaway, Mick and Jim, and they trailed slowly back to the village, Hamish explained that, once word got around about the challenge, everyone headed to the top of the waterfall, and had hidden in the jungle to watch.
‘But you didn't come and help us when we got stuck,’ said Jim, trying as unobtrusively as possible to give his ravaged groin a comforting stroke.
‘Hey!’ said Hamish. ‘Gerra grip pal! We’re talking about the wee Enfield Bin Lady here. We knew she’d play a brammer.’
‘But I did quite a bit,’ said Jim feeling rather left out.
Hamish explained that that fact had been noticed, particularly by some of the younger women in the tribe.
‘Ye could be in fa’ a wee bit of fun taneet!’ said Hamish digging Jim in the ribs and alternately raising and lowering his eyebrows.
This, as far as Jim was concerned, was Sod’s Law in overdrive. Half a dozen beautiful girls would be begging for his favours, and all he had to offer was something that looked like two badly squashed beetroot and a decomposing carrot.
Mick had tuned in to the conversation. He would not easily forget the phenomenal speed with which Jim had constructed the Mick-mobile.
‘Heaven’s to Betsey, James,’ he said, placing his arm around Jim’s shoulders.
‘What rotten luck! Still, your old pal-aroony, Micky-Boy is prepared to step into the breach on your behalf. You know me, one pull on the rip cord and the old two-stroke fires up, ready for action.’
In reality, Mick realised Jim had saved the day, and Jim realised that, given his prodigious levels of Viagra consumption, Mick was on the brag, yet again. So, as with all Mick and Jim’s tiffs, it was over almost as soon as the stirring started.
Mrs Hathaway slipped quietly away from the revelries to call Giles with the details of Challenge Three.
Needless to say, he was ecstatic, but Mrs Hathaway soon got down to basics.
‘Challenge Four?’
‘Came with Challenge Three - separate envelope.’
‘Oh, Hamish must be hanging on to it.’
‘Hamish? Who the hell is Hamish?’
‘It’s a complicated story, Giles - what’s the challenge?’
‘The Black Pool.’
‘But isn't that that seaside place with the tower, where people go to get drunk and see the Krankies and Little and Large?’
‘No,’ said Giles, ‘this is a couple of day’s trek away, up the jungle. We spotted it on the aerial photos my team took. It’s a mysterious black pool. We want you to dive down to the bottom and see what’s there. Some of these pools are hundreds of feet deep, and who knows what might be lurking in the depths?’
‘You don't have to sound so delighted.’
Giles laughed in that carefree way people laugh when an extra £20 million pounds has recently arrived in their bank account.
‘There are manuals and all the equipment you and the cameraman need in the Catalina. We’re going to call the issue, Black Pool Terror.’
‘Well, we’re going to have a rest for a couple of days, plan the route, check the equipment and manuals - all that sort of thing.’
‘Great!’
‘Good - well I’ll say goodbye, then.’
‘Good bye,’ said Giles. ‘You’re doing a great job.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, and one more thing.’
‘Yes’
‘Bring me back a stick of rock.’
He was still laughing when she terminated the call.
Chapter 61
When Mrs Hathaway returned, the celebratory lunch was well underway. Both Mick and Jim were downing vast quantities of Glenfiddich Urban Alternative and eating things off large, green leaves. She told them about the Black Pool, and put up with their chuckling about Kiss Me Quick hats, Reginald Dixon’s organ and Billy’s Weekly Liar. They both laughed until they fell over backwards, which is what would have happened anyway, sooner or later.
After half an hour had dawdled by, Mick got up and announced his decision to retire to bed.
‘Well, James, my old carbuncle, there’s little left in this neck of the shire to keep this man-about-jungle amused. I’m off for some zeds.’
And with that, he spent the last of his energy tottering off to his bed area, while Mrs Hathaway went to the Catalina to check the deep-sea diving equipment.
As Jim was now alone and left to his own devices, he indulged himself in his favourite pastime - brooding on the fact that life had it in for him.
He didn't like the jungle, his steel-reinforced, chamois-caressed boots weighed a fucking ton, and now he was faced with a two-day hike to some puddle. The only good thing was that Mick would have to do the dive, while he waited up top. Rather generously, he thought for a moment that Mick was always getting the difficult and dangerous things to do. But it was only a moment. He soon switched to pondering the fact that it was James Redfern Chartwell, the sound engineer, who, despite getting all the apparently cushy numbers, was the one with the groin which looked like it had gone through 30 minutes of unarmed combat with a meat tenderiser.
The journey through the jungle was bound to be terrible. He hated everything about the sodding place. It was hot and sticky; there were flies, mosquitoes and leeches, not to mention spiders, snakes and pumas. And he would be at it for two days there, and two days back.
But as he sipped his Glenfiddich Urban Alternative in extra large gulps, his brain ambled over to trying to rationalise his fears.
Mrs Hathaway wasn’t frightened of anything. Mick, as long as there was 100 grand in it, was only mildly perturbed. Perhaps he ought to confront his fears. Perhaps he ought to stand up and go for a leisurely stroll in the fetid undergrowth. Not just a couple of feet, but, maybe, half a mile. Striding boldly forward, filling his lungs with jungle air, whistling a merry tune. Let everything know he was in charge. He was the boss. All the endangered species lurking in the foliage could go fuck themselves. Because Jim was here, and Jim was King. He had another gulp of GUA and decided that’s what he’d do.
The first achievement of this newly assertive, newly empowered James Redfern Chartwell was to get four or five men to help him stand up and point him in the direction of the jungle.
It went very well. Perhaps the GUA had dulled his senses, and he had no real idea of what he was getting into.
After about 10 minutes of manly striding, he thought he heard a strange noise low down, to his left. It was a rustle, accompanied by a low grunting sound. Somehow, his prodigious GUA intake had decided it was now time to amplify any sounds. And with each additional decibel, his fear ramped up more keenly than ever.
‘Fuck off,’ he shouted at the rustle. ‘Fuck off.’
He held onto a nearby tree trunk, and suddenly realised what a waste of time it was shouting ‘Fuck off’ at a wild animal. And anyway, this was Brazil - and they’d only understand Portuguese. And as he had no idea how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Portuguese, or, in fact, whether Portuguese people even said ‘Fuck off’, he decided to switch his attention back to his fear.
The tree was covered in vines, which made lots of places you could grab, and places where you could wedge your steel-toed boots. Within a few seconds, he had begun a GUA-powered ascent of a magnificent kapok tree.
When he’d got about 15 feet up the trunk, he sat on a branch
to take a breather. Nothing had showed up, down below. Nothing had tried to climb the tree. Which was just as well for whatever hadn't showed up, and hadn't climbed the tree, because James Redfern Chartwell had steel books caressed with chamois leather, and any World Wildlife Fund-protected fucker coming up the trunk would get a gob full.
He grabbed a vine to steady himself. Strangely for a vine, it had an evil-looking head which twisted round rapidly to bare its fangs and hiss. For someone as pissed as Jim, his reaction to the situation was extremely rapid, and the snake hit the ground spitting, before slithering off to find a place where no drunks would be yanking its tail.
Jim was not amused. He clung tightly to the tree, rapidly twitching his head in all directions to see if any other vines wanted to add him to this month’s Amazon Basin mortality statistics.
He pushed his head closer to the trunk, and distinctly heard a scratching, gnawing sound. He moved his head away quickly and scrambled higher. He reached out for a branch, and one of the leaves sprang forward and attacked the back of his hand. He dropped down a couple of branches and a small green frog hopped onto his face. He brushed it away and found himself swinging by one hand. The swarm attacked on the second swing. Bees, hornets, he didn't care. He thrashed out with his remaining arm and legs and, fortunately, they left, presumably to look for another inebriated Englishman swinging from a tree.
Jim grabbed at the trunk and a large, hairy spider scuttled out of a hole and ran up his arm. Panic was setting in, and his rate of climb would have amazed the average F-16 pilot. Now he was a good hundred feet up in the canopy. His heart was pounding. His clothes were ripped. And he had little cut marks on his skin where things had pecked at him on the way up. He popped his head into the air above the canopy. Even here, the humidity levels were astronomical. He felt his lungs were struggling to find oxygen. During this search, a couple of disgusting looking yellow-headed vultures landed on a nearby treetop and began fighting and squawking - presumably about which one was going to have first go at him.
He decided it was time to go down. His first hand-hole was full of something soft, warm and sticky - he pulled out a handful of large, partially squashed grubs. A group of monkeys arrived from nowhere and bounced and danced and screamed around him, trying to grab the grubs from where he had wiped them on his designer safari jacket. He lost his footing and crashed down through the branches.