Like a Hole in the Head

by James Hadley Chase

  After a struggle, I got the boat into the water, then I climbed in, picking up the pole. I began the slow punt up the canal. As I forced the boat through the weeds and the water lilies the mosquitoes struck at me and the steamy heat was like a jacket of cotton wool around me.

  I struggled on for something like an hour. I had been trained by the Army to withstand mosquitoes and heat. I was savagely determined to find Lucy and it was a challenge my body was ready to accept.

  Then I saw them.

  I saw Timoteo first. He was sitting with his back to a tree in a small clearing by the canal. A cloud of mosquitoes swarmed around his head. Lying across his knees was Lucy. He was fanning her with his hat.

  She lay limply, her shirt and white slacks plastered to her body, her cropped blonde head lying on his knee, showing the lovely line of her throat.

  He saw me as I forced the boat through the overhanging branches of the mangrove trees.

  I saw his hands go around her : the action of a child whose favourite toy is threatened.

  She lifted her head and saw me.

  I saw fear appear on her mud-stained face. She clutched hold of Timoteo, then she frantically waved at me, as if by the wave of her hand she could make me vanish.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I dug the pole into the slime, a cold, murderous rage exploding inside me, and heaved the punt forward. The blunt prow hit the bank and slid up it. I dropped the pole into the boat and jumped on to the bank.

  Lucy, looking terrified, backed away, leaving Timoteo to face me. I charged up the steep bank like an enraged bull, intent only on getting my hands around his throat, but the slime of the bank beat me. My feet slipped when I was within reach of him and I sprawled face down with a thud that drove the breath out of my body.

  If I had been Timoteo, I would have put the boot in. A solid kick to the head would have finished me, but he remained motionless in that exasperating zombie stance of his while I tried to get to my feet in the oozing slime. As I struggled, he bent forward, caught hold of my arm and with surprising strength, heaved me upright. Blind with fury, I swung at him, but the unbalanced swing made my feet slide from under me and cursing, I slid down the bank to splash into the stagnant water.

  Spluttering, I surfaced, tearing weeds and water-lily leaves from my face. I was up to my waist in the warm, stinking water. My feet sank into the mud of the canal bottom, like wet concrete, and I found myself trapped.

  “Leave him!” I heard Lucy scream. “Tim! Come away!” The effect of those words was like a bucket of iced water poured over me. My rage sparked out. I remained fixed in the mud, realising that what I had already suspected was true. Timoteo slid down the bank and into the boat. Leaning forward, he offered me his hand. For a moment I hesitated, then I caught hold of his wrist. With scarcely an effort, he heaved me out of the mud and into the boat, steadying the boat as it threatened to overturn.

  “Tim! He’ll kill you !” Lucy screamed frantically.

  As I got to my feet, I saw her sliding down the bank, a stick in her hand. She missed the boat and landed in the water. As Timoteo and I both reached out to grab her, the boat capsized, throwing us into the water beside her.

  I was the first to reach her. As I pulled her upright, she hit me across the face with the stick. The wood was rotten and flew into bits as it struck me.

  Frantically, she splashed away from me as Timoteo reached her. I felt my feet beginning to sink in the mud. Somehow, I struggled to the bank, caught hold of a tree root and dragged myself on to firm ground.

  Timoteo had Lucy in his arms, but I saw he was sinking. I hung on to the tree and reached out my hand. He caught hold of it and I dragged them to the side of the bank. He heaved Lucy up to me, then as she rolled away from me, I helped him on to the bank.

  For some moments we lay there, trying to breathe, the sweat pouring off us, the mosquitoes making a cloud around us.

  I thought of the rotten stick breaking across my face and I looked at Lucy who was lying on her back, her hands covering her face. Then I sat up and looked at Timoteo who was scraping mud out of his eyes.

  “So besides being a gutless bastard,” I said, “you now have become a wife stealer.”

  Lucy struggled up.

  “I love him !” she screamed at me. “He isn’t gutless. He’s wonderful ! You don’t…”

  “Oh, shut up !” I barked at her.

  She flinched away from me as I continued to stare at Timoteo.

  “Lucy and I love each other,” he said quietly.

  “And you shut up !”

  I slithered down the bank into the water. As I began to struggle to right the boat, Timoteo joined me. Together, we got the boat floating again. As I climbed into the boat, he pulled himself up on to the bank to join Lucy.

  I looked up at them.

  “We can get through to the sea,” I said. “Do you want to come or do you want to go on with your goddam Romeo and Juliet act?”

  They slid down the bank to the boat. I watched Timoteo as he half carried, half led Lucy down the slippery bank. I realised his hands had a tenderness that mine could never have.

  She sat at the far end of the boat, away from me. The sight of her cropped head and the unhappiness on her face sent a pang through me.

  Timoteo moved to the middle of the boat and sat down on the cross bench.

  I picked up the pole and began to force the boat through the weeds. I had been doing this for the past hour before I had found them. With their extra weight, I now found it a struggle to move the boat.

  I struggled on, sweat pouring off me, then finally with my heart hammering, my breath hissing through my clenched teeth, I stopped, leaning on the pole beaten.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Timoteo stood up and took the pole.

  I hated to be beaten, but I couldn’t go on. I sank down on the bench and dropped my head into my sweating, blistered hands. He had either a lot more strength than I or he had the knack I hadn’t got, but he kept the boat moving through the weeds at a speed I didn’t think possible.

  Finally, we broke out of the weeds and into salt water after an hour’s gruelling struggle. By then I had my strength back and I took the pole from Timoteo’s exhausted hands. Now it was his turn to slump down on the bench.

  Minutes later, we were free from the torment of the mosquitoes and I could see the jungle opening up and ahead of us, the sea. Another ten minutes brought us out into the light of the evening sun : a red ball as it sank below the horizon. There was no longer any need to use the pole : the current took us along towards the open sea. As the boat drifted away from the overhanging branches of the mangrove trees, I dropped the pole into the boat and flopped down behind Timoteo on the forward bench.

  Finally, the prow of the boat bumped into a sand bank, stewed around and came to rest.

  Not bothering about the other two, I stripped off my wet, mudcaked shirt and dived into the sea. I swam slowly, feeling the mud, the blood and the sweat leaving my body.

  I love him!

  A woman doesn’t scream that at the husband she has lived with for only six months in that tone of voice unless she means it. This wasn’t hysteria. I knew I had lost Lucy.

  When I felt clean enough, I swam back to the boat. I swam slowly. I saw Timoteo and Lucy were also in the sea. I trod water, watching them. After a while they came out of the sea and moved up the beach to a sand dune.

  I came out of the sea and walked up to them.

  Timoteo got to his feet while Lucy sat where she was, staring up at me, her eyes round and terrified.

  “Okay, slob,” I said, pausing in front of him. “Maybe you can’t shoot, but you can steal my wife. Tell me, how many times have you screwed her?”

  He didn’t react as I hoped he would. I had hoped to provoke him to take a swing at me and then it would have been a knock down and drag out which I wanted.

  “Did my father do that to you?” he asked in a shocked, husky whisper.

  I saw he was lookin
g at the Red Dragon brand.

  “Does that bother you?” I said. “Does that bother you more than stealing my wife? Your father isn’t fit to live. I’m going to kill him.” I moved around so that I stood in front of Lucy. She jumped to her feet, backing away from me.

  “Look at this, Lucy,” I said, pointing to the brand. “His father said he would put this on your face if I didn’t kill a man this slob is too gutless to kill. He branded me to show me he meant business. Do you still want this gutless creep who hasn’t the guts to spit in the face of the animal who calls himself his father? Do you?”

  She stared with horror at the brand mark, then she put her hands to her face.

  “Lucy! Do you want me or do you want him?” I yelled at her.

  I saw by the expression in her eyes that I had lost her.

  “I’m sorry, Jay… We love each other.”

  I slapped her face. As she reeled back, I saw Timoteo move. I spun around and into a punch that lifted me off my feet and flung me down on my back with my head half in the sea.

  I wanted this. I was sure I could take him. I wanted to smash him and drop him bleeding and helpless at Lucy’s feet. I wanted to show her the kind of man she had chosen.

  I had had a number of fights when I was in the Army. Every so often you got a challenge: some guy would think he was better than you and you had to show him he was wrong. Sometimes a guy was nearly right and the fight was long, bloody and savage. I had had around twenty fights while I was in the Army and I lost only one. This guy I had lost to had a chest like a beer barrel and I had broken my hands on him. He took everything I gave him : grinning, his face a mask of blood. I got one of his teeth embedded in my fist and I broke two fingers of my left hand hanging a punch on his jaw. He took everything I dished out and he still stayed on his feet. Then when I had nothing else to throw at him, he started to creep towards me like a crab and started hitting me. Well, he was a better fighter and a lot stronger than I was, and when he finally stretched me on my back, covered with blood, I admitted it.

  But I was sure Timoteo wasn’t a better and stronger fighter than I was, but I had learned he could punch and he was fast so I moved towards him cautiously. I wanted to land one crippling punch and once I had him shaken, I would go in and cut him to pieces: that’s what I wanted to do.

  I moved in, weaving, my head down, my chin tucked in, feinting with my left to set him up for my right. It was the classic Jack Dempsey attack, but he wasn’t there. As my right started, he slid away. With the ease of a professional, he caught me with a short jolting right that exploded on the side of my jaw and stretched me flat on my back.

  I had walked into the punch and worse, I hadn’t seen it coming. Then I knew I was up against a fighter who might lick me. I felt a trickle of blood run down my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, shook my head and got to my feet.

  Timoteo stood away from me, his long arms hanging by his sides, his serious, goddam intellectual face expressionless.

  I started towards him. He let me come within punching distance, then with the same professional arrogance, he slid my rush and again I found myself flat on my back from a bruising punch to the side of my head. This long slob carried a punch like the kick of a mule.

  I stared tip at him. He had again moved back and was looking down at me. Behind him I could see Lucy watching, her eyes large and her hands to her face.

  “You’re quite a fighter, aren’t you, you sonofabitch?” I said as I got to my feet. “Well, so am I.”

  He could dish it out, but could he take it? I knew I could absorb a lot of punishment. I was built to take it, but could this thin beanpole take a man-sized punch?

  He seemed rooted to the sand until I got within range of him, then he flitted away. He poked out a long left that thudded into my face and rocked me back.

  Go ahead, slob, I thought, and I kept coming in to be jabbed away with long raking lefts. Up to now I hadn’t landed a punch on him, and I had taken half a dozen jolts, but I had taken such punches before. I again bored in. The left jab came again, but this time I was ready for it, I shifted and closed in. I hit him in the belly with all I had. I felt my fist sink in. I heard the breath come out of him like the sound of a burst tyre. I saw his face fall to pieces and I smashed my right to his jaw. He went down as if pole-axed. I stood over him, my chest heaving, blood from the cuts he had made in my face dripping on my chest.

  Lucy ran between us and kneeling down, she lifted his head and cradled it against her breasts.

  I watched her for a long moment, then I turned and walked down the sandbank into the sea.

  I had a long swim ahead of me, but I was in the mood for a long swim.

  * * *

  The moon was coming up behind the palm trees as I came out of the sea. I had three things to do: I had to get a change of clothes; I had to pick up my car, and then I had to drive to the little white house and pick up the Weston & Lees rifle.

  The villa where Lucy had been was in darkness, but I approached it cautiously. I moved through the flowering shrubs until I got round to the front of the house, then I paused to listen. I heard nothing. In the light of the moon I could see my Volkswagen parked where Raimundo had left it.

  Nick and the other guards had been living in the place. In there, I would find a change of clothes. Although it was a temptation to jump into the car and drive away, I had to get out of my mud-stained, soaking-wet slacks and put on other clothes.

  I found the front door unlocked. I moved into the darkness silently. I found the stairs and climbed them, listening, cautious all the time. The first door I opened led into a bathroom. The light from the moon was strong enough now for me to find my way around without turning on any lights. The second door led into a bedroom. There I found what I was looking for: dark slacks and a black sweat-shirt. The fit was tight but good enough. I also found with some impatient searching a pair of stout, leather-soled sandals. Holding the sandals in my hand, I crept down the stairs, paused at the front door to put the sandals on, then crossed the tarmac to the Volkswagen. I found the key in the ignition lock. With my heart banging against my ribs, I started the engine, engaged gear and drove down the drive.

  No one shouted after me. When I reached the narrow road, I turned on the headlights and stamped down on the gas pedal. It took me under fifteen minutes to reach the road leading to the little white house. Here, I stopped the car, turned off the lights and walked the rest of the way.

  Reaching the house, I saw it was in darkness, but even then I took my time approaching it.

  The rifle was up on the roof where I had left it. Moving as silently as I knew how, I went up the steps of the verandah and moved into the dark house, pausing to listen. I heard nothing so

  I went on up the stairs to the ladder that led to the roof, lit by the brilliant white moon.

  Raimundo was sitting on the parapet, a colt automatic pistol in his hand : its blunt nose pointing at me.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, soldier,” he said. His voice was husky and I could see in the light of the moon his throat was swollen. “I thought you’d be along to collect the rifle. No tricks unless you want a second navel. Sit over there.”

  I rubbed my hand across my bruised, mosquito-bitten face and then walked over to the parapet about five yards from him and sat down.

  I had tricked him once before and given time I could trick him again, but did I have the time?

  As I sat down, he lowered the gun, resting it on his thigh. His left hand went to his throat.

  “You goddam nearly killed me,” he said.

  “What did you expect?”

  “Don’t let’s waste time. Savanto knows Timoteo and your wife got away. You know what that means, soldier?”

  “You told me. We’re dead men.”

  “That’s it. Did you find them?”

  “I found them. She and he are doing a modern Romeo and Juliet act.”

  He stared at me.

  “Those were the characters who
died young… or is my education slipping?”

  “They were the two.”

  He continued to stare at me.

  “I don’t know if I’m with you, soldier. Are you telling me Timoteo has stolen your wife?”

  “That’s about right, but it isn’t one-sided.”

  He touched his throat gingerly as he thought.

  “Doesn’t seem to be your lucky day, does it?”

  Probably it was his way of saying he was sorry.

  “Any cigarettes?” I asked.

  He tossed me a pack and a book of matches. I lit up and as I made to throw them back, he said, “Keep them; the way my throat feels I can’t imagine I’ll ever smoke again.”

  “You had it coming.”

  He grinned crookedly.

  “I was holding on to the last pieces. Where are they?”

  “Where you won’t find them.”

  “I don’t want to.” Again he touched his throat. “But Savanto will find them. He’ll find you and me too.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was tempted to say that I would find Savanto first, but I wasn’t sure if that kind of talk would pay dividends.

  I watched Raimundo lay the pistol on the parapet by his side. I decided he was too fast, even slowed down by a swollen throat, for me to jump him.

  “It won’t be long, soldier, before they come here and find us,” he said. “Then there will be some shooting. Then you and I will be dropped into the sea. Then they will go after Timoteo and your wife and there will be more shooting and they will be dropped into the swamp.”

  I regarded him. His face was glistening with sweat. He looked like a man waiting to die.

  “Are you telling me Savanto would have his own son murdered?”

  Raimundo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He has to. The word has gone out that his son has walked over his father’s face. That’s the way these people talk. No one walks across the face of the Boss and survives, even if he is the Boss’s son. If the old man is to remain Boss, Timoteo will have to go, and the old man is going to remain Boss, make no mistake about that.”