The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  The fresh morning air flowed through the narrow opening. It was a relief from the humid stuffiness of where he had been sitting. He leaned on the two sides of the doors and tried to push them open. It was then that he saw the chain and the padlock loosely wrapped around the two thick steel bars. What the fuck? Feeling dizzy and confused he decided to sit in the fresh air near the doors and try to go over the events of the previous night. It was as he sat there that it all started to come back to him. At first the memories were vague but they gradually became clearer. There had definitely been a man in his room, and that man had drugged him. The painful spot on the left hand side of his neck confirmed this. Then he remembered the dark and uncomfortable journey in the boot of a car followed by what had felt like a boat journey. All of these memories were interspersed with recollections of being carried around and dumped in various places. His body had been completely lifeless and he had been unable to move or speak at all. What the fuck? Who the fuck could do this to Carlos da Costa? They would certainly die. Then came the memories of the voice. The voice had spoken to him on a number of occasions. It was a man’s voice and he knew he recognised it. “Bastard,” he said out loud as the penny finally dropped. “Bastard!” Outside the container a seagull landed and walked around looking into the container curiously. It squawked a few times and this annoyed Carlos da Costa. Then he remembered the man talking to him as he sat in the container. It was the man who had come to the party with Richard. He remembered the voice and face clearly and he remembered the lecture he had been given as he sat there helpless in the container. “You think you fuck with Carlos da Costa? You fucking die!” he said loudly. The strength was coming back and he looked outside once again. The seagull was still there and it squawked loudly from the filthy steel deck. Angrily, he kicked at the steel door. There was a dull thud and a brief rattling of the chain. The bird shrieked and flew out of sight immediately.

  He had no way of telling where he was or of telling the time but he guessed it from the light outside it was early morning. Don't you worry. Today you will get out of here, and today you will fix the people who put you here. They will fucking suffer. By 8.30am all of the strength had returned to his limbs and he began to explore his metal prison. He had hoped there would be some scrap steel or iron bars in the darkness to the rear of the container but to his great disappointment there was nothing. He began to hear the sound of distant boat engines and the horns of ships. It was at that time that the heat in the container started to become decidedly uncomfortable. He had scoured the entire length and breadth of the metal box for anything he could hit against the walls to attract attention but there was nothing. In the process he had also discovered the packages of tightly wrapped cocaine. Bastard!” he shouted.

  “I find you Mr Man! Anywhere in the world, I fucking find you!” After a while he decided that the most comfortable place to be was near the doors. There was at least a source of fresh air and he would be able to repeatedly kick at the doors in an effort to weaken the chain and hopefully attract attention of nearby boats. He sat there, facing the doors, and kicked at them, alternating from his right to left foot. After half an hour his entire body was running with sweat and he was exhausted. He lay down on his right side with his face as close to the opening as he could get it and closed his eyes. Fear started to fill his mind as he lay there in the ever increasing heat of his metal tomb. He realised that what had happened to him was no random act of revenge. It was clearly a well-thought out and meticulously executed plan. The man who had put him in there had obviously been sure that he would not escape. As the heat intensified, the headache returned and his breathing became faster. He realised that if he continued kicking at the doors through the heat of the day he would likely pass out and might not wake up. No, you lie here and try to relax. You think of a plan. You lie here and breathe nicely.

  By 11am the relentless equatorial sun was still rising in the cloudless sky over the Star of Guangzhou. The rusted orange metal of the outside of the container absorbed its rays and radiated them fiercely to the inside. Carlos da Costa was delirious by then. His entire body itched from the combination of sweat and the dust and grime that had come into contact with his skin since he had been abducted from his house. He had realised much earlier that the small amount of water he had would have to be carefully rationed if he was to survive for any great length of time. Every half an hour he allowed himself a small sip. Just enough to wet his mouth. He had tried to will himself to sleep but the combination of the headaches and the unimaginable heat were starting to drive him crazy. It was midday when Carlos da Costa finally started to scream. He felt like he was on some kind of a roller coaster. There were two specific emotions that raced through his mind. Fear and anger. The fear was primal. It was the basic and raw fear of dying. He felt his brain would boil and his body melt into the wood beneath him. “Mama!” he screamed as he tossed and turned on the sweat-soaked floor, “help me mama! Open the door please! Estou com medo!” After a while the delirium would take over and he lay there mumbling and snorting in a semi-conscious state. At times his strength would return and he would again try to kick at the metal doors. “Bastard! I fucking kill you all!” he shouted as his foot repeatedly banged against the searing corrugated metal. It was all in vain though as the chain and lock were too heavy and the level of noise being generated was nowhere near enough to be heard by anyone. This cycle of despair and rage continued until finally the interior of the container started to cool slightly at around 3pm.

  This was when Carlos da Costa began to come to his senses and realise the gravity of the situation he found himself in. His right foot was swollen and bleeding slightly from being repeatedly pounded against the metal doors. Eventually he sat upright and stared out at the limited amount of deck and sky he could actually see.

  The seagull that had landed near the container earlier that day returned and stood there cocking its head curiously and squawking at the strange noises from inside. Carlos da Costa sat there like a bull frog, motionless, and for a while he wondered if the bird was a friend or a foe. Perhaps you are a messenger my friend? Maybe you bring me good news? Maybe you tell Tintin where I am and he come to get me? Suddenly he found himself laughing quietly at the ridiculous thought. His laughter got louder and louder as he stared at the confused bird until it became hysterical. For a while the situation he found himself in didn't seem that bad and he sat there shaking his head, roaring and wheezing in great fits of mirth. But the euphoria was short lived and gradually the laughter turned into sobs as the terrifying reality of being trapped in a baking metal box returned. He sat there moaning and sobbing until the anger and rage returned. Once again he felt he was on a roller-coaster. The anger he felt gave him a sense of power and feeling that he had been badly wronged. When you are angry you are strong my friend. Your strength will keep you alive until they find you. You stay angry and you survive. Once again he decided to be proactive and got to his feet. As he stood he felt a sharp pain in his right foot from where he had been kicking at the doors. The pain only served to infuriate him further and he began screaming and pounding at the doors with his fists. The sound was like a giant bass drum, a dull thud, but anything seemed better than nothing and so he continued with eyes closed. All the while he imagined what he would do to punish the man who had brought him there. Carrallio!! I kill you. I make you eat your fucking balls!! Ten minutes later, fatigue and despair overtook him and he slumped to the floor. Wheezing for breath, he held his hands up to the light. Both were bleeding slightly and throbbing painfully. To his relief, the temperature in the container had dropped slightly. The water in the first bottle was almost finished but he was desperately thirsty and he greedily drank the last swallow. He lay there and realised that he had come dangerously close to madness that day. He told himself over and over that that must never happen again, that it was essential he stay focused and positive. Those people who put you here, they want you to suffer like this. Bastards. You have to be better than them. You hav
e to be more clever than them. Maybe they come to see if you are dead? They open container and you kill them. You bite their fucking noses off! No one can beat Carlos da Costa. No one. You better than them. The afternoon cooled gradually and eventually he drifted off to sleep. The last thing he saw was the familiar seagull land outside the door of the container.

  Hello my friend, you come to see me again. Hello my friend.

  When he awoke there was no more sliver of light from the doors. Briefly he panicked as he realised that he could not even see his hands in front of his face. Eventually he noticed a few stars in the night sky through the gap in the doors and he moved his face as close as it would get to the opening. Carlos da Costa smelt the salty air from outside the container. He thanked God that it had cooled down to a manageable level. He got to his feet and walked to where he knew the water bottles lay. He picked up the second full bottle and the tightly wrapped package of cocaine and walked back to the doors. As he sat there he realised that he was not only thirsty but also incredibly hungry. He knew that the person who had put him there, that man from the party, had purposely put the cocaine in there to tempt him. How did this man know so much? How had he circumvented all the security of the big house and seen everything he had claimed to have seen? Bastard! The hunger pangs would not go away but he resisted the temptation to open the package. A few hours later he decided once again to get proactive and try to better his situation. Using his teeth he pierced the base of the empty two litre bottle and he carefully removed the bottom section. He was trying to fashion a trumpet of sorts. He could then attempt to shout through the bottle to try to attract the attention of nearby boats the next day. Still there was a chance, he hoped, that the person who had put him there might return during the night. Perhaps his punishment would be short lived. There were all sorts of possibilities running through his mind and he was becoming more optimistic as the interior of the container cooled. All around him was dead quiet. There were no sounds at all. No boats, no seagulls, no distant music, nothing. He wondered if the world had stopped around him permanently. This gave him a sense of dreadful loneliness as he had become reliant on the servitude and fear of all who surrounded him. He was alone for the first time in his life and he was afraid.

  The mixture of fear and hunger and occasional optimism stayed with him until 11pm when he realised that he needed to defecate. Filla da porta! Bastard! Who the fuck can humiliate Carlos da Costa like this? They die!! For a few hours he tried to put it off, to forget about it, but eventually nature took its course and he stood to try to find a suitable place to do his business. The only option was the rear of the container and he felt his way blindly through the darkness until he felt the jagged wall where the container had been damaged. Cursing loudly, he removed his boxer shorts and squatted down on the floor. The dehydration that his body was suffering had caused serious constipation and he groaned forlornly as he forced the stool from his backside. The sheer degradation and humiliation he felt as he squatted there reignited the rage he had felt repeatedly through the day.

  The thick smell of faeces filled the stuffy space and he screamed as he ran back towards the fresh air of the door. His body slammed into the centre of the doors and instantly he bounced back and fell to the floor. He lay there, stunned and slightly winded. You gotta keep your head Carlos, these people they want you to go mad like this. You have to be one step ahead of them. Maybe they come later to check on you. Maybe you offer them money. Millions. Then you kill them later. No problem. You gotta stay ahead and keep thinking. Carlos da Costa shifted his body so he could breathe the night air instead of the stench that came from the back of the container. His brain was filled with a multitude of emotions and he lay there for hours staring at the stars he could see through the narrow gap of the doors. A long time later he drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen - Meltdown, Day Two

  The time was 4am and Carlos da Costa was dreaming. He dreamt of his childhood in Lisbon and of how he would bully the other boys in the street and steal their sweets and pocket money. Although he knew he was an unpopular child he was happy in those old days. Not a lot had changed in his life since then and he still found he could get what he wanted from people by bullying them. He dreamt of his mother’s cooking and the wonderful smells that would come from the small cramped kitchen in his parent’s apartment. In his dream he saw his mother’s smiling face as she passed him his dinner. She would always pile on the food and this had made him an extremely fat child. His father had been a sailor and as a result would be away from home for long periods of time. His mother had spoiled him in every respect, more so than any of the other boys on the street, and as a result they were all jealous. He had always been given the best toys, the best clothes, the best of everything. It was at 4.30am when the euphoria of the dream began to fade, and Carlos da Costa became aware that he was very uncomfortable where he lay. He opened his eyes and for a moment was confused at what he saw in front of him. The vertical sliver of pale light showed the debris and rubbish that lay on the deck of the ship and suddenly it all came back to him. Fear and panic filled his mind. All he wanted was to be asleep again and dreaming of his mother back in Lisbon. He closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep, telling himself repeatedly that it had all been a terrible nightmare and that when he opened his eyes he would see her standing there in her black dress smiling at him. To see her leaning over and squeezing his chubby cheeks. But it was not to be. Terrified, he opened his eyes but the scene had not changed. It had been well over twenty four hours that he had been locked in his metal tomb and still there had been no sign of human life. No-one to bribe, no-one to sweet talk, no-one to kill. He was filthy dirty, itching all over, full of aches and pains, and still trapped in his metal prison. More importantly, he was thirsty. Thirsty and hungry. He glanced at the bottle of water and the packages of white powder that lay near him. No, you no eat that stuff, it make you crazy. You drink water, little bit of water only, then you think, you stay calm. It was morning and usually he would feel the need to urinate but there was no urge at all. The dehydration had set in and all he wanted was to drink from the bottle and eat something. The water was warm but deliciously wet as it entered his mouth and travelled down his throat. He had to fight the urge to drink the whole bottle and he sobbed as he closed the cap and placed it on the floor. Não não não não não não! This can't be true, não please! As he lay there, he realised that soon the heat would return. The walls of the container would burn to the touch and radiate inwards like a microwave oven. But there was still the water in the two bottles and the trumpet-like horn he had made from the empty one.

  He lay there, oblivious to the stench of the faeces that emanated from the back of the container. The fear and despair he felt began to outweigh the hope. Could he survive another day in the hell that he found himself? Would someone hear his shouts through the horn? Would he be saved? Would he ever get a chance to take revenge on the people that put him there? Had he been such a bad person? Had he deserved this terrible punishment? Drugs were surely a personal choice and he was simply a businessman who supplied a demand. Was that so bad? He remembered the delirium and the near madness of the previous day. The roasting heat that had sent him teetering on the brink of sanity.

  There was nothing he could do except try to attract attention and conserve his energy and sanity during the terrible daylight hours. Plagued by thirst and ravenous hunger, he lay and waited. But it was not the heat that came first. It was the flies. Carlos da Costa noticed the first one at 7am and he swatted it away from his face in annoyance. But soon there were more and he began to hear them buzzing at the rear of the container. Then he remembered the awful humiliation of having to take a shit in the container the previous night. “Bastards!” he shouted. His voice was hoarse through his parched throat. Soon the interior of the container was alive with swarms of flies. They came in all shapes and sizes and colours. Carlos lay there filled with terror at the prospect of spending a day roasting
in his metal box with a million shit-covered insects. Beads of sweat started to form on his face as the temperature rose. The buzzing of the flies drowned out all the comforting sounds of humanity he had heard the previous day. Gone were the sounds of the distant ship horns and boat motors. The temperature inside the container rose steadily and relentlessly and the buzzing of the flies grew louder and louder. Carlos da Costa knew in his heart that there was no way he would survive another day of the heat combined with the flies. Any sane person would be driven completely mad. Sweat began to pour from his body and the flies began landing all over his itching flesh. At that moment the seagull he had seen twice the previous day landed in its usual place near the door of the container. “Hello my friend,” he said as he swatted flies from his face, “you come to see me again? Maybe you help me today?” The curious bird waddled around in the debris on the deck outside. It was then that Carlos had an idea. He had to keep trying to be proactive, to improve his situation and to survive. “Yes, yes,” he said nodding at the bird. “you give me good idea. You help me today. Thank you my friend.” Carlos sat up and immediately became aware of the millions of flies that had got into the metal box. The ceiling of the container was barely visible through the swarming clouds of insects that droned constantly in his ears. Carlos reached for the tightly wrapped package of cocaine. Carefully he dug his fingers into the top left corner and began tearing the top off around the edge.