The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  His plan was get a large square of the plastic and cover the turd completely. He would use handfuls of the white powder from inside to weigh down the plastic and seal the edges. He hoped this would prevent any smell from emanating from the rear of the container and the flies would eventually leave. He nodded at the bird as he worked. “Thank you my friend. You help me today.” Once he had successfully removed the top of the package he crawled to the rear of the container dragging the open package with him. The air was thick with the pungent stench and swarming with flies. They flew into his mouth, ears, and eyes as he went but he persevered until he arrived at the spot where he had defecated. In the dim light he saw the outline of the turd completely covered with flies and immediately covered it with the plastic. Quickly he took handfuls of the fine white powder and placed it on the edges of the plastic until it was completely sealed. Choking and spluttering he scrambled on all fours back to the doors of the container. He lay there for some time with his eyes and mouth closed. His left hand covered his nose and his right ear lay on his shoulder. His right hand covered his ear all in an attempt to escape the horror of the flies. An hour passed and Carlos was sure the maddening drone of the flies began to subside. In fact they had indeed begun to leave the container but that was of no comfort to him. The heat inside the container intensified with every passing minute. Outside the sky was a glorious blue and the sun rose steadily and shone with ever increasing intensity onto the rusted deck of the Star of Guangzhou. Carlos da Costa lay as still as he could with his face close to the narrow opening. He knew from the previous day that he had to try to keep calm and conserve water at all costs. He knew that any sudden movements or exertion would waste valuable calories and endanger his chances of survival and rescue.

  He had decided that he would refrain from using the plastic horn he had made until the day began to cool down. But all of his careful planning and attempts at being proactive were in vain. By midday Carlos da Costa felt he was roasting in the pits of hell and the delirium of the previous day returned with a vengeance. Once again he was overwhelmed by the agonising ferocity of the furnace inside the container and he began to moan weakly. The moans would quickly turn into cracked screams of agony and despair and he tossed and turned violently before slipping into unconsciousness. Very little sweat came from his body as he lay there and when he awoke at 3pm he realised that he had come close to death. Outside, the sun was steadily making its way down to the west and the inside of the container was slowly starting to cool. Sobbing and mumbling, he reached for the second water bottle that was by then two thirds finished. The warm liquid reminded him of the crystal clear fresh water lakes of Switzerland as he sipped it carefully through his cracked lips. Fatigue overcame him and once again he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He was suddenly awoken at 4.30pm by the horn of a nearby ship. He sat bolt upright and reached for the plastic horn he had made from the water bottle. “Help!” he shouted as loud as he could through the opening. The bottle amplified the sound to some extent but the dehydration and lack of food had left his voice croaky and weak. He repeated the exercise for a good half hour until, in a fit of anger and despair, he tossed the bottle to the side and slumped back down to the floor. Carlos da Costa lay there weeping and praying for forgiveness. He acknowledged the wrongs he had done throughout his life and he begged God to spare him from the dreadful hell he found himself in. He resolved that if he was to ever escape he would immediately sell his worldly possessions and donate everything to a worthy cause. The repetitive whispering of his prayers stopped suddenly when he heard a scratching sound outside the doors of the container. He opened his eyes to see the familiar sight of the seagull cocking its head curiously and looking at him. “Hello my friend,” he said, “you come to see me again, thank you my friend.” It was as he lay there staring at the bird that he noticed the open packet of cocaine nearby. The intense hunger he had felt had returned by then and he stared at the white powder suspiciously for a while. Just a taste. You are starving, just a small taste. At least it is something to put in the stomach. Not a lot. Just a taste. Using his left hand he dabbed his index finger into the white powder. The humidity had made the upper layer of the powder thicker, almost paste like. It stuck to his finger easily and he brought it up to his face to study it. All this shit just because of some drugs? All because of this white powder? He quickly put the finger in his mouth and sucked on it. Immediately he noticed the distinct, clinical, almost surgical taste of pure cocaine. It was not unpleasant. He rubbed it around his mouth and gums using his tongue and was instantly aware that it had an extremely strong numbing effect on anything it came into contact with. He lay back on his side with his face near the opening and looked out. The seagull was still there, waddling around in the rusted debris. “Não problem,” he attempted to say but the words were garbled by his highly anaesthetised mouth. “Não problem my friend,” he tried again but it was no good, the words came out indistinct and nonsensical. Again and again he tried to say the words and failed. For some strange reason he found this to be hilarious and he began to giggle like a little boy. The laughter grew louder and continued for a few minutes, but this time it did not end with tears. When he had finished, Carlos da Costa realised that he was no longer feeling hungry. Gone were the desperate aching pangs that had plagued him for so long. He felt his spirits had been lifted and his mind rejuvenated. The terrible fear and despair he had suffered since he had been locked in the container were gone and almost forgotten. Those feelings were replaced by a new found sense of energy and ingenuity.

  Gone were the aches and pains in his body, the terrible itchiness he had felt all over his skin. The flies were gone, the container was cooling down nicely, and everything seemed to be better than before. Feeling pleasantly surprised he sat up and looked around him. I find a way. I think of a way out. I make a plan which will work for me, and I make a plan tonight. Yes, that’s what I do. Tonight! Carlos da Costa had no idea that his descent into true madness had begun in earnest. He got up on his feet and studied the scene outside angling his head so as to see as much as possible. Rusted hunks of metal lay all around and there was no sight of sea or land. He put his hand to his chin and in deep concentration began pacing the length of the container being careful to avoid the spot where he had defecated. All the while he mumbled to himself as he imagined his escape and plotted and planned his future. The cocaine he had ingested was working its magic and his mind raced with hundreds of possibilities. Gone were the weeping repentant prayers and resolutions of earlier and he found himself once again planning revenge on the cruel man who had put him there. “Carralio! Bastard!” he whispered as he paced the thirty foot metal box. In his mind he praised himself for his ingenuity. The fact that he had fashioned the horn from the empty water bottle and succeeded in getting rid of the nightmare of the flies earlier. He felt that he was on a roll and that it was imperative for him to keep the positive thoughts and actions. In the distance he heard the horn of a ship. With a spring in his step he made his way to the doors and started shouting through the horn. “Hello!” he called, “can anyone hear me? Help!” His voice seemed louder and more powerful than the last time he had tried and this gave him hope. Suddenly he began to hear all manner of sounds. There were the deep sound of ships’ horns, the buzzing of boat motors, and even what he thought sounded like the repetitive drumbeat of music. There are people all around me. Someone must hear me! I must continue. And so he stood there for the next forty minutes as he watched the sun gradually move down through the sky. Every thirty seconds he would repeat the same call. “Hello! Can anyone hear me? Help!” Eventually his voice became hoarse again and he began to feel unsteady on his feet. I sit down and continue. I no give up! It was as he sat that the effects of the cocaine began to wane and he felt the anxiety and despair returning.

  Slowly he placed his horn on the floor next to where he sat and stared at the deck outside. He was once again desperately thirsty and he glanced worriedly at the second bo
ttle of water which by then was only one third full. Just one sip. Just one sip is all you need. Take it. Carefully he opened the bottle and brought the neck to his mouth. The warm liquid soothed his mouth and he kept it there, breathing through his broken but clear nose for a good three minutes. With the water in his mouth he lay down and closed his eyes.

  Once again in his mind he imagined cascades of cold sparking spring water flowing over moss-covered rocks in some babbling brook. But his mouth and body were by then so dehydrated that the volume of water in his mouth began to diminish along with his hope and positivity. After a while he succumbed and swallowed what was left of the water. He closed his eyes and turned to lie on his side. Once again he felt the itchiness on his filthy skin. It was all over, from his head to his feet. There was no single part of his flesh that was immune. He felt the aches and pains return all over his body and a throbbing in his head. It was nothing new, but this time it came with a heightened sense of despair and paranoia. Were there actual living things crawling on his skin or was he imagining it? Would he be scared of the darkness that was steadily coming? Would his friend the seagull be there to talk to through the night? Were there hidden cameras in the dark corners of the container watching his every move? Were the sounds he had heard earlier real or had they been a figment of his imagination? So many questions. So many fears and worries. More than before. He opened his eyes and immediately saw the open package of cocaine. It helps me. I no feel hungry anymore and it helps me. Keeps my mind thinking good thoughts. Good thoughts that will keep me alive. Good thoughts that will get me out of this shit hole. Without pausing he licked the index finger of his left hand and dabbed it into the pasty surface of the white powder. Deeper this time. It came out covered to the second knuckle with a thick coating of powder which he put straight into his mouth. The familiar bitter, chemical taste, and the simple action of putting something semi-solid into his body comforted him and he lay there once again swirling the powder around his teeth, his gums, and all around his mouth. He lay there in the fading light, opening and closing his then completely numb mouth and stared at the scene outside the doors. It was only a matter of minutes before all the fears, all the aches, all the worries and feelings of paranoia began to recede. The cycle had begun again and he sat upright with renewed enthusiasm and gusto. His mind began to tick faster and faster with thoughts of escape and plans for the future. There was no way he was going to die in this shit box. No fucking way. He was Carlos da Costa. The most powerful man in Zanzibar, if not the whole of Tanzania. Feared, respected and loved. There was no chance he would end his days like this. No chance. But Carlos da Costa had no idea that in a surprisingly short space of time, he had become addicted to his own product. Once again he began pacing the length of the container back and forth. The interior felt cool and manageable in his mind and he began to see his predicament as a mere challenge to be overcome. He told himself repeatedly to keep thinking of plans, ways to weaken the chain or the lock on the doors. The cocaine was once again coursing through his veins, raising his heart rate, and speeding his mind along nicely. He began humming tunes from his favourite bands and singers. Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Dean Martin.

  He found that it cheered him up and at the same time he could plan his escape and eventual revenge. He planned holidays to cooler climes and imagined all of the wonderful drinks he would consume. And so he paced his metal prison, humming and singing, and occasionally swearing out loud. Eventually he brought an imaginary microphone to his mouth and began giving a performance. His voice felt strong and vibrant and he peeked out into the fading light occasionally to see if his friend the seagull was there to enjoy the show. In reality, it was a pitiful sight but Carlos da Costa was too far gone to know or care. As he sang he danced lightly on his feet, closed his eyes and imagined his backing band playing behind him. In-between songs he would thank his imaginary audience for the applause and bow before introducing the next one. But it was only one hour until the itchiness, the physical pain, the fatigue and the headaches returned. They returned with a new, greater paranoia. An almost unimaginable sense of fear and despair. Once again he lay on the floor, his head near the opening and stared out into the night. “My friend,” he called, “my friend, are you there? Please come and talk to me. I am scared my friend, please come!” The seagull never came and Carlos da Costa was left alone with ever increasing fear and panic. He lay there, filthy, and completely stupefied. Rigid with terror until the moon rose into the night sky and shone a milky beam of light through the gap in the doors. In that light he saw the open package of white powder and he knew what he had to do. He needed to recreate that feeling of invincibility and power from before. That sense of well-being and security that came with a simple dab of a finger. He took a swig of water from the bottle and wet his finger before plunging it deep into the powder. The cycle had begun again and it continued all through the night. There was no sleeping, only the peaks and troughs, the songs and the sobbing, the panic and the bravado until the first rays of sunlight fell on the deck of the Star of Guangzhou.

  Chapter Twenty - Meltdown, Day Three

  By that stage it was 5am, but fatigue was the last thing on Carlos da Costa’s mind. Instead he sat there, dabbing his finger into the white powder repeatedly and taking small sips of water. In his mind the sunlight was no threat. It was a blessing as he knew the sounds of humanity would soon return and his chances of rescue would increase. Impatiently he got up and paced the length of the container, stopping to cock an ear at the doors every few minutes. He had found by that stage that he needed to eat a little more powder every half an hour as opposed to every hour. It seemed that the headaches and fear came around faster but it posed no problem at all as the first packet of cocaine was still full. It would, in his mind, last a lifetime for one person and would keep him on top of things until his rescue. A rescue he felt sure would come at any time. All the previous night he had plotted and planned his escape. He decided he would use a combination of the horn he had made and kicking at the doors. At least by doing that he figured that it would generate some noise and have the effect of hopefully weakening the chain or the lock. All feelings of hunger were gone and he felt sure that with the help of the drugs, he would make it through the day without a problem. In his racing mind he saw thousands of possible scenarios that would lead to his rescue and he repeatedly visualised his triumphant return to civilisation and normality. He would be a hero, Carlos the benevolent. Father of Zanzibar, creator of employment, thrower of lavish parties and entertainer par excellence. In his drug-addled mind Carlos da Costa felt more positive about his situation that day than since he had found himself in the abandoned metal box. He had no idea that his heart was straining and pumping a great deal faster than it ever had done in his life and that his breathing had become hard and fast. As he picked up his horn he failed to notice that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He was only focused on one thing and that was his escape. Even his dwindling water supply was of no concern to him, such was his absolute certainty that today would be the day he would get out. He found himself with an uncontrollable urge to grind his teeth and articulate his mouth and jaw. It caused him no discomfort however, and he found it had the effect of focusing his mind on the task at hand. Soon after he heard the comforting sound of boat engines in the distance and he decided to resume his calls for help. He stood there at the doors of the container and began shouting through his horn. His voice was croaky and strange sounding but in his mind he felt it was loud enough to be heard.

  After fifteen minutes of doing this, he placed the horn on the floor and began slamming the doors open and shut.

  There was a metallic clanging sound with each push and he consoled himself with the knowledge that even thick chains like the ones that held him there would be steadily weakening with each attempt. It was only half an hour before Carlos da Costa began to feel a tingling sensation in his arms and face. It was not unpleasant at first but it began to worry him when he found it hard to br
eathe. Telling himself he had exerted too much energy he sat down once again. You need to pace yourself, he told himself. The tingling sensation began to subside and Carlos lay on his side to relax for a while. He tried to close his eyes but there were far too many thoughts racing through his mind. He lay there, mumbling, and grinding his teeth furiously, until the heat began to return once again.

  The sun rose steadily through a perfect blue sky above Stone Town harbour. The tourists began to filter into the various restaurants of their hotels for chilled fruit juice and cooked breakfasts. Far out to sea on the rusted deck of the Star of Guangzhou, in an old shipping container, a bad man lay. His fat, filthy body had begun itching again and the throbbing in his head was fast and intense. By then there was no sweat at all coming from his body, and after an extended period of time his eyes opened suddenly. They looked as if they might pop out of his rotund head and they were filled with abject terror. Carlos da Costa was hallucinating and it was only 9am. On his filthy flesh he saw insects. Thousands of crawling, hissing, insects. They crawled over his belly and legs and neck and face leaving their filth behind them. They crawled into his pants and over his groin. Onto his face and into his nose and eyes. Screaming, he leapt to his feet and began scratching frantically all over his body. The insects seemed to disappear where he had scratched but would instantly reappear somewhere else on his body. Carlos da Costa realised that his mind was playing tricks on him and immediately sat down next to the open package of cocaine. He plunged two fingers of his left hand deep into the powder and immediately swallowed the drug. With his eyes closed he sat there mumbling and cursing until soon, just like before, the bad feelings began to subside and the world seemed a better place. Gone were the imaginary hissing, clicking insects that had only just been crawling all over him. Cautiously he scanned the now light interior of the container. Não, they were gone, thank the lord. Carlos da Costa began to sing a tune. “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she passes each one she passes goes ‘ah.’ ” He had no idea that his blood pressure had reached dangerous levels and every single organ in his body was screaming under the strain. The constant dosing with ever increasing amounts of cocaine had pushed his mind far past any concept of reality and he sat there, swaying back and forth, staring out at one single point and singing his song in some bizarre cabaret of death.