The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller

by Peter May

  Heng grinned nervously. ‘We pay plenty, Billee. They look other way.’ He moved off, whispering cryptic instructions in the dark, urging the group to follow him along the quayside.

  McCue swung a pack over his shoulder and nodded to Serey and Ny.

  ‘Go.’

  Hau lifted the other pack, and his Kalashnikov, and trotted after them.

  They hurried past the silent hulks of sleeping trawlers, avoiding the ropes that moored them to great, rusted metal rings set in concrete. The stink of rotten fish and diesel and seaweed rose up from the water. McCue supported Elliot with difficulty, and quickly lagged behind as the ragged group, clutching bags and suitcases crammed with precious belongings, hurried after the old Chinaman. A figure detached itself from the rest and waited until they caught up. It was Ny, her face serious and concerned. She tugged at McCue’s pack.

  ‘I take.’

  McCue hesitated for only a moment, before swinging the pack from his shoulder and passing it to her. Elliot reached out a hand and caught her arm. He gave it a tiny squeeze and their eyes met for a moment, but he could find no words.

  Two hundred metres on, the group had stopped at the top of a flight of narrow stone steps leading down to a small open boat that rose and fell on the gentle harbour swell. As Elliot and McCue and Ny rejoined them, Heng was engaged in a furiously whispered argument with a young man in the boat. McCue climbed down the steps. ‘Jesus Christ, Heng! We’re gonna try and cross the Gulf in this?’

  ‘No, no. Boat only take us to trawler. It anchored in bay.’

  ‘So what’s the hold-up?’

  ‘’Nother truck. It late. Should be here since an hour. Lien, he say we got to wait. Trawler captain, his family on truck. He not sail without.’

  ‘How many people on the truck?’

  ‘’Bout fifty.’

  McCue looked at the boat. ‘We’ll never get that many people in. Tell him he can come back.’

  ‘No, Billee, he say it too dangerous come back. It be light soon.’

  McCue drew his pistol from its holster and pointed it at the young man’s head. ‘Then tell him I’ll blow his fucking head off if he doesn’t go now.’

  Heng shook his head and gently pulled McCue’s arm down. ‘No, Billee, you no blow head off. Lien, he my son.’

  McCue closed his eyes in despair, then reholstered the pistol. ‘So what do you suggest? We hang about here till the cops decide to pick us up?’

  Heng turned back to his son and there was further argument before, finally, the young man threw his arms in the air and clattered away to the back of the boat to start the outboard. ‘We go now,’ Heng said. He waved to the group waiting above.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I tell him we go. Chinese son always obey father.’

  Sitting perilously low in the water, the little boat ploughed its ponderous way across the bay, straining against the heavier swell. Its wake glowed in the dark. There was an uncanny quiet among its human cargo, no longer afraid, but brooding silently on the lives they were leaving behind, the homes they had known all their lives. They had given up everything – property, possessions, friends – in exchange for danger and uncertainty. It was the price they were prepared to pay for freedom, or at least the chance of it. Had they, perhaps, known the fate of their predecessors on this journey into the unknown, they might not have thought it worth the risk.

  The hull of a thirty-metre trawler rose above them out of the swell, and as they drew alongside a rope ladder tumbled down, unseen voices whispering urgently in the dark. One by one the refugees clambered up into the night, silhouettes against the starlit sky, laden with bags and suitcases, until only McCue, Elliot and Lien remained. McCue grunted as he took Elliot’s weight over his shoulder and prayed that the rope would hold. The muscles in his arms and legs strained and burned, as he pulled them both slowly up, rung by rung, until helping hands reached over the top rail to relieve him of the weight. The veins on his face stood out, along with the sweat, as he climbed over the rail and crouched there gasping for breath. He glanced around and saw that there were, perhaps, another thirty or forty already on board, eyes shining with bright astonishment at the unexpected appearance of two white faces among them. Ny squatted on the deck cradling Elliot’s head in her lap, tipping it forward to receive water from a flask. Then she held it out for McCue, who took a long, grateful draught.

  As he drew the back of his hand across his mouth, he saw a small, wiry figure in black pyjamas striding angrily towards them from the wheelhouse. The man was middle-aged and balding, cheeks clapped in below prominent cheekbones. A wispy black moustache grew down from the corners of his mouth, endowing him with a permanent expression of sadness. He grasped Lien’s arm, as the young Chinese climbed over the rail, and shouted in his face, spittle gathering on his lips. He waved his hand urgently in the direction of the harbour. Lien seemed unable to respond, glancing helplessly towards his father. Heng stepped in, placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke in soft rapid tones. McCue glanced at Serey. ‘What’s going on?’

  Serey shrugged. ‘This man is the captain. He think we should have waited for other truck.’

  Somebody shouted. Fingers pointed shoreward. Everyone flocked to the rail to see the lights of a truck sweep across the bay. It jerked to a halt on the quayside and its lights went out. Almost at once, headlights sprang up in several sidestreets, engines coughed in the night, and five jeeps roared over the cobbles to surround the truck. Soldiers spilled across the quay to force its occupants down at gunpoint. The wretched figures huddled together in fear and failure.

  Aboard the trawler, frightened eyes glanced anxiously at the captain. He stood wild-eyed and helpless, staring out across the water. McCue grabbed Heng and hissed, ‘I thought these guys had been paid!’

  Heng shrugged, but McCue could see he was scared too. ‘Maybe not enough. Maybe they decide, so many, no more.’

  McCue looked back towards the harbour. ‘If they had been on time, that would have been us.’

  Heng nodded. ‘We lucky, Billee.’

  McCue flicked his head towards the captain. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He lose family. Even if he go back now, they put him in jail. Never see them again.’

  McCue felt a moment of pity for the slight figure in black pyjamas, as he stared hopelessly towards the shore. ‘What’ll he do?’

  ‘Who know?’

  A sense of panic rose in McCue’s breast, a response to the fatalism in Heng’s voice. He looked at the faces around him and knew that however desperate their plight, all these people would accept the captain’s decision – to go or stay. They had, all of them, come so far and sacrificed so much, and yet he knew not one of them would raise a voice in protest if the captain should decide to return. There was utter silence on the deck, save for the sleepy murmur of a child’s voice raised in query. Angry voices drifted across the water from the quay. Still the captain faced the shore, but the fire that had burned in his eyes had gone, replaced by despair.

  Suddenly he shouted an instruction to two crewmen who scuttled aft to winch up the anchor, then he turned and pushed through the silent figures to the wheelhouse. Moments later the engines spluttered to life.

  McCue stood on the rear deck as they inched past the dark shape of the island that stood in the neck of the bay – the last point of risk. But no coastguard launch swooped from the shadow of the island to cut them off, and their speed increased as they drew out into the choppier waters beyond, towards the open sea and the Gulf of Thailand. A cool breeze whipped his face as the first light grew in the sky to the east. And gradually, as it receded, the coastline detached itself from the sky to form a dark barrier along the horizon. The harbour’s twinkling lights grew faint with distance, until one by one they were lost in the dawn. He lit a cigarette, and turned his back for the last time on the shores of south-east As
ia.

  II

  Elliot’s eyes flickered open, but he could not see immediately. Where he lay was in shade, but beyond that a wide slash of brightness forced him to screw his eyes closed against its stabbing glare. Slowly he was able to focus on the interior of the wheelhouse cabin, the captain silhouetted at the wheel against the sunlight streaming low through the window. He was lying on the lower of two bunks built into the back wall. The comfort of dry soft sheets against his skin came almost as a shock.

  Another silhouette moved through his peripheral vision and crouched at the bedside. Ny smiled and held out a cup of milky liquid. ‘You feel better?’

  He found, with some surprise, that he did. His whole being no longer ached and, although still weak, the disabling fatigue which had held him trapped so long in his makeshift bed in the bottom of the sampan had gone. A dull ache in his belly told him he was hungry. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Much.’

  Slowly he pulled himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. She handed him the cup. ‘You drink.’

  ‘What is it?’ He peered at the liquid.

  ‘Doctor prepare. He say good for you.’

  Elliot looked at her in astonishment. ‘What doctor?’

  ‘Chinese.’ McCue’s voice came from close by. Elliot turned to see him leaning idly against the open wheelhouse door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘One of the refugees. Got a whole bagful of medicine. Done a pretty good job of patching you up.’

  Elliot glanced down at his shoulder and saw that fresh clean dressings had been professionally applied to his wound. He tried moving his arm and, although stiff and still sore, found mobility returning.

  Ny said, ‘He give you sed . . . seda—’

  ‘Sedative,’ McCue said.

  ‘Make you sleep. He say you need plenty sleep, plenty food.’

  McCue nodded towards the cup. ‘And plenty of that stuff.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  McCue shrugged. ‘Some kind of saline, glucose solution. Who knows. Doc reckons you lost a lot of body fluid and salt. Got to get it back in there.’

  Elliot took a sip and curled his lips in distaste.

  ‘Good?’ Ny smiled.

  ‘Shit,’ Elliot said.

  McCue grinned. ‘Be a good boy, now. Take your medicine like a man.’

  Elliot held his breath and drained it in a single draught. He glanced up to find the captain looking back at him with narrowed eyes, his face set in studied indifference before he turned away again. ‘What’s up with him?’ Elliot asked.

  McCue’s expression glazed over and he looked away out the window. ‘Nothing much. His family missed the boat, that’s all. Wife, two daughters and a son. Army lifted them, and about forty others, on the quayside.’

  Elliot looked down into the cup, and its emptiness stared back. ‘How long have we been at sea?’

  ‘’Bout twelve hours.’

  ‘We made it, then.’

  ‘Guess so.’

  Hau appeared in the doorway, carrying a makeshift tray with steaming bowls of rice, chicken and fish. He grinned at Elliot, and trotted across the cabin to place the tray on the bed beside him. Elliot frowned. ‘Who’s this for?’

  Ny said, ‘For you.’

  ‘Chicken? Where the hell did we get chicken?’

  ‘Everyone give a little food for you.’

  ‘Why?’ Elliot shook his head in consternation.

  ‘Mistah Heng say they look after you, you look after them.’

  Elliot glanced at McCue. ‘Their faith is touching. I just hope it’s not misplaced.’

  McCue looked back at him with steady, unblinking eyes. ‘So do I. They’re good people, these, Elliot.’

  Hau held out the bowl of shredded chicken, his face shining with anticipation. Elliot took it from him and tried a piece. Hau flicked a glance at his sister, then peered into Elliot’s face. ‘Good?’ he asked uncertainly.

  Elliot smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘Good,’ he said. And the boy’s face broke into a wide, disarming smile of sheer pleasure.

  When he had eaten all he could, Elliot rose from the bunk and lurched unsteadily to the cabin door. The air was cooler out here in the freshening breeze, the sun tilting low in the western sky. He was astonished at the sight that unfolded here. The sixty or seventy refugees who had made it aboard had turned the deck into a floating camp. Children peeped out from a canvas awning raised over the forward hold, providing shade for most of the escapees. Above him, on the roof of the wheelhouse, several women squatted, cooking over wood and charcoal stoves. The rear quarter of the boat was festooned with sun-dried fish and clothing strung up on poles to dry. He was aware of the eyes that turned towards him, ready smiles springing to trusting faces. It made him feel uncomfortable, like a boy stepping up to receive first prize for an exam in which he had cheated.

  McCue lit a cigarette and passed it to him. ‘The last one,’ he said. Elliot looked at its glowing tip for a moment then passed it back.

  ‘You have it. This seems like as good a time as any to give up. I always meant to, anyway. Might get cancer or something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ McCue drawled. ‘Pretty dangerous – smoking.’ He took a long pull at it.

  Elliot watched Ny and Hau pick their way back across the deck to rejoin their mother just inside the awning, and saw Serey looking back at him from the shadows. She had remained sullen and distant since that first night in the camp near Siem Reap – it seemed so long ago now – when he had fired above the heads of her fellow prisoners. She had never trusted him. A spiritual instinct, perhaps, that recognized lost souls. He looked quickly away toward the horizon.

  The two men stood for a long time, watching as the sun dipped its gold into the sea. Darkness fell quickly, and Elliot spotted a strange distant glow in the sky, far away to the south-west.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  McCue followed his gaze. ‘Heng says Exxon or somebody’s got oil and gas rigs about a hundred and ninety Ks off the coast of Malaysia. They’ll be floodlit and burning off gas. He was told they could be seen on a clear night more than a hundred Ks away. A kinda signpost in the sky.’

  ‘Where does that put us, then?’

  ‘About halfway, maybe. Should hit the north-east Malaysian coast by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Why don’t we just head straight across for Thailand?’

  McCue shrugged. ‘Turns out the Thais ain’t too keen on boat people. Safer heading for Malaysia.’

  By midnight the trawler was set dead on course for the Exxon rigs, jets of waste gas burning thirty metres into the night, a distant second sun suspended in darkness. In the wheelhouse, the captain left the wheel to the ship’s mate, and curled up on the top bunk. Most of the refugees were huddled together, asleep beneath the forward awning.

  Elliot sat out on the deck, leaning back against the wheelhouse. He heard the cry of a child as it awoke from a disturbing dream, then the comforting murmurs of a sleepy mother woken, too, from a fitful sleep. A group of five men sat up on the bows, smoking, and talking quietly. Their voices carried gently in the wind, just audible above the constant rhythm of the engines and the sound of churning water. The rising moon dusted the deck with silver.

  McCue appeared from the rear of the vessel and sat down beside him. Elliot leaned his head back against salt-crusted boards. ‘I could do with a cigarette.’

  McCue smiled at his hands. ‘Thought you’d given up.’

  ‘Never did have much willpower.’

  McCue produced a pack from the breast pocket of his jacket and held one out. Elliot looked at it, surprised. ‘I thought you’d smoked your last one.’

  ‘I traded some bits and pieces for a couple of packs. Chinese love to trade.’

  Elliot took the cigarette and let McCue light it for him. ‘Bad for your health,’ he sa
id.

  McCue shrugged. ‘So’s dying.’ He lit one for himself. ‘And we could die tomorrow. So who gives a shit?’

  They sat smoking in easy silence for some minutes. McCue asked, ‘What’s the game plan when we get to Malaysia?’

  ‘I’ll call Ang at his hotel in Bangkok. If he hasn’t given up on us, he can come and get his family and we can go home.’ He glanced at the American. ‘What are you going to do when you get home, Billy?’

  ‘Gonna take a bath,’ McCue said. He grinned and, as his smile faded, added, ‘Then I’m gonna get the hell out of this shit. Take the family to America. Klongs ain’t no place to bring up a kid.’ And as he said it, he realized how long it had been since he had thought of his wife, and his child. He found it hard, somehow, to recall their faces with any clarity, and that brought pangs of guilt and regret. ‘Guess I’ve missed them,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Something I never ask myself,’ Elliot said. He flicked the last inch of his cigarette off into the dark. It would be like asking a blind man directions, he thought. ‘I’m going to get some sleep.’

  He lay for a long time on his bunk listening to the sobbing of the captain above him. It was ironic, he thought, how you could envy another man his pain. The ability to be hurt was a precious gift.

  III

  The scream of rending metal and splintered wood tore into his dreams. The world jarred and tipped sideways. A grey dawn assailed his waking eyes in the seconds before his shoulder hit the floor, and all consciousness was consumed by a moment of supreme pain. Blood-red light seared his eyes, through lids screwed tight shut. He heard his own breath scrape in his throat, even above the screams and murderous whoops that came from the deck below. The engines had stalled and the boat rolled and yawed in the heavy swell. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the dead, staring eyes of the ship’s mate. Blood oozed thickly from a deep gash in the dead man’s temple. Elliot rolled quickly over on to his knees and saw the captain lying dazed and frightened on the cabin floor, where he had fallen from his bunk. The rattle of automatic fire came from the deck, several short bursts. A cacophony of human panic carried on the stiff sea breeze.