by John Harding
William sat down, took off his hat and fanned himself with it. Tigua and Lintoa went into a huddle. They appeared to be talking feverishly, and he left the problem to them while he dipped his hat into the rushing water and then emptied the contents over his head. When he looked up he noticed that the two girls were stealing furtive glances at him. He had the idea they were discussing him, rather than their predicament, and were laughing at him. When they saw him watching them, their demeanour immediately grew more serious.
Tigua stood up and strode over to him in a businesslike way. ‘Is only one thing for do,’ she said, a regretful tone creeping into her voice. ‘We is must walk in river until other side is be low enough for we is climb out. Is be necessary for put pack on head.’
William stood up, put on his hat and placed his rucksack on top of that.
Tigua pointed to his boots. ‘Is be shame for ruin they.’
William put the pack down again, took off the boots, strung the laces together and hung them round his neck. He put the pack on his head again. Lintoa strode over with her bag balanced effortlessly on top of her square head. She walked easily as though not even aware of it. William found it impossible to keep his load on unless he held it in place with both hands.
They slipped into the fast-flowing water. It was surprisingly cool, given the temperature in the jungle. The bottom was soft and slippery and although the water was only thigh-high, it was hard to make way upstream against its flow. It was murky brown so you couldn’t see anything in it. William felt something brush his trouser leg. It might have been a fish or a stick or . . . what? A sudden thought struck him. ‘You get any crocodiles around here?’
‘Crocodiles? What they is be?’ asked Lintoa.
Tigua spoke quickly to her, something William couldn’t catch. Lintoa turned and shot William a condescending look. ‘You is think I is be in here with something like that? You is must think I is be one crazy girl! Is be no crocodiles here on this island. Snakes, yes. We is have plenty damn snakes.’
‘Is be black rope snake,’ said Tigua, ‘brown tirobe, speckle tirobe, yellow tirobe, yellow speckle tirobe, speckle yellow tirobe, bush adder, grass adder, tree adder, guinea snake, red mabuas, white mabuas—’
‘Gold mabuas,’ interjected Lintoa, ‘you is must not forget they. Is be one wicked snake.’
‘Gold mabuas,’ repeated Tigua, ‘rock snake, river bottom snake . . . you is be lucky, though, no green shoestring, they is not like water, they is not can swim, so is not go in river.’
‘Unless one is fall in by accident,’ said Lintoa. ‘Then he is be plenty damn mad. Most probably he is bite you just because he is be so mad at self for fall in.’
‘Like you is be mad at self for forget pintoa. Or if he is not be mad, mebbe he is bite you just for have something for hold on. He is bite you leg for stop water sweep he away.’
‘But you is must not worry,’ said Lintoa, smiling. ‘You is not know anything ’bout that. By time you is feel bite you is already be dead. If green shoestring is get he teeth in you is not matter if he is try for kill you or save he self, we is not see you again till kassa house.’
‘Except we is not be allow in kassa house,’ Tigua pointed out.
Lintoa gave William a reassuring stare. ‘I is be in kassa hut, one day,’ she assured him. ‘If green shoestring is bite you today, I is see you there one day.’
It must have been an hour later, an hour during which William felt a thousand things flickering around his toes or brushing against his legs and went through a thousand agonized imaginings, that the bank on the other side dipped and they were able to clamber up it. During all this time William had been doing plenty of alternate hand squeezing of his rucksack straps. Now his arms were heavy as lead from holding them above his head so long.
But then his arms were no different from the rest of him. Every bit of him ached. His toes from being bent double as he tried to grip the slippery river bottom, his head from the fierce heat and the weight of the backpack, his calf muscles from struggling against the stream. It was nearly mid-afternoon before the jungle began to thin and later still when eventually the trees stopped altogether. Before them rose the lower slopes of the volcano, its sides strangely devoid of jungle. Immediately in front of them the ground was bare and blackened. For as far as the eye could see, nothing grew. Lintoa put out a hand to restrain him from stepping forward. ‘No, gwanga. Not unless you is want for hop home on one leg.’ She spoke in a whisper as though afraid of evoking the wrath of something powerful and unseen.
‘What is this place?’ asked William, although even as he spoke, he knew. There was no noise. No insects humming. No parrots shrieking. No monkeys howling. There was nothing living here. A wasteland.
‘Is be evil place,’ said Lintoa. ‘Is be where Americans is come. First they is plant bombs so no-one is can come here. Then helicopters is fly in. Is make white mist on everything. Everything is die. All trees, all plants, all snakes—’
‘Black tirobes, green tirobes, brown river bottom sn—’ began Tigua.
Lintoa cut short the other girl’s serpent litany. ‘All snakes, all monkeys. Even mosquitoes is not can live here. Go ahead, gwanga, see what you countrymen is do. Is be very good, you is can walk here without mosquitoes is bite you. You is not need for have any fear of green shoestring.’
‘If you is want for blow youself up,’ added Tigua.
‘And the village,’ said William. ‘The northern village? Where is that? Can you take me there?’
‘We is already do,’ said Lintoa. ‘This is be northern village. This is be what you Americans is leave behind.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘AND YOU IS see he face when we is come out of jungle and is see river and Lintoa is look at she hand and is say, “Oh shit, this is be my right or my left?” I is think gwanga is go kill she.’
Tigua took another swig of his beer. Before he had chance to swallow, the beer sprayed back out as he guffawed at the thought of something else. ‘We is walk for hours for find pintoa tree and gwanga is not know he is walk right past they all time.’
‘Gwanga is not look up in forest. He is keep eyes on ground for look for green shoestring,’ said Lintoa. He bent to Miss Lucy’s fridge to get himself another beer, raising an eyebrow to her for permission which she granted by the slightest inclination of her head.
Tigua slapped his knee. ‘And then you is say he, “Is best not see green shoestring, gwanga, then you is not have time for feel fear before he is bite you. You is just feel bite and you is be dead. Is be much more easy.”’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucy.
‘You is think that is be oh dear, you is must see he when he is get back Captain Cook,’ said Tigua. ‘He clothes is all be torn and is be so wet with river and sweat is be like when he is walk in sea; he feet is be so sore he is limp like Managua here and he is be cover all over with mosquito bites.’
‘Plenty big mosquito bites,’ agreed Lintoa, with some satisfaction.
‘Gwanga’s skin is be all red but I is not know if is be from burn by sun or from mosquito bites,’ said Tigua.
‘Is be bites,’ said Lintoa. ‘Face is be just about all bites. Skin is be more bite than not bite.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucy again.
‘You is keep say that,’ said Tigua. ‘So what for you is want we is lead gwanga on wild pig chase in first place?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Lucy. She picked up a loaded plastic carrier bag and handed it to him. ‘Here’s the rest of the beer I promised you. Now run along.’
She stood in the doorway and watched them as they walked off along the beach, swigging beer and giggling as they went. She turned to the old man. ‘I feel a bit bad about setting him up for this now.’
‘Is not thing for you is feel bad ’bout,’ said Managua. ‘Is be my plan. I is be one is think of idea.’ His chest seemed to inflate as he said it. ‘With little bit of help from Shakespeare.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t realize quite how h
e was going to end up,’ said Lucy.
Managua turned to her. ‘What you is think is go happen? He is must get bitten, he is must get wet, he is must have blister and is must tire heself out for put he off search. Now perhaps he is stop look and is go back America.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lucy. ‘I just hope you’re right and that we haven’t put the poor man through all this for nothing.’
Lucy found William lying on the mahogany table. As the sound of her footsteps echoed in the cavernous dining room of the Captain Cook he shot upright, like a corpse in a horror film, she couldn’t help thinking. Mind you, she told herself, didn’t he have every reason to be scared? He’d already been attacked here in the hotel. Lucy couldn’t imagine who was responsible because the natives were not aggressive by nature. Even though so many of them had been damaged by American landmines their innate friendliness and their tradition of hospitality would prevent them translating any resentment into violence against an individual. She couldn’t help worrying that the American might be attacked again. There was something in him that made her feel protective. Even though she wished he had never come, she found she didn’t want him to go. She wondered why he refused to entertain the idea of moving from the Captain Cook. It was as if something kept him anchored to this dismal place.
‘It’s only me.’ She said it in a whisper, afraid anything louder might intensify his pain. He let out only a whimper in reply.
She walked over to him and pulled the cool bag off her shoulder. She took out two cans of beer. She pulled the tab on one and handed it to him. Instead of drinking it he put the can against his forehead and rolled it from side to side. He held it against first one cheek and then the other. Finally he took a sip.
‘I have a sense of déjà vu,’ he said. ‘You always seem to be ministering to me when I’m injured . . .’
‘Well, you do seem to get into rather a lot of scrapes,’ she said.
‘How did you know I would need this?’
‘There was a rumour going round that you missed shitting this morning. I checked with Tigua and Lintoa and they told me your expedition yesterday wasn’t too successful.’
‘That’s the understatement of the century. Not only did you supply me with a guide who doesn’t know right from left so that we never found Pilua’s old home, your two girlfriends nearly killed me.’
‘I’m sorry. I feel very bad about it.’ How bad he would never know. ‘Your face looks sore. Are you bitten anywhere else?’
‘My chest and back and arms. Pretty much anywhere I have skin. The little bastards took a real shine to me.’
She took a bundle of paper from the cool bag and flung it onto the table. ‘I thought if you were bed-bound –’ she stopped and smiled, ‘table-bound – you might like something to read.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to read again. The darn things got my eyelids. It’s less painful just to keep my eyes shut.’ As he said it William thought that at least he might thereby be cured of one of his OCD habits.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just the draft manuscript of the book I’m working on. It might help you understand the people a bit better.’ As she said it Lucy wondered if giving him her book might be assisting him in what he’d come to do. She was only too aware of how large corporations and governments misused ethnographic research. Still, it was done now. ‘I’ve brought some lotion for the bites.’ She took a plastic bottle from the cool bag and began to unbutton his shirt. As she removed it he cried out again. His whole body was a mass of red bumps, some of which he’d lacerated with his fingernails. She applied the cream to her fingers and anointed first his face and then his torso. Neither of them spoke. The touch of someone else’s skin beneath her fingertips made Lucy feel it was she who was having some kind of balm applied to her. She had needed it for a long time. William was trying to fight back the soft moans he could not help releasing from time to time as the cream cooled his burning skin. He imagined he sounded like a pathetic little dog, some silly toy breed, a miniature poodle or a chihuahua, perhaps.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured each time he made a sound.
‘It’s OK, it’s actually the relief that’s causing me to cry out. You’re making it so much better.’ There was more than that, he knew. A slight pressure in his loins told him that.
‘Have you a clean shirt?’ she asked when she’d covered all of his torso with the cream.
‘Over there.’ He pointed to a white cotton shirt hanging from a nail in the wall, probably put there to hang a picture, she found herself thinking irrelevantly. She fetched it and, facing him, reached it round behind him and held it out for him while he inserted his arms. Their faces were very close. They looked into one another’s eyes. Lucy bent towards him and kissed the biggest boil, which was on the end of his nose. His eyes widened as if he’d been caught off guard, though it was she who would have been surprised to discover how often William had not been the first to act in his sexual liaisons. Women always wanted to comfort him, to take away the fear they saw behind his eyes, to still the nervous juggling eyelids that many of them noticed. But this time, for the first time, he was taken aback. He hadn’t expected anything from this fierce little woman.
‘Ouch!’ he said. He meant it; the kiss had hurt.
‘Sorry,’ she said. She stared at him as though wondering what to do next. Neither of them smiled. Then she inclined her head again and kissed him on the cheek. This time she didn’t aim for a mosquito bite but then she didn’t have to. His cheeks were so thoroughly covered in them that pretty much anywhere would score a direct hit.
‘Ouch!’ he said, flinching.
‘Sorry.’ It came out soft and hesitant, the voice reluctant to be drawn into vocalizing what was happening.
‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry. So sorry.’
‘Ouch! Ah . . .’
‘Sorry.’
‘Ouch!’
‘What, even there?’
‘Even there. Owwwch!’
‘Sorry. Ummm . . .’
‘Ouch! Let me—’
‘It’s OK, I can manage. Oh, sorry.’
‘Ow . . . ch.’
‘Shh. Sorry. Mmmm.’
‘Ow – ahhh.’
‘Sorry.’ She lifted herself off him and flopped down beside him. ‘I really am so sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He turned to look at her and smiled his vulnerable little smile.
Be careful, she told him mentally, don’t get me started again, it’s too much like torture.
‘I couldn’t help crying out,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let it make you think I didn’t love every moment of it.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek.
‘No, I mean I’m sorry I let you in for this.’ She indicated the massive red sore that was his body. She couldn’t tell him just how sorry she was because she couldn’t let him know how he had been tricked.
‘That’s OK, you were only trying to help.’ She winced as though someone had just touched a mosquito bite on her body and said nothing. ‘And I think I can pay you back.’
I hope not, Lucy thought. Not the way I deserve to be paid back. She was asking herself why she had just made love to a man she hardly knew. It wasn’t simply her loneliness. It was also a matter of compensation to the American for what she had done to him. She couldn’t say anything to enlighten him. Instead she asked, ‘Oh, how’s that?’
He smiled that little smile of his, less vulnerable this time though, a little bit pleased with itself. ‘I’ve thought of a way to get you into the kassa house.’
TWENTY-FIVE
AT THE TIME when Lucy liquidated her mother – we’re talking the late Seventies here – one-parent families were not yet the norm. Divorce was still rare in a rural backwater like the Fens and it was even more rare for a child to have a parent die. So it was no surprise that Lucy’s murder of her mother earned her special
consideration. Christine Bexley never punished her again and on one occasion carried this unprecedented kindness even further and gave her a ginger biscuit; she must have spread the word too, because other prefects were just as lenient with her. Lucy’s classmates noticed this and often remarked that it wasn’t fair, that she could get away with murder. They didn’t know she already had.
When she realized word had got through to the teachers too, Lucy felt things had got out of hand. She would have liked to resurrect her mother but of course that was impossible. She took what precautions she could against detection. She took care never to be seen with her mother in Ely, insisting, to her mother’s complete bafflement, that her father take her to buy new items of school uniform and other like necessities. She intercepted and destroyed all invitations to school events. Her mother never questioned their absence. Although people coming to the house was her chief phobia, she wasn’t too keen on mixing with them anywhere else unless it was to shove them aside to reach a bargain.
All fiction relies on the suspension of disbelief, but why wouldn’t people believe Lucy was a demi-orphan? Who would suspect an eleven-year-old of making up such a thing?
By coincidence – that word that is synonymous with magic to an OCD sufferer – a major event in Lucy’s childhood, one that brought her to the brink of exposure, was the result – like William’s nickname – of chess. Lucy had been playing for the school team. This was when she was fifteen and had been an undetected murderess for four years. There had been a match against a side from another school. Lucy had won all three of her games and was in a good mood as she stood alone at a bus stop waiting for the last bus that evening back to her village. Naturally she couldn’t have asked her father to pick her up in case someone from school happened to pass and mention mothers or motherless children and how they had a hard time. So, she had to wait for the bus. Lucy’s good mood, her winning mood, didn’t last long because before the bus arrived an old VW Beetle pulled up. It was Mr Richardson, her history teacher. He leaned over and opened the passenger door.
