Mrs Hampshire shrugged her large shoulders. 'Now you know different,' she said. She took Hunter's empty cup and put it on the tray with the rest of the tea things. 'She got what she wanted from us and then she made a life of her own. You know what I feel like, Mr Hunter? I feel like I had a .cuckoo in my nest. I fed her, nurtured her as if she was my own daughter, but all the time she was just using me, waiting for the opportunity to take wing.' She stood up and dusted her flower-print dress with her hands. 'She was the biggest mistake of my life,' she said, her voice trembling.
She picked up the tray and left the room. Hunter could tell that she was close to tears.
The three Americans stood in the antechamber, breathing heavily. Doc stood at the threshold, Ramirez and Hammack at either shoulder. They played their flashlights around the main chamber, their beams reflecting off the shiny silk lining that covered the walls. Ramirez took off his headscarf and used it to wipe his face.
The room was about thirty feet square and just over ten feet high. At the far end was a wooden desk which had once been painted brown but which was now rotting and peppered with white fungus. An oil lamp stood on one end of the desk.
'I remember it being bigger,' said Hammack, his voice a hoarse whisper.
'This is definitely it,' said Doc. He aimed the beam of his flashlight at the far corner of the room.
'I know,' said Hammack. 'I know this is it.’
'Come on, let's get on with it,' said Ramirez. 'The air's bad down here.’
Doc stepped into the main chamber. He walked slowly across the reed mats. There were rusty-coloured patches all over the floor. Old bloodstains. Doc tried to avoid stepping on them, like a child jumping over the cracks between paving stones. There was a rhyme that went with avoiding the cracks, something that Doc had sung as a child, but he couldn't remember the words. Something about breaking a grandmother's back. Hammack and Ramirez followed him into the chamber.
Doc jumped at the sound of water splashing and whirled around, his hand groping for the knife in his belt. Ramirez was holding his water canteen above his head and dousing himself. He grinned sheepishly at Doc.
Doc turned his back on Ramirez and pulled the reed mats away from the corner. He threw them to the side, then took off his rucksack. Ramirez and Hammack stood just inside the entrance as if trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and what was buried in the chamber. Doc took the folding shovel from his rucksack and straightened it out. He took a deep breath, then began to hack away at the earth, the blows echoing around the chamber like the crunching of a giant's footsteps.
Wright's arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably and he closed his eyes and imagined he was outside, above ground, forcing out the images of being buried alive and replacing them with pictures of Sean: Sean at the zoo, Sean playing football, Sean falling asleep in front of the television. He opened his eyes. The walls and floor of the tunnels were damp and in places pieces of wet clay had fallen from the roof. The tunnel they were in had dipped down and he figured they must be close to the water table. He wondered what would happen if it began to rain, whether the water would rise. He dismissed the idea. The Viet Cong would never have constructed the tunnels so that they'd flood every rainy season.
Bamber was crawling purposefully forward and Wright had to struggle to keep up. The back of Bamber's shirt was caked with wet mud from where the FBI agent had scraped against the tunnel roof. The tunnel forked and Bamber headed down the left-hand section. 'Where does the other one go?' asked Wright, peering into the darkness. The air smelled fresher in the right-hand tunnel.
'The map doesn't say,' said Bamber. 'We'd better keep clear of any areas that aren't mapped.’
'How much further?’
'Fifteen minutes.’
'Feels like the tunnel's getting narrower.’
Bamber chuckled. 'Optical illusion,' he said. A piece of wet clay fell on to Wright's hair and rolled down his neck. He shivered. Every breath was an effort, as if the fetid air had to be pulled into his lungs. He wondered what it would be like to be buried alive, to have the soil force its way into his mouth and nose, to have the dirt pressed against his face, his eyes, to feel nothing but earth around him. How long would it take to die? he wondered. More than seconds, surely. Minutes, at least. It would depend on how much air was trapped with him. He wondered how he'd face death, whether he'd just lie down and accept it, or if he'd die screaming and futilely trying to claw his way out.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his movements, keeping his crawl at a steady rhythm. There were tons and tons of earth above his head, but Wright tried not to think about it. A tunnel was a tunnel, he told himself, it didn't matter how deep it was. ^He tried to convince himself that the tunnel he was in was just below the surface, that if anything went wrong he could just force his way up through a few inches of topsoil and be able to breathe clean, fresh air. He knew it was a lie, but it helped to calm his V nerves. He realised that he was panting and he struggled to slow down his breathing.
'Nick!’
Wright opened his eyes. Bamber had stopped a few feet ahead of him. 'What?’
'Don't move.' Bamber's voice was icily cold.
Wright stopped in his tracks.
'There's a snake here.’
'Can you kill it?' asked Wright.
'It's about four feet long,' said the FBI agent, 'and all I've got is my flashlight. There's a knife in my knapsack, but I don't want to risk reaching for it.’
'What's it doing?’
'It's coiled up in the middle of the tunnel. I think it's asleep. Get my knife out, will you?’
Wright swallowed.
'I'm going to switch the flashlight off in case the light disturbs it.’
'No!' said Wright hurriedly.
The tunnel was plunged into darkness. Wright became suddenly disorientated and his head swam. He felt as if he was falling and he put both hands flat on the tunnel floor, wanting to feel something solid on his skin. He inched forward.
'Come on, Nick. Hurry up. I can hear it moving.’
'Switch the flashlight on,' said Wright.
'Not yet,' said Bamber.
'I thought snakes couldn't see well, anyway. I thought they used their tongues to sense air movements.’
'If you were in front, I'd probably take the risk, but as I'm here, I think I'll stick with the flashlight off. Now get a move on, will you?’
Wright bumped into Bamber's feet. He felt his way up the FBI agent's back and ran his hands over the knapsack. Wright undid the flap and groped inside. It was like a party game he'd played as a child, touching objects under a cloth and trying to recognise them from their shape. He could feel the infra-red goggles, and hard metal cylinders that he assumed were batteries, and the two bottles of water. His fingers touched something plastic, long and thin, with a metal edge. He held it in his palm. It was a Swiss Army knife, he realised. Every Boy Scout's best friend. He pulled it out.
He fumbled with the knife, trying to pry out a blade with his thumbnail. 'Turn the light on, Jim,' he said.
'Have you got the knife?’
'Yeah, but I can't open it, I can't see what I'm doing.’
The light flickered on. Wright looked at the knife in his hand. He'd been trying to pull out a nail file.
'Nick. It's moving.’
The knife slipped from Wright's fingers and he cursed.
'Now what?' hissed Bamber.
'I've dropped it.' The knife was covered with red mud, and so were Wright's hands. He picked up the knife but couldn't get a grip on the blade. 'Where's the snake?' he whispered.
Bamber didn't reply.
'Jim? The snake. Where is it?’
The FBI agent had stiffened. As Wright looked up, he saw why. Two glass-hard eyes were staring at him from a diamond-shaped head. The snake had pushed itself between Bamber's legs and was heading purposefully down the tunnel towards Wright. A shiny black forked tongue flicked out as the snake slid forward.
'Ca
n you see it?' whispered Bamber.
The snake stared at Wright, inches away from his face. The tongue flicked out again. Wright was on his knees, the unopened knife in his hands. His centre of gravity was so far forward that he couldn't shuffle back.
The snake began to move its head from side to side, its eyes still fixed on Wright. He managed to get his thumbnail into the groove on the side of the main blade and he eased it out. The snake stopped moving.
'Nick?' said Bamber.
Wright said nothing. He didn't know if snakes could hear but he didn't want to risk doing anything that might cause it to bite. He held the knife in his right hand.
The snake started moving again, its red and black striped body slithering silently across the muddy tunnel floor.
Bamber bent his head down and peered back between his legs. The snake's tail brushed against his thigh.
Wright raised the knife slowly. The snake stopped moving forward and lifted its head off the ground. The tongue flicked out and the snake opened its mouth revealing two white fangs. Wright held his breath. He'd only have one chance.
Bamber's left knee cracked, and the snake turned its head towards the sound. Wright brought the knife down, driving the point into the snake's head. It crunched through the bone and then bit into the floor of the tunnel. The snake thrashed around, its tail flailing like a whip. Bamber grabbed the tail with both hands. The knife jerked in Wright's hand and he gripped it tighter, pressing the blade into the ground as hard as he could so that the snake couldn't move its head. With his left hand he pressed down on the snake's body. He could feel the animal's immense strength; even in its death throes he couldn't keep the body still.
The snake's mouth kept opening and closing and its eyes glared at Wright, silently cursing him. Bamber dropped down on the snake, using his bodyweight to keep it from thrashing about.
Wright twisted the knife around, shuddering at the crunching sound it made, but knowing that he'd hasten the snake's death by mashing up its brain. Dark red blood oozed out around the blade and the animal's movements became slower and slower, though it was a full two minutes before the snake was completely still.
Wright pulled out the knife and wiped the blade on his trousers. He refolded the knife and handed it to Bamber.
'Let's go,' said Wright.
The snake's lifeless eyes continued to stare accusingly at Wright as he crawled over it.
'W 7"ould you like to see some more pictures of her?' asked VV Mr Hampshire, his voice a conspiratorial whisper as if the offer was somehow subversive. His wife was in the kitchen, washing the teacups.
'I'd love to,' said Hunter.
Mr Hampshire walked over to the sideboard and knelt down beside it. He pulled out a large green photo album and handed it to Hunter. 'I put this together,' he said. 'Emily keeps saying that I should throw it away, but . . .' He left the sentence unfinished as if he feared retribution for defying his wife. Mr Hampshire leaned forward. 'She loves May, there's nothing she'd like more than for her to walk through that door. You'll never get her to admit it, though. Never in a million years.’
Hunter opened the album. The first page contained a newspaper article about the plight of Vietnamese refugees in Saigon at the end of the Vietnam War. Hunter read it quickly. Just before the North Vietnamese overran Saigon, hundreds of orphan babies and children were stranded and there were fears for their survival. The American government had organised an airlift to America, and as the defences around the city began to crumble, the Daily Mail had joined in the appeal for something to be done about the children. Hunter turned the page. There was a second newspaper cutting, this one detailing a horrific crash in which 189 orphans were killed when a United States Air Force cargo plane crashed on take-off at Saigon airport.
Mr Hampshire sat down on the arm of Hunter's chair. 'She was on that flight,' he said, pointing at the newspaper cutting. 'One of eighty-nine who survived. God, what that little girl went through. To have lived through a war, then be told you were being flown to safety and to see so many die in the crash. Can you imagine what that must have been like, at ten years old?’
Hunter shook his head. 'What about her parents?' he asked. 'What happened to them?’
'We've no idea,' said Mr Hampshire. 'All their records were destroyed when the plane crashed. We don't even know her family name. She didn't speak a word for the first year she was in this country. Post traumatic stress syndrome, the doctors said. Love and affection was what she needed, they said. And we gave her that, Mr Hunter, don't doubt that for one moment. She had more love than any child could ask for. Don't let my wife make _you think otherwise. She wasn't always like this. She had so much love to give, to me and to May. She really wanted children of her own.’
'I understand,' said Hunter, and he meant it. He felt a sudden wave of compassion for Emily Hampshire and her birdlike husband.
'It really was a miracle,' said Mr Hampshire. 'It was a miracle that she survived the crash, and it was a miracle that they found a place for her on the Daily Mail flight. Turn the page.’
Hunter did as he was asked. There was another cutting, which like the rest had yellowed with age around the edges. It was from the Daily Mail, detailing how the editor, David English, had decided that leader articles and calls for action weren't enough, that something had to be done. The newspaper was chartering its own plane, and sending in a team of doctors and nurses to help evacuate as many children as they could.
The next article detailed the mercy flight, how the Daily MaiPs Operation Mercy airlift plucked ninety-nine children from the beleaguered city in a Boeing 707 just days before the North Vietnamese stormed into Saigon.
'The Americans got about a thousand children out,' said Mr Hampshire. 'The Daily Mail rescued ninety-nine. Most of them were malnourished, and three died within hours of arriving in Britain. Fair broke our hearts, it did, the suffering and everything. We applied to adopt one of them and they gave us May.’
Hunter turned the page. There was only one photograph, black and white, the sort that might have been used in a passport. A young girl stared vacantly at the camera, the face so lifeless that it could have been that of a corpse. On the page opposite was a letter from an adoption agency saying that the Hampshires' application had been approved.
'You should have seen her,' said Mr Hampshire. 'They weren't sure how old she was because all her paperwork was destroyed in the Galaxy crash. She looked like a six-year-old, so thin that her ribs were showing through and her legs were covered with bites and scars. The doctors reckoned she was ten and they gave her a birth date, just made it up because she'd need it for school and passports and so on. We always celebrated it as her birthday, but we knew that it wasn't real.’
Hunter looked at the photograph and wondered what horrors the little girl had seen, an orphan trapped in a war zone. 'She came here? To this house?’
Mr Hampshire nodded. 'We moved in the day after we married and we've been here ever since. I can show you May's bedroom if you want. It's just the same as when she left to go to university.' He leaned forward so that his face was only inches away from Hunter's. 'Emily still hopes . . . you know?’
Hunter smiled thinly. He knew.
'Her husband? What was he like?’
'An American,' said Hunter, his eyes still on the small black and white photograph. 'He was a photographer. They'd only been married for a couple of years.’
'Murdered, you said?’
'I'm afraid so.’
Mr Hampshire took off his spectacles and began polishing them with a white handkerchief. 'How is she?' he asked quietly.
'I really don't know,' admitted Hunter. 'I haven't actually met her. She was interviewed by a colleague.’
'She must be devastated,' said Mr Hampshire softly. 'She must need us.' He looked up and Hunter saw that his eyes were brimming with tears. 'Why hasn't she been in touch with us, Mr Hunter?’
'I don't know,' said Hunter. He averted his eyes, embarrassed by the raw emotion etched on t
he man's face. 'I'm sorry,' he added.
Doc stopped digging and shouldered his shovel. 'Is it there?' asked Hammack from behind him. 'Come and look for yourself,' said Doc. Hammack walked slowly across the chamber, the beam of his flashlight dancing crazily across the parachute-silk-lined walls. Ramirez stayed where he was, retying his camouflage scarf around his head.
Doc was looking down into an oblong hole just over five feet long and a couple of feet wide. He'd piled the earth up next to the wall. The surface had been hard and he'd had to chip his way through, but several inches underneath the red clay was damp and pliable. A skull leered up at them, the bone glistening in the damp earth. A worm wriggled from an eye socket and burrowed into the soil. Doc knelt down and used his shovel to scrape away the earth from the skeleton's chest.
'It's definitely him?' asked Hammack.
Doc sighed with exasperation. 'For God's sake, Bernie, how many corpses do you think there are buried down here?’
Hammack flinched as if he'd been slapped across the face.
'I'm sorry,' said Doc.
'No sweat,' said Hammack. 'It was a stupid question.' He rubbed his jaw. 'At least now we know,' he said.
'What do we know?' asked Doc. 'We know he's not the killer, that's all.' He reached down and picked up a piece of card. He wiped it on his trousers. It was a playing card. An ace of spades. He gave it to Hammack who stared at it and then passed it to Ramirez.
Doc straightened up and wiped his hands on his trousers. 'We've wasted our time.’
'What do we do now?' asked Ramirez, throwing the playing card on to the skeleton.
'Bury it again and go home,' said Doc. He picked up the shovel.
'Wait!' said Hammack. 'Max's dogtags. He had Max's dogtags. We should take them with us.’
Doc nodded and knelt down and grabbed the right arm of the skeleton. It made a sucking sound as he pulled it out of the damp earth. The hand was clenched into a fist. Doc used the end of his shovel to pry open the bones, one by one. He looked up at Hammack, deep frown lines furrowed across his brow. He showed him the hand. It was empty.
The Tunnel Rats Page 35
