by Stan Arnold
Eventually, Jim found himself bruised, bleeding and battered, sitting on the low branch, where it had all started. He paused for a few seconds and listened. There was no rustling, no grunting and no sign of the snake. He looked up. The vultures had buggered off to vulch somewhere else. Having spent the best part of an hour climbing up, around and down the tree, he was totally exhausted. However, the exercise had helped to sober him up, and, as the panic subsided, more rational thoughts took over.
The villagers walked through the jungle, without worry. Mrs Hathaway walked through the jungle, without worry. Even Mick waddled through the jungle, without worry. All he had to do was steel his nerves, think positive and take command of the situation. Jim determined to drop down to the jungle floor and walk confidently back to the village. It took another hour of thinking before he’d convinced himself this was the only course of action. And anyway, light was beginning to fade.
He found the walk back to the village almost a pleasant experience. He took large strides, didn't check the undergrowth for anything and ignored any strange sounds. It wasn’t a walk in the park, but it might as well have been.
After what seemed no time at all, Jim saw the long house through the trees. He felt great. He had faced down a terrible fear. He felt he had grown as a human being. He had shown that the only thing to fear is fear itself.
Jim stood on the bamboo ramp to the door of the long house and turned to face the jungle.
Flinging his arms out wide, he shouted into the humid tropical twilight, ‘And here are this evening’s results. Amazonian Jungle 0 - James Redfern Chartwell 1. That takes Jungle Jim to the top of the Championship!’
Announcement made, he turned on his heels, opened the door and went into the long house without a worry in the world.
He closed the door, leapt in the air and greeted the villagers with a highly theatrical ‘Ta-rraaarr!’
Just outside, as Jim was delivering this triumphant display, a 20-foot green anaconda, mouth gaping wide, shot out from the undergrowth and struck the long house door with unbelievable power, almost ripping it off its plaited fibre hinges.
Half an hour of stalking what looked like a very reasonable evening meal, had come to nothing. Still, tomorrow would be another day.
Chapter 62
The trip to the Black Pool was uncomfortable to say the least. The jungle was thick and the ground was rough. There were ravines, steep slopes and precipitous climbs and descents. As contracted, Mick took video, and Jim took stills and recorded sounds coming from the undergrowth.
Despite the hostile environment, they had to admit that their own personal Lara Croft looked amazing, as she hacked a path through the undergrowth, GPS in one hand and razor-sharp machete in the other. Her lithe, sun-tanned body glistening with health - although Mick was sure the perverts reading Daring Dooz might not be that concerned with how healthy she looked. And, when he thought about it for a moment, that was a point of view he could readily understand.
Overnight camp featured mosquitoes, strange howls, strangled cries and slithering noises throughout the night. Jim wacked down a good half litre of GUA, and slept like a baby. Mick did the same, but lay awake ‘til dawn. He’d never been deep diving in his life. He did a snorkelling course about 20 years’ ago when he was on holiday in Lanzarote, but was sure that didn't qualify him for what was about to happen.
The Daring Dooz Black Pool Terror notes said these watering holes could be very, very deep. Mrs Hathaway had lent him her diving manual and Giles, the bastard, had thoughtfully provided professional quality underwater lights and a housing, which would protect a video camera down to 300 feet.
And so the journey continued, marked by Mrs Hathaway’s endless enthusiasm and energy and Mick and Jim’s ability to trail, rather forlornly, in her wake. Towards the end of day two, she stopped hacking, turned round to face them and announced.
‘Michael, James, I’m pleased to say we’re just 100 yards from Daring Dooz Challenge Four. It’s just up there.’
Mick turned to Jim, ‘That’s spiffing news, Lara, but what if the tombs have already been raided?’
By now, Mrs Hathaway had sensibly learned to ignore virtually everything Mick said.
‘We’ll pitch the tents here.’
They did, and it was just as bad as the night before. Mick was so worried that, at dawn, he got up and trekked off to find the Black Pool, for himself.
By the time he arrived back, Jim had had enough of acting as the Plat du Nuit for a thousand mosquitoes, and was up and scratching.
‘I bring bad news, my liege,’ said Mick, with a faint smile.
‘Makes a change.’
‘It’s the Black Pool.’
‘And?’
‘It's black, Jim, but not as we know it.’
Chapter 63
Mrs Hathaway squatted down, ran her fingers across the surface of the Black Pool, and thought for a few seconds.
‘It’s oil.’
‘Yes it is. And no, we can't dive in it.’
‘What a pity, I was so looking forward to it.’
‘So was I,’ said Mick.
The Black Pool was only 20 feet across, and surrounded by scrub grasses. They took the obligatory video and stills, just in case.
‘If I remember my O-level geography,’ said Mick, ‘it’s called a seep - that means there’s oil, probably lots of it, is leaking up from down below.’
‘I claim this land, and all it’s mineral wealth on behalf of Implosion Productions,’ said Jim, striking an imperious pose with one foot up on a small mound, and one hand inside his jacket.
‘Might be a bit too near the knuckle, my old camembert. There are lots of people who’d be very interested in the fact that this isn't a crystal clear pool, brimming with unusual aquatic species.’
‘Well, I’m not one,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s pack up and get back to the village.’
So they did.
Two days later, as Mrs Hathaway hacked them a path through the last few hundred yards of jungle, which seemed to have inconveniently repaired itself since they’d left, they became aware there was no noise. No kids. No women singing as they worked. No hubbub from the men as they sat in the shade, discussing the finer points of the government’s five-year plan. Nothing.
They straggled into the main central area of the village, and it was absolutely deserted.
‘Hello!’ called Mrs Hathaway. ‘Hello!’
Nothing.
‘Hamish!’ called Jim. ‘You there, Hamish?’
Nothing.
Then they heard a click sound from somewhere under the long house.
‘Stand still,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘That was a cock slide on an M16.’
There was silence. Then a voice.
‘Pango impressed.’
A man appeared holding a black, automatic rifle.
‘This M16,’ he said. ‘This cock slide.’
The Pango person made a swift movement with his hand, there was an ominous click. They could all tell the gun was ready for action.
He wore tight, black, military-style overalls and a dirty red and white spotted bandana; he had a small moustache and dark stubble. All in all, he looked decidedly unpleasant.
‘Had nice trip?’ he enquired, in a way which implied he didn't want to hear an answer.
‘Six fully armed bandidos look after all your friends in long house.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Mrs Hathaway.
‘We very interest in Black Pool.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Mrs Hathaway.
‘No shit from bull, lady person.’
Pango waved the M16 in her general direction. He was close, but not close enough.
‘We buy mineral rights off villagers, once we know where Black Pool is.’
‘They won't sell.’
‘I make good offer. I have money in back pocket.’
He pulled out a grimy one-dollar bill and held it up above his head.
‘Maybe I pay too much, but Pa
ngo has good heart, eh?’
‘That’s a joke,’ said Mrs Hathaway.
‘No joke, ‘cos then Pango sell exploration rights to highest bidder and live life of luxury and filthy sexual behaviour.’
As Mick and Jim, clutched one another and waited for the shooting to start, Mrs Hathaway stepped forward.
‘Interesting rifle,’ she said. ‘Is it an M16A2 or M16A3?’
‘It shoot bullets, lots of them. That all I know. And that all you need know. Move.’
He indicated that they move towards the long house entrance.
‘Alfonso!’ he shouted, ‘it me, Pango. Open door.’
It was all over in a flash.
Alfonso opened the door and spat into the undergrowth. The anaconda struck like lightning. He fell screaming to the ground. Pango’s mistake was to glance down as the coils wrapped round Alfonso’s writhing body. Mrs Hathaway’s karate chop found its mark.
‘Run!’ she shouted to Mick and Jim.
She picked up the M16, and ran for the pier.
One of Pango’s colleagues, who had been taking a dump in the jungle strolled out onto the rough path just in time to get in Mrs Hathaway’s way. Without stopping, she smacked him in the throat with the butt of the rifle. He fell, unzipped, into the undergrowth.
Half way down the pier, she stopped and, aiming high, sprayed bullets back towards the village. Mick and Jim threw themselves on the ground.
She jumped into the dinghy, just as Mick and Jim were being helped to their feet by kicks from the Pango’s colleague who had recovered from having his alfresco evacuation so painfully disrupted.
Unlike every feature film you’ve ever seen, the outboard motor fired first time and, within seconds, Mrs Hathaway was at the Catalina. She made for the cockpit, leaned out and fired a final discouraging burst. It did the trick.
The engines roared into life, and the Catalina turned and headed down river en route for a perfect take-off.
*
When Mick and Jim were safely tied up with the other villagers in the long house, Pango had recovered enough to stand up and speak.
‘You heard what happened to Alfonso. It’s sad. He was good man. Well really, he was nasty, sadistic bastard. But you can’t have everything. Still, good news is, no need to bury him.’
The other bandits applauded the eulogy.
‘Right, back to work. Who head man?’
‘Thas me Jimmy,’ said Hamish, standing up.
‘Speak English?’
‘Aye.’
Pango looked a little confused, but pressed on.
‘Tomorrow, you take me to Black Pool. Get GPS reading, then make offer you no refuse. Hey!’
‘Fokyouz Jimmy ya greet fannybaws.’
‘Glad you agree!’ said Pango. ‘6am start. Oh, and anyone try escape, we shoot and feed to big snake. Sleep tight.’
The armed men stood around guarding the villagers, while Pango went off to sleep in Hamish’s office.
‘Reckon Mrs H showed her true colours mate,’ whispered Mick to Jim.
‘There’s no way she’s coming back,’ said Jim ‘And she’s got the fucking sat phone - and we’ve got nothing.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mick. ‘What can you expect - she’s on 2 million, we’re on 100,000 each - no contest.’
‘Hey, you two,’ shouted one of the guards. ‘Shut fuck up!’
‘Sorry,’ said Mick, ‘we were just counting our blessings.’
Chapter 64
The next morning, while Hamish was getting ready for his trip to the Black Pool, Mick and Jim were discussing their next move. Everyone had heard of the anaconda strike, so even popping out for a quick bit of intestinal or bladder relief was fraught with danger.
‘I reckon they’ll do the deal, ship us all out, and that’ll be that. Just a slow canoe down to the nearest town and the whole thing’ll be over.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mick, ‘but this village is these people’s lives. What are they going do in some town? And they can't come back; this place’ll be full of oil platforms, pipelines, processing plants and good ol’ boys wearing Stetsons. National Geographic will get them all to grow beards and have tattoos and make a TV series called Snake Oil Hustlers.’
‘OK,’ said Jim, ‘but can't we think of ourselves, for once.’
‘That’s all we ever do!’
‘OK, then’ said Jim, ‘you think of something.’
‘Maybe I could let a big one rip and paralyse the guards for a couple of minutes, so we can make our escape.’
‘Where to? I don't fancy being next on that anaconda’s snack list, and Zac’s boat is three-quarters submerged and full of caiman.’
This depressing analysis of their position ended as Pango came in with Hamish. ‘Right we’re off! See you - four days. Be good persons.’
‘Jim,’ said Mick, ‘reach in my pocket, there’s a flask with some GUA left in it.’
With some fumbling, they both managed to remove the flask and lift it to their lips.
‘A toast,’ said Mick. ‘To Mrs Hathaway - not even a quarter of the woman we thought.’
‘To Mrs Hathaway,’ said Jim, ‘she’s probably in Las Vegas by now, widdling it up the one-arm bandits.’
Suddenly, it all got too much for him.
‘So, Tallulah bloody Hathaway,’ he bawled at the top of his voice, ‘up yours, you miserable old cow!’
This was dangerous talk, very dangerous talk, because, if he’d shouted just a little bit louder, Mrs Hathaway would have been able to hear every single word.
Chapter 65
The Thames looked lovely. Giles gazed out across the sunlit city, having just finished a very satisfactory meeting with the senior partner from his accountants. The poor man was so excited by the Daring Dooz financial results, his doctor had had to put him on tranquilisers.
If the Atlantic shark-bashing story had gone down a storm, the time-warp tunnel was in the hurricane league. And as for the ‘croc hanging on the boots over the waterfall’ story - well ‘apocalyptic’ would be too mild a word.
The key had been YouTube. Giles now had fifty million people watching his channel featuring Tallulah’s exploits. And the conversion rate from viewers to Daring Dooz subscribers was incredible. Mrs Hathaway had virtually doubled the readership - and his profits. And there was more to come.
And he was right. There was more to come. But in no way, shape or form was it the ‘more to come’ Giles anticipated. The immediate future would be unlike anything he, or his readers, had ever experienced.
And as so often with these sorts of things, it started with a telephone call.
‘Giles?’
‘Tallulah!’
‘We’re in trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ said Giles, breaking out in goose bumps.
She told him the whole story, finishing with how she’d taken the Catalina round the first bend in the river and anchored up so she could make the call.
‘What can we do? They’re holding Mick, Jim and the villagers hostage, while the main villain is off with the headman, Hamish, to get the co-ordinates of the Black Pool. So we have about four days to come up with something.’
There was nothing Giles could say. This was out of his league. In business, if things got tough, there were empty words and phrases you could use to get you to the end of the day and a good drink down some trendy city watering hole.
This was real people in a desperate situation, All he could say was, ‘Don’t worry, Tallulah, keep in touch. I’ll think of something.’
The call ended. Giles sat down. And couldn’t think of anything.
There hadn’t been problems like this, before. He’d had some initial worries about getting the contract set up quickly, before he got betamaxed by someone else with a similar, fighting-mad, old bird. But since then, it had just been a matter of sourcing the yacht, the Catalina and the supplies, and working out the challenges. And all that took was an international marketing and procurement team and lots of money
- both of which he had.
But lives were hanging in the balance, and, for the first time since the project began, he felt powerless. He couldn't talk to his marketing team. He couldn't talk to the authorities in Brazil, they might go in with helicopter gunships and there’d be a bloodbath, plus the whole scheme was illegal, and he could see the court battles going on for years.
He went back to look at the view across London, hoping for some inspiration. None. He gnawed his knuckles. Nothing. He picked up a copy of Daring Dooz with the front cover showing a bikini-clad Mrs Hathaway piloting the Catalina through a time vortex filled with colossal electronic discharges. Not a thing.
His mind was a desert - with not even a small piece of tumbleweed blowing across the frame. Then, after ten minutes of staring blankly at this arid, lifeless landscape, it happened.
On the horizon, he noticed a small cloud of dust. Was it a figment of his imagination? Was it a mirage? Or was it an idea getting nearer? The cloud of dust got larger and larger until out of the sandy clouds emerged a small delivery van. On the side of the van were the words ‘Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency - Swansea’. And out of the van stepped a spotty youth wearing a ‘Tallulah Rules!’ t-shirt. Giles had never seen him before, but he knew who he was - and he knew what he had to do.
Within seconds, he’d emailed splatter69, his first Daring Dooz subscriber. The email said there was a serious situation going on with Mrs Hathaway, and she needed help, quickly.
Within seconds, Splatter emailed back with a number where Giles could reach him.
‘Splatter?’
‘Mr Montagu-Scott! I’d just like to say how fantastic your magazine is - and that Mrs Hathaway, what a girl - eh!’
‘Thank you,’ said Giles pointedly. ‘But this is life and death stuff.’
‘Fire away.’
Despite wishing Splatter hadn't used that term, Giles launched into the full story, finishing with a rather pathetic, ‘Got any ideas?’
