I, Adventurer Read online

  She took the old, tattered sack off her back which she had clung to for dear life since I found her. Opening it, she took out food and we both ate hungrily. Satiated, she took out an old music box. She stared at it, her eyes seeming to glaze.

  ‘A strange thing to take with you,’ I said, ‘when you’re running for your life.’

  She smiled. ‘It was bought for me on the day I was born; it so much is part of my life. Even as I ran from the farm, I knew it would go with me.’

  We were about thirty miles from help, and the following day allowed only slow progress. During our rest periods, Petra spoke of her life before the troubles. Of the way both blacks and their white bosses got on so well. Of how much her father had black interests at heart, both in economic terms and in their welfare. To her, it was only right and proper, and often she would play with the black children. The country could have done so well, if only politics and the desire of certain men to control had been kept at bay.

  I wasn’t sure I fully agreed with her argument. After all, I had been in this country a long time, doing aid work. If they had got it so right, why was I needed?

  ‘But doesn’t the fact you’re here confirm that the white man wanted to do best for this country?’

  That second night, I’m afraid I ended up doing things an aid worker and peace loving man shouldn’t. But when their patrols stumbled on us, there was nothing else I could do.

  There were two of them, undisciplined and disorganised as any black African gang, be it marauding thugs or a supposedly professional army. And luckily they were as startled to find us as we were to be found.

  A moment’s confusion followed. But I knew the moment they fired a gun it would be over. If we were not killed there and then, the noise would bring the rest. So when I took out my knife – for cutting food parcels open; for splaying rope when building shelters for the refugees – I knew blood would now run down its blade. And after the carnage – after I had thrust into those living things, reducing them to corpses – I spent the remainder of the night staring into the darkness. Into the darkness of the continent, and the darkness that had prized itself into the centre of my being.

  Morning brought a respite in the efforts Petra made to comfort me. ‘You did right,’ she said. ‘There was no other way.’ But even though I knew she was right, it provided only a momentary respite.

  Finally, she sat by me, smiled, her bruises seeming to disappear as that lovely face filled my vision. And soon her arm went around me, pulled me to her breast, comforted.

  I don’t think I can recall when I last felt so right; although nearly ten years older than Petra, a sexual excitement took hold. Maybe it was what we had been through over the last couple of days, binding us together, our experiences taking us to the limits of endurance, releasing new, unknown hormones. Or at least, that is what I thought. But as I raised my head and kissed her, her whole demeanour changed.

  I was confused as she pulled away, as she began to shake, as tears rolled, uncontrollably, down her cheek.

  ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What have I done?’

  For a long time she was not forthcoming. But in the end she told me. She told me of how she was made to watch her parents die. And then the leader had taken the music box she was clinging to, opened it, allowing her beloved tune to play as he threw her to the floor and raped her before handing her to the rest.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘I should have thought. Oh, Petra, you poor thing.’

  Her eyes glazed over. ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ she said, ‘not really. I was somewhere else.’ She took out the music box; held it to her breast. ‘I was with my song.’

  The next few hours were quiet as we continued our escape. The forest seemed to work with us for a change, instead of against us. And although I hated it, I felt a new confidence as I carried one of the AK-47s taken from the gang members I had killed. But I should have known it was to be a false optimism. I should have known the rest would realise two of their number had not come back. And it wouldn’t be hard for them to work out what had happened, and where we had been. Which meant they would also know where we were heading.

  The ambush, when it came, was fierce. Both Petra and I dived for cover as the rounds whizzed about us. I was no gunman, but I returned fire as best I could, knowing I had to kill some more, and hating it.

  Minutes passed, though it seemed like hours. But eventually, calm descended, and a broken voice shouted: ‘Send out the girl. That’s all we want, and you can go.’

  As if I would believe that. I turned to Petra in the hope of giving her comfort, but I was amazed to see she had stood up.

  It was surreal to watch as she took out the music box, opened it up, allowing her song to play, and walk out into the open.

  Slowly she walked, a look of destiny in her eyes, and the gang members seemed to break cover, walk towards her, to surround her.

  White farmers often kept explosives on the farms, I knew. It was useful stuff to blow up a tree, dam a stream beginning to flood after the rains. And as Petra and the gang evaporated in a ball of flame, it seemed like a eulogy to the hate which Africa never seems to throw off. And for the rest of my life I knew Petra’s song would also be mine.

  THE VISION

  He thought he’d had a good vision of the landscape, but that was before the snow set in. And amateur that he was, it was inevitable he’d get lost.

  Typical of his life, he knew. Young, headstrong – in love. But always arguing. And in a way this was their last chance – an extreme holiday – test their relationship to its limits. Bring them together.

  Well, it had certainly done that, she thought. And yes, fool that he was, she still loved him. And as the weather worsened and they burrowed deep into the snow, held hands, and drifted to somewhere they’d never been before, they both kept the vision of that thread of life between them.

  It was dark and he knew he should have turned back. But he knew he would not. The snow battered his bearded face, taking away any vision of where he was going. But on he went, searching.

  He was told there was no chance of finding the couple – not in this weather – but he was fed up of doing as he was told.

  He’d done as God had told him all his life; been a good Christian. And for what?

  He’d done as the doctors had advised when his wife became ill. And for what?

  He’d screamed at God when she’d died, and vowed he’d never do the God thing again. But as the cold bit deep into his old, weary bones, and he knew that, maybe, he wouldn’t make it back, he prayed to God one more time for strength, for hope, and a vision of just where that young couple was.

  The sun seemed to bounce off the shield as the helicopter negotiated the bright winter’s morning. It was almost impossible to believe the hell of the previous night. But such thoughts went to the back of their minds as their eyes pierced the whiteness of the snow, squinting to improve vision.

  It was a hint of black that forced them to land, and a sadness descended upon them as they found the old man, frozen to death. They gathered around him in respect – he had taught them everything they knew.

  They were about to move him when a clarity seemed to come and they noticed his outstretched arm, as if pointing. Following each other’s line of vision, they saw the unnatural mound in the snow and ran …

  It was strange to be holding hands like this, she thought. The last time she did it was because she was sure they were about to die. Yet now, in the hospital, it was because she knew they were going to live, and she’d never let him go again.

  Indeed, every time she thought of doing so, her mind was filled with a vision of a kindly bearded old man, smiling as he held his wife’s hand for eternity.

  BOUNTY

  ‘So he did it.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t know he still had it in him. He’s been working as a fat private investigator for years. Since … it ended.’

  ‘We can say it again, now. Russia is up to its old tricks. We can use the term: Cold War
. We’re back.’

  ‘And the bounty worked. He’s not been doing well for years, and he always liked the money. So when we offered him that much, just to kill one man, he couldn’t resist.’

  ‘And did he do it cleanly?’

  ‘Yes. He hasn’t lost his touch. The target had left Russia for a holiday in France. Our man followed him and worked out when the perfect accident was possible. No one suspected a thing.’

  ‘Except the Ruskies, of course.’

  ‘Well, that’s their problem.’

  ‘And is he getting the bounty payment?’

  ‘The way I put it, he couldn’t refuse – paid in instalments, as a salary for coming back.’

  ‘So we’ve got an agent back, AND we’ve got him to kill his old controller. Quite a success, I think.’

  ‘It seems that way.’

  ‘But what I want to know is, did he know that we knew he was killing his old boss?’

  ‘That’s the question – and I doubt if we’ll ever get an answer to that.’

  ‘And which side do you think he’ll really be working for this time?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter. The suspicion – the fear – is all that counts.’

  The Russian turned off the recording. His men had done well bugging their office like that. His ribs still hurt from the ‘accident’. And he, too, wondered who he was really working for.

  LOST HIGHWAY

  The sun blazed down on us. In all directions the desert spread, as if a calm sea. Yet also a treacherous mistress, I knew.

  It was unusual for one so young to lead an archaeological team, but I wasn’t the normal kind of archaeologist anyway. ‘You must be mad,’ Rachel had said as I proposed the expedition. But her rebukes were also the sweetest things. It was as if she respected me for my abilities – quite normal for an under-grad.

  At least, that’s what I thought, then. It never occurred to me that only seven years difference in age was nothing at all – or that her feelings for me were much deeper.

  But I digress.

  The ancient city had been discovered decades ago, and it was thought there was nothing more to find. But I had been fascinated by the myths the locals told – of a lost highway leading to the Temple of Eternal Love - which was why I was thought unusual. After all, archaeologists were to concentrate on facts, not myths. But it had become embedded in my heart that I must find this temple. And Rachel agreed to come with me.

  For a week we searched for signs of the highway without success, and as we searched, I must admit, I did become closer to Rachel – thought, for a moment or two, that we could be more than just friends and colleagues, but I soon put it out of my mind. And then came the seventh night.

  It was an unusual darkness …

  … and as the wind came up, a sense of wonder took me over. It began to howl, and bit by bit, I saw the sand seem to separate, and beneath it, a highway seemed to appear.

  I walked on, the sand clearing in my path, and it wasn’t long before I came to the door. My excitement was intense, and I could hear myself shouting as the adrenalin pumped, as I held out my hand to the door, ready to push it open …

  It was, of course, a dream, for as I opened my eyes, an agitated Rachel was shaking me, looking, worriedly into my eyes. Yet also, the Temple of Eternal Love was obviously a metaphor, focusing the mind, and symbolizing the love of a man for a woman. Something I realized in that moment of enlightenment when I pulled her to me and we kissed.

  STRIPES

  I hated him. I can tell you that without any doubt whatsoever. I hated him, and I hated those stripes that allowed him to do it.

  ‘Come on, move it!!’ he’d scream as we were pushed beyond the pain barrier. ‘Get off the grass!!’ he’d shout as he ran up to us, fuming – and then 50 press-ups. Come on, man, we’d only walked on the grass!

  Then there’d be ‘left, left, left’ for hour upon monotonous hour. And then the taunting in the dormitory. ‘You ain’t got no mother. Not now. You ain’t human. You’re a machine. MY machine.’

  Maybe that was it. Strip down the character and build something new – as if he was Dr Frankenstein or something. Or maybe Dracula, sucking all life from us before returning to his coffin.

  I hated him. Oh, yes, I hated him. I responded to his commands – any commands – like an automaton, but – damn him.

  Of course, I was young – didn’t understand. But I learnt on the day I grew up, in the mountains.

  ‘DOWN!!!’

  How do I explain it? In my mind’s eye, I saw it all. I stared at the bullet as it whizzed towards me. At one point, I even thought it had my name on it – and I remember thinking, no. And as it approached, the sound of it, lancing through the air, as if a Banshee warning of impending doom. And as it was about to smack my flesh, the movement of my head, and the feeling of heat as it whizzed past, harmlessly.

  I was Superman that day, dodging bullets. Yet, in reality, I just dived for cover – instinctively – as trained.

  Well, I’ve got the stripes now. And I’m gonna make real sure the grunts hate me. ‘Cos they’re gonna live!!!!

  DRAWN BY THE SEA

  They were on his tail. He rushed through the bulkhead door, machine pistol in hand, letting staccato fire zip behind him. Coming out on deck was deliberate. More room to fight – more chances to stay alive.

  The Mega Corps troopers poured out, determined to intervene in his mission, rounds flying, sparking off the metal of the deck and cabins.

  He was tired, without nourishment, but as he dived for cover he knew he had to keep going – succeed. The planet depended on it.

  Letting off another burst, he took the small control panel from his pocket. Clicked ready, and a green light came on.

  He imagined what would happen in the depths below him. It had taken him so long to gain access to the shuttle sub and make it to Mega Corps One to plant the device – that vast, horrendous power station at the bottom of the sea, releasing methane and CO2 in apocalyptic amounts.

  He checked his watch. Knew it was time. And equally knew his chances of survival were few.

  He dived, drawn by the sea, and as he flew off the deck, bullets ripped into his back.

  Soon he was sinking fast, into the water, and into death. But he still had the strength and pressed the button.

  The flash rose, deep orange, from the depths …

  The boy sat up in bed, covered in sweat. He knew all too well that if you died in a dream you could die in real life, so he was glad he woke up.

  It had been a dream concerning his mission in life – to save the planet for the next generation, ‘cos the previous had failed him.

  He got out of bed. Walked out the door. Stood on the early morning beach, watching the waves he loved. Then, to his left, the shadow of the vile power station consumed him, vomiting its devastation, adding to the chemical stew that would melt the ice and raise the level of the oceans.

  He WOULD be an eco-warrior, he knew. For he realized the importance of the coastline – knew that it, his country, his society, the land itself, must not be re-drawn by the sea.

  SOAR

  Pull out! Pull out! Damn it pull …

  Banking hard. Five G. Six G. Face contorting, the pressure – Man, the pressure! The sky below me, the ground above, the fireball of my Wingman, he’s gone, flames licking my fuselage …

  MISSILE LOCKED

  Copy.

  I’m alone now, just me and that MiG – and a missile locked on my ass.

  500 knots

  550

  600 – I’ll outrun. Afterburn ignites the sky behind me. Wait for it … NOW!!

  Counter-measures decoy the missile. I’m free. Roll. Come up behind. 20mm cannon. FIRE!!!

  Peace – for a moment – the stench and the flames turning sky to Hell – for a moment.

  It’s come to this – now.

  It had to. Invade Iran, they said. Easy, they said. No, the Russians wouldn’t take sides – they said …

 
Remembering: ‘I don’t know you any more.’

  ‘But Jen, I’m a fighter pilot. I have to do it.’

  ‘You’re a killing machine. I can’t … take it … I’m sorry.’

  Memory makes me angry, makes me sore.

  TANK COLUMN SIX O’CLOCK

  Copy

  Pull left, ground radar searching. Descend low. Play chicken with the ground as it flashes past, undefined.

  (tears fill my eyes – Oh! JEN!!!)

  Sighted.

  COPY

  (I love you. Always have. Always will)

  500lb bomb selected.

  COPY … WAIT … NOT TANKS! NOT TANKS! REFUGEE CONVOY

  Jen gone. Wingman gone. Everyone dead. Everyone just damned dead!

  Laser guidance selected. Line up for run in …

  MiG at 3 O’CLOCK – EVADE!!!!!!!!

  Final run. I can imagine the whites of their eyes …

  MISSILE LOCKED

  I can’t ……………

  …

  …

  …

  SHADOW GAMES

  TOAD IN THE HOLE

  The world is how you see it. And if you want to go through life thinking the world is good, they let you. After all, if you don't ask questions - if you're happy with your lot - they're more than happy with theirs; even if they do control you. And be assured, they do. They control you from cradle to grave, and you've no idea it's going on. Rather, you see a city as vibrant and exciting, the countryside as solitary and calm.

  Me? I'm not controlled. I know they exist. I know they're in everything we do, the city malign, the countryside crowded with their vibes. Oh yes, I know - because I'm their enemy; their worst nightmare.

  That's why I'm on the run.

  It started in the past. All things do. 'Young,' said my editor one day, 'I want you to investigate claims of weird goings on at Bradbury Lodge.'

  He gave me the low-down; the strange cars driving there in the middle of the night, the strange noises, like a howling, heard at all hours. As a reporter I was intrigued. Well, we are aren't we? That's what makes us.