I screamed at the top of my voice, more for my own benefit than his. If I wasn't quick enough, I'd soon know because I'd feel the blade slice down between my shoulders.
The Leatherman pliers were still in my right hand. I got into him and felt his body buckle with the impact as I wrapped my left arm around him and tried to pinion his gollock arm.
Then I rammed the pointed tips against his stomach.
Both of us moved backwards. The pliers hadn't penetrated his skin yet: they were held by the poncho and whatever was underneath. He screamed, too, probably feeling the steel trying to pierce him.
We hit a tree. His back was against it and I lifted my head and body, using my weight to force the pliers to penetrate his clothing and flesh.
He gave an agonized howl, and I felt his stomach tighten. It must have looked as if I was trying to have sex with him as I kept on pushing and bucking my body against him, using my weight against him with the pliers between us. At last I felt his stomach give way. It was like pushing into a sheet of rubber; and once they were in, there was no way they were coming out again.
I churned my hand up and down and round in circles, any way that I could to maximize the damage. My head was over his left shoulder and I was breathing through clenched teeth as he screamed just inches from the side of my face. I saw his bared teeth as they tried to bite me, and head butted him to keep him away. Then he screamed so loudly into my face I could feel the force of his breath.
By now I wasn't even sure if the gollock was still in his hands or not. I smelt cologne and felt his smooth skin against my neck as he thrashed his face around, his body bucking and writhing.
The stab wound must have enlarged, as he was leaking over me. Blood had got past the hole in the poncho and I could feel the warmth of it on my hands. I continued to push in, keeping my body up against his, using my legs to keep him trapped between me and the tree.
His noises were getting softer and I could feel his warm slobber on my neck. My hand was virtually inside his stomach now, taking the poncho with it. I could smell the contents of his intestinal tract.
He collapsed forward on to me and took me down with him on to my knees. Only then did I withdraw my hand. As the Leatherman emerged and I kicked him off, he fell into the foetal position. He might have been crying; I couldn't really tell.
I moved away quickly, picked up the gollock from where he'd dropped it, and went and sat against a tree, fighting for breath, unbelievably relieved it was all over. As my body calmed down, the pain came back to my leg and chest. I pulled up my slashed jeans on my right leg and inspected the damage. It was to the rear of the calf; the gash was only about four inches long and not very deep, but bad enough to be leaking quite badly.
My hand, clenched around the Leatherman, looked much worse than it was as the rain diluted his blood. I tried to fold out the knife blade but it was difficult; my hand was shaking, now that I'd released my tight grip, and probably through shock as well. In the end I had to use my teeth, and when the blade was finally open I used it to cut my sweatshirt sleeves into wet strips.
With these I improvised a bandage, wrapping it around my leg to apply pressure on the wound.
I sat there in the mud for a good five minutes, rainwater streaming down my face and into my eyes and mouth, dripping off my nose. I stared at the man, still lying in a foetal position, covered in mud and leaf litter.
The poncho was up around his chest like a pulled-up dress, and the rain still beat on it like a drums king Both his hands clutched his stomach; blood glistened as it seeped through the gaps between his fingers. His legs made small circular movements as if he was trying to run.
I felt sorry for him, but I'd had no choice. Once that length of razor-sharp steel started flying around it was either him or me.
I wasn't feeling too proud of myself, but placed that feeling in my mental bin with the lid back on when I began to see that this wasn't exactly the local woodcutter I'd stumbled across. His nails were clean and well manicured, and though his hair was a mess of mud and leaves, I could see it was well cut, with a square neck and neatly trimmed sideburns. He was maybe early thirties, Spanish, good-looking and clean-shaven. He had one unusual feature: instead of two distinct eyebrows, he had just one big one.
This guy wasn't a farmhand, he was a city boy, the one who'd been standing in the back of the pickup. As Aaron had said, these people didn't fuck about and he would have sliced me up without a second thought. But what had he been doing in here?
I sat and stared at him as it got darker and the rain and thunder did its thing above the canopy. This episode spelt the end of the recce, and both of us were going to have to disappear. For sure he was going to be missed. Maybe he had been already. They would come looking for him, and if they knew where he had been, it wouldn't take them long to find him if I left him here.
I folded down my bloodstained Leatherman and put it back in its pouch, wondering if Jim Leatherman had ever imagined his invention would be used like this.
I guessed that the fence must be closer than the road now: if I headed for that, at least I'd have something to guide me out of the jungle in the darkness.
Unibrow's breathing was shallow and quick, and he was still gripping his stomach with both hands, his face screwed up in pain as he mumbled weakly to himself. I forced his eyes open. Even in this low light there should have been a better reaction in his pupils; they should have closed a lot quicker. He was definitely on his way out.
I went in search of his hat, gollock in hand. It was a bottom-of-the-range thing, with a plastic handle riveted each side of very thin, rust-spotted steel.
What to do with him once we were out of here? If he was still alive I couldn't take him to a hospital because he'd talk about me, which would alert Charlie and compromise the job. I certainly couldn't take him back to Aaron and Carrie's place because that would compromise them. All I knew was that I had to get him away from the immediate vicinity. I'd think of something later.
Hat retrieved, I went back to Unibrow, got hold of his right arm, and hoisted him in a fireman's lift over my back and shoulder. There were moans and groans from him and he tried in a pathetic way to kick out at me.
I grabbed his right arm and leg and held them together, jumping gently up and down to get him comfy round my shoulders. The small amounts of oxygen that his injuries allowed him to take in were knocked out of him again, no doubt making him feel even worse, but I couldn't help that. The poncho flapped over my face and I had to push it away. I grabbed his hat, and then, gollock back in hand, I checked the compass and headed for the fence line
It was getting much darker; I could only just make out where my feet were going.
I felt something warm and wet on my neck, warmer than the rain, and guessed it was his blood.
Pushing myself hard I limped on, stopping occasionally to check the compass.
Nothing else mattered but getting to the road and making the RV. Within minutes I came on to the fence line The BUBs were reaching a crescendo. In another quarter of an hour it was going to be pitch black.
Ahead of me, in the open, semi-dark space, was a solid wall of rain, thumping into the mud with such force it was creating mini craters. Lights were already on in the house, and in one area, probably a hallway, an enormous chandelier shone through a high window. The fountain was illuminated but I couldn't see the statue. That was good, because it meant they couldn't see me.
I followed the fence for a few minutes, my passenger's head and poncho constantly snagging on branches of wait-a-while so that I had to stop and backtrack to free him. All the time I kept my eyes glued on the house. I came across what looked like a small mammal track, paralleling the fence and about two feet in. I followed it, past caring about leaving sign in the churned-up mud. The rain would sort that out.
I'd gone no more than a dozen steps when my limping right leg was whipped away from under me and both of us went crashing into the undergrowth.
I lashed out in a frenzy: it was as if an invisible hand had grabbed hold of my ankle and thrown me to one side. I tried to kick out but my right foot was stuck fast. I tried to crawl away but couldn't. Next to me on the ground, Unibrow gave a loud groan of pain.
I looked down and saw a faint glimmer of metal. It was wire: I was caught in a snare; the more I struggled, the more it was gripping me.
I turned round to make sure where Unibrow was. He was rolled up in his own little world, oblivious to the thunder and forked lightning rattling across the night sky.
It was simple enough to ease open the loop. I got to my feet and went over and heaved him back up on to my shoulders, then set off along the track.
